#something something he might be in the next parts something something

[zealouswitchwerewolf]

Dick was so tired. Exhausted, really. He had been for years. It had been that way since he had decided to make it his mission to compensate for the shortcomings of an emotionally stunted man with an adoption problem and no intention to change. Dick didn't regret it, not exactly. He loved his siblings and wanted to give them the world. He also knew he couldn't fully raise them while Bruce was there in the middle. He had tried. He always ran himself ragged and ended up on the other side of Bruce's rage for trying to "push his sons away from him". It took a lot out of him but he still tried for the sake of his younger siblings.

It didn't help that Bruce hadn't ever been great at showing affection and tended to push people away from him whenever they got hurt or too close to him for fear of losing them. It had lost some of its effect on Dick after the second time Bruce had kicked him out, after Jason's death, but he could still see the hurt on his siblings' eyes when they were on the other side of Bruce's cold shoulder. It had certainly made him feel unwelcome at the manor and unable to stay more than a few days at once. It also made him irritable at Bruce, although that might be more about the man's actions than the coldness he associated with the manor. He tried to mask it for his siblings. Compensate with easy smiles and warm hugs. He knew it wasn't enough. He had always had to choose between mitigating the biggest mess Bruce had left behind and truly being there for his loved ones. He could not do everything. He couldn't be everywhere at once. No matter how hard he tried. It was exhausting. And he always failed.

Dick had seen Damian pack. He had just gotten back from the cave after his latest attempt at reasoning with Bruce. He had gone to find Damian and had seen the boy organizing his bags and looking around the room to make sure he didn't miss anything. He had seen him take the family picture on his bedside table. Damian hadn't noticed him. Dick had made a split-second decision and left. He went back to the cave and prepared for patrol, telling Bruce about a case he needed help with in the Narrows and leaving with Batman in tow, just in time to see Superboy flying towards Damian's window. He had distracted Bruce and made sure he didn't see.

He had considered taking Damian to live with him before. Many times. The only thing that had stopped him was Bruce's reaction after Tim had rescued him from the timeline but before he started trying to mend bridges with the family. He had seen the closeness between Damian and Dick and had decided to take it away. He had thrown a fit and forbidden Dick from coming to Gotham, when that hadn't worked, he had told him not to come to the manor, when that also didn't work, he started sulking and gave Damian the silent treatment until Dick backed off and distanced himself from the kid enough. That was when he approached Dick and apologized with words that Dick now knew weren't his own and started trying to bring the family back together. Maybe Dick had always known and was just in denial about it. The point was, if Damian ever left, Bruce would immediately suspect Dick and bring the kid back while enforcing more restrictions. It wouldn't help his brother in the long term. So Dick let him leave and pretended not to notice anything amiss.

The realization came hours later. There were no kids living in the manor anymore. All his siblings had left and were starting to figure out how to live independently from Bruce. Dick didn't need to shield them anymore. He didn't have to keep pushing himself to the limit, trying to be everything they needed, trying to overcompensate for everything Bruce fell short on. He didn't have to go back to a place where he wasn't wanted, no matter how many times he was reassured otherwise (not many. Not even once). He could finally leave.

He ended patrol early and got there just in time to see Clark trying to maneuver the rest of Damian's animals in his arms without having to take multiple trips. "Take care of them?" He couldn't help but ask, even knowing he should be doing more and had no right to ask that of anyone else, let alone Superman.

Clark's eyes turned soft and sad. He nodded solemnly, finally having managed to carry all the pets, and left without another word to Dick. They both knew Dick wasn't referring to the animals when he had said 'them'.

Dick went back to his apartment feeling so much relief he felt guilty to ever feel like that towards his siblings absence. It didn't stop him from going to bed and having a full night sleep for the first time in years. It was more rest that he had gotten since Bruce had introduced him to a tiny Jason and told him he was his new brother. Maybe someday Dick would have enough energy to go back and try to fix things between them again. Maybe he'd reach out to his siblings and try to have a real relationship with them. One that wasn't so dependent on Bruce's moods. Maybe one day he'd be ready to talk to Tim, Damian, and Jay and listen to their experiences at the manor without immediately trying to smooth things out or getting defensive. Maybe the anxiety attacks would go away with time. For now he'd just enjoy not having to worry about anyone's emotional well-being but his own. Maybe he'd call Wally and the other Titans. It had been a while since the last time they talked. His siblings were safe. Dick was free. Everything else could wait.

Bruce comes back from the dead and wants to make things better. Bruce comes back from the dead and Tim was the one who brought him back, so it's obviously Tim who'll know best how to help him reconnect with everyone.

It's Tim who should give him advice on how to bond with Dick. Dick has always been his idol, after all. Tim would know best how to bring him back, and he does. He gives good advice and the two of them begin to get closer.

So Bruce asks about Jason, too. Asks about how to bring his son back into the fold and Tim wished for a brief and brutal moment that it weren't so obvious who the favorite was.

Tim told Bruce to give Jason his space, to loosen his rules, and make it clear that no matter what the Red Hood did, no matter what the Batman believed in, Jason was always welcome. Bruce would always want him.

It worked. Bruce wasn't surprised. Tim was a special sort of bitter.

Bruce asked again for Damian and Tim had to push down his anger. "That boy tried to kill me," Tim wanted to say. "I hate him and I want you to hate him too so that I can remember a time when we had something in common," Tim didn't say, but he got close.

He instead told Bruce how Damian liked art and animals and loved hearing stories of the wonders of Batman.

He told Bruce just how much Damian loved being Robin. Told Bruce to tell Damian what a good Robin he was.

God bless or maybe damn him, but he did and it worked and Tim wanted to start screaming and clawing at something because that would have never worked if Tim tried it and it wouldn't have stopped Damian from cutting his line--something Bruce did not and would never know about.

Bruce asked about Babs. How should he make sure she knew that she was a part of the family? They they loved her and not just for the work she did?

He asked about Steph. How should he make sure she knew that she was more important than his rules and that, if something else should go wrong, she didn't need to run away?

He asked about Duke. He never got the chance to get to know him before leaving--not as well as he wanted to, at least. How should he let him know that he was just as much a son as everyone else? That, whether or not his parents woke up, he'd always be welcome?

He asked about Cass. How should he show her that he loves her even though he has nothing to teach her? How can he convey how much he cares about her, his first daughter?

Bruce gets brought back from time and he makes things better. He brings his family back together by following Tim's advice.

And Tim?

Tim brings his dad back from the dead and Bruce changes, becomes a better father.

Bruce changes, but not everything can.

That, Tim thinks, is why Bruce never calls Tim his son.

[girl-lostconnection]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

[thebarneschronicles]

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

[starmocha]

I've got this doubt that I can't shake off: if MC's pregnancy, for some reason, is a very tough and risky one (both might die or something), which one of the guys would have the saddest breakdown at some point (just ugly crying into MC's arms after months of keeping it together for her sake) and which would have the angriest (trashing entire offices, taking their anger out on their enemies or both)?

(I had intended to respond earlier, but man…that trailer…) Gosh, you guys know how to prod at that special part of my brain with these asks lately… 🥺 I may or may not have...started writing...little...snippets, really... 😔

Zayne would go into “doctor-mode.” He is going to utilize his medical knowledge and resources to give you the best care possible for both you and the baby, and while it seems you have nothing to worry about, you will feel the emotional-withdrawal from him as everything will feel so methodical and clinical and he forgets completely his role as a husband until you break down crying.

You had tried to keep your emotions in check these last few months, rationalizing that Zayne was never an expressive person, but his feelings and actions were always sincere. He was pacing across the bedroom reviewing with you about your recent prenatal checkup and what it meant for both you and this baby. It had been like this for several months now, and with your weak heart and the risk it posed for both you and the baby, Zayne had been extra attentive about your prenatal care.

As you sat on your bed, heavy with his child and close to your due date, listening to him rattle off different medical terms and speaking to you less as a wife but more as if you were his patient, you could feel your emotions peaking. You couldn’t remember the last time he was affectionate with you or actually asked how you were personally feeling throughout this whole pregnancy. He was by your side more, but you had never felt as lonesome as now, needing him back as your husband and not a doctor. You could feel the tears brimming, but it was getting harder each day to suppress your feelings.

Everything Zayne was saying sounded like muffled gibberish to you. You could barely focus on the present, barely acknowledging even the faint movements of the baby you were carrying, feeling more lost in your loneliness. You finally let your emotions and hormones collide and broke down crying in front of him, startling him immediately. Within seconds, he was on his knees before you, grasping your arms as he asked worriedly, “What’s wrong? Are you hurting somewhere?”

It took you a minute to gather yourself before you felt calm enough to speak, finally revealing to him how you hated who he had become during this time. At first, Zayne looked shocked, not quite comprehending what you had just said to him, but the more he pondered your hurt words, the more he realized there was a lot of truth in what you had said.

He kissed your belly, surprising you. Then, he got up and sat down next to you on the bed, pulling you into his embrace as he kissed your forehead, his apologies immediate and sincere.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, holding you a little tighter, “I just…don’t want anything to happen to you. Either of you.”

You leaned into his embrace, and sighed softly, “I know…I’m not mad at you. I’m just…”

Zayne looked down, noticing how your words gradually stopped and you were withdrawing again. He lifted your chin, making you look at him as he coaxed you gently, “Just what?”

“I just miss you,” you said, voice breaking again and fresh tears brimmed your eyes. As he brushed your tears away, you cried harder, “And I’m scared…and I can’t stop thinking about all of the things that could go wrong…and then I realize stressing over this is also hurting the baby and…and…”

Zayne looked guilty as he realized that while he was too focused on your physical health, he had neglected your mental and emotional state, realizing how you had been suppressing your feelings for his sake.

He sat back against the headboard and pulled you back to rest against him. He apologized again for his neglect, and for the rest of that night, he listened and comforted you through your anxieties. There was that familiar warmth in his embrace that you missed, and the softness in his eyes returned as he listened to you earnestly. While your anxieties were still there, they seemed more manageable now that you realized the man by your side in this moment was not Doctor Zayne but your Zaynie, your beloved husband.

Rafayel is angry and emotional and will lash out and say things he doesn’t mean, such as he would rather lose the baby than you.

It had been like walking on eggshells these past few months. You had tried to keep your spirits up in spite of the situation, but eventually everything that had been quieted was going to surface, reaching an ugly peak.

You just had never expected him to say such words to you.

“You…don’t want…the baby?” You felt like you were choking as you uttered those words back to Rafayel.

He looked conflicted, his face twisted in pain and frustration. “I…I didn’t mean it,” he finally said, seeming to struggling with not just his words, but also his feelings.

You glared at him with tears in your eyes. “You said it! What could you have possibly meant to say if not that!”

“I don’t want to lose you!” he finally yelled back, frustrated that his words were being used against him by you of all people.

A strained silence filled the space, creating a rift between the two of you as you stared at one another in shock. In the distant, there was the cries of seagulls flying outside the studio, the sound of waves crashing on the shore a peculiar reminder that time was still moving forward even as you two stood frozen, locked in this seemingly unbreakable tension.

After several beats, Rafayel dropped to his knees, his head buried into his hands as he apologized, though it seemed more like he was apologizing for hurting you and not because of what he had said.

You walked closer to him, surprised when his arms wrapped around your waist, and his face pressed against your rounded stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again. He didn’t look up at you, but his words were heard clear: “I just can’t lose you again.”

You stared down at his head of hair, unsure of what you could say in this moment. He looked so broken and helpless, and while you understood his sentiments, it still did nothing to alleviate the hurt you felt at his earlier words. Shakily, you let your hand rest on the back of his head, as you said softly, “My fishie…I won’t leave you…”

You said that to comfort him, but even you had doubts about whether you could hold true to your words. It was so bright and sunny outside in Linkon today, so why did your future look so gray and uncertain? This was to be a joyous time in both of your lives, but even as you both felt the baby kicked and moved, that cloud of doubt remained.

Xavier is stunned and feels helpless.

It had been an awkward couple of weeks. Xavier was quieter than usual, but he still answered you whenever you spoke. You didn’t think he was upset at you, but you also couldn’t ignore the sudden distance between the two of you.

“Captain Jenna had put me on desk duty for the remainder of my pregnancy,” you told him over dinner one night.

He didn’t answer you, appearing distracted as he was grilling some beef slices on an electric griddle.

“Xavier?”

“Huh?” He looked up, surprised. “Oh, sorry, I had something on my mind. What did you say?”

“I…I said Captain Jenna is putting me on desk duty,” you repeated hesitantly.

“That’s good,” he answered and picked a slice of beef off the griddle to place in your bowl. “You should have some more meat for protein.”

“…thank you,” you said, noticing the way his eyes kept averting with yours. You placed your bowl on the table, upset now. “Xavier, did I do something wrong?”

He looked taken aback by the sudden question. He immediately shook his head. “Wrong? Why would you even think that?”

You frowned. “You’ve barely spoken with me lately,” you said, “It’s been nothing but ‘yeah,’ ‘okay,’ ‘alright’ from you lately.”

“I’m sorry,” he looked at you with remorse etched on his face. He sighed as he turned the griddle off before he rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “I…I just have something on my mind.”

“You keep saying that,” you retorted, mildly irked now, “What could be on your mind that is more important than being here with me?”

“You.”

Your irritation disappeared in that moment, his solemn gaze resting on you. Slowly, you found your voice, your words stuttering a little in confusion, “Wha…what do…you mean?”

“You and the baby,” he clarified. “Ever since the doctor said this was a high-risk pregnancy, I just…can’t stop thinking about…everything that could go wrong.”

“Xavier…”

“I don’t know how to make this easier for you,” he continued, suddenly unable to hide his anxiety any longer, “And even if we do everything right, what if things go wrong at the last minute? What if—no, just…no…”

You gasped when he suddenly came to you, his arms wrapped around you immediately in a tight embrace. He kissed the top of your head and apologized again, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“Xavier…it will be alright,” you reassured him.

He was silent.

“We’ll both be alright,” you continued.

“Right…” he answered, but you noticed he still didn’t want to let you go. You also didn’t want him to part, so you both remained in this moment a while longer.

Sylus has all of the money and connections in the world. He is going to ensure that both you and the baby will be alright throughout the pregnancy until birth. On the surface, he seems calm and confident, but to keener eyes, such as yours, you will pick up on his anxiety through little tics or behavioral changes.

The moment you had told Sylus you were pregnant with his baby, he lavished you with even more luxuries than before. You received the best care possible, especially when it came to light that this pregnancy was not going to be easy for you and there was concern about the health of the baby. Sylus made sure the most qualified doctors were monitoring you and he had ordered the personal chefs to prepare only nutritional dishes for you and the baby.

He was adamant that you received only the best of the best, and to strangers, Sylus appeared to be so level-headed and grounded, not a trace of worry could be seen on his face.

You, however, noticed how he seemed to drum his fingers on hard surfaces more often. He would also pull out his coin to flip at the most peculiar time, and his visits to the boxing ring also seemed to have increased. There were so many odd tics that you couldn’t ignore, but you suspected you knew the reason why.

One evening, you slipped into bed earlier while Sylus was still sleeping. It would almost be time for him to wake up from his slumber, so you waited. When you noticed the fluttering of his eyes, you leaned in closer, smiling as your face was the first thing he saw once he awoken.

“Good morning,” you greeted him with a mischievous smile, leaning down to peck his lips.

“Mm…morning,” he answered back in amusement, still a little groggy and bleary-eyed. He yawned. “What did I do to deserve seeing such a sweet sight first thing after waking up?”

“I wanted to talk.”

His mirth disappeared in that instance upon hearing your stern tone. He shifted in bed, sitting up with his back to the headboard. “Is something the matter?”

“You tell me.”

Sylus shook his head in confusion. “Sweetie, you are going to have to elaborate more,” he responded with a frown. “What are we talking about?”

“Are you…worried?”

“Worry?”

You rested a hand over your belly, his gaze instantly following your movement. “About the pregnancy,” you clarified.

“Of course I worry,” he answered back in that same even tone.

“You…seemed so assured, but lately, I’ve noticed these little…tics,” you explained, elaborating to him more in details as he listened patiently. When you finished, Sylus gently pulled you closer to him, letting your body rest against his. His arm wrapped around you, his hand resting on your belly to rub gentle little circles.

“I will always worry about you,” he said, “but panicking over things will not achieve anything, so I just redirected my worries elsewhere. Is that a problem?”

You shook your head and looked up at him. “No, I was just…wondering if you wanted to talk about them with me.”

He laughed and bent down to peck your lips. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“What if I want to?”

He smiled in amusement and kissed you again. “Then who am I to argue with my pregnant wife?”

“What would you do?”

“Do what?”

“If…I don’t ma—”

“You will be fine,” he immediately cut you off, his demeanor shifting entirely. “You will both be fine.”

“But—”

He lay back down in bed, pulling you closer to him in a tighter embrace. “Lull me to sleep,” he said instead.

“But isn’t it time for you to wake—” You clammed up when he shot you a pointed look. You could sense his unease, feeling his fingers digging into your flesh a little more. He was upset, deeply troubled, and you hated how he carried that burden alone on his shoulders.

“Alright,” you answered, snuggling into his embrace. You sang a song, a lullaby you had learned recently that you hoped to sing to your baby in a few months. As you sang, Sylus quietly hummed along, and it wasn’t long before you both fell asleep together, your worries left behind as you dreamed of the upcoming months when a new bundle of joy would arrive at Onychinus’ base.

Caleb is nervous, but he pours himself into taking care of you, because that is all he has ever known. He’s never liked seeing you ill or hurt, so he is going to do everything possible to make sure you receive the best care ever. He will do a lot of research and ask as many questions as he could to gain insight on what can be done to minimize the risk so both you and the baby will make through the pregnancy as safely as possible. He does not even want to consider the possibility of losing you.

You didn’t have any autonomy over yourself anymore. Whatever you wanted to do, Caleb did it for you first. Whatever you were craving, he would negate it half the time, citing it was better for you to eat a healthier alternative.

Even though you wanted to be mad at him, you knew he was doing this out of worry after the reveal that there were some concerns about this pregnancy. The moment that you had heard the word “risky,” everything afterwards suddenly sounded muffled as you were frozen in shock, a sudden anxiety creeping in as you stared down at your belly. Meanwhile, Caleb was already proactive, asking what needed to be done, what you both needed to be aware of, and so on and so forth. As if he could sense your worries, his hands immediately rested on your shoulders as he stood behind you while he continued to converse with the doctor.

He was your pillar and your protector. He always was, and he always will be.

Even if sometimes you found him to be overbearing.

You had missed many of his more indulgent dishes ever since he had put you on a clean-diet, and each time, you made a point of letting him know just how upset you were as you sulked when he finished setting the table with steamed fish and green veggies with bamboo shoots.

“It’s only temporary,” he reassured you, smiling to himself as he watched you picked at the fish half-heartedly.

“Most women get to enjoy their cravings while pregnant,” you said sullenly, taking a small bite of the fish.

He nodded in agreement as he sat down opposite of you. “If this was a normal pregnancy, then of course you should be able to indulge on your cravings—”

You looked at him hopefully.

“But your cholesterol level is higher than normal, and we also need to be cautious about the risk of developing gestational diabetes—”

You sulked again. “You are killing my appetite again.”

Caleb laughed softly as he set his chopsticks down. He cocked his head to the side, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he leaned forward on the table. “What are you craving, pipsqueak?”

“What does it matter? You won’t let me have anything…” You bit into your bamboo shoot, not making eye contact with him.

“Pretend I will,” he answered in the same tone.

You shrugged. “…Pasta.”

“Pasta? Okay,” he answered thoughtfully, “What else?”

“Hmm…pizza…cheesecake…dumplings…”

Caleb covered his mouth to suppress his laughter as he watched you list each food longingly, practically lost in your own world and not even paying attention to him anymore. When it seemed you had finished listing, he questioned you again, “That’s all?”

You sighed and shook your head.

“What else is there? You’ve practically listed all of the food available on takeout menus,” he teased.

“…Braised chicken wings…”

Caleb looked surprised. “What?”

“Your braised chicken wings,” you clarified and looked up to meet his surprised gaze.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, “I’ll make some braised chicken wings tomorrow for dinner.”

You perked up. “R-really?” You eyed him suspiciously. “What about my clean diet?”

“In moderation would be fine,” he answered, smiling, “Besides, having the mother of my child miserable the whole time is also not good for the baby.”

You huffed at him, annoyed. “I’m miserable because of you.”

He blinked, not expecting you to suddenly be mad at him again. “I’m only—”

“I can’t enjoy the food I like, I’m tired all of the time, I can’t even see my feet anymore, my back hurts, my feet are swollen—how am I fat when I’m not even eating anything yummy?!”

“…are you having a mood swing?”

“Yes!” you cried out hysterically, nearly sobbing, “It’s your fault, too, I can’t control my hormones right now!”

Caleb laughed helplessly as he stood from his seat and crossed over to your side. Immediately, you wrapped your arms around his waist, your face buried against his stomach as you continued to cry and list your grievances with him.

“Alright, alright, it is my fault I gotten you pregnant,” he agreed. He peered down at the top of your head, smiling when you sniffled against his shirt while he rubbed the back of your head soothingly.

“…dummy…”

“Yes, yes, I’m a dummy,” he continued in a very pacifying tone.

“…A big dummy…”

“Mmhmm…”

“The biggest…”

“Right, right…”

You looked up, suspicious again when he continued to be very agreeable. You yelped in surprise when he immediately grabbed your face and leaned down to steal your lips with his. It took you a few seconds to register that he was kissing you before you gave in, feeling a warmth in your chest at his sudden display of affections.

“What else?” he asked softly when he pulled back a few centimeters, still close enough that his breath brushed against your trembling lips while his eyes locked with yours. You could feel his thumb brushing away the tears that were still on your cheeks.

“…you…”

“Me?”

“Uh huh…”

“What do you want from me?”

“Just you…”

He laughed and kissed your forehead. “Alright, pipsqueak,” he said, “You have me. I am all yours. Forever.”

You guided his hand down to your pregnant belly, smiling when that same look of surprise crossed his face again when he felt the baby kicked. Your smile widened as you answered him, “You’re ours.”

He knelt down on one knee, his large hand still resting over your belly as he smiled back before his eyes drifted down to your stomach. “Yeah,” he said, sighing almost as if in disbelief by this current life he was living, “Both of yours. Forever.”

[kermdoeswriting]

Bruce Wayne's a Foster Parent. Also he avoids death a lot so a dead person can usually tell if a humans meant to have died but didn't.

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

"Bruce you know I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't have to but-"

Bruce just sighed from his side of the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Nobody ever really expects to get a phone call nearing 3 am but exceptions had to be made when you were a legal foster parent and also a part-time secret super hero. If it wasn't one thing calling for him it was the other.

On the other side of the phone, Bruce heard the caseworker, Roni, chuckle.

"It's just for 3 nights and half of the day after, but I need you to be prepared for something before I can pass them off to you."

Bruce sat upright now on his bed, attentively listening to her words. Usually the kids didn't really come with any pre-warnings from the Caseworker themselves, letting anything about each Foster kid be said inside of their personal files that got sent along with them.

But when she gave out this information it was usually important. The last time Bruce had gotten a warning like this it was for Jason which was ages ago it feels at this point.

"What is it?"

"The kids are-" Her voice trailed off, like as if she was still searching for the right words to say. "They've been through what I can honestly only describe as the equivalent to a meta-kid trafficking lab"

Bruce shifted as he heard the driving continue on the other side of the phone.

"They're very guarded because of what they went through and they might display.. unusual behavior. More unusual then a meta-kids behavior after such a situation would be, but don't let it fool you! The kids are really sweet beyond being afraid."

Bruce frowns at the descriptions before replying to her, mentally trying to prepare himself for the idea of these kids and what they might have went through.

"I'll make a note of it then. Thank you, Roni"

"No, thank you, Bruce. I really appreciate this last minute placement. We'll be by really soon"

He was left with a click as he removed himself off his bed and threw the covers to the side of him. Alfred would want to know that they would have 2 new guests in the manor, at the very least to greet them and have rooms prepared even if they didn't need to have them prepared further then what they already were.

It was less then 5 minutes later that Bruce found himself, with Alfred, greeting the temporary fosters at the front door. Roni looked tiredly at them as she pushed the kids front and center.

Bruce could relate heavily.

"Hello Danny, Ellie. It's nice to meet you both, I'm Bruce Wayne."

Danny just stared at the mans outstretched hand for a second before he turned to look up at him, a pinched look on his face. Ellie matched his expression, although being a bit more subtle about it as she looked over Bruce as a whole.

Eerily, Bruce felt like his very soul was being judge the longer the kids stared at him. He also felt a sense of familiarity with these two kids the longer this continued.

They seemed detached rather than afraid like their caseworker had explained earlier, more so viewing the world as if they were outside of it rather then in it in any way.

Danny was quick to glare at him after another moment, "You're a fruit-loop, aren't you?"

Ellie broke from her own scanning almost immediately when she heard Danny's comment, cackling beside him before shoving him off with her arm. The action made Bruce smile as he took his arm back and placed it by his side.

Alfred also looked amused between the pair of siblings before turning attention to the task at hand again. Bruce just smiled at his pseudo-fathers usual fondness over children, knowing he was being reminded of his own grandchildren.

"This is Alfred. He's going to be the one to show you over to your rooms for the next few nights." Alfred greeted the kids in the same polite way he usually greeted all guests before he leaned down and extended his hands towards their belongings. He didn't grab their belongings just remained leaning over them before questioning the kids if they would like help to take their stuff to their rooms.

Bruce only really saw it faintly and if it were any other moment he might have ignored it as a sleepless hallucination, but for some reason he noticed the change immediately. The twins eyes go from a darker blue to a flashing bright green.

As if alarmed by the sudden movement towards their belongings.

Danny was quick to catch his own staring as well, eyes flashing back to blue for only a second before reverting back to green. Almost as if to give off some kind of warning.

Ellie noticed his staring immediately and shoved Danny again, this time more forceful for his attention before turning to whisper something to him when she had him back.

Bruce felt his skin crawl before turning away to face their caseworker, not really understanding anything they were saying beyond hearing a few words and feeling their eyes look between each other and his back.

Death Touched was an especially new description, and one that stuck in his head the second he heard it.

Bruce waited until the kids were guided away by Alfred before talking to their caseworker officially and waking her up from her half delirious tired drop-off.

"Hey Roni? Is there any chance we can extend the Fenton kids stay?"

There was something going on here with these kids and he was going to get to the bottom of it. One way or another.

[kira-loves0905]

lads x reader! [mentions of death] [can be seperate or together...?]

it was another day of gathering intel from him. the knob swiftly opens for you to paddle inside the cage the Praedator was in. he was sat on his usual place, body language high and mighty. the smirk drawling on his lips as he sees your figure walking towards him. but then, the expression falls, eyes zoning on the tell-tale purple bruise on your waist— courtesy of your rather revealing outfit.

"who hurt you?"

he growls, clenching his fists. your steps faltering at the sudden aura he emanates.

"I believe that is none of your issue-"

"it is, you see." he interjects before you could finish. "I'll repeat my question, darling. who?"

he mostly didn't mind the chains that bounded him on this interrogation chair. in fact, he barely wastes his strength on fighting against it: his posture always relaxed.

but seeing that bruise triggers something within his insanity. he doesn't know why he feels like it, the urge was strong to pull you towards him. to caress the taint mark that someone must've left on your skin.

you see the way he now strains against the chair. his muscles taut and veiny, gritting his teeth at how you just stood there. as if that injury was nothing for you, but to him it felt as if the world was already ending.

why is that? why did he feel the urge to do so?

"it's.. another Praedator." you forced a reply, or else the scientists in the facility might make another metal chair modified for his strength with how he's tugging all his might, "it was just careless of me. so I ought to not approach people like you too close for today."

"..w..what?"

left dumbfounded on your revelation, the straining stops.

"indeed," you nod a tad awkwardly at his odd expression. standing a few feet away, you brought out your materials needed to interrogate him. "let's start."

as the intel goes on, you were perplexed at his sudden compliance. he would've dumped all the information he has if it wasn't for the shred of pride he has left. heck, you hadn't even use much of the devices you brought.

shaking his behaviour as part of his... symptoms. you packed up your things, your movements careful and meticulous to avoid aggravating your injury any longer.

turning around to the door, you winced slightly at the inevitable ache. about to leave and treat the wound when..

"princess." he beckons your attention, "i've given you intel. yet you still insist not telling me who left that mark. least you could do was return a favor.. hm?"

"it was... that burly man down the hall," you said vaguely, heeding no mind. might as well entertain him, right? if it makes him obey and give more information then you don't mind.

oh how wrong you were.

the next day, there was an uproar of a sudden dead Praedator. no one knows who had done it. the execution flawless with no strings left behind. but the smirking man you've known for a while, with chains suspiciously broken only seen up close may know a thing or two..

[be4chywritez]

shot to the heart (and the nose) | luke hughes

luke hughes x fem!reader

You come home from college and Luke is smitten...maybe a little too smitten

beachy’s masterlist🐚

requests are open!

part two!

Growing up next door to the Hughes family meant one thing—hockey was a religion.

It was loud, it was competitive, and it was everywhere. If the Hughes brothers weren’t on the ice, they were playing in the driveway, tracking in mud from the lake, or tossing pucks against the garage door until Ellen threatened to take their sticks away.

And you?

You were the neighbor kid. Not quite in the mix, but not completely out of it either.

Your families were close—vacations together, barbecues in the summer, Christmas parties in the winter. You and the Hughes boys had spent years at each other’s birthday parties, running through sprinklers, roasting marshmallows, and competing over who could eat the most popsicles before Jim made you all go inside.

But if hockey was the Hughes brothers’ thing, quiet was yours.

Luke, in particular, had always been the opposite of quiet. He was the one making up rules for backyard games, the one yelling over everyone else, the one who would get so frustrated when you’d rather sit and watch than dive into the chaos.

He never bullied you for it, not in the way other kids might have, but he pushed—nudging you toward the action, insisting you could keep up, making sure you weren’t left out.

Jack and Quinn weren’t much different. Jack, the natural show-off, would always try to impress you (even if you weren’t watching), and Quinn, forever the responsible older brother, would make sure you didn’t get completely trampled by their energy.

Then, of course, you all grew up.

You spent high school buried in books and extracurriculars, aiming for an Ivy League acceptance letter. Luke spent it on the ice, chasing the NHL dream.

By senior year, your friendship had faded into nothing more than polite nods and see you at Christmas waves across the room.

And then you left for college.

Luke got drafted.

Life moved on.

Coming home after months at school was weird.

The air smelled the same, the roads felt the same, but you didn’t feel the same. Maybe it was the time away, or maybe it was the fact that being home again made you realize just how much things had changed.

The car rumbled up your street, your mom chatting about how good it is to have you back while you stared out the window.

And across the driveway, in the Hughes' kitchen, three heads turned in unison.

Jack was the first to react. He dropped his sandwich. Fully dropped it. “Holy shit.”

Quinn, still chewing, furrowed his brows. “What?”

Luke didn’t say anything, just stared.

Because there you were, climbing out of the car—same face, same features, but different.

College had done something to you. Or maybe you’d just grown into yourself.

Jack nudged Luke’s arm, grinning. “Dude. You seeing this?”

Luke was seeing it. That was the problem.

You were tan, your hair was different, your shorts were short, and fuck, had your legs always looked like that?

“Oh my god,” Quinn muttered, leaning against the counter. “Luke, close your mouth.”

Luke snapped his mouth shut, scowling. “Shut up.”

Jack just smirked. “Bet she still won’t talk to you.”

Luke rolled his eyes, but for once, he didn’t have a comeback.

A few days later, you were walking up your driveway when you spotted Luke in his front yard.

He had his shirt on this time (unfortunately so) wearing a Team USA tee with the sleeves cut off, and ripping shots into the net with a ridiculous amount of force.

You should’ve known better.

Really, you should have known better.

Because one second, he was shooting.

And the next—

Crack.

Right to the face.

“Holy shit!”

Luke dropped his stick so fast it clattered against the pavement. In seconds, he was in front of you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I didn’t see you,” he rambled, eyes darting between your nose and your expression. “Are you—holy shit, you’re bleeding.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your face. “Luke. What the fuck.”

“I swear I didn’t see you—”

“No shit.”

Luke winced. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair.” He ripped his shirt off in one smooth motion, bunching it up before carefully pressing it against your nose. “Here, hold this.”

You blinked. “Did you just—”

“Sacrificed my shirt for you? Yeah.”

“Oh, so chivalrous.”

Luke huffed out a laugh, tilting your chin up slightly to examine the damage. His hands were warm, calloused from years of hockey, and being this close to him was… distracting.

His eyes flickered over your face, studying you.

“You look… different,” he murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You swallowed. “So do you.”

Luke smirked. “Yeah?”

And that was when you realized—he was still holding your chin.

And smiling at you.

And looking so unfairly good doing it.

You exhaled sharply. “Quit smiling at me.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I feel weird.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything.

And then—

His grin widened, slow and lazy. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said easily. “Just thinking I should smile at you more often.”

You groaned, shoving his chest. “Oh my god.”

Luke just laughed, but then his expression sobered. “C’mon, let’s go inside. Mom’ll kill me if I leave you out here bleeding.”

Before Luke could even pull you up, the door to the Hughes house slammed open.

Jack and Quinn came speed-walking—borderline running—toward you, eyes bouncing between Luke, you, and the blood dripping down your face.

Jack, of course, spoke first.

“Oh my god, did Luke hit you?”

You groaned, still pressing Luke’s (formerly white) Team USA shirt to your nose. “You say that like he didn’t just slapshot a puck into my face.”

Quinn sighed, looking so unimpressed. “Jesus, Luke.”

Luke, still crouched next to you, lifted his hands in exasperation. “I didn’t see her! I was just—”

Jack cackled, pointing at Luke like he’d just won the lottery. “You obliterated her!”

“Jack,” you deadpanned. “Not helping.”

Jack waved you off. “No, no, because this is insane. You come back from college looking totally different, and the second Luke sees you, he shoots his shot—literally.”

Luke groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jack, I swear to—”

Jack ignored him. “I mean, I knew he was gonna lose it when he saw you again, but this—this is next level.”

Luke shoved him. “Can you shut up?”

Quinn, ever the responsible older brother, rolled his eyes. “Alright, let’s get her inside before she passes out in our driveway.”

Jack smirked. “Or before Luke confesses his love again.”

Luke shoved him harder.

You just sighed.

The moment you stepped into the house, the familiar warmth of the Hughes home hit you—laundry detergent, whatever Quinn had been cooking earlier, and a faint trace of hockey gear.

And then—

“Oh my god!”

Ellen practically flew down the stairs, eyes zeroing in on your face.

Jim followed behind her, frowning. “Jesus, what happened?”

Jack, still very much enjoying the situation, grinned. “Oh, you know. Luke saw her for the first time in, like, a year and immediately tried to take her out.”

Luke groaned. “That is not what happened.”

Ellen, ignoring them, cupped your face as gently as she could, careful not to touch your nose. “Sweetheart, oh my gosh! You’re hurt!”

Jack, ever the instigator, added, “She is hurt, but also—she looks amazing, right?”

Ellen’s eyes flickered over your face—well, the parts of it that weren’t covered in blood—and beamed. “Oh, honey, you are stunning! Look at you! College has done wonders for you.”

You blinked. “Uh—”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Ellen, she’s bleeding.”

Ellen waved him off. “Yes, yes, I see that, but look at how grown up she is!” She turned to Quinn. “Quinn, tell me she doesn’t look gorgeous.”

Quinn, handing Luke an ice pack, huffed out a laugh. “She does.”

Jack smirked. “Luke sure thinks so.”

Luke whipped around. “Jack, I will actually—”

Jim chuckled, finally stepping in. “Alright, El, let’s fix her up before we start matchmaking.”

Luke, still looking like he desperately wanted to disappear, guided you to the kitchen table and sat you down. “Okay, let me—uh—yeah, just—” He fumbled with the ice pack, hands slightly shaky.

You raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Just—quit looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” Luke exhaled sharply. “Like that.”

You smirked. “Why?”

“Because I can’t stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything.

And then—

Jack howled. Quinn raised his eyebrows.

Ellen gasped like this was the best news she had heard all day.

Jim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ.”

Luke groaned.

And you?

You just smiled.

It was going to be a great summer.

part two!

[sugarplum217]

The Fire We Make (Part Two)

Pairing: Terry Richmond X Black Female/Plus Size/Curvy Reader, MDNI

Warnings: very heavy smut, unprotected sex, nasty & dirty talk, mention’s of abuse, triggering topics, not suitable for anyone under 18+, oral sex, sort of a slow burn, casual sex, fluff, use of the N word, AAVE, somewhat age gap relationship, mentions of verbal abuse, use of abusive lanuage, alcohol usage, mentions of female masturbation, mentions of sexual assault and drug use, oral sex (female recieving) please

Authors Note: Please excuse any errors or mistakes, I hope you enjoy and please be kind.

Summary: You were supposed to be focused, handling your Nana’s last wishes, getting this house in order, and most importantly, staying out of trouble. But how the hell were you supposed to do that when trouble was six-foot-something, built like a sin, and living under the same damn roof? Terry was already making it hard to keep your thoughts pure, but when a little liquor enters the mix? Whew. The lines start blurring, the tension gets thicker, and suddenly, the two of you are toeing a line that neither of you might be ready to cross. But with confessions spilling, dangerous heat rising, and that fine ass man looking at you like he’s ready to ruin your whole damn world… staying away? Yeah. That might not be an damn option anymore.

You always knew your Nana had a funny way of doing things, but damn, you didn’t expect her to leave you damn near lost in the sauce when it came to handling her last wishes. You swore this woman had an aversion to clear instructions. You should’ve known better. Nana never wrote shit down, not a recipe, not a schedule, not even a damn grocery list. Everything she did was off instinct. She’d always tell you, “Baby, just follow your heart. It’ll lead you where you need to go.” That was cute and all, but what the hell was your heart supposed to do when you were knee deep in paperwork, fighting through legal vocabulary, and trying to make sure her precious land didn’t end up in the wrong hands?

You’d spent the past few days drowning in documents, back-and-forth phone calls with a bunch of old Southern men who thought you were just some clueless city girl, and running errands that felt like they had no end in sight. On top of all that, you had to deal with a whole grown-ass man—a man that was so damn fine he had your hormones setting up camp in your ovaries and throwing a block party every time he walked in the room.

This random-ass nigga Terry, the so-called “helper” who was supposed to be here to assist you, was doing the complete opposite. This man was a walking sexual healing, word to Marvin Gaye. The shit was becoming ridiculous. Your pussy damn near fell through your panties every single time he walked by.

Broad ass shoulders, arms cut like he was hand-carved by the gods, abs that looked like they belonged on a sculpture in a museum. And that face? Whew. That was a whole different kind of fine. I mean, not the kind of fine you run across too many times in life. Terry had one of them strong, grown man faces, sharp jaw, full lips, and for godsake those unique colored eyes that held a storm behind them. He looked like he had a past, like he’d been through some dangerous shit, like he was the type to handle business when necessary. In other words, he looked like the kind of trouble you had no business entertaining. Especially not in the frame of mind you were in, for crying out loud you were still technically grieving. But the way your body reacted? The way your thighs clenched every time his deep ass voice hit your ears? The way your nipples betrayed you whenever he got too close? Yeah… this wasn’t just simple attraction. This was some next level, soul-stirring, I need to be baptized immediately type of undeniable lust.

The sun had been on demon time all damn day. You swore the devil himself had blown his hot-ass breath straight onto the state. It wasn’t just hot—it was disrespectfully hot. The type of heat that made the air stifling and thick as well as made your skin sticky. Had you questioning if you should just go lay down and let Jesus take the wheel. At the moment you were currently outside, sitting on the porch, trying not to pass out from heat stroke. Your leopard-print Fashion Nova romper wasn’t doing much to keep you cool—it was thin and barely there, clinging to your curves like it had an agenda of its own. You didn’t care, though. If these country men could walk around in nothing but basketball shorts and tank tops, you could wear your little booty-clapper romper in peace.

With a lemon-flavored popsicle in hand, you scrolled mindlessly on your phone, music blasting through your AirPods. You weren’t even paying attention to the world around you. At least, not until you looked up and saw him. Terry was out in the yard, shirtless, sweat glistening on his golden-brown skin like he was made of pure temptation. He had the lawn mower in a firm grip, pushing it across the grass with ease, the muscles in his back flexing with every movement. His broad shoulders and cut biceps worked as he maneuvered the machine, sweat dripping down the hard planes of his chest, sliding over his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his basketball shorts.

“Lord, have mercy…” You whispered under your breath. Your stomach clenched, thighs instantly pressing together on instinct. You weren’t even paying much attention to how hot it was anymore. Not when Terry was giving you a show.

The way he moved—slow, controlled, powerful—had your mind going straight to the gutter. You bit your lip, watching him like you had no damn home training. Your mouth went dry, but you refused to blame the heat. This was all him. The way the sun kissed his rich caramel skin? The way his jaw clenched in concentration? The way his thick ass thighs flexed every time he took a step? Terry was a whole ass problem.

You took a slow pull from your popsicle, sucking the tip into your mouth as your eyes stayed glued to the scene in front of you while you leaned back on your elbows, stretching your legs out in front of you, letting the sun warm your skin as you continued to watch him work. You intensely watched as the lawn mower moved slow and steady under his firm grip, his strong hands flexing around the handle as he guided it across the thick grass with impeccable controlled precision. Every push made his biceps tighten, the muscles in his shoulders rolling under his skin like waves. His back flexed, broad and cut, tapering down to a slim waist and thick thighs that held all the power he was working with. He definitely made yard work look sinful. The deep hum of the lawn mower vibrated through the air, but it wasn’t enough to drown out your thoughts. You shifted again, your thighs pressing together, trying to ignore the growing wetness that had started to turn noticeably sticky against the seat of your romper.

Truth be told you knew it had been a minute since you got some. And it wasn’t just about sex—you needed something real. Not some half-ass, two-pump, let-me-get-mine type of situation. No, you needed a man who knew how to handle a woman like you. A man who knew how to grab you, flip you, make you forget your own damn name. Most men didn’t know what to do with a woman built like you—soft in all the right places, curves that needed to be held properly. The kind of body that required strength. The kind of body that needed a man who wasn’t afraid to take control, to pin you down, to make you feel every inch of him until you were running from it. And something in the back of your mind told you Terry was that kind of man. Now you knew damn well in the back of your mind , you weren’t supposed to be lusting after this man. You were supposed to be focused. But the way your body was reacting? The way your heartbeat was drumming between your legs? Baby… focus was nowhere to be found.

“Shit…” You muttered under your breath, shifting in your seat. You bit your lip, trying to steady your breathing as your thighs lazily parted open, wanting to give him a view of exactly what he was working with. The thin leopard-print romper did nothing to hide the soft, fat flips beneath it, and you dared Terry to notice. Terry clearly must’ve felt you staring after a while because suddenly, he looked up, eyes locking straight right at you. Your lips wrapped around the popsicle before you could think better of it, your tongue flicking against the tip in a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes darkened while a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in, legs parted, skin glowing, sitting there like temptation itself while sucking on something cold to keep from melting in this heat. Or maybe to keep from melting under his heat. You could’ve looked away. Could’ve played it off. But instead, you held his gaze and dragged your tongue along the side of the popsicle, purring at the refreshing taste. Terry’s smirk deepened. He dragged a hand over his head, wiping away sweat, and took his sweet time looking you over—eyes traveling from your thighs to your lips, lingering for just a second too long. While he took his own glances.

Your eyes dragged lower, following the slow, tantalizing trail of sweat dripping down his abs, rolling over the deep-cut lines of his V. The way his muscles flexed with every movement, the way that sheen of sweat made his caramel skin glisten under the ruthless South Carolina sun—it was sinful. You could see it. The way those sharp dips led right beneath the waistband of his basketball shorts, teasing at what was beneath. That print, that damn thick dick print, sitting heavy between his thighs, made your mouth damn near water. Your fingers tightened around the melting popsicle, lips parting slightly as your breathing turned shallow. You didn’t even realize he had stopped pushing the mower by this point. Hell, you didn’t even notice how hard he was staring right back at you. Your mind was complete mush. His gaze wasn’t on your face, though. Wasn’t even on your parted lips or the way your chest rose and fell beneath your thin romper. No, Terry was looking right between your thighs. Your legs were still lazily parted, the soft, fat flesh of your pussy lips spilling over the seat of your romper in a way that had his stormy ocean like eyes darkening, narrowing slightly. And then , he noticed that little glint of the diamond metal sitting exactly where his tongue wanted to be. His jaw flexed and his grip on the mower tightened. His nostrils flared just slightly, envisioning what your pussy looks beneath that romper. The way he was looking at you? Like he was imagining spreading those thighs wider, getting a real close look at that piercing, letting his tongue play with it just to hear how sweet you’d sound moaning his name. Terry’s slow stare continued to drag up and down your body, lingering on that juicy space between your thick thighs. His tongue peeked out, swiping across his bottom lip as he eyed you like he was trying to decide if he was about to fuck around and make a bad decision.

The air between you two was thick and dripping with animalistic lust and deep sexual tension. By this point your entire body felt as though it was buzzing, waiting for him to say something, do something—Then your phone rang, loud as hell might I add. You damn near jumped out of your skin, startled, the sound snatching you straight out of your dirty-ass thoughts. In your rush to grab the phone, you choked on the popsicle juice sliding down your throat, coughing as your eyes watered. Terry huffed a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before turning back to his work. That only made it worse. Now you were sitting here, hot, pussy throbbing and wet, and embarrassed, struggling to breathe while he went right back to pushing that damn lawn mower like he hadn’t just had you about to risk your soul in broad daylight.

“Hello?” You answered, trying to steady your voice and not sound flustered.

“Miss Walker?” The voice on the other end came through.

You swallowed hard, still trying to steady your voice. “Uh, yeah. This is her.”

“This is Veronica Kincaid, the realtor you called about your grandmother’s land. I wanted to touch base since I’ll be coming by tomorrow evening to do an initial walk-through of the property.” The realtor stated.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing a hand to your forehead. Of course the realtor would pick now, right now—to call you. And of course your voice still sounded all breathy and flustered like you’d just been caught doing something you had no business doing. Which… technically, you had.

“Right, right. Veronica. Got it. Uh, so… what time were you thinking?”

You cleared your throat, shifting once again, getting up off the chair to head inside the house. The gentle flow of the air condition kissed your skin soon as you went inside the house and you were oh so grateful. You tucked your phone between your ear and shoulder as you migrated to the kitchen to grab a much needed ice cold glass of water.

“Well, I was hoping for around five, if that works for you? I know it’s short notice, but I had an opening, and I wanted to make sure we got ahead of any potential buyers who might be interested.” She explained.

“Yeah, yeah, five is cool. I’ll be here.” You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. You grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and opened it, immediately gulping it down.

“Great! And just to confirm, we’ll be looking at the full property today? The house and the surrounding land?” Veronica gently inquired. Your eyes flicked back to Terry outside through the kitchen window, who was still working, still glistening in that sun like the temptation he was. You exhaled slowly, pressing your thighs together again.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice lower than it should’ve been. “The whole thing.”

“Alright, perfect! And if you have those documents ready, we can go over them when I arrive.” She requested, making you scrunch up your face confused. Documents? You thought to yourself. Your brain was fried. Not just from the heat but from that damn man outside looking like a walking sexual healing.

You barely managed, “Yeah, I’ll have everything ready,” before rushing her off the phone with a hasty, “I’ll see you tomorrow Veronica, alright bye.”

The second the call ended, you dropped your phone onto the counter and pressed your palms to your thighs, inhaling deeply. You clearly needed a moment, but apparently, God wasn’t done testing you today. Because not even a second later, Terry walked into the kitchen. You instantly stiffened up soon as he crossed the threshold, making your body react yet again. It wasn’t enough that he was fine as hell, now he had the nerve to smell good, too? Like fresh-cut grass, sun, and something deep and masculine that made your thighs press together on instinct. Terry didn’t say a word as he went straight to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water, twisting off the cap with one hand like it was nothing. You tried to focus on Veronica’s voice in your ear, but then he slowly tilted his head back with his eyes closed. His throat flexing as he gulped down the water, droplets escaping down his chin, rolling over the slight scruff lining his jaw before dripping onto his ridiculously cut chest.

“Oh, fuck.” You uttered barely audible, thanking the heavens he didn’t hear you. Your brain short-circuited and all you could see was the way his lips wrapped around that bottle, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow, and suddenly, you weren’t picturing water anymore. No, now you were picturing your own creamy essence dripping down that chin, sliding down his jaw, his lips shiny with your sweet juices. Terry glanced at you mid-sip, catching the way you were gawking at him, before lowering the bottle and licking his lips.

“You good?” His deep voice carried that smooth, teasing edge.

“Mmhmm.” You swallowed hard, nodding quickly, forcing a tight lipped smile. Terry lifted a brow like he wasn’t buying that shit at all but didn’t press. Instead, he leaned against the counter, smirking slightly.

“Hot as hell out there, huh?” He teased, taking another swig from his water.

You huffed, waving a hand. “Yeah, I can’t do this shit. It’s too hot.”

“Can’t hang, huh?” That low chuckle of his sent a shiver down your spine. You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t even have the strength to argue. Your body was over it. As you grabbed your phone again, scrolling for the information Veronica needed, Terry took his time looking you over—really looking. Up close, he had an unobstructed view of what that leopard-print romper was doing to your figure. The way it clung to every curve, the way it barely covered your ass—or didn’t at all. That fabric had disappeared between your cheeks like it belonged there. Terry licked his lips, his mind going places it had no business going. All he could see was you bent over for him, those thick thighs trembling, that ass bouncing as he made you take every inch. A cornbread-fed body like yours? The type with thick thighs, soft rolls, and an ass that could smother a man to death? Yeah, that was his weakness. There were about a hundred ways he could make you run from him, and he knew that shit for a fact. His mind was deep in the gutter and he knew it as he watched you concentrate on your phone with your entire upper half of your body perched across the counter. Your ass poked out while you were arched just right for his liking. You didn’t even realize the way your ass swallowed the romper of we’re being honest or that he was looking at you like he was picturing it bouncing on his lap. As much as Terry didn’t want to, he knew he had to snap the hell out of it before he fucked around and found out.

“So… have you talked to the realtor yet?” He asked , clearing his throat, he shifted his stance and forced himself to focus. You glanced up, raising a brow like you knew he was just pulling himself out of a real deep thought.

“Yeah,” You said slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s coming by tomorrow evening.”

“That was quick.” He nodded, eyes still lingering on you, trying to gauge you.

“Trying to get shit handled as quick as possible so I can figure everything else out and not be here longer than I need to be.” You sighed, rubbing your temples. Terry let out a small chuckle, slightly shaking his head as his eyes lingered on you for a beat too long.

“Guess we’ll see what she has to say then.” He said stoically , expression unreadable.

“Guess we will,” You murmured. Avoiding his eyes as you fidgeted with your phone. The subtle ache from his lawn mowing performance is still evident.

“Aight, well I’m gon’ take a shower. If you need me just knock on my door.” Terry tapped his fingers against the counter before speaking again.

“I will.” You nodded, not bothering to meet his eyes. Terry gave a simple head nod, before turning the opposite direction, and heading out of the kitchen to get his shower. You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding until you heard a door close from down the hall. You immediately snatched your phone and dialed Tasha. The entire time you had been staying here, you were putting her up on game.

“This heffa better pick up this fucking phone—.” You were cut off by her picking up on the first ring.

“Bitch… this better be good. I’m trying to do my nails.” She dragged out, knowingly.

“Tasha...” You groaned.

“Tell me why you sound like you just had a whole orgasm.” She twisted up her face as if you could see, laughing softly on the other end.

“Because, bitch, I might have.” You got up from in front of the counter, migrating into the living room and dropping onto the couch, covering your face.

“Oh no. What did Terry do now?” Tasha cackled loudly. You adjusted the phone on your ear, not bothering to use your AirPods .

“It’s not what he did, Tasha. It’s just… him existing.” You sighed loudly, fanning yourself dramatically.

“Damn. It’s that bad?” She snickered.

“No, girl. It’s worse.” You exhaled, flopping back against the cushions. “This nigga got the nerve to be outside, shirtless, cutting grass like he’s auditioning for a damn porno. And then he comes inside, drenched in sweat, drinking water like he knows what he’s doing.”

Tasha wheezed. “Did you damn near suck the air out of the room watching him?”

“…I might’ve choked on my popsicle.” You embarrassingly admitted. Dead silence. Then— She SCREAMED.

“BITCHHHHHH.” She hollered out, doubling over in laughter.

You groaned. “I fucking hate you.”

“Nah, I love this for you,” She snickered. “But, uh, be careful. That man sounds like he’s about to be all in your guts real soon.”

“Lord please… don’t say that Tasha.” You whined, feeling your heart rate speed up. Your legs crossed tight at the thought. Because the Lord knew you wanted it. And by the way Terry had been looking at you today? He might’ve wanted it just as bad.

“Girl, I’m just saying… it’s been a minute since you got that back cracked open like a lobster! When was the last time you had a man deep inside you making you forget all your worries, hmm?” Tasha asked, her voice playful but full of intent.

You groaned, throwing your head back against the couch, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. “Damn, Tasha. You really gotta ask me that?”

“Yes, I do! ‘Cause the way you soundin’ all flustered and stressed out over this man, I know you need some relief. So spill it.” She pestered. You hesitated, lips pressing together. The truth was, it had been a minute. Too damn long. And the last time? Whew… the last time was with Rahmello, better known as Rome. That fine, toxic-ass sneaky link who had you sprung even though you swore up and down you weren’t. He wasn’t Terry fine, but he was still fine in his own right. Tall, built, skin the color of fresh coffee, and a smile that could charm the lace off a nun. The sex was fire. He was the only one who truly knew how to touch you, how to work your body like he had a damn manual. And Lord, did he love to hear you moan.

But Rome wasn’t on or about shit. He never wanted to leave your apartment after laying the pipe like his name was Mario. Not because of your body—oh no, he worshipped every damn inch of you—but because he was still technically with his baby mama and didn’t want that smoke. A coward. A man who thrived off the thrill but would never step up. So yeah… he was the last man you’d been with. And it had been two years.

“Girl, why is you so quiet? You reminiscing, huh? I knew it!” Tasha’s voice pulled you back to the present.

You scoffed. “First of all, shut up. Second of all… I ain’t reminiscing. I’m just—”

“Just realizing it’s been too damn long since you had some real dick,” She cut in, making you roll your eyes.

“Tasha, I am NOT about to be fuckin’ this man. I came down here to honor Nana’s wishes, not get caught up with some stranger!” You sighed dramatically.

“Oh, so now he’s just some stranger? You ain’t been drooling over him for the past three days? Girl, please.” She amusingly scoffed.

“That’s beside the point. The point is—I’m keeping it together.” You sucked your teeth.

“Nah, the point is, you're scared. You afraid that if you let that man touch you, it’s over for you.” Tasha snorted.

Silence.

Then, you exhaled through your nose. “YES, HOE! THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I’M AFRAID OF!”

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT! Oh my God—bitch, you actin’ like this nigga ‘bout to have you outside his window with a boombox, playin’ love songs n’ shit!” Tasha hollered, practically puncturing your eardrum.

“Tasha, I just KNOW that nigga got some demon dick. He look like he will have me screamin’, I GOT THE BIKE, HOLIDAY!” You covered your face with one hand, laughing despite yourself.

“STOPPPP! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! I CAN’T BREATHE!” Tasha was screaming now, full-on hollering through the phone.

“I’m serious! This man just look like he’ll have me actin’ a damn fool. And I don’t have the time or the mental capacity for that kinda stress.”You laughed too, shaking your head as you fanned yourself.

Tasha finally calmed down enough to catch her breath. “Whew… girl. I get it, I really do. But, for real—for real… if you keep fightin’ it this hard, that just means you already in too deep.”

You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you knew she had a point. You just weren’t ready to admit it yet. After spending another few minutes on the phone with Tasha. You realized you needed to take care of the constant yearn that was deep inside your belly. The ache between your legs was damn near unbearable. No amount of squeezing your thighs together, shifting in your seat, or deep breathing was doing a damn thing to make it go away. And it was all of his sexy ass fault. Terry had no business looking that damn good, smelling that damn good, and moving the way he did. Your body had been on high alert from the moment you saw him out there mowing the lawn, and now, after that whole scene in the kitchen, your nerves were shot, and your body was begging for relief. You needed release, and fast. You leaned up slightly from the couch, as you listened carefully, making sure he was nowhere near. Then, you heard it—the sound of the shower running down the hall. Terry was in the guest bathroom, meaning you had just enough time to sneak upstairs and handle business before he finished. Wasting no time, you shot up from the couch and rushed up the stairs, heart pounding. The second you got into your bedroom, you fished through your suitcase, hands shaking with anticipation, until your fingers wrapped around the one thing that could bring you to the edge and push you over in minutes, your lovely rose better known as your lifesaver.

You practically ripped your romper off, the fabric slipping down your thick thighs with ease. And when you stepped out of it, you whimpered. The sight of your own slick, gooey essence stretching between your thighs had you trembling. Your swollen clit pulsed angrily, begging for attention, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than for Terry to be the one to drop down to his knees and lick up every single drop. You bit your lip feeling a shudder run down your spine. Your legs felt weak as you climbed onto the bed, settling against your pillows. Wasting no time, you powered the rose on, immediately switching it to the third setting—the one that never failed to drag a scream right out of you. The second the soft suction latched onto your needy, swollen wet clit, your whole body jerked.

“Oh fuck! Mmmm shit.” A sharp cry tore from your lips as your thighs clenched. You threw your head back, feeling your juices gush out as it hit the toy, making a sound that had you so turned on. The sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, that you felt yourself spiraling already as you slowly rubbed the toy up and down your clit, teasing it as its suction continued to pull and tug on it, making your cream slowly gather inside your hole, ready to drip out.

“Fuuuuck, y-yess.” Your hips bucked as you rocked into the toy, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure hit you like a fucking freight train. You knew you were about to have the hardest nut of your life.

“My clit so fucking fat shit.” You moaned filthy, feeling hot and wet as your pussy began to have a mind of its own. You were in love with how sensitive your clit felt. The dream was dripping like lava as you felt the toy’s hard suction increasing as your clit fattened with need.

Your legs trembled as you held them back, the rose sucking and pulsing against your swollen clit, dragging out a sticky, wet ache that had been building for days. The first drag of suction made you shudder, a deep moan slipping from your lips as your juices dripped down your pussy slowly and onto the sheets. You rubbed the toy up and down while holding it down to add more pressure, teasing your clit, the pulsing vibration making your body jolt every time it latched onto your clit just right. The obscene squelch and suction noises filled the room, bouncing off the walls, mixing with your ragged breaths and soft whimpers. You swore you could feel the orgasm creeping up already, your belly tightening, thighs clenching, toes curling. You didn’t even care how loud you were; Terry was all the way in the guest bathroom, the sound of the shower running covering your sinful little secret. At least, that’s what you thought. What you didn’t know was that Terry wasn’t even in the damn shower yet. He had stepped out of the bathroom to grab some fresh clothes from the dryer, towel slung over his shoulder, basketball shorts hanging low on his waist, when he passed by your door. And that’s when he heard it. The wet, messy sounds. The desperate little moans.He stopped mid-step, his head tilting, listening closer. The low buzz of a toy, the way your breath hitched between every slick, suctioning pull of it. His lips parted slightly, and his hand flexed at his side, his whole body stiffening as his breathing slowed down, listening to you moan and cry. His tongue ran across his teeth as he bit down, his dick already hardening at the thought of what was happening just beyond that door. And Lord help him… he wanted to see.

“Mmmm suck that pussy! Yesss.” You cried out, eyes closed, picturing Terry’s mouth on you instead of the rose. You pressed the rose down harder, throwing your head back against the pillows as soft spurts of pussy juice squirted from you, making a nice puddle beneath your ass. Terry stood frozen outside your door, jaw tight, tongue pressed against his teeth as he listened to the wet, sloppy sounds coming from your room. His breathing deepened, chest rising and falling as his mind wandered and painted a crystal clear image of you and how you looked right about now pleasuring yourself.

“Damn,” He muttered under his breath, low and raspy. “I know that pussy look pretty when it cum.”

His head dropped forward slightly, hand flexing at his side as his mind painted the filthiest picture—your thick thighs trembling, that pretty little pussy clenching and dripping, all swollen and needy, just waiting for a real tongue to replace that damn toy. And then he heard it. His name slipping past your lips, soft and breathless, like a damn prayer as you were orgasming and creaming all over yourself , and letting out what you had been building up for the last few days.

“T-Terry— FUCK TERRY!” You cried loudly, cumming hard and intensely, as you rode the toy slowly. Immediately going sensitive you dropped the toy to the side and rubbed your aching clit rapidly with your middle finger, allowing yourself to squirt out as a second nut hit you, making your walls squirt harder. Terry’s eyes went dark, a deep hunger settling in his gut, spreading through his veins like wildfire. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his breathing ragged as the image of you writhing on that bed, your fingers tangled in the sheets, legs wide open for him, sent a pulse of raw, aching need straight to his dick. He swallowed hard, fists clenching tighter as he forced himself to step back, to walk away and restrain himself before he did something reckless. Because if he stepped into that room? There wouldn’t be any turning back. He was gonna beat the fuck out of that pussy until you saw stars.

You jerked from the aftershock of your mind blowing orgasm as you laid there, trying to catch your breath. Your heart pounded loudly in your chest as your ears were practically ringing. You’ve had your fair share of amazing orgasms when it came down to self care but this one? This one was undoubtedly the hardest, most nastiest one you had ever given yourself. You knew what your good girl could do. She was a messy juice monster that could make a mess if touched correctly and only you knew how to touch her to make it this intense. But it wasn’t just your technique this time , or your rose toy. It was that tall rich caramel nigga with the gorgeous unique eyes that had you spent and dripping cum.

“S-Shit…” You softly whimpered, feeling tired as your eyes grew heavy. As much as you wanted to get up and clean yourself off as well as change the covers. The aftershock of your orgasm sent you into a soft deep, very much needed slumber. You weren’t fond of sleeping in sweet sticky essence but you were too spent and too weak to fight against it. Not even a minute later you were knocked out, snoring softly with your legs still wide open, with not one care in the world.

A little after 4pm you finally arose from your slumber. Your body felt brand new after an hour-long nap and a much-needed shower. The kind of shower where you let the hot water run over your skin, steam fogging up the mirror while you took your time rubbing yourself down with your favorite body scrub. You needed that. Deserved that. Now, feeling refreshed, you threw on something light—a tiny tube-top dress that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs, the soft cotton clinging to your curves. You slid your feet into your fluffy fur slides, secured your hair up in a claw clip, and let a few soft curls frame your face. Cute, comfortable, and cool. Perfect for this ridiculous heat. With your Bluetooth speaker connected, you scrolled through your playlist, finally settling on SWV’s “Anything” Remix. As soon as the beat dropped, the energy in the kitchen shifted. The bass vibrated through the air, wrapping around you like an old friend. You started off slow, swaying your hips as you pulled out ingredients, letting the rhythm seep into your bones. The knife moved effortlessly through the ripe tomatoes, the sizzle of onions hitting the pan mixing with the music.

“Boy, my body’s just for you…” You sang as your shoulders bounced to the beat, and before you knew it, you were dancing. Really dancing. Hands up, hips rolling, that natural rhythm taking over as you stirred the pot on the stove. The little dress lifted with every step, teasing the curve of your ass as you lost yourself in the moment. What you didn’t know was that Terry had walked in a while ago, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, just… watching. Amused. Intrigued. You moved so effortlessly, like music was embedded in your bones. He licked his lips, eyes glued to the way your thighs jiggled with every step. That ass? A masterpiece. He could’ve watched you all damn day, but after a few more moments, he finally made his presence known.

“Ahem.” The deep rumble of his throat clearing cut through the air like a record scratch. You jumped, nearly dropping the spoon in your hand. Turning around, wide-eyed and caught, you saw him standing there, that signature smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jesus, you scared the hell outta me,” You huffed, pressing a hand to your chest, trying to slow your pounding heart.Terry just chuckled, eyes dark with something unreadable as he nodded toward you.

“Nah, baby girl, don’t stop on my account. Looked like you was really feelin’ it.” He teased.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” You rolled your eyes, waving him off as you turned back to the stove. But your heart was still racing. And not just from the scare. Terry leaned against the counter, reaching for a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off with ease. As he took a slow, deep gulp, you caught the way his Adam’s apple bobbed. The way his lips parted just slightly, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop. You swallowed hard, looking away before your mind took you places it had no business going again for the second time today. Terry smirked behind the bottle. Oh yeah, he had peeped all of that. And after overhearing what you were really up to in your room earlier, he was having a hard time pretending like he didn’t know exactly what had you so damn flustered. But he kept that dirty little secret to himself. For now.

The silence stretched for a bit, except for the music playing in the background. You exhaled, stirring the pot before muttering, “It’s too damn quiet out here.”

Terry hummed. “You ain’t used to it yet?”

“Not even close. I miss New York. All the noise, the people, the energy… I miss just walking outside and hearing taxi’s honking or ambulance's blaring. This country cricket life is not for me.” You scoffed. Truth of the matter was that you couldn’t stand the quiet due to being alone in your thoughts. The quieter things were, the more you relived trauma and pain you tried to forget about in this very house and town. Living in the city helped you stay occupied and distracted so you wouldn’t have to feel or think. Your therapist had told you long ago that , that was an unhealthy way to cope but it was either bury the shit or be on meds for the rest of your life because you couldn’t function.

Terry leaned against the counter, watching you. “If you were back home right now, what would you be doing?”

You thought for a second, then shrugged. “Hittin’ the town with my girls or curled up with a glass of wine, binge-watching something on Netflix or Hulu.”

“Sounds like a good night.” Terry nodded, smiling slightly.

“It is,” You said, then paused, your mind drifting to something else. A memory.

“You know… it wasn’t always bad down here. My daddy used to take me to this old skating rink when I was little. Sweet Rollers. Used to be the spot for all the neighborhood kids. I had the time of my life there, zoomin’ around, thinking I was so grown.” You smiled softly, stirring the pot absentmindedly. Terry’s lips tugged into a smirk, eyes flicking to your face as you got lost in the memory. He loved that little spark in your eye when you talked about something that made you happy.

“Sweet Rollers still around,” He said casually.

Your head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Terry chuckled. “Still open. Still got skate nights, too. If you hurry up and get dressed, we can make the evening session.”

“Yeah, right. My big ass ain’t skated in years. I’m not about to be out there bustin’ my ass in front of a bunch of teenagers. No thank you.” You snorted.

Terry leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “All you done did since you got here is work and complain. How ‘bout one night of just… fun?”

You gave him a side-eye. “I have fun.”

Terry smirked. “Name one fun thing you done since you stepped foot in this house.”

Silence

“…Exactly.”

You exhaled, narrowing your eyes at him. “You really tryna get me out the house that bad?”

“I’m tryna get you to loosen up,” Terry said, voice low and smooth. “Ain’t no harm in that, is it?”

You bit your lip, debating. And Lord help you… but the way he was looking at you? It was making it real hard to say no.

You hesitated for a second, chewing on your lip as you looked between Terry and the food sizzling on the stove. “We gotta eat first.”

“We can eat this delicious concoction when we get back. I’ll wrap it up so it stays warm. You go get dressed.” Terry shook his head with a smirk, stepping past you and reaching for the knob, twisting the fire off. You huffed, knowing he wasn’t about to let you argue. A night out didn’t sound half bad, and Lord knew you needed to unwind.

“Fine, fine…” You muttered, turning on your heel and rushing upstairs. Now, if you were going out, you were going to look good doing it. You picked out a pair of booty-hugging daisy duke shorts that gripped your thighs in all the right places, frayed at the edges just enough to tease. Then, you slipped into a cherry-red halter top bodysuit with a plunging neckline, leaving your entire back out, your spine tattoo on full display. You accessorized with your gold nameplate necklace, matching gold hoops, and stacked charm bracelets, letting the jewelry glint against your brown skin. Your hair was next—water and gel slicked it up into a high ponytail, soft curls cascading messily while your baby hairs framed your forehead just right. Shoes? Cute sandals. But you tossed a pair of socks into your purse for the rink. Makeup? Unnecessary. Your skin was already glowing. You fluffed your lash extensions, reapplied your buttery lip gloss, then reached for your Tom Ford Vanilla Sex—a Christmas gift from your mother. The rich, warm scent filled the air as you sprayed a generous amount over your collarbone, wrists, and thighs. Just as you grabbed your purse, you heard Terry’s deep voice call from downstairs.

“You ready yet?” His voice sounded smooth as velvet.

You smirked at your reflection before stepping out of your room and heading toward the stairs. The moment you hit the top step, his head turned. You saw the shift in his expression immediately. His eyes dragged down your short frame—lingering on the way your shorts sat snug on your thighs, then dropping lower to admire how your ass filled them out from the front. His tongue swiped over his lips before his gaze trailed up your exposed back, his jaw flexing slightly. By the time he reached your face, his pupils were just a little darker.

“Damn, ma…” His voice was deep, and heavier. “You tryna have every nigga in there break they neck?” He raised his eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes, descending the stairs. “Boy, shut up.”

Terry let out a low chuckle, stepping closer. “Nah, for real. You dangerous in that.” His head tilted, his voice dropping. “Lookin’ like you tryna get chose tonight.”

“Please. I just like to look good.” You scoffed, even though your pulse betrayed you.

He grabbed his keys, still watching you like he was committing every detail to memory. “Well, you succeeded.” Then, he smirked, nodding toward the door. “C’mon, before I change my mind and keep you here all night.”

Your breath caught for a split second, but you played it off, brushing past him as you stepped outside.You felt his presence heavy behind you, his eyes still lingering. Yeah… this night might be trouble. But you were already in too deep to back out now. Jesus be a complete fence around you and your hormones tonight. The ride to the skating rink was smooth, the warm evening breeze slipping through the cracked windows of Terry’s truck. The low hum of the engine filled the silence at first, but the tension in the air was anything but quiet. You shifted in your seat, smoothing your hands over your bare thighs, acutely aware of Terry’s presence beside you. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the console, his long fingers occasionally drumming against the leather. He was relaxed, but you could tell by the way his jaw flexed that his mind wasn’t completely at ease.

“You always this quiet?” You finally asked, breaking the silence.

“I talk when I got something to say.” Terry smirked, eyes still on the road.

“Oh, so you one of them?” You scoffed, shaking your head.

“One of what?” He glanced over at you briefly, amusement flickering in his gaze.

“The mysterious, brooding type. The ‘I ain’t gotta say much’ type. That whole ‘quiet storm’ thing.” You waved your hand. “Lemme guess, you think it makes you more intriguing, huh?”

“Nahhh, I just don’t waste words.” Terry chuckled under his breath.

“Mmhmm.” You folded your arms, feigning disappointment. “And here I was thinkin’ we was gonna have deep conversation, maybe share some childhood secrets, bond a little.” You pouted.

That made him chuckle again, this time a little deeper. “What you wanna know?”

You turned your body toward him, lips curling into a smirk. “I dunno… something interesting. Like, what’s your guilty pleasure?”

Terry lifted an eyebrow. “Guilty pleasure?”

“Yeah, like some random shit you love but would never admit out loud.” You stared at him, admiring the way his pretty eyes looked under the settling evening skies.

He rolled his lips together, thinking for a second before saying, “Old ‘90s R&B.”

“Word?” You perked up.

He nodded. “Yeah… I be playin’ the hell outta some Jodeci or Mint Condition when I’m by myself.”

“Not Jodeci.” You gasped dramatically, hand to your chest.

“You asked.” Terry chuckled, shaking his head.

“So what you be doing? Sitting in your truck with the seat back, windows down, singing your heart out?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He smirked, glancing over at you.

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’s wild. I would’ve pegged you for more of a hardcore rap, never-show-emotion type dude.”

“Oh, I still be on that. But sometimes, you gotta let a little Feenin’ or Pretty Brown Eyes play when the mood hit.” He licked his bottom lip, giving you a side glance.

“Yeah… I can see that.” You stared at him for a beat, biting your lip.

Terry’s eyes flickered to your mouth before looking back at the road. “What about you?”

“What about me?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

“What’s your guilty pleasure?” He side glanced you, licking the corner of his mouth.

You grinned, knowing your answer might make him judge you. “Don’t laugh… but I love watching trashy reality TV.”

“Nah.” Terry snorted.

“Yes!” You laughed. “Like, the messier the better. I love the drama, the fighting, the over-the-top acting—”

“That’s wild.” He chuckled.

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m judgin’.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever.”

Terry smirked, shaking his head before muttering, “Yeah… I can see that.”

The way he threw your words back at you made you laugh, shaking your head as you settled into a more comfortable silence. The ride continued, the city lights flashing past the windows, and for a moment, you found yourself just enjoying the easy rhythm between you two. No pressure, no awkwardness. Just… something smooth. Something that felt good. Something that made you wonder what the hell you were getting yourself into. As soon as Terry pulled into the parking lot of Sweet Rollers, the deep bass of old-school R&B / Hip Hop tracks vibrated through the truck, mixing with the sounds of laughter and chatter from the rowdy crowd gathered outside. Groups of people lingered near their cars, some sipping on drinks, others showing off their best dance moves before heading inside. It was packed, just like you remembered, and an excited thrill rushed through you at the sight of your old stomping grounds.

“Oooh, this is what I’m talking about!” You excitedly grinned, practically bouncing in your seat.

Terry, however, wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic. His sharp ocean-like gaze swept over the crowd, his jaw tightening slightly. “Too many fucking people.”

“It’s a skating rink, Terry. It’s supposed to be packed.” You rolled your eyes.

“I know.” He exhaled through his nose, gripping the wheel. Unbeknownst to you, Terry wasn’t fond of overly packed places. He hated crowds in general but where he came from he knew that too many niggas in one spot and a bunch of alcohol was a recipe for some shit to pop off. Being an ex Marine Terry was always on guard and ready to handle business if need be and even tonight wasn’t no exception to his unspoken rule.

“What, you scared?” You smirked.

He cut his eyes at you. “Ain’t never been scared a day in my life.”

“Then come on, tough guy.” You unbuckled your seatbelt, already reaching for the door handle. “Let’s have some fun.”

Terry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before finally nodding. “Yeah, aight.”

As soon as you both stepped out, you could feel the eyes on you—or more specifically, on him. Women stopped mid-conversation, their eyes raking over Terry like he was the best thing they’d seen all night. And honestly? You didn’t blame them. Terry was the type of man that commanded attention without even trying. Standing tall in his fitted black tee, grey sweats hanging low on his hips, and fresh sneakers, he had that effortless, I know I look good but I ain’t gotta say it kind of presence. The streetlights bounced off his sexy caramel skin, illuminating his small curls on top of his head, and highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw and the cool, detached expression that made him even more irresistible.

One woman in particular—a tall, red bone beauty with a micro mini dress that left nothing to the imagination—bit her lip as she eyed him. “Damn,” she muttered to her friend. “That man is fine.”

Before you could process the way irritation flared in your chest, Terry’s large, warm hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you toward the entrance. The simple touch sent heat rushing up your spine, but more than that, it was a silent message. Ain’t no need for you to feel any type of way, I’m with you. And if the daggers those women were shooting your way were any indication? They got the message loud and clear. Inside, the rink was even livelier. The neon lights flashed against the glossy floor, reflecting off the disco ball spinning in the center. The scent of buttered popcorn, funnel cakes, and sweet candy lingered in the air, mixing with the faint must of sweat and skate wheels burning against the slick surface.

“Oh my God,” You breathed, looking around with wide eyes. “It’s exactly how I remember.”

Terry glanced down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That right?”

“Yep. This place was my childhood.”You nodded, grinning. He hummed, tucking that piece of information away before leading you toward the rental counter. The girl behind the counter, a petite thing with slicked baby hairs and acrylics long enough to type paragraphs with, barely spared you a glance. Her gaze immediately locked onto Terry, and her whole energy shifted.

“Hey, handsome,” She purred, leaning forward on the counter just enough to push her cleavage together. “What size you need?”

“Thirteen.” Terry, completely unfazed, pulled his wallet out.

“Mm, big feet…” She smiled, twirling a curl around her finger. Your eyebrow shot up at the boldness of this air head before you. You blinked a few times at her. Did she just—?

Terry didn’t react, just glanced at you. “What size, ma?”

“Seven,” You muttered, crossing your arms.

The girl finally looked at you, then reached under the counter, sliding both pairs of skates toward Terry with an extra sweet smile. “That’ll be twenty-seven dollars.

Before you could pull out your own money, Terry was already handing over a crisp bill.

“You ain’t have to do that,” You frowned.

“I was raised to be a southern gentleman. You ain’t payin’ for nothing in my presence.” Terry tucked his wallet away, grabbing the skates.

You huffed. “Terry—”

“I know you can handle your own, mama,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flutter. “But let me handle it tonight.”

And just like that, your knees buckled a little. Terry smirked as if he knew exactly what he was doing, then handed you your skates.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the benches. “Let’s get you laced up.”

You swallowed, fighting the warmth creeping up your cheeks as you followed behind him. Lord have mercy… What did you just get yourself into? You both made your way over to one of the long benches lined against the wall, the music thumping as people whizzed by on their skates, laughter and conversation blending into the lively atmosphere. You plopped down with a sigh, resting your skates beside you, but before you could even think about lacing them up, Terry was already kneeling in front of you, rolling his shoulders back like this was just another day. Your breath hitched. The sight of him on his knees—those thick, muscled arms flexing as he took your ankle into his hands—did something to you. The heat that spread across your skin was immediate, undeniable. His fingers, large and slightly calloused, wrapped around your calf with ease, his touch firm but careful as he guided your foot into the skate. Your body and not to mention your pussy betrayed you instantly. A sharp tingle danced up your spine, settling deep in your clit as you watched him work. His brows furrowed slightly, dark lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones as he concentrated, making sure the skate fit snugly before pulling at the laces. The way his hands moved—strong, sure, completely in control—had no business being so damn… sexy.

“You good?” His deep voice broke through your haze, snapping you back to reality.

“Y-Yeah. I’m good.” You cleared your throat, shifting slightly on the bench. He glanced up then, his light ocean gray eyes locking onto yours, and damn. That slow, lazy smirk of his was back like he knew exactly what was running through your mind.

“Yeah?” He drawled, tugging the laces tighter before looping them into a knot. “You sure, mama?”

“I’m sure, Terry.” You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your thighs pressed together involuntarily. He hummed, low and deep, and that sound alone nearly had you sliding off the damn bench. Instead of giving you a break, he moved on to your other foot, gripping your ankle and repeating the same slow, methodical process. By the time he finished, your body was on fire, your skin practically scorched under the weight of his hands.

“There,” he muttered, patting your knee as he rose to his full height. “You straight.”

But you? You were far from straight. Because when you looked up at him—his full lips twitching in amusement, his towering frame standing over you, his scent of clean soap and warm musk surrounding you and you knew one thing for sure. This night was about to be dangerous. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the wooden floors as the DJ spun a classic 90s R&B jam, filling the rink with a sultry, feel-good vibe. The actual song that happened to be playing was Return Of The Mack. The neon lights flickered against the smooth surface, casting a glow over the skaters gliding effortlessly across the floor. Laughter, cheers, and the occasional sound of wheels scraping against the wood echoed around them as people skated in pairs, some moving in sync, others wobbling through the crowd. You took a deep breath, adjusting your balance as you stepped onto the rink, gripping the railing tightly. It had been years since you’d done this, and your legs felt unsure beneath you.

“Yo, you comin’ or you just gon’ hold up the wall all night?” Terry called out, already rolling ahead like he owned the place, flashing that cocky smirk that made your heart skip a beat.

You sucked your teeth, a playful roll of your eyes as you replied, “I gotta get my footing first. I ain’t tryna bust my ass in front of all these people.”

“Ain’t nobody worried ‘bout you fallin’, mama. You got me.” He laughed, skating backward like it was nothing. With a deep breath, you pushed off, wobbling a little as your skates started to glide. Just like you feared, your legs betrayed you, and before you knew it, you were tilting forward, ready to take a nosedive. A quick gasp escaped your lips, but Terry was there, like a superhero swooping in. Strong arms wrapped around your waist possessively, pulling you up against him with a grip that felt both solid and warm. When you looked up, his face was so close, that smirk teasing you like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Damn, ma,” He murmured, his voice low and smooth like silk, sending a shiver through you. “You just wanted me to hold you, huh?”

“Shut up.” You laughed, trying to shake off the heat creeping up your cheeks.

“Relax baby girl, you thinkin’ too much. Just let your feet glide and don’t fight it. Just move with me.” He chuckled, steadying you with those strong hands before easing you back to your feet. And just like that, you started to find your groove. With Terry guiding you, his hands firm yet gentle, the wobble in your stance faded. He kept one hand on your hip, ensuring you didn’t lose your balance, while the other hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwining like they were meant to be. Before long, you were rolling across the rink, laughter spilling out of you every time he threw in a little spin or playfully tugged you in a new direction.

“I see you getting the hang of it now,” He teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Mmhmm,”You shot back, grinning wide. “I told you I just needed a minute.”

“Oh, so you an expert now?” He cut an eye at you, smirking and tugging you again, making you squeal.

“I ain’t say all that,”You laughed, shaking your head, your heart racing with the thrill of the moment. With the beat rolling through you, you started to work it, feeling yourself get lost in the rhythm. Skating in sync with Terry, you spun and swayed, your laughter mingling with the music as he cheered you on, his voice rising above the sound.

“Ayeeee, aight I see you little mama.” He joked. You winked, swaying your hips in-sync as you glided effortlessly, getting lost in the music. The music suddenly shifted, a deep, sensual groove flowing through the speakers, the kind of track that made everything feel electric, as if the whole world was slowing down just for you two. You could feel Terry’s grip on you tighten, the way his energy shifted, and before you could even think about pulling away, he was pulling you closer.

“C’mon,” He murmured, breath warm against your ear. “Let’s see if you really got it.”

Your stomach flipped as he pulled you against him, your back pressing against his solid chest. His arms encircled your waist, guiding you as he began to sway, rolling his hips in time with yours, making the whole world fade away. You let out a slow breath, your body molding into his without even trying. The feel of him behind you—the steady strength of his hold, the way his fingers pressed into your bodacious curves, had your pulse racing like you were on a rollercoaster. Terry’s large stature moved like he was born to skate, fluid and confident, leading you in a rhythm that felt natural. As the music danced around you two, you surrendered to the beat, letting it pull you deeper into the moment.

“I ain’t just good at housework, baby girl,” He teased, his voice low and playful, making your heart flutter. “I got skills.”

You bit your lip, trying to keep the smile off your face, but it was too late. “Oh yeah?” you shot back, glancing over your shoulder, your eyes sparkling with challenge.

“Yeah. You see it,” He grinned, and damn, you did see it. You felt like you were floating, gliding through the crowd, every move you made infused with that infectious energy, the kind that made you feel alive. The way Terry watched you, like you were the center of the universe, only pushed you to show off even more. You bent over slowly, dipping your hips lower as he spun you both around, slow skating backwards. You had seen couples do this a thousand times on Tik Tok and part of you always wanted to do a slow set and here you were with Terry, slow grinding it to Slow Bass Line by Lloyd. The two of you must have skated for at least a good thirty minutes before you got a little winded. After a while of skating, you were starting to feel the burn in your thighs, and your throat was dry from all the laughing and talking. You leaned back slightly against Terry’s chest as you slowed to a stop.

“I’ma go grab a slushie from the concession stand,” You told him, brushing a stray curl from your face.

“Aight, I’ll be right here.” Terry nodded, his eyes still watching the skaters zipping past. With that, you carefully rolled off the rink, maneuvering your way through the crowd. The concession stand was packed, as expected, with groups of teens, couples, and families all waiting for their orders. You took your place in line, debating between cherry or blue raspberry when—

“Well, damn.” The deep, familiar drawl sent a chill straight down your spine, making you freeze in place. That voice—it had been years, but you’d know it anywhere. Slowly, you turned around, your eyes widening as they landed on a face from your past.

“Jalen?” Your mouth slightly dropped. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips. He looked good, you couldn’t even lie. Still fine, still tall with that same cocky glint in his eye. His gold chain glistened against his brown skin, and his white tee stretched across his chest in a way that told you he had been in the gym.

“Man, I knew that was you,”He said, eyeing you up and down like he was taking in every single change time had made to you. “Look at you, girl. All grown up and still fine as hell.”

You forced a polite smile, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and unease settle in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been a minute,” you said, keeping your tone light. “What you been up to?”

Before Jalen could answer, another voice cut in—one that made your stomach drop.

“Oh, hell nah. I’d recognize them big ass hammocks anywhere. Heyyy big mama!” The obnoxious voice teased. Your forced smile fell instantly. Not this bitch. You turned your head slightly and, sure enough, there she was. Shawna. Loud, ignorant, hating-ass Shawna. She looked exactly the same, except for the extra layers of cheap lace-front glue caking up along her hairline. Same exaggerated lashes, same gaudy press-on nails, and the same damn attitude she always had when it came to you. You took a slow breath, already knowing she was about to try you.

“Damn, girl, what brings you back down here? Ain’t seen you since you hauled your lil’ thick ass back up north.” She put a hand on her hip, cocking her head with a smirk.

“Yeah, life happens. Not that it’s any of your business.”You folded your arms, giving her a blank stare.

“Still thick as hell, I see. Some things never change.” She smirked deviously, shifting her weight to one hip, a slick smile on her glossy lips. Your jaw clenches, but you refuse to let her see you sweat. You’ve dealt with Shawna since childhood. She’s been your bully, your hater, your competition—always loud, always fast, and always looking for a way to put you down. And back then? She won. Over and over. From the cruel jokes about your weight to the way she snatched Jalen right from under you like it was her birthright. And now, here she is. Still the same, still petty, still trying to play in your face.

“I see some things never change either,” you fire back smoothly. “You still worried about me more than you worried about yourself.”

Shawna cocks an eyebrow, sucking her teeth. “Girl, please. I just call it how I see it. But damn, you done got cute or whatever.” She tilts her head dramatically. “Somebody put you on or you finally figured it out?”

“Excuse me—“ You try to correct her, but her loud ass mouth cuts in, cracking a joke at your demise.

“Boy, you used to love her fat chunky ass back in the day.” Shawna let out an obnoxious laugh, nudging Jalen. You clenched your jaw even tighter, about to deliver a sharp and downright disrespectful clapback that may or may not resulted in hands being thrown, when suddenly—A strong, warm arm draped around your waist, pulling you firmly against a familiar solid chest from the back. Terry, once again swooping it like a knight in shining armor. His presence alone was enough to shut down whatever slick shit was about to leave Shawna’s mouth.

“You good?” He murmured low enough for only you to hear, his voice steady, but there was something else underneath it—possessiveness.Your body instantly relaxed against him, feeling both safe and seen.

“Yeah, I’m good.”You nodded, your eyes flicking up to meet his. Shawna, however, was not. Her entire demeanor shifted the second her eyes landed on Terry. She damn near devoured him with her gaze, acting like her own man wasn’t standing just a few feet away.

“Whew, and who the fuck is this?” She exhaled dramatically, fanning herself with her hand. Jalen finally notices Terry too. His expression shifts, eyes narrowing as he looks between you and Terry.

“This your man or somethin’?” Jalen asks, crossing his arms. Terry doesn’t even blink. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his grip on your waist firm but easy, as if silently letting you decide how to handle it. But then, he speaks.

“Who’s asking?” He answered, voice sounding rougher and more authoritative than usual. The way he says it? Deep, smooth, unbothered. Like he already knows the answer doesn't matter. Like Jalen doesn't matter. And something about that makes your knees weak.

Jalen scoffs, shaking his head. “I was just curious. We got history, that’s all.”

Terry nods slowly, eyes still locked on him. “Yeah? That supposed to mean something to me?”

Jalen chuckled, lifting his hands in surrender. “Damn, bro, it ain’t even like that. We was just catching up.”

“That right?” Terry didn’t move. His dark eyes remained locked on Jalen’s, completely unbothered.

“Yeah,” Jalen nodded, though he seemed a little less sure of himself now. “Ain’t no pressure.”

Terry let a slow smirk curl at the corner of his lips. “Good.”

Shawna, still practically drooling, licked her lips. “Mm-mm-mm. I don’t know where you found this fine nigga, but girl… you won with this one.”

“I didn’t know we was in competition.”You shot her a dry look. She huffed a little, but before she could get another word in, Terry leaned down slightly, speaking just low enough for only you to hear.

“You still want that slushie, mama?” He asked, rubbing sooting circles on your lower back. Your lips parted slightly at the way he said mama like it was his name for you.

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.”

“Go ‘head and order. I got you.” He nodded his head towards the counter.

After you and Terry basically dismiss Shawna and Jalen. You grab your slushie, feeling a rush of excitement to partake in your childhood delicacy as you step away from the counter. The rink is still buzzing with sweaty energy, and the slow jams are starting to play. Terry follows you to the bench, his eyes scanning the crowd, but you can feel him close by, steadying your nerves. You sit down and take a sip, enjoying the cool, sugary sweetness, but there’s still a lot on your mind. Terry sits beside you, and you can feel the tension between you both, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to open up, and that’s something you don’t do easily.

“So who were they?” He glances at you, his expression curious. You hesitate for a moment, taking another sip of your slushie before setting it down on the bench. A sigh escapes your lips before you begin to explain.

“Jalen… he was the first guy I ever really loved,” you say, the words almost slipping out before you can stop them. “We were high school sweethearts. Thought we were gonna be together forever, you know? He was… the one who made me believe in all that fairy tale stuff.” You shrugged.

Terry listens intently, not interrupting. You can tell he’s taking it all in, but there’s something about the way he watches you—like he wants to understand.

“Sounds like he had you wrapped around his finger,” He says, his voice almost amused but with a touch of something darker behind it.

“Yeah, he did. But then Shawna came into the picture… She was always there, talking trash about me. My weight, my thighs, my body—she always had something to say. I’d try to ignore it, but… it wasn’t easy. And Jalen? He never defended me. He just let her talk.” You smile weakly, fighting back your emotions. Terry’s jaw tightens a little, but he doesn’t say anything. He just listens as you keep going.

“One day, Jalen broke up with me out of nowhere. No explanation. He just… dumped me. And Shawna? She wasted no time stepping in. It was like she’d been waiting for the moment to steal him away from me. She was the one who made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. And it stung. Still stings.” You sigh, taking another sip from the straw. You can feel the anger bubbling up again, but you try to keep it in check. This was the past, right? You weren’t supposed to let it get to you anymore. But it does.

Terry’s hand moves to rest on your knee, and you glance at him, surprised by the gesture. He gives you a look, his voice soft but intense. “That’s some messed up shit. No one should make you feel that way. Especially not him. And especially not her.”

You nod, your throat tightening a little as you try to swallow the lump forming there. “Yeah, well, that’s how it went down. Shawna made sure to rub it in my face every chance she got.”

Terry leans closer, his hand still resting on your knee. His gaze softens, and for a moment, you can almost forget about Shawna and Jalen, about everything that happened before. You’re here now, and that’s what matters.

“You’re better than them mamas, believe that.” He says firmly, his voice low but full of conviction. “Way better. And they don’t get to take that from you.”

His words sunk in, and you let out a small breath, feeling the weight of the past lift just a little bit. You smile, looking down at your slushie before you heard the music shift, the tempo slowing. The music in the rink slowed, a soft, familiar melody filling the air. The first chords of “Weak” by SWV began to echo, and the slow grind of couples on the rink picked up. The rhythm made you feel light again, the nostalgia pulling at her heartstrings.

“I used to love this song,” You say, nodding to the slow jam. “It reminds me of when my dad used to bring me to this rink when I was a kid. We’d skate all night, just goofing around with the kids from the neighborhood. It was one of the best times of my life.” You got teary for a split second.

“You were a pro back then, huh?” Terry raises an eyebrow.

“Not exactly. But I sure had fun. My dad let me stay out late, skating with my friends. It was like… freedom. You know?” You laugh, shaking your head.

“Sounds like you got some memories here. You still got that spark, though. I can see it in your eyes.” Terry watches you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You meet his gaze, feeling your heart race. You hadn’t expected this kind of attention, especially not from him. But here you are, sitting next to a man who seems to see you in a way no one else has.

“Well,” you say, your voice teasing, “I’m not sure I’ve still got the moves. My skating game is a little rusty.”

“We’ll see about that.” Terry grins, a playful glint in his eyes. He carefully stood to his feet, balancing on his skates.

The song swells, and the crowd on the rink starts to slow down, couples swaying together in time with the music. You glance at Terry, then back at the rink, suddenly feeling more confident. Maybe it’s the music, or maybe it’s just being here with him. Either way, tonight, you’re going to let go of all of your inner insecurities and just live in the moment. He stands in front of you , offering you his hand, and you take it without hesitation. The night’s just beginning, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you might just have the strength to leave all the old hurt behind.

“You ready to show them what you got?” Terry’s eyes linger on you, his large fingers interlocking with yours.

“Let’s see if I can still keep up.” You smile, pushing off the bench.And as he pulls you onto the rink, guiding you effortlessly into the slow rhythm of the music, you realize something… This night ain’t about the past or your grudge your held against this place. It’s about right now. And right now, Terry Richmond got all your attention.

The clock struck a little after 9pm and you and Terry both decided to call it a night and turn in your skates. You followed Terry’s lead as the two of you stepped out of the skating rink, the cool night air kissing your skin after the heat of the packed building. The bass from inside still rumbled in the background as more folks poured in for the after-hours session. You felt a lingering excitement from the night, your legs still tingling from the rush of skating and swaying with Terry on the floor. He walked beside you, his pace slow and relaxed, but you could tell by the way his eyes swept the parking lot that his mind was elsewhere. Terry wasn’t the type to get too comfortable in one spot for too long—especially not when crowds gathered, alcohol flowed, and tempers could spark over the smallest shit.

“You good?” You asked, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, I’m straight. But you look like you still got some energy left.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket, twirling them between his fingers before shooting you a smirk.

“I ain’t gon’ lie, I did miss this. I had fun tonight.” You smiled, stretching your arms.

He nodded, then slowed his steps, tilting his head at you. “You tryna call it a night, or you got one more adventure in you?”

“Depends. What you got in mind?” You raised a brow.

His smirk deepened, his eyes flashing with mischief, “Let me stop by the liquor store real quick. Grab us something to sip on with our food waiting back at the house.”

“O-Okay.” You nodded,

Your stomach tensed slightly. Drinking around Terry made you nervous, but not because you didn’t trust him—it was because you didn’t trust yourself. There was something about him, the way he carried himself, that made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to. The ride to the liquor store was quick. The neon lights of the small shop glowed against the dark sky, buzzing faintly. Before stepping out, Terry handed you a couple of bills.

“Go next door, grab two Big Gulp cups, and fill ‘em with some slushies,” He instructed. “We mixin’ when I get back.”

“Yes, sir.” You took the money and rolled your eyes playfully. He chuckled, stepping out, and you walked into the 7-Eleven, heading straight for the slushie machine. The bright colors spun in the clear tanks, and you carefully mixed cherry with blue raspberry for one, pineapple with mango for the other. As you reached for the lids and straws, a voice cut through the air—deep, raspy, too damn familiar, making your entire body run cold and lock up.

“Sunshine?” The familiar voice spoke. Your breath caught in your throat, fingers stiffening around the cup. The air in the store suddenly felt too thick, your vision narrowing as an old, buried fear slithered up your spine. You knew that voice anywhere. Slowly, hesitantly, you turned, and there he was, Rodney. Time hadn’t been kind to him. His skin, once rich and buttery smooth, looked sunken and dry, dark circles carved beneath his hazel eyes. His frame was smaller, his once-athletic build now gaunt. He used to be fine—every girl wanted him, the older ones keeping a watchful eye, the younger ones waiting for their turn to catch his attention. He had that ’90s R&B pretty-boy look, the type of dude who stayed fresh, always smelling like cologne and bad decisions. Now, he looked like he had seen the bottom of every bottle, taken every wrong turn, and lost every battle along the way. But none of that mattered because all you could see was him. The boy who took something from you. The boy who played on your innocence, your trust. The one who made you run from this city and never look back. Your stomach twisted violently.

“It is you,” Rodney breathed, a weak smile tugging at his chapped lips. “Damn… how you been, baby girl?”

You nearly dropped the slushie as your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the hum of the store. Your hands shook as you took a step back, the nausea rising fast. You couldn’t be here. You couldn’t do this. Rodney stepped forward slightly, his hand lifting, as if he wanted to touch you, but your body reacted before your mind did. You jerked back so fast your shoulder hit the slushie machine, your breath coming out in short, sharp bursts. Rodney quickly dropped his hand, his expression flickering with something unreadable.

“S-Sunshine, I—” He attempted to say, with tears forming in his eyes. You didn’t wait to hear whatever lie he was about to tell. Grabbing the slushies, you tossed the money onto the counter and bolted. The second you hit the night air, the nausea took full control. Your stomach lurched violently, and you barely made it to the side of Terry’s truck before you doubled over, vomiting onto the pavement. Terry was there in an instant.

“Shit—” His voice was sharp with concern, one hand hovering over your back, not touching but close enough to let you know he was right there. “Breathe, ma. Breathe through it.”

You wiped your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m fine,” you choked out. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

However, Terry didn’t buy it. He knew your were lying through your teeth and if it was one thing he hated, it was liars.

His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes scanning your face, reading every emotion you were trying to bury. “Nah,” He murmured. “That wasn’t just some bad food. What happened?”

“Terry, it’s—” You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Who?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Somebody in there? Did a nigga do some shit to you in there?” He pressed harder. You exhaled shakily, gripping the truck door for support. His eyes darkened further.

“Tell me who, Y/N” He said, voice even, but you could hear the tension beneath it. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to push it down, to shove the past back into the box where it belonged. But your body wasn’t listening. Because for the first time in years, you weren’t the strong, guarded woman you had built yourself to be. For the first time in years, you were that scared 14-year-old girl again.

“C-Can we please just go home? Please?.” Your voice rasped out, clearing your throat again before spitting in remaining bile out of your mouth. Terry didn’t say anything, he just nodded, eyes on you like a hawk with a tight jaw as he opened the passenger side door for you to get in. As you’re getting in, you felt small under his gaze, almost as if he were scolding you for not being upfront about why you were fine one minute and next thing he knows you’re basically vomiting all over the pavement.

The drive home was drenched in silence. The only sound in the truck was the low hum of the radio, some old R&B record playing softly in the background. You stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, your mind far away from the present. You couldn’t believe after all this time you had seen Rodney. His face, his voice, the weight of his presence had pulled you right back to the past, back to that helplessness, back to that night. You gripped your thighs tightly, your nails digging into your skin as you forced yourself to focus on your breathing. Terry didn’t say a word the whole ride, but you felt his eyes flicker toward you every so often, his grip on the wheel tightening. He wasn’t the type to press for answers—not yet, anyway. He knew whatever was haunting you wasn’t something you could just spill out in the middle of a drive. So he let the silence ride. By the time you pulled up to the house, your stomach was still twisted in knots, but the second you stepped inside, you moved on autopilot going back to that all too familiar numb place. You went straight for the food. Earlier that day, before y’all left, you had cooked—a nice quick meal, something good to come back to. You turned on the stove, reheating the dishes quietly, barely paying attention to anything else. Terry, however, was watching you. His eyes followed every move you made, how your hands trembled slightly as you stirred the food, how your shoulders tensed, how you were too quiet. He didn’t like that shit. Without a word, he grabbed the bottle of Hennessy White he had picked up from the liquor store and poured a generous amount into both Big Gulp cups, mixing it with the slushies you had made earlier. When the food was ready, you placed the plates down on the table and turned to walk away, but before you could, his hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

“Sit down.” His deep voice finally spoke, making you tense. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t rough. Just firm enough to make you pause. You swallowed, eyes locked onto the floor. Your body felt stiff, your chest tight, but you sat down next to him, grabbing your fork. Terry didn’t let go of your wrist immediately. His thumb brushed against your pulse, slow, measured.

“Tell me what happened,” He murmured. You inhaled sharply. You had fought tears all night, forced yourself to push it down, to not go back there. But with Terry sitting this close, his voice low, steady, and patient, the walls you had built started to crack. You took a slow bite of your food, chewing without tasting, your throat dry despite how much saliva gathered in your mouth. Reaching for your cup, you took a sip of the spiked slushie, the cold hitting your tongue first, then the warmth of the Hennessy settling in your chest. You swallowed, staring at the table.

Then, softly, you said, “It’s more than one reason I stopped coming down here during the summers as a kid.”

Terry didn’t move. He just listened. Your grip tightened around the cup as the words started spilling out, slow at first, then faster, like a wound being ripped open. You began to tell him about Rodney. About how, when you were just 14, he had been someone you looked up to, someone who made you feel seen in ways no one else did. You told him how he gained your trust, how he made you feel special, like you mattered—only to betray you in the worst way possible. How one summer night, when no one was around, he took something from you. How you froze. How you felt your body leave you, how the ceiling blurred, how you counted the cracks just to keep yourself from breaking. How, after it was over, you never told a soul. How you buried it, packed it away like luggage you’d never unpack. How you left town and never looked back. And how seeing him tonight, in that damn store, had ripped open everything you spent years trying to forget. By the time you finished, your hands were trembling around the cup. Your food sat untouched. Your throat burned. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken emotions, but Terry still hadn’t moved. But when you finally looked at him, his jaw was tight, his eyes dark—not just with anger, but something deeper, something dangerous. You had seen Terry irritated before. You had seen him frustrated. But this? This was different. This was fury. This was war. His grip on the cup was so tight, you thought he might break it. But when he finally spoke, his voice was eerily calm.

“Say the word.” He said slowly.

“What?” You blinked, your breath catching.

His eyes met yours, steady, unwavering. “Say the word,” he repeated. “And I’ll handle it.”

The air in the room instantly shifted. Terry’s words weren’t just words—they were a promise. A quiet, dangerous assurance that if you gave him the green light, Rodney wouldn’t be breathing the same air for much longer. You swallowed, your throat dry, your chest tightening at the sheer weight of his presence.

“Terry…” You started, but your voice wavered. You weren’t sure what you wanted to say. He was still watching you, eyes dark, jaw tight. His fingers flexed on the table like he was holding himself back.

“Say the word,” He repeated slowly, measured. His voice was like gravel, rough with barely contained rage. “You ain’t gotta carry this no more. I’ll take care of it.”

Your stomach twisted. This was the part of Terry that made people afraid—the quiet storm before the destruction, the way he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make threats. He just acted. But you didn’t want him to act. Not like that, and definitely not for you. Your Nana would be so ashamed if she had worked hard to keep him out of trouble and you got him into more shit. You exhaled shakily, setting your cup down before your fingers betrayed you and showed just how badly you were trembling.

“It was a long time ago,” You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Terry leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his broad chest rising and falling steadily. His silence was suffocating. Then, finally he spoke up.

“That don’t mean shit and don’t mean it don’t still matter.” He gritted. Your breath hitched. You wanted to hold it together, to keep that wall up just a little longer, but something about the way he said it, the way he was so certain, shattered something in you. You turned your head away, blinking rapidly, but Terry wasn’t having it. Before you could even think, his fingers brushed against your chin, tilting your face back toward him. It was so gentle, so unexpected, that your breath stalled.

“I see you tryna hold it in,” he murmured. His thumb grazed your jaw, his touch featherlight but firm. “You ain’t gotta do that with me.”

And just like that, the dam broke. A tear slipped free, then another, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying. Not loud, not messy, but the kind of silent, shuddering tears that came from years of swallowing your pain. Terry didn’t speak. He didn’t try to shush you, didn’t hit you with some meaningless “It’s okay.” He just… let you cry. And somehow, that meant more than any words could. After a moment, he exhaled through his nose, rubbing a slow, careful circle against your jaw with his thumb.

“Come here,” He said, his voice softer now, deeper. You hesitated, but something about the way he said it—like he knew you needed it, like he wouldn’t push if you weren’t ready—made you cave. You shifted in your chair, and before you knew it, you were leaning into him. Terry caught you instantly. One strong arm came around your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his lap, the other resting against the small of your back. His warmth surrounded you, his scent—woodsy, clean, something unmistakably him—enveloped you. Your face pressed into his neck, his skin warm against your damp cheek. You felt his breath in your hair, slow and steady.

“I got you,” He murmured. And for the first time in a long time… you believed him. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. At some point, your tears dried up, exhaustion creeping in, your body growing heavy against his. But Terry didn’t move, didn’t rush you. His hand stayed on your back, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns through your shirt.

“You ever tell anybody?”He finally asked. You shook your head against his shoulder.

“Didn’t think so.” He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. A long beat of silence stretched between you before he gently spoke.

“You shoulda never had to carry that alone, ma.” He inhaled deeply.

Your throat tightened again, but this time, you swallowed it down. “I didn’t know how to tell nobody,” you admitted. “And when I finally thought about it… it was too late.”

Terry was quiet for a moment. Then—“Ain’t never too late.”

“Terry—” You pulled back slightly, looking up at him.

“I mean it.” His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Ain’t never too late to get what’s owed.”

A cold chill ran through you. You knew what he was saying. He wasn’t talking about healing. He wasn’t talking about moving on. He was talking about payback. You studied him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you he wasn’t serious. But he was. He was dead serious.

“You can’t—” Your heart pounded.

“I can.” He countered sharply.

“Terry—” You tried to speak.

His fingers flexed against your hip. “Ain’t no nigga walkin’ free after doin’ that to you. Not while I’m breathin’.”

Your stomach flipped. “I don’t want you getting in trouble for me.”

“That’s the last thing you need to worry about.” His lips pressed into a thin line. Your chest ached. This wasn’t what you wanted. You had spent years trying to put this behind you, trying to move forward. But now? Now he was bringing it all back to the surface. And worse? A small, dangerous part of you wanted to let him handle it. Terry tilted his head slightly, studying you. Then, almost like he could read your mind.

“You don’t gotta decide now.” He murmured, staring at you. You swallowed hard.

“But whenever you ready… you just say the word.” He leaned in, his lips just barely grazing your temple. And with that, the choice was yours. The two of you sat and ate your food in comfortable silence as you just tried to forget about how your past decided to pop up and be a son of a bitch. Eventually after you finished your dinner, you two ended up in the living room, the evening taking on a mind of its own.

The soft hum of ’90s R&B filled the space, smooth and sensual, engulfing the living room around the both of you. Jodeci’s “Freek’n You” played low from the speakers, the bass deep, the lyrics suggestive. You curled up beside Terry on the couch, your body warm from the Henny and slushie cocktail, the ice long since melted. The burn of the liquor coated your throat, loosening you up, making you bold. Your eyes flickered to the mantle above the fireplace, a shrine of memories—your nana’s old porcelain figurines, a few framed pictures, a vase filled with artificial roses that had collected dust over time. You exhaled, rubbing a hand down your thigh.

“I’m really gonna miss this place,” You whispered, almost to yourself.

“So don’t sell it,” He said, simple like it was an easy fix.” Terry, leaned back into the couch, his long legs spread wide, cup resting against his knee, studying you.

You snorted, shaking your head. “I am not a country girl,” You said, flashing him a playful smirk. “And besides, I don’t got a husband or kids to pass this land down to. What would I even do with all this space?”

Terry hummed, taking a slow sip from his cup. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes. Something contemplative. You let the silence stretch, the weight of everything lingering between you. The conversation had been too heavy, and you were tipsy enough to crave something lighter. An idea hit you.

Smirking, you sat up, turning toward him. “Let’s play a game,” You said, voice dripping with mischief.

“What kinda game?” Terry raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Rapid-fire 21 questions. But…” You paused, licking your lips, letting the moment breathe, “let’s make it grown.”

“Oh, you tryna be messy now?” His smirk deepened.

You laughed, shrugging. “You scared?”

“Me? Nahhh.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Aight, bet. You go first.”

You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think. “Hmm… Favorite position?”

Terry took a slow sip before answering. “Depends on the woman. Some deserve missionary so I can look ‘em in they eyes while I fuck em’… others?” He exhaled, his voice dropping an octave. “Bent over, face down in the pillow, ass up high.”

Your stomach flipped, but you kept your composure, sipping your drink to hide your reaction.

“Your turn,” you said, clearing your throat.

Terry leaned in slightly, eyes low. “You ever faked it?”

You blinked before bursting into laughter. “Hell yeah.”

His brows lifted. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

“Not my fault some niggas don’t know what they doing,” You teased.

Terry chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s tragic.” He lifted his cup. “Rest in peace to them weak-ass performances.”

You clinked your cup against his, giggling as you both drank.

“My turn,” You said, leaning in a little closer. “Ever had sex in public?”

“Too many times to count.” Terry’s smirk widened.

“Damn. Where?” Your eyes widened.

“Cars. Stairwells. Dressing rooms. A rooftop one time…” He trailed off, eyes glinting with amusement. “You sound intrigued, ma.”

“I ain’t say all that.” You rolled your eyes, fighting back your smile.

Terry just watched you, like he could see through the front you were putting up.

“Alright, my turn,” he said, setting his empty cup down on the table. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, voice dropping into something smooth and dangerous.

“So…” He paused just long enough for the tension to coil tight between you. “That rose… it feel better than a nigga’s mouth?”

Your stomach dropped. The question hit you like a slap, and before you could stop yourself, you choked on your slushie. Coughing, you slapped a hand over your chest, eyes wide as you stared at him.

“W-What?” You coughed. Terry licked his lips, unbothered, amused even. His eyes dragged over your face, then down to your parted lips, lingering there before flicking back up.

“You heard me, ma.” His voice was deep, smooth, coated in something dangerous. “Answer the question.”

Your heart pounded, heat rushing to your face, your thighs pressing together out of pure instinct. This nigga was playing dirty. And the worst part? You liked it. You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry despite the icy slushie burning your tongue. Your knees pressed together instinctively, but you forced yourself to keep eye contact, refusing to let Terry see how deep his words cut through you. His gaze was heavy, molten, dark with mischief, and he knew what he was doing. He had that lazy smirk on his lips, like he was just getting started, like he was enjoying watching you squirm.

“That’s a bold-ass question.” You cleared your throat, forcing a small smirk of your own.

“And yet, you still ain’t answer it.” Terry leaned in slightly, his broad frame dominating the space between you.

“Why? You trying to compare stats?” You shifted on the couch, swirling your drink in your cup, feigning nonchalance.

Terry let out a low chuckle, the sound deep and rich. He stretched his arm over the back of the couch, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. “Nah. I already know my stats, ma. I just wanna know if you playin’ yourself out of a real experience.”

Your stomach dipped. This man… this nigga right here…

You exhaled through your nose, refusing to be the first to break. “The rose is efficient,” you finally answered, tilting your chin up in defiance. “It does what needs to be done.”

Terry hummed, eyes still locked on yours. “Efficient, huh? That’s cute. But a machine ain’t never gonna know what your body need the way a real nigga will.”

You should’ve seen that coming. You tried to keep your cool, but the way he said it? The way his deep, raspy voice wrapped around those words like silk? It sent a ripple of heat down your spine. You huffed, shaking your head, but your body betrayed you. Your skin was warming up, and the Henny had you feeling too damn good—a little too relaxed, a little too reckless.

So you smirked, tilting your head. “Oh? And what exactly does a ‘real nigga’ do that’s so different?”

Terry’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening for a half second before that smirk of his returned—cocky, knowing.

“Everything baby.” The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, so damn confident, it had no business making you clench around nothing. You bit your lip, trying not to react, but Terry caught it. His gaze flicked down to your mouth, watching the way your teeth tugged at the soft flesh, and suddenly, the air between you shifted. He leaned in even more, his knee grazing yours, voice dropping to something silky, almost hypnotic.

“You really think that little toy can do what I can?” His fingers traced the rim of his empty cup, slow and deliberate. “That rose ain’t got no tongue. It don’t know when to slow down, when to speed up… don’t know how to tease you just right ‘til you beg for it.”

A slow, heated pulse throbbed between your thighs. You opened your mouth to clap back, but nothing came out. Your body had already betrayed you—your breathing had deepened, your skin felt too tight, too hot, and Terry was watching every little shift in your expression like he was reading you.

“See, that’s the thing, ma. A real nigga don’t just make you cum. He makes you feel that shit while he’s sucking on your clit .”He licked his lips. Your thighs clenched. Hard. This was dangerous. And what made it worse? Terry knew exactly what he was doing. You bit down on your straw, trying to distract yourself, but it only made things worse. Terry’s eyes flicked to your lips again, watching the way they wrapped around the plastic, how you pulled back slow, tongue flicking out just slightly to catch a stray drop of slushie. He smirked.

“So,” he drawled, swirling the ice in his cup. “How you like to be ate?”

Your chest seized. You choked again but this time, not on the drink, not on food—on air. Your eyes went wide as you coughed, covering your mouth, your whole body heating up like you’d been thrown into a damn furnace.

Terry just chuckled, unfazed, leaning back against the couch. “Damn, ma. That a hard question or somethin’?”

“You can’t just ask somebody that outta nowhere, Terry!” You wheezed, fanning your face.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “You grown, ain’t you?”

You sputtered, taking another sip of your drink, anything to cool yourself down, but the way he was watching you? Like he had all the patience in the world, like he was waiting for you to stop fighting yourself? That made the heat worse.

“A’ight,” He mused, his voice dropping lower, deeper. “Lemme make it easy for you. You like it soft and slow? Or deep and messy?”

Your whole body betrayed you. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them, and Terry caught it. He didn’t say nothing—didn’t have to. The small smirk on his lips said it all.

“I—” You swallowed.

“See,” Terry cut in smoothly, shifting closer, his knee knocking against yours. “Me? I don’t play when I eat pussy, baby. I clean my plate—efficiently.”

Your breath hitched.

“I like to take my time with it. Make sure I learn every little thing that makes you shake, makes you moan, makes you beg me to stay down there a little longer.” Terry tilted his head slightly, his eyes hooded, that slow, lazy smirk still on his lips. Your fingers curled around your cup, gripping it tight.

“But I ain’t selfish,” He continued, voice like molten honey, thick and dripping with promise. “I’ll tease that pussy if that’s what you like. Kiss on her real slow. Run my tongue real soft against that lil’ spot with your piercing that makes your toes curl. But if you need it nasty?” He licked his lips, letting the sentence hang before finishing, “I’ll drown in it.”

Your stomach clenched. Your thighs trembled. The Henny was hitting too damn good now, because your head felt light, your body warm, and every single thing he was saying was burrowing deep inside you, making you ache.

You stared at him, the temptation thick between you, and whispered, “That… that sounds amazing.”

Terry’s smirk deepened, his fingers brushing lightly over your knee.

“Then let me eat you out,” He murmured. “Let me show you that rose ain’t got shit on me, baby girl.”

Between the slushy, the slow jams playing and the diabolical heat and Nana’s broken AC system. Your brain was fried as you stared in the ocean eyes of a man that was crafted by God himself, practically egging you on to let him taste what you had between your thick thighs. The thought alone of his juicy lips wrapped tightly around your sensitive bud , milking you through your orgasm already had you practically drooling in your panties. You could feel your pussy becoming slippery against your thong as it stuck to you, making you hold back a whimper. As your clit swoll with need, that damn piercing began to betray you and make you nearly cum on yourself as the seat of your panties rubbed it , creating a slow friction.

“Terry, maybe we had too much to drink—. “ You tried to say but before you could even finish your sentence, Terry was in your personal space, making your heart speed up. Terry bit his bottom lip, his eyes locked onto yours, as he slowly wrapped his hand around your throat. Your breath hitched, feeling your heart pounding in your chest, as you felt his touch ignite a fire within you. Your faces were mere centimeters apart, the tension between you two palpable. Your breathing grew heavier, your anticipation building, as Terry’s full lips finally connected with yours in a slow and nasty tongue kiss. It was as if time stood still, your lips moving in perfect harmony. Your eyes instantly fluttered shut and your hand instinctively found its way to his cheek, deepening the kiss with hunger. You couldn't resist the magnetic pull between you two any longer. You scooted closer to him, with your other hand finding its way around his neck. The music in the background seemed to fade out as the two of you lost yourselves in each other's mouths. The heat between your bodies intensified, mirroring the growing desire that pooled between your thighs.

Terry growled as his grip on your throat tightened slightly, causing you to gasp and let out a small moan. It was all the encouragement Terry needed to deepen the kiss further, his tongue sliding sensually into your mouth, swirling and teasing. You moaned, sucking his tongue, allowing your spit and his spit to intertwine. The more his tongue flicked and sucked against yours, the wetter your pussy felt. It was so slick and slippery, you could smell it through your shorts. The living room seemed to transform into a steamy haven as Terry’s strong hands began to explore your body, igniting every nerve ending along the way. Unable to contain his desire for you any longer, Terry let the kiss become more aggressive, his passion shining through every movement. You responded with small whimpers, your lips tingling from the intensity of the connection. Terry’s hold on your neck released, his lips moving down to explore the sensitive soft skin of your neck. You moaned and shuddered, feeling Terry’s tongue swirling against your neck, expertly finding the spot that drove you wild. Terry’s lips sensually kissed and sucked, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your grip on Terry’s small curls in his head tightened as your cute moans escaped your lips, only fueling Terry’s nasty desire. Terry’s arms wrapped around your body, pulling you in closer, as your bodies pressed against each other.

“T-Terry, p-please.” You whimpered out breathlessly, rubbing his head. By this point you were a shaky mess and needed some relief quickly. Terry chuckled deeply in your neck, biting it slowly as he trailed his tongue upward, circling it around your earlobe before sucking it into his mouth.

“Please what baby? Hmm? Please what?.” His voice darkened, making your body quiver. As much as you tried to fight it and fight doing something you may ultimately regret. The liquor and your hormones was working against you and you said fuck it. Might as well, might as fucking well.

“Taste my pussy.” You whispered, whining for him. That was all Terry needed to hear before he pushed you back on the couch, allowing your back to rest against the pillows as he continued to leave wet open mouth kisses against your neck. Caution was to the wind at this point and damn the consequences of your actions. You needed to feel something, ANYTHING.

The heat between you two intensified, while your hands roamed freely over Terry’s toned arms, your nails grazing the surface, eliciting a groan and a moan from Terry’s throat. You watched as Terry leaned back, staring down at you as he lifted his shirt up from the back, and in an instant he had it off. You bit your bottom lip at the sight of his rich and healthy body. It was crafted to perfection and made you wanna lick every dip and curve of his cut abs. Terry’s eyes dropped lower as he watched your hand reach down and pop the button of your shorts open, letting him know you were on demon time. Terry smirked, pushing your hands out of his way before he took control, yanking the shorts off of you himself, making you gasp at his roughness. Your hips instinctively raise up to assist him in getting them off of you. Soon as your shorts came off your intoxicating arousal smell hit his nose, making his mouth instantly water.

“Fuck, your pussy so fat.” He remarked, as his ocean gray eyes stared down at the way your pussy sat against the snapped closure of your bodysuit. Your clit jumped as more of your juices seeped through your thong, creating a very noticeable wet spot on the outside of the red fabric. Terry’s eyes stay locked on yours, dark and heavy with intent, as his hands ease up under the curve of your ass, gripping you firm but slow like he’s mapping out every inch. But he doesn’t rush—nah, he takes his time, savoring every reaction, every hitched breath, every little tremble that runs through you. His lips graze over your jaw first, then lower, tracing a slow, burning path down the side of your neck. The heat of his breath makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. He lingers at that sensitive spot near your collarbone, sucking just enough to make you squirm, his grip tightening on your hips.

“Terry…” His name slips from your lips, part plea, part warning, your fingers gripping at the solid muscles of his shoulders. He hums against your skin, deep and rich, the vibration sinking right through you.

“Relax, baby,” He murmurs, trailing his tongue down the valley between your breasts, the thin fabric of your bodysuit doing nothing to stop the warmth of his mouth. “Let me do this right.”

Your breath hitches when his hands slide down your thighs, then lower, fingers teasing at the clasp of your bodysuit between your thighs. He pauses, his grip firm but patient, his dark eyes flicking up to yours, reading you.

“You want me to stop?” His voice is thick, low, serious. Giving you an out.

You shake your head, pulse hammering in your throat. “No,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

That slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips as he flicks the snaps open one by one, the small pops echoing in the thick silence between you. The fabric of your bodysuit peels away, his fingers grazing over the newly exposed skin of your stomach, making you shudder. Terry shifts lower, dragging his hands up the backs of your thighs, his touch warm, possessive. He takes his time, savoring the way your breathing changes, the way your body reacts to him, completely at his mercy. Your breathing labors as you feel Terry’s lips trail down, slow and deliberate, leaving a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses against your belly. His warm breath fans over your skin, and the heat of his tongue sends a delicious shiver through your body.

“You smell so fuckin’ good, ma,” He rasps against your skin, his voice thick with hunger. His nose grazes the crease of your inner thigh as he inhales deeply, like he’s savoring your wet scent, like he’s already addicted. Your own arousal was beginning to invade your nose turning you on to the highest max. Your thighs instinctively try to press together, but he’s quicker, stronger. His hands slide up, firm and possessive, gripping the backs of your knees before pushing your legs back—high and open—until they’re nearly touching your stomach. With one free hand, Terry pushes your thong out of the way, snapping it at the seams, making you gasp. Your swollen pussy lips spread open instantly for him as he pushes your legs back further. He leaned in slowly and guided one of your legs over his shoulder, running his hands over your supple thighs, parting your slippery wet fat lips to kiss and lick at you swollen clit slowly. You jerked at the sudden warm sensation of his tongue. Terry’s tongue flicked back and forth rapidly against your diamond piercing that sat against your clit, making your walls gush in an instant.

“O-Ohhh fuckkkk! Shit shit!.” You hissed, toes curling in the air. You stared up at the ceiling, feeling your breaths becoming shallow as his tongue worked slow and steady patterns between your pussy folds. His right hand slid up your thigh as he dipped his tongue down further to taste what seemed to have dripped out, grunting as the sweet sensation danced on his taste buds. Your back arched into the couch as your fingers dug into the cushion beneath you, feeling his tongue swirl up and down your pussy sloppily. Your ears were graced with soft lapping sounds as his tongue danced in circles around your throbbing clit. You could feel your creamy juices seeping like liquid gold as his tongue worked in a figure eight motion. Terry slowly started to suck gently on your clit, but then he became relentless, sucking your sensitive and swollen clit into his mouth with determination and precision.

Terry groaned loudly against your skin, the vibration sending a shockwave through your body. “Mm,” he hums, his tongue flicking out to taste your clit again. “Just like I knew you would… sweet as fuck.”

“T-Terry…” Your voice is barely there, breathless, overwhelmed.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening with your creamy juices, his expression wicked. “I know, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick like molasses. “Feels good, don’t it?”

You nod, swallowing hard, your thighs trembling around his head. Soft whimpers leave your mouth as you stare at the gorgeous work of art between your thighs. Clit glistening with his spit and your juices as he kisses on it, while his eyes remained locked on yours. You purred, feeling his hand gripping your ass and running his other hand up to knead at your breasts, groaning into your slick lips like he’s the one getting pleasure from it.

He smirks. “Then let me finish my plate.”

And just like that, he dives back in, his pace slower this time, more intentional. His tongue moves in slow, sensual strokes, coaxing you higher and higher until your back arches, your fingers gripping the couch for dear life.

You try to hold back, try to contain the whimpers slipping past your lips, but Terry isn’t having that. “Nah,” he murmurs against your pussy, sending another wave of pleasure through you. “Lemme hear it, ma.”

“Oh daddy… d-don’t stop.” You shamelessly whine. His grip tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you, his tongue working you into a slow, desperate unraveling. He sucks, licks, flicks at your clit until your thighs are shaking, your breaths are coming in short, uneven gasps, and your entire body is tensed like a bowstring ready to snap. You inhale sharply, nearly convulsing, throwing your head back as your hand found its way into his curls. Your feet digging into the back of his shoulders every time he sucked a little more forcefully on your clit. You cried, trying to push his head back, but he held you down. Continuing to shake his head side to side as spit was dripping from his mouth onto your pussy, sucking at your clit with determination. You held his head and watched it go up and down and side to side, creating the perfect cadence to aid in your oncoming orgasm.

“T-Terry— FUCK! Wait— I-I ooooh I’m gonna cum!!” You squeal, feeling your pussy gushing incessantly. You pushed at his forehead again, but he wouldn’t relinquish as his lips stayed locked around your clit, sucking it harder, allowing his tongue to sit flat against it and flick back and forth.

“Oooh yesss daddy yesssss.” You whimpered louder.

He pulls back just slightly, his lips glistening as he licks them slowly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t run from it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice sinful. “Take all this shit.” And then he’s back on you, hungrier, deeper, more consuming. Holding you open, eating like it’s his last meal.

“Terry— fuck! oh my god don’t stop.. don’t stop please.” You begged holding his head in place. He used the pad of his thumbs to spread your full lips apart as his tongue circled your entrance before dipping the tip in real slow. You squealed as you felt his tongue thrusting upward against your g-spot, thumping it rapidly. Your eyes rolled back into your skull as you felt yourself dampening his goatee hair.

“So fucking fat and sweet.” He groaned, wrapping his tongue around your clit, sucking all over it nastily as he pushed his face deeper. Your hips bucked upward, feeling your stomach tighten up in a knot. You knew you were about to cum and from the way he continued to assault your clit, it was gonna be intense and messy.

“T-Terry..” You managed to get out, eyes crossing as he relentlessly held your clit captive in his mouth. Terry’s eyes flickered up as he watched you, his gray eyes locked onto your face as he works you over with hard, deliberate strokes of his tongue and the sensation of his lips . He can feel every little tremor in your thighs, every sharp hitch of your breath. But he ain’t letting up. Not yet.

“Relax for me, ma,” He murmurs against you, his deep voice vibrating straight through your core. “Let me take you there.”

Your hands are gripping his curls so tight it should hurt, but he doesn’t care. He loves it—loves the way you’re coming undone just from his mouth, the way you’re trying to hold on when he knows you ain’t got a chance.

“T-Terry…” Your voice is shaky, needy, your thighs trembling in his grasp. You listened to the nasty wet sounds of his mouth devouring your pussy like it was a succulent piece of fruit. You squirmed beneath him, the pleasure becoming too overwhelming, but he didn’t let you play yourself out of what he knew you needed most, and that was a good nut.

“Shh, I got you.” He flattens his tongue against you, slow and deep, before switching up, flicking in a way against your clit in a turbo motion, that has your whole body jerking. He grins against you. “Damn, you sensitive as hell, baby. You been neglecting yourself or that little toy just ain’t cuttin’ it no more?”

You let out a whimper, head tipping back against the couch, body arching off the cushions. He chuckles, low and sinful, before sucking deep, rolling his tongue just right.

“Oh—fuck!” You yelp loudly, holding his head down, trying to scoot back again.

He tightens his grip when you try to close your legs, spreading you wider, keeping your pussy open for him. “Nah, don’t run now,” he rasps, lips glistening as he glances up at you. “You gon’ take all this shit. Let me hear you, baby. Let me feel you.”

He drags two fingers through your slick pussy, teasing your awaiting creamy hole before pushing them in, the cream instantly pushes against his fingers as he thrusts them slow but deep. The stretch makes you gasp, back bucking like a horse off the couch.

“That’s it,” He praises, curling his fingers just right towards your g-spot. “You feel that? Feel how my fingers fit right inside this fat pretty pussy? That little rose can’t do this, can it?”

Your breath stutters, eyes rolling back as he strokes his fingers deep, touching your cervix as he rubs your g-spot, his tongue working in tandem with his fingers, drawing you closer to your orgasm.

“I—I’m… Terry, I can’t—” You whined desperately.

“Yes, the fuck you can,” He growls, increasing his pace, pushing you right to the edge. “C’mon, baby, gimme that shit. Let me feel you cum for me.”

“I-I’m b-bout to cu—“ Your words were instantly cut short as the ache in your stomach intensified and your release shattered through you.

Terry feels it before he sees it, the way your body locks up, the way your creamy slick walls grip his thick fingers like a vice, the way your thighs tremble uncontrollably in his hands. He knows it’s coming, and he ain’t about to let up now. If anything, he doubles down, curling his fingers just right, his tongue flicking against that sensitive clit like he’s got something to prove.

“That’s it, baby,” He rasps between licks and strokes of his fingers, his deep voice vibrating through you. “Let that shit go for me. Don’t fight it. Cum in daddy’s mouth baby.”

Your breath stutters, a choked sob ripping from your lips as the pressure inside you snaps, sending you spiraling into an earth-shattering release. Your entire body jerks violently, back arching off the couch as a gush of liquid rushes out of you, soaking his hand, his wrist, his damn beard. You squirted hard as your orgasm overtook you and left you practically paralyzed.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Terry groans, voice thick with hunger as he licks and sucks clit through it, taking every drop, every last shudder. “Damn, you taste so fuckin’ good.”

“Oh—shit! Terry! YES YESSSSS! Dadddddyyyyy.” You screamed out, thrashing all over the couch as his fingers stroked you through your orgasm, milking it from you. Terry lets out a groan, deep and satisfied, as he watches you lose yourself completely, his lips glistening, his fingers still working you through every wave, every shudder. He doesn’t stop until you physically push at his head, your legs twitching in overstimulation, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Finally, he pulls back, his face soaked, his smirk downright sinful as he wipes his mouth. His eyes are locked on you and your spent, trembling body, the way you’re struggling to come back down, your chest heaving, your skin glowing.

“Fuck,” He murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “Look at this messy ass couch. Look at you, baby.” He bites his bottom lip, shaking his head. “Told you that little toy wasn’t fuckin’ with me.”

You couldn’t even form words yet, still floating in the aftershocks, but he leans up, pressing a slow, deep kiss against your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moan, tongue kissing him back, getting drunk off your own sweetness and scent on his lips.

“You good baby?” He asks against your mouth, his hand stroking your thigh, grounding you. You nod weakly, eyes still dazed, lips slightly parted as you try to catch your breath.

“Y-Yes…” You gently rasp out, too spent to form a coherent sentence.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He smirks. As you lay there, still trembling from the intensity, your body aching in all the right ways, your mind is a swirl of confusion. The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart are crumbling, and for the first time in years, you feel something close to vulnerability. Terry, with all his heat, intensity, and promises of more, has unlocked something inside you. But a part of you still wonders—should this just be a one-time thing, or are you ready to risk it all? You close your eyes, trying to breathe through the thick sexual tension that lingers in the air. But when you feel Terry’s presence next to you, his hand gently caressing your skin, the question lingers in your mind— do you really want to open yourself up to love again? Or is this simply just getting a nut in while you sort out your Nana’s last wishes?

Now ain’t this bout a bitch!………

@captainwithoutmakingitlove

@naughtynolly-blog

@theglamclosetsl

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes

@fakxmbj

@solunaseira

@noir-lullaby

@kirayuki22

@blyffe

@planetblaque

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[novascharms]

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 14.9 chapter index — next. chap.

c.w — smut, p in v masterlist

a.n — you did read that right. this has turned into a 15000 word monster... i'm not sure how it happened. ANYWAY. this is very late and i'm so very sorry. gramps went into emergency surgery, i started school and had the worst period cramps of my life but we all good, everything is much better now. i will be updating the other four parts very soon. (hopefully tee hee)

epilogue - part one

sunday, march 2nd

rafe was a heavy sleeper. you never knew that—not until now. he slept like a log, completely undisturbed despite the world moving around him. even with the sun pouring through the windows, turning his hair and eyelashes a shade of gold so soft it looked spun from honey, even with the familiar morning symphony of your family filling the house—your sister's giggles echoing from the yard as she played with your mom, your little brother waddling through the living room, bottle clutched in his tiny hands as he repeatedly bumped his head against rafe’s thigh—he didn’t so much as stir.  

he should consider himself lucky. you, on the other hand, could wake up from the mere sound of a door creaking open down the hall.  

you tried to imagine him in your bed instead of sprawled across your couch, head buried in your pillows, wrapped up in your blanket. would he sleep on the left or the right? hopefully the left, since you slept on the right—closest to the window, where the first light of morning always found you.  

did he dream? or did he have nightmares? did he mumble in his sleep? would you wake up to hear him speaking in slurred, sleepy gibberish, too out of it to make sense?  

did he sleep in sweats? pajamas? a button-up? shirtless? that felt very much like rafe, but you didn’t know. not yet, at least.  

did he linger in bed for thirty minutes before dragging himself up, or was he like you? someone who counted down from five to one and forced temselves up at one.

endless possibilities.

and something inside you whispered that you would find out. maybe not today. maybe not tomorrow. but the day would come, and when it did, you'd cherish it.  

you'd watch him just like you were watching him now, cataloging every detail—the way his lashes rested against his cheek, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. you’d memorize how his hair fell, how his lips looked impossibly soft, how the little crease between his brows never quite smoothed out, even in sleep. and you'd be allowed. 

you wouldn’t have to stop yourself from reaching out.  

you wouldn’t have to fight the urge to kiss him.  

because he would be yours. completely, irrevocably yours.  

“take a picture, it'll last longer.”  

your sister’s voice snapped you from your thoughts. you barely spared her a glance, still leaning against the archway separating the living room from the dining room, cradling a mug of now-cold tea in your hands.  

“go away,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm.  

she was right, but she could be right somewhere else.  

you'd been staring at him for well over fifteen minutes, still in your pajamas, unable to make yourself move, unable to be anywhere else. you had already called off work because the thought of leaving right now—leaving him—felt unbearable.  

were you one of those girlfriend? the kind who couldn’t stay away, who hovered and obsessed?  

girlfriend felt too soon.  

but then again, rafe had told you he loved you. twelve hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-four seconds ago, to be exact. 

your dad passed by, replacing your cold mug with a fresh one, steam curling in the air. you thanked him absentmindedly, fingers wrapping around the warmth.  

what kind of boyfriend would rafe be?  

you already knew he was touchy, that he liked kissing, that he had a habit of nuzzling the tip of his nose against yours, of holding eye contact just a little too long when you weren’t paying attention. he liked to watch you, studying you as you tutored him, as you cleaned, as if every little thing you did was worth committing to memory.  

but what about the rest?  

would he bring you flowers? take you to the movies, or more late-night drives along the coast? would he want to sit on the beach with you until the sky turned soft with morning, or would he prefer extravagant dates, something grand and exciting?  

what kind of gifts would he like?  

would he appreciate personalized things—carefully written ‘open when’ letters, little boxes filled with things meant just for him—or was he more materialistic? would he want his favorite cologne, designer watches, the kinds of things that held status?  

or would he prefer something he could do? something he could experience—a trip, an activity, something he could share with you or his friends?  

you’d probably just get him all of it. just to be sure.  

you’d only had one boyfriend before—not that you and rafe were official yet, but still.  

being a girlfriend the first time had been… odd.  

like having a boy who was a friend, and sometimes he kissed you, and it was just… fine.  

but with rafe?  

it felt nothing like that.  

and god, you wanted to do it right.  

maybe there was a research paper somewhere on how to be a good girlfriend.  

not that it mattered. rafe made it easy.  

he made your heart stutter, your stomach twist, your cheeks burn. he made you want to be good to him. to be perfect for him.  

and maybe that was impossible.  

but you would try.

rafe stirred, his arm lifting sluggishly to rub at his eyes, fingers dragging through the remnants of sleep. the motion caught your little brother’s attention immediately, his tiny head snapping up, curiosity flickering across his face at the sudden movement in the room. once he realized rafe was awake, he held out his arms in a way that said 'pick me up before i hurl this bottle at someone.'

"hey, buddy…" rafe rasped, voice thick with sleep as he reached for him, lifting him effortlessly and settling him onto his chest.  

you stayed still, watching in silence, your body at ease yet your heart hammering against your ribs. it was as if you could physically feel it swell, stretching wide with a warmth so intense it made your breath hitch.  

and then, as if he could sense it, his eyes found yours. sleepy, unfocused, but piercing all the same. that disarming gaze of his tugged at something deep within you, pulling you toward him like gravity itself. god, you wanted to go to him. to press yourself against him, burrow into his warmth, tuck your face into the crook of his neck and let the rest of the world fall away.  

"morning."  

his voice was quiet, rough around the edges, heavy with sleep. it was almost ridiculous how the sound of it sent tingles through every nerve in your body, warm and electric, curling low in your stomach.  

"morning."

your own voice was steadier than you felt, but your feet wouldn’t move. he looked so cozy—messy hair, sleepy eyes, the laziest, softest smile pulling at his lips. he was huggable, he was yours, and the ache to touch him, to climb into his space, to sink into his warmth, made your fingers twitch at your sides.  

his head rested against the couch arm, eyes impossibly tender as they traced over you.  

"gonna stay over there?"

he was almost smiling, teasing, but something expectant threaded through the words—something hopeful.  

your little brother wiggled off his chest and padded away, but rafe didn’t look away, didn’t so much as blink. he was watching you now, watching the hesitation in your stance, the way your weight shifted like you were trying to resist something inevitable.  

"i'm enjoying the view."

you grinned, and the corner of his lips twitched, a smirk creeping in slow and lazy.  

"taking in the sights?"

you nodded.  

"like what you see?" his brows lifted slightly, smirk deepening. "hope i’m up to standard."

another nod, another hum of approval.  

and then, softer—almost pleading—  

"c’mere."

your body moved before your mind could catch up. one second, you were standing. the next, you were there, sinking into him, his hands finding your waist as your knees pressed into the cushions.  

the need to touch him was unbearable, searing through your veins, clawing at your ribs.  

and then, finally, it hit you—you can.  

as much as you want. as long as you want.  

because he was yours.  

not some far-off dream.  

not a delusion.  

real.

your hands found his chest first, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin through the cotton. slowly, they traveled upward, fingers brushing over his throat, his jaw, until your palms cradled his face, your thumb tracing the high point of his cheekbone.  

rafe turned into your touch, his lips brushing against the heel of your palm.  

"sleep okay?" he murmured, though there was a knowing edge to it, a quiet concern that made your stomach twist.  

because you both knew why he was asking.  

last night, by the time you’d finally come inside, you were wrecked. tear-streaked, hiccuping, clinging to rafe like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. you hadn’t wanted him to sleep on the couch. you had fought him on it, insisted, pleaded, but somehow—you weren’t even sure how—he had won that fight. maybe it was the exhaustion. maybe it was the way your body had already been shutting down from the sheer weight of the night.  

"me? i'm not the one who slept on the couch."

you narrowed your eyes, fingers still cupping his face, and his lips quirked at your pointed tone.  

"i slept good," he assured you. "hard surfaces are better for your back, you know?"  

you snorted, unconvinced. "got facts now, huh? copying me, cameron?"  

he chuckled, tilting his head against your palm, lashes fluttering briefly as he stretched out with a groan.  

"didn’t you know? i’m coming for your spot."  

your smile widened. "you sure you want that? i go to the library for fun, you know?"  

rafe made a face, and you laughed.  

"still want me?" you teased, only half joking.  

he tilted his head slightly, considering. for half a second.  

then, he kissed you.  

soft. chaste. a barely-there press of lips that still managed to steal the breath from your lungs. and god, you didn’t care that he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet—you’d kiss him like this forever if he let you.  

when he pulled back, his nose nudged yours.  

"the real question is…" his voice was low, careful, like he was treading unsteady ground. "will you still have me?"  

you exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, just soaking him in.  

the past twenty-four hours had been an emotional wreckage. you had him, then you lost him, then you had him again in the span of a few, heart-crushing, life-altering hours.  

it was enough to make your head spin.  

enough to make you terrified that you could lose him just as easily.  

"that's a silly question."

your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he melted into you, hands slipping around your waist, tugging you even closer until you could feel his heartbeat against your own.  

"is it?" he murmured, his fingers dragging along the length of your spine, leaving shivers in their wake.  

"it is," you whispered. "m’never letting you go."  

his hold tightened.  

"you promise?"  

the words were barely audible, spoken against your skin, fragile in the way only he could be.  

you squeezed him, felt his heartbeat against your own.  

"cross my heart."

after a surprisingly normal breakfast, rafe had stepped outside to take a phone call. judging by the rare, genuine smile pulling at his lips, you were pretty sure it was sarah. his sister was one of the few people who could make him look like that—unguarded, softened.  

you were elbow-deep in soapy water, stacking dishes into the drying rack, when your mom poked her head into the kitchen. her eyes twinkled with thinly veiled curiosity.  

“so,” she started, dragging out the word as she leaned against the counter.  

you turned, brows lifting. “so?”  

her gaze flicked meaningfully toward the glass doors, where rafe was pacing the length of your backyard, phone in hand. “do you have a boy who is a little more than a friend?” she asked, feigning nonchalance.  

a smirk tugged at your lips. “mm, are you asking if rafe is my boyfriend?”  

“am i asking if the boy who has been sleeping on my couch and practically living in my house for the past two months is your boyfriend now? yes, i just might be.” she deadpanned, eyes shifting between you and the boy outside.  

you smiled to yourself, wiping down a plate. “nope.”  

“no?” your dad’s voice came out of nowhere, making you nearly jump. you turned to see him standing in the doorway, confusion written all over his face.  

your mom echoed his disbelief. “no?”  

you nodded, amused. “not yet.”  

your dad huffed, crossing his arms. “not yet? well, what the hell is his plan? because i’m not about to have some kid walking in and out of this house—”  

before he could finish his sentence, the sliding door creaked open. rafe stepped inside, still distracted by his phone, but when the room fell into a tense silence, his eyes flickered up.  

his brows furrowed. “uh… hey, guys…” his gaze found yours, searching. “am i interrupting or…?”  

you shook your head a little too quickly. “no, no. they were just wondering what time we got home last night.” you turned to your parents, forcing a casual tone. “around ten, i think. you had only just gone to bed.”  

your mom pursed her lips before smiling at rafe. “uh huh. well, hope the couch wasn’t too terrible. it’s not exactly made for sleeping.”  

rafe waved a hand dismissively. “it was fine. i should’ve asked before crashing, it was kind of a last-minute thing.”  

your dad, who moments ago was seconds away from throwing him out, suddenly beamed. “that’s alright, you’re always welcome here, son.”  

you gawked at him, utterly incredulous, but he ignored you.  

your mom grabbed your dad’s arm, tugging him toward the hallway. “well, we should go because…” she shot him a pointed look, silently urging him to come up with an excuse.  

“because…” he faltered, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “we have children! yes, we should check on our other children. the little one’s been, uh… constipated lately—”  

their voices trailed off as they disappeared down the hall, leaving you blinking after them.  

“your parents are funny,” rafe murmured, stepping up behind you. you barely had time to react before he dropped his head atop yours, the warmth of his body settling against your back.  

“they’re weird,” you corrected.  

he chuckled, a quiet, deep sound. “they’re a little weird.”  

his breath was warm against your temple, the closeness of him making your chest feel tight in a way you weren’t sure how to name.  

“want me to help you dry those?” he asked softly.  

you nodded, unable to stop the smile curling at your lips. “here.”  

you handed him a mug, and he slid away just enough to grab a dish towel, falling into step beside you.

"were you on the phone with sarah?” you ask quietly, unable to hide your curiosity.  

rafe nods, still absentmindedly drying the dish in his hands. “yeah, she was asking if i was eating dinner with them tonight. we’re in that phase where my parents act super happy that she’s home—before they start picking fights with her.”  

your brows pull together. “they didn’t know she was coming back?”  

“no, they did. it was only really a surprise for me.”  

your stomach twists a little at that. “sorry it didn’t go exactly as planned,” you murmur, voice laced with quiet regret.  

rafe doesn’t answer right away. instead, he gently takes the cup from your hands, setting it down on the counter before his fingers slip around yours, warm and firm. “i’m the one who should apologize,” he says, voice thick with sincerity. “it happened at my house, with my friends. i invited you. i should’ve—i should’ve been better. if i knew—”  

“you already apologized,” you cut in softly. “a couple of times, actually. and it’s okay. you didn’t know.” you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i also have fault in this, you know?” you look away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “i was scared. scared to communicate, to let you all the way in, to trust you sometimes. i can say without a doubt that if i’d handled a few things differently, we wouldn’t be where we are.”  

rafe tilts his head side to side, clearly disagreeing. “you don’t have any fault in this.” he tugs you closer, guiding your arms around his neck. “how were you supposed to trust me when you already knew what i was like? maybe not in detail, but the vague image was always there—even before cora said anything. you were protecting yourself. it’s one of the most human responses.”  

your lips part, ready to argue, but he beats you to it. “but,” he exhales, a tiny smirk playing at his lips, “i doubt i’ll win this fight, so let’s just agree to disagree.”  

he kisses you once, then again, softer this time, like the words themselves weren’t enough to settle it. your lips twitch with a smile you can’t control.  

“agree to disagree,” you whisper against his mouth before pressing a few more kisses to his lips, unable to stop yourself.  

he lets out a small chuckle, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, slow and affectionate. you think you could live in this quiet forever.  

“what time are you leaving?” your voice is quiet, already heavy with the weight of missing him before he’s even gone.

“soon,” he murmurs, his breath warm as it brushes against your temple, “but i’m coming back.”

your brows knit together, searching his face, his eyes, the way his lips barely quirk like he knows something you don’t. “you’re coming back?”

he nods, fingers grazing the curve of your jaw like he’s memorizing it. “there’s this girl…”

your smile is instant, soft and knowing. “mm?”

“she’s been running through my mind for so long,” he says, voice dipping lower, threading through your hair, “and i’m crazy about her.”

your grin spreads, helpless against the pull of him. “sounds serious.”

“yeah.” he smirks like he’s got a secret, and god, you love when he looks at you like that. “and i haven’t taken her on a date yet.”

you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest in mock scandal. “you haven’t taken her on a date yet?”

he shakes his head, feigning shame. “shameful, right?”

“absolutely. they should lock you up and throw away the key.”

his laughter rumbles between you, deep and warm, and you wish you could steal it, keep it somewhere safe. “damn,” he grins, pulling you closer. “throw away the key and everything?”

you nod solemnly. “except… if you can redeem yourself.”

he hums, amused. “redeem myself?”

you tip your chin up. “mmhm. like telling her where exactly you want to take her.”

his lips hover over yours, his voice a murmur against your mouth. “no can do. state secrets.” he presses a kiss to you, then another, softer between each word. “and we leave at four.”

your head spins. you barely register what he’s saying because all you can think about is the way he tastes, the way his hands tighten on your waist like he’d rather not let you go at all.

then he pulls back just enough to tilt his head, studying you like he’s about to say something important. “you should tell your parents you’re sleeping at hazel’s house,” he says casually, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, “and bring an overnight bag.”

your eyes widen. “an overnight bag?”

his smirk deepens at your reaction. “mmhm.”

“are we staying at your house?” you ask, suspicion creeping in.

he chuckles, shaking his head. “give me a little more credit than that.”

you narrow your eyes but let it slide. “okay… how should i dress if you won’t tell me where we’re going?”

he exhales, like he’s carefully picking his words. “it’s… outside. we’re walking around. not hiking or anything, but walking. like, imagine a museum—but it’s not a museum.”

you blink. “imagine a museum, but it’s not a museum?”

he nods, his grin tilting. “and bring warm clothes to sleep in.”

your stomach flips at that. he must notice because he laughs softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “no, we are not sleeping outside.”

relief floods you. “thank god,” you mumble. “i’d do a lot of things for you, but camping? not one of them.”

rafe grins, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “camping is actually fun, you know,” he teases, his words muffled in your hair.

you let out a tiny, skeptical laugh. “yeah, the bugs, the grass, the dirt… my dream.”

his chest shakes with laughter, pressing his lips to your forehead. “you’re such a pessimist. they’re not bugs, they’re just little critters. it’s not grass and dirt,” he grins, “it’s nature and fresh air, and it’s good for your soul.”

“no, i’m a realist. and ‘critters’ do not sound better than bugs.”

his laughter softens, something deeper settling in his eyes as he looks at you. his arms tighten, holding you like he’s grounding himself in you, in this moment, in everything you are.

“you’re good for my soul,” you whisper, barely a breath between you. “that’s enough ‘good for the soul’ for me.”

his body relaxes against yours, the air shifting, something warm and certain pressing between your ribs. he leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, his breath stirring your hair.

“think it’s enough for me too, baby.”

you’d read somewhere that the brain falls in love in 0.2 seconds. a fraction of a moment—less than the blink of an eye—and suddenly, chemicals flood your system. dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline. the same kind of high that leaves people breathless, euphoric, addicted.  

you never really believed it. 0.2 seconds? seriously? your brain had to have more fight in it than that. love seemed more complex, something slow-building, something earned. but now, pressed against rafe’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you—you realize it wasn’t just true. it lasted a lot longer than that.  

and god, were you in trouble.  

eventually, rafe pulled himself away, murmuring something about needing to shower and change. he promised he’d be back at four, but you were too restless to wait. by two, you were already ready to go.  

you cleaned your room, checked over your schoolwork, called off volunteering, helped your mom downstairs—anything to burn through the extra energy buzzing beneath your skin. and still, there was too much time left.  

with nothing left to do, you were ready to just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until you got a text from your friends.

“hey!” you greeted, too bright, too excited.  

three pairs of eyes blinked at you through the screen, varying degrees of shock and mild concern staring back.  

“hey… y/n,” hazel started cautiously, brows furrowed. “are you okay?”

only then did you remember—they had no idea what had happened after ivy left.  

by the time you finished telling them everything, their reactions were wildly different.  

hazel, unsurprisingly, remained skeptical. her lips pressed into a thin line as she folded her arms, eyes narrowing in that way that told you she was biting back several very strong opinions. “you need to be careful,” she warned. “i wouldn’t have taken him back on principle.”  

you rolled your eyes, already bracing for a future where hazel inevitably fell in love and her poor, unfortunate partner suffered under her stubborn, unshakable sense of justice.  

devon, on the other hand, was thrilled. she’d always liked rafe the most, but devon liked everyone that could make her laugh. and since she found almost everything funny, her enthusiasm wasn’t exactly a surprise. “this was all adriana and cora’s fault,” she declared confidently. “it only seems complicated because of misunderstandings.”  

honestly, she wasn’t completely wrong.  

ivy was the last to react, but only because she needed everything explained twice. she kept getting lost in the names and timelines, but once she caught up, she leaned back, thoughtful. “i get where hazel’s coming from,” she admitted. “but… i’ve never seen someone look at another person the way rafe looks at you.” she shook her head, like even she couldn’t believe it. “he’s in love with you. and i think you guys deserve a real chance.”  

your chest tightened, an ache so sweet it almost hurt.  

hazel made valid points. you couldn’t deny that things could have been handled better, that rafe had a past, that there were risks.  

but love had to count for something.  

the way he touched you like you were something delicate and precious, the way he kissed you like he’d been starving for you, the way he looked at you—like you were the most important thing in the world.  

you had to see this through. you deserved to try.

by the time the conversation was winding down, your phone buzzed with a message from rafe—here—and before you could even process it, the doorbell rang. the timing made you smile, a giddy, unshakable thing that only grew as you imagined him just downstairs, waiting for you. waiting to kiss you the moment you reached him, to pull you close in the car, to sit beside you, hands brushing, the warmth of him something you could sink into.  

there weren’t enough words to describe what it felt like to be in love with rafe. he was lightning in your veins, a thrill in your pulse, the kind of presence that made your skin hum and your heart stumble over itself. every bit of him exhilarated you—the way he looked at you, the way he laughed, the way just existing near him felt like standing at the edge of something breathtaking.  

“alrighttt,” ivy teased from the tiny rectangle on your laptop screen, dragging out the word with a knowing smirk. “go get your man before you implode.” she waved a hand, shooing you off.  

“i’ll text every hour, okay?” you added, mostly directing it toward hazel, who nodded, lips quirking.  

“have fun!” devon grinned, throwing up a thumbs-up.  

“fun with protection,” hazel added flatly, and your jaw dropped, eyes going wide.  

“hazel!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-scandalized.  

she only shrugged, entirely unbothered, and waved you off as you ended the call.  

you shut your laptop, the nerves settling in properly now, fluttery and insistent. you rushed down the two flights of stairs, your heart thumping louder with each step, and before you even reached the bottom, you could already hear his voice, deep and familiar, threading through the hallway.  

“no, the season’s over,” rafe was saying, his tone easy, patient.  

your mom hummed, and then—ohhh, drawn out like a realization had just dawned on her. “so, it’s like the seasons of the year? like winter, fall—”  

you nearly winced before you heard rafe chuckle, cutting in quickly, “no, no, no.” he sounded amused, not condescending, his usual charm at play. “it’s one season. the season runs from mid-august to mid-november. that’s when we play in the big arenas. the rest of the year is off-season training, then pre-season prep, and sometimes, we have non-official games against other teams.”  

“mm,” your mom nodded, absorbing the information. as you stepped up behind her, she turned, startled for a second before her face softened. “oh! i was just talking to rafe about his soccer schedule—it’s quite intensive, actually.” her expression shifted to that motherly concern she always wore when she thought you were stretching yourself too thin.  

you bit back a grin, already knowing what was coming.  

“it’s like what i tell y/n, you know?” she said, turning back to rafe, who raised his brows, clearly entertained. “always with her head buried in those books. i keep telling her, anything with ‘too much’ or ‘too little’ in front of it is bad. too much studying, and her little head might break.” she sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “i worry—”  

“okay, mhm, i know, mom. i know,” you interjected, nodding quickly as you looped an arm through hers, gently steering her toward the living room before she could launch into another full speech.  

rafe, for his part, was valiantly holding back a laugh, his lips twitching as he watched you usher your mom away. you shot him a look, but the fondness in his eyes made your stomach flip.

“your mom complaining because you study too much? that’s unheard of.” rafe teases the moment you step back into the foyer, an embarrassed smile tugging at your lips.

“my mom is unheard of,” you correct, but the words barely register as you take him in. he looked good. he always did, but tonight—tonight he looked unfairly good. black cargos, a deep green sweater snug against his frame, the edge of a white shirt peeking out beneath it. his hair, effortlessly tousled in that way that made him look like he had just rolled out of bed—but you knew better. he did that on purpose.

before you can say anything else, he hooks a finger into the hem of your shirt, tugging you forward. you don’t resist, smiling as the space between you vanishes.

“hi,” you murmur, tilting your chin up as his hand cups your face, thumb brushing featherlight over your cheek.

“hey,” he breathes back, leaning in—so close you can almost taste the mint on his breath. but just as his lips are about to touch yours, he stills.

his voice drops to a whisper. “your sister is staring at us.”

your eyes snap open in horror. mortified. and annoyed.

sure enough, when you turn your head, there she is, standing in the hallway like a tiny executioner, arms crossed, smirk sharp.

“take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you mock, throwing her own words from this morning back at her.

without a beat of hesitation, she pulls out the little flip phone your dad gave her.

“oh my god! don’t actually take the picture!” you gasp, exasperated. behind you, rafe’s quiet chuckle vibrates through your back.

she doesn’t even acknowledge you, just huffs, arms crossing tighter. “dad!” she calls out, voice ringing through the house. “y/n won’t let me take a picture of her and rafe kissing!” she storms off.

you squeeze your eyes shut, dying inside, but rafe only laughs again. the sound is warm, reassuring—just like the way his arms slip around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

“you look pretty,” he murmurs, lips brushing over your shoulder, lingering. “and you smell good.” his mouth trails higher, ghosting over your neck, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

your fingers tighten in his sweater as you exhale, tilting your head just enough to capture his lips in a soft, fleeting kiss. “thank you.” your voice is quieter now, just for him.

you pull back slightly, hands drifting to his shoulders as you study him again. “hmm…” your grin curves slow, playful. “you look nice, but i still can’t tell where we’re going from this outfit.”

he smirks, leaning down for another kiss, this one deeper, slower. when he pulls back, his voice is lower. “that’s kind of the point with surprises.”

you laugh softly as he grabs the duffel bag from your hands.

“we should get going.”

you nod, stepping away. “yeah, i just need to say bye to my parents. i’ll be right out.” you’re already turning when he murmurs his agreement, stepping out the front door.

inside, you find your parents in the living room. your mom is braiding your sister’s hair, her fingers moving with practiced ease.

“hey, i’m heading out. i’ll see you guys tomorrow after school?”

your mom glances up, eyes sweeping over you like she’s checking for something. “you don’t have a thicker sweater? it’s quite cold.”

“it isn’t that cold, she’ll be alright,” your dad interjects, offering you a thumbs-up. “just text us when you get to hazel’s, alright?”

you nod quickly, then turn back to your mom. “i’ll take my good coat, and worst case, i’ll ask rafe for a sweater.” you offer her a reassuring smile.

she studies you for a beat longer, then softens, giving you a warm nod. “okay. have fun.”

you turn on your heel, snatching your coat from the wall hook in one fluid motion before stepping outside. the crisp air rushes to greet you, cool against your flushed cheeks, curling around your skin like a whisper of excitement. the door clicks shut behind you, sealing away the warmth of inside, but you don’t mind—not when rafe is here, waiting.

he leans against his car, fingers idly playing with his keys, the metal glinting under the dim glow of the streetlights. he’s distracted, his head tilted down, but the second you step out, he pauses. his eyes find yours instantly, scanning your face, his lips parting just slightly. “all good?” his voice is gentle, edged with something soft, something careful.

you nod, unable to contain the giddy energy bubbling inside you. your feet carry you to him quickly, almost skipping, like a child running toward something they’ve been waiting all day for. “all good, good, good.” you beam up at him, stretching onto your toes to press a quick, eager kiss to his lips.

his chuckle is quiet, warm, but his arms instinctively settle around your waist, keeping you close. “you’re happy,” he observes, amusement laced in his voice.

your grin widens as you nod. “i’ve got every reason to be.” the words are as much for him as they are a reminder to yourself.

his nose brushes against yours, the smallest touch, but it sends a shiver down your spine. “i love seeing you smile,” he whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

and because it’s him, because it’s always him, you smile even more. “i love you.”

his forehead rests against yours, his eyes locking onto yours like they hold the whole world inside them. “i love you too, baby.”

the drive to your destination is both too slow and far too fast, stretching time and collapsing it all at once. you want to savor every second, but you also ache to get there, wherever there is.

every car ride with rafe is something special. even the short ones, when he’d drop you off at the retirement home, where you’d linger in his car long after he had already parked, just talking, stretching the moment, neither of you wanting to leave, not ready to say goodbye. but the long ones? those were the best. time felt slower then, like the world outside the car didn’t matter, like all that existed was the steady hum of the engine, the soft music threading through the speakers, and the effortless conversation between you.

talking with rafe was easy. being with him was easy. you were always full of things to say, stories to tell, and he was always ready to listen, to laugh, to add his own thoughts like your words were puzzle pieces he was eager to fit together. the soft melody playing in the background only made it all feel more domestic, more right, like something you could do forever.

“remember when we were at the beach, and you said you should have more fun?” he asks suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of conversation.

you nod, thinking back to that day, the way you had sighed and confessed it like it was a secret. “yeah. this is something fun?”

he grins, nodding. “it is.”

your mind spins with possibilities. “is it…” you pause dramatically, narrowing your eyes at him, “roller skating?”

his laugh is easy, shaking his head. “you already guessed that one.” he tilts his head toward the windshield. “we’re almost there, though.”

your gaze follows his, and in the distance, bright lights glow against the night sky, unmistakable and familiar. your heart stutters.

“the fair!” you nearly scream, your excitement bubbling over into your voice. you turn to him, wide-eyed. “oh my god, i haven’t been back in years. i never—”

“find the time?” he finishes smoothly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

you nod, eyes shining. “thank you, thank you!” the words spill out as you grab his face, pressing frantic kisses all over his cheeks, his nose, anywhere you can reach. he just laughs, letting you, his hands resting on your waist.

“this is gonna be so fun.” you bounce slightly in your seat, your gaze snapping back to the road, watching as the fair grows closer, the colors sharpening, the lights glittering. anticipation buzzes under your skin. “i hope you’re ready to spend the next fifteen hours here, because i am not leaving until we’ve played every game. oh! we have to go on the ferris wheel.” you turn back to him, eyes pleading. “and we have to do the duck fishing game! a lot of people find it kinda boring, but i always loved it as a kid. you get fun prizes!" you ramble, the memories flooding back, making you smile at the thought of it all.

"anddd!" you continue, as rafe parks the car and unbuckles your seatbelt for you, "we can do the can knockdown and the basketball shootout! though i’m not very good at that..." you tilt your head, biting your lip.

"basketball shootout? that’s my game," rafe says, his tone teasing yet reassuring. "don’t worry, i'll show you how to score." a grin spreads across your face, and you can’t help but lean in, kissing him again, your lips lingering against his, sharing a moment of warmth.

when you step out of the car, rafe briefly checks his parking, but you're too eager to wait. you tug gently at his hand, your excitement bubbling over. "okayyy! let’s go!" you urge, practically bouncing on your toes.

"okay, someone’s excited," rafe murmurs with a smile, pulling you close, his arm sliding around your shoulder as you both start walking toward the fair, the lights ahead like a dream come to life.

the fair was alive with energy, a constant hum of voices blending with the sounds of laughter and music. the air was thick with the scent of cotton candy and popcorn, and you could feel the vibrant pulse of excitement as people swarmed the grounds. scattered among the crowd were a few familiar faces from school, most of them nodding or waving at rafe from a distance, though there were one or two who actually stopped to chat with him for a moment.

you dove into the carnival games, clearly more excited than anything else. your enthusiasm was contagious as you breezed through everything, from the ring toss and pick-a-duck to the basketball shootout, can knockdown, and the bb gun shooting booth. you even tried your hand at the hammer strength test and the wheel of fortune. each game offered a prize, and by the time you were done, you had racked up so many stuffed animals that rafe had to make a quick trip to his car to stash a couple in the backseat. you kept only the one he won for you, clutching it close as if it were a prized possession.

"i’ve got a perfect name for him," you grinned when rafe returned, slipping his hand into yours. you hugged the bear tight to your chest.

"yeah?" he asked, a curious glint in his eyes.

"rafe jr!" you exclaimed, your face lighting up with mischief.

rafe paused, turning to look at you with a playful smile. "he’s your son. isn’t he adorable?" you ask him.

"i think he’s our son," rafe said, his tone teasing but warm.

you hummed thoughtfully, "yeah, from nine a.m. to ten p.m., he can be our son. but at night, he’s all yours. i need my eight hours of sleep," you joked, and rafe gave you a mock disapproving look.

"unbelievable," he muttered, feigning indignation as he took the bear from you. "give me my son. you don’t even deserve him," he laughed, shaking his head as you giggled.

"let’s do the mirror palace," rafe said suddenly, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the next attraction.

"oh, no," you groaned, a playful whine creeping into your voice. "i suck at mazes. do you know how many bruises i've gotten because of this place?" you complained as he led you into the line. he wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you close.

"you were probably between six and ten years old the last time you were here," he teased, his lips brushing your shoulder. "but don't worry, we’ll stick together. i’ll make sure we get out without any bruises."

you couldn’t help but smile at his reassurance, finding comfort in his presence. "okay," you agreed, your voice soft. "can we do the ferris wheel too?" you whispered, hopeful.

he gave you a tender smile and nodded. "we’ll do the ferris wheel, baby," he whispered back, his voice low and soothing as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. you smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of his affection, and he kissed you again, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away.

the line for the maze isn’t long, and rafe makes the wait feel like nothing at all. "hey, two tickets, please," he says, voice low but casual as he pulls his wallet out, handing over a stack of bills. the cashier, with a soft smile, takes them, passing back two tickets with practiced ease. "here you go," she says, her tone polite but robotic, "no running and no backtracking. have fun." the words sound like a rehearsed mantra, something she'd said to every other person before.

"no backtracking?" you ask, your voice tinged with nerves as rafe laces his fingers through yours, pulling you toward the entrance. "what if we get lost? what if we—"

"baby, we won't get lost," he laughs, that deep, confident sound that always manages to settle your racing thoughts. he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, the warmth of his lips grounding you. "this is a game for little kids. we’ll make it, no problem." you can’t help but smile, knowing he’s probably right. you nod, taking another step forward into the maze, the twisted corridors pulling you further in.

the maze is oddly quiet, aside from the occasional echo of laughter or giggling in the distance. the floors beneath your feet are dotted with glowing lights that form shifting patterns, while above, the ceiling is impossibly high—so high that you can't quite make out its end, thanks to the mirrored surface reflecting everything around you. it all feels like a strange dream, the kind where you’re falling endlessly but never quite hit the ground.

"god, this is so weird," you mutter, as rafe gently tugs you back just in time to avoid you running into yet another mirror. "i swear, we’ve been down this hallway already." you stop in your tracks, scanning your surroundings. rafe continues walking, but his hand, still clutching yours, halts him after a few steps.

"we haven’t been down this hallway yet," he says, looking over his shoulder at you. "i’d know." his tone is teasing, but you can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

"all the hallways look the same," you protest, "how would you know?"

"i’m a pro at this," he grins, tugging you closer. "you just don’t believe me." his hands settle on your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your shirt. "or trust me," he murmurs, lips barely grazing your ear as he pulls you even closer.

"i’m too young to die, and i can’t die in a maze, rafe," you whine softly, your voice barely audible. he chuckles, the sound warm against your skin.

"don’t be whiny," he teases, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before you can even respond. your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

"i’m not whiny…" you protest, though the words are muffled as his breath fans across your lips. your eyes flutter closed, and you exhale softly, the warmth of his presence overwhelming in the best way.

"really?" rafe’s voice is low and teasing as his lips brush against yours, barely making contact. "because you sound pretty whiny to me." his hands slide up your back, sending a chill through your spine as his lips trace the curve of your jaw. he pulls you flush against him, his body pressing into yours with a teasing urgency.

"rafe…" you sigh, words getting caught in your throat. you want to beg him to kiss you, to press you up against one of these endless mirrors and kiss you until you're breathless, but somehow, the words won’t come. instead, you lean into him, your lips chasing his in desperate need.

"yeah, pretty girl?" rafe’s voice is rough, husky, and it makes your knees feel weak. your heart races in your chest as you try to form a coherent thought, but all you can focus on is him. his presence. the heat between you. your lips are barely a breath away, and you lean in, chasing him as your fingers tangle in his hair.

he pulls away just enough for you to feel the loss, his lips brushing against your skin. "tell me," he insists, his voice barely a whisper, but it carries an urgency that makes your breath catch. he kisses everywhere but your lips, trailing soft, teasing touches along your jaw and neck. his nose skims your skin, the sensation making your body shiver.

"want you to kiss me…" you manage to murmur, almost begging, your hands tightening in his hair. rafe hums, the sound vibrating through your chest.

"wasn't too hard now, was it?" he whispers, his lips brushing against yours in a teasing mockery of what you’ve been yearning for. and before you can respond, his lips crash against yours. it’s frantic, hungry, as if he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you. you’re pushed up against the mirror, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his body.

his hands find their way to your waist, pressing you harder against him as his tongue slips into your mouth, coaxing a soft gasp from you. the kiss deepens, and it’s no longer just a kiss—it’s consuming, overwhelming, a blur of heat and touch. the world fades away, and all you can think about is rafe. his lips. his hands. him.

the kiss drags on, relentless, until you’re both left gasping for air. rafe pulls back slightly, brushing his lips against yours with a soft smile. "don’t think that’s ever gonna get old," he murmurs, his voice low and satisfied. he takes your hand, tugging you along deeper into the maze.

eventually, though, he does get you both out. you’d almost lost hope twice, ready to scream for help, but somehow, you made it out together.

with his hand nestled in yours, fingers laced together like a quiet promise, you wandered through the fair, the golden glow of string lights casting soft halos over the crowd. laughter and the distant chime of game bells filled the air as you played a few more rounds, the scent of caramel and fried dough clinging to the night. finally, you reached the ferris wheel, its towering silhouette outlined against the deep blue sky.  

"line's a little long," rafe noted, eyes flicking toward the slow-moving queue stretching toward the ticket booth. he exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. "i'm gonna head to the food stand and grab us something small while we wait. that okay?"  

you nodded quickly. "okay."  

he leaned down, brushing a soft kiss against your lips before you could say anything else. you caught his sleeve as he pulled away, adding, "can you also get me some water?"  

"mm, be right back," he murmured, squeezing your fingers before slipping into the crowd.  

left alone, you took the moment to respond to a few messages, the ferris wheel’s bright lights reflecting in your screen. the line inched forward, and just as you pocketed your phone, rafe reappeared, pressing a warm pretzel wrapped in a napkin into your hands.  

"here," he said, and you quickly took a bite, the buttery salt melting on your tongue.  

"you didn't get anything?" you asked, noticing he only held your bottle of water and a can of coke.  

"not hungry enough for anything right now," he shrugged, tucking his arm around your shoulder as the line moved forward again. without a second thought, you held up your pretzel to his lips.  

he grinned and took a bite, murmuring a muffled, "thanks," as he chewed. you smiled and leaned up, pressing a kiss to his cheek.  

at the register, rafe pulled out his wallet, handing over cash for two tickets. standing closer to the wheel now, he tilted his head up, studying it. "jesus," he muttered under his breath. "when you're this close, it’s really high..."  

you grinned, nudging him. "got a little fear of heights you forgot to mention?"  

he rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. "no fear of heights," he countered, feigning nonchalance. "just didn’t think it’d be this tall."  

when the attendant swung open the little cabin door, rafe let you step in first before sliding in beside you. the seat was softer than expected, and as the wheel began its slow ascent, he draped an arm around you, settling comfortably.  

"you can see the whole island from the top," you mused, eyes sparkling as you glanced at him.  

rafe smirked. "yeah?"  

"mm-hmm," you hummed, then added mischievously, "and don’t worry—it goes reallll slow."  

he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "i’m not scared of heights," he insisted.  

"uh huh." you shrugged, taking another bite of your pretzel.  

the cabin continued its gentle climb, and a small window near the side caught your attention. curiosity got the best of you, and before rafe could react, you popped your head out for a better view. the wind brushed against your face, cool and sweet, but before you could even take it all in, rafe's hand was gripping your waist, tugging you back in with a firm urgency.  

"okay, that's enough," he muttered, brows drawn together, his jaw tight.  

you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up as he shot you a glare that wasn’t nearly as serious as he wanted it to be.  

if he wasn’t so tense, you might’ve asked to go again. but seeing the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his grip on you lingered even after the moment had passed, you decided against it. you’d spare him—for now.

ooh! a photobooth!" you yell out, excitement bubbling over as you grab rafe’s hand and pull him toward the big red box in the distance. the glossy surface gleams under the carnival lights, and you practically bounce on your feet as you take in the example pictures displayed on the side. “look at this! i think it’s new…” your fingers trail over the smooth panel, eyes scanning the details. before you can even turn to ask rafe if he wants to take some, he’s already ducking inside, reaching back to tug you onto his lap with effortless ease.  

“let’s see…” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he scrolls through the options on the screen. you pull the small curtain shut, enclosing the two of you in the intimate space, the air thick with anticipation. “black and white or color?” rafe asks, his chin resting on your shoulder, voice low and unhurried. you tilt your head in thought before deciding, “uhh… black and white.” the choice feels right, timeless. you fish out a couple of coins from your pocket, sliding them into the slot with a soft clink. 

“okay, ready?” rafe asks, his blue eyes flickering with amusement as he watches you. you nod, grinning. but then a thought crosses your mind, and you blurt out, “wait, how many does it take?”  

“four, i think,” rafe replies just as the first flash goes off. instinctively, you stick your tongue out, only realizing after that your hair is a mess. laughter spills from your lips as you quickly try to smooth it down, but rafe is faster—his fingers weave through the strands, gently fixing it as the countdown begins again.  

“oh, god, the countdown is so fast!” you squeal, both of you scrambling to pose, but it’s useless—you end up just laughing at each other, faces flushed with amusement.  

“that one is cute. look at your smile,” rafe grins, tilting his head to study the preview. your cheeks warm at his words, a touch of shyness creeping in. rafe notices, his own smile softening before he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek just as the third picture snaps.  

the final countdown begins, and rafe’s fingers—gentle yet firm—grasp your chin, turning your face toward him. “last one,” he murmurs, a teasing glint in his eyes. you don’t hesitate. instead, you wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him in, lips meeting his in a kiss just as the last flash goes off.  

when you pull away, rafe chases your lips for a second, stealing another soft kiss before finally letting you slide off his lap. you push the curtain open, stepping out into the cool night air, the distant hum of carnival rides and laughter filling the space around you.  

seconds later, the photo strip slides out from the machine. you grab it eagerly, holding it up. “they came out so cute! look!” you beam, showing rafe as he steps beside you.  

his gaze flickers over the strip, a small smile tugging at his lips. “they did. the black and white looks good,” he agrees, his fingers effortlessly intertwining with yours as you both start walking again, your eyes still fixed on the little captured moments.  

they were perfect.

"i had so much fun, thank you for bringing me here," you say, glancing at rafe as the two of you walk through the parking lot, the cool night air settling over your skin. the distant hum of traffic, the flickering neon signs, the soft scuff of your shoes against the pavement—it all feels like a dream you don’t want to wake up from.  

"i’m happy you liked it," rafe replies, his voice carrying a certain secrecy that immediately piques your curiosity. "but the date’s not over yet."  

you blink at him, lips curling into a smile. "it’s not?"  

he shakes his head, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. "nope. one more surprise. now get in." he nudges you playfully, holding the passenger door open like the perfect gentleman he pretends not to be.  

your heart flutters as you slide inside, excitement buzzing through you despite the dull ache creeping into your feet. the night is stretching on, dark and velvety, but instead of feeling tired, you feel alive, giddy with the thought that the evening isn’t over yet.  

"can i try to guess this one?" you ask the moment you buckle in, eyes gleaming with anticipation.  

rafe chuckles, shaking his head as he starts the car. "you know, it wouldn’t kill you to let it be a surprise. ever heard of ‘curiosity killed the cat’?"  

"and what brought it back?" you counter smoothly, neatly tucking the photobooth pictures into your bag. "the truth."  

he scoffs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. "even if i gave you hints, you’d still be terrible at guessing."  

your mouth drops open in exaggerated offense. "no! your hints just suck!"  

"oh, my hints suck?" he laughs, shooting you a knowing look. "i literally said you might walk away with some prizes, and you thought i was taking you to a casino."  

you roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile stretching across your face. "it was a solid guess! a casino is a place where you can win things!"  

"try thinking about why i asked you to bring warm pajamas."  

you pause, tilting your head as you study him. he’s taking you somewhere cold, that much is obvious—but where? and why?  

the rest of the ride is spent grilling rafe, who remains infuriatingly tight-lipped, dodging every one of your guesses with a smug grin. the city lights blur past in streaks of gold and red, and eventually, the car rolls to a stop near the docks.  

you step out, scanning your surroundings. the air is thick with the scent of salt and freshly grilled seafood, the restaurants nearby buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses. but none of this explains why he told you to bring warm pajamas.  

he takes your hand and leads you past the restaurants, past the shops, past everything—until you’re stepping through a smaller, tucked-away entrance that spills out onto the docks, where at least fifty boats are lined up in neat rows.  

"are we getting on a boat?" you ask, glancing at him in surprise.  

he still doesn’t answer. just pulls you along, his grip firm but gentle.  

"rafe, i—"  

the words catch in your throat.  

because suddenly, you see it.  

a boat, different from all the others, its edges wrapped in warm golden lights that twinkle against the dark water. flower petals are scattered along the deck like something out of a dream. a table is set for two, draped in crisp white linen, with two gleaming cloches covering the plates beneath. and above it all, the sky is painted in breathtaking shades of pink and lavender, the last remnants of the sunset bleeding into the horizon.  

you don’t move. you don’t breathe.  

rafe steps onto the boat first, setting the bags down before turning back to you, his expression softer now, almost nervous. he holds out a hand. "c’mon."  

your fingers tremble as they slip into his.  

"rafe," you whisper, voice barely above the lapping of the waves, already feeling the sting of tears gathering behind your eyes.

rafe reaches behind you, fingers brushing against the back of the chair as he grabs something—then, turning back to you, he reveals a bouquet of flowers.  

"before you say anything, i just need to do this," he murmurs, voice quieter now, as he hands them to you.  

your hands tighten around the bouquet instinctively, but you barely register the softness of the petals, too caught up in the way his eyes flicker, how his throat bobs as he swallows.  

"there's a note inside," he continues, rubbing the back of his neck as if he's trying to steady himself. "i wasn’t sure if i’d be able to say what i needed to say, so i wrote it down. but now that you’re standing right in front of me..." he hesitates, glancing down at the bouquet, then back at you. "i think i want to read it to you."  

your breath catches.  

he reaches into the bouquet, pulling out a small, neatly folded note, his fingers careful as he smooths it open. the sun is dipping lower, casting everything in gold and amber, and for a moment, you just watch him. the glow of the fading light makes his features impossibly soft, the strands of his tousled hair illuminated like something out of a dream.  

his eyes scan the paper, then flicker up to you. he exhales sharply.  

"god," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head slightly.  

your brows pull together. "you don’t have to—"  

"no, no," he interrupts quickly, waving a hand. "it’s not that. it’s just... you—" he exhales again, almost frustrated with himself. "you look really good right now. i can’t think straight."  

your heart stumbles over itself.  

heat spreads across your cheeks, and you bite back a grin, stepping closer to him. "you’re awful."  

"i’m awful?" he scoffs, tilting his head at you, a smile curling at the edges of his lips. "you’re the one over there, completely wrecking my concentration."  

his voice is soft, teasing, and the way he’s looking at you—like there’s no one else in the world—makes your chest ache. without thinking, you rise onto your toes, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss.  

he kisses you back, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. but as soon as your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, he pulls away with a pointed look.  

"see?" he murmurs, shaking his head in mock exasperation.  

you throw your head back in laughter. "okay, okay! i’m sorry! you have my undivided, uninterrupting attention."  

his lips twitch into a smirk before he clears his throat, bringing his attention back to the note in his hands.  

his voice is steady as he begins to read.  

"last semester, our science teacher told us that romantic love activates the same brain regions as drug addiction—especially the dopamine reward system."  

he glances up at you briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting like he already knows how silly he sounds. but he keeps going.  

"at the time, i didn’t think much of it. honestly, i probably forgot about it five minutes later. but a week after our first tutoring session, that random fact came rushing back. because by then, i wasn’t just falling for you—i was being consumed by you. every little thing you did, every quirk, every expression. the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something so intricate i could barely follow. the way you smiled. the way you blinked, even."  

he pauses, his jaw clenching for a second before he continues.  

"i couldn’t understand why i couldn’t stop thinking about you—why you had settled so deeply into my mind, in my bones, under my skin. and then, suddenly, i did. that fact from last semester snapped back into place."  

his voice is quieter now, more careful, like every word is something he needs you to hear.  

"you’re the first thought in my mind when i wake up and the last thing i think of before i fall asleep. you are my favorite part of every day."  

you feel your breath hitch, your hands tightening around the bouquet.  

"i will always feel sorry for anyone who never gets the chance to know you the way i do—to be wrapped in your kindness, to hear your laughter over and over, to know what your lips feel like, to be loved by you."  

his gaze flickers up to yours, a quiet intensity in his eyes.  

"you are extraordinary, and i know you’re going to go places neither of us can even dream of."  

he hesitates, his fingers gripping the edges of the paper slightly, like the words are heavier now.  

"if you’ll let me, i’d be honored to stand by your side for as long as you’ll have me."  

a beat of silence.  

"will you be my girlfriend?"  

you don’t realize you’re crying until you’re frantically wiping at your face, nodding—nodding so hard it almost makes you dizzy.  

"yeah?" rafe breathes, a laugh slipping from his lips as he pulls you in.  

"yes!" you cry, grinning through the tears. "are you serious?"  

his hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears as he shakes his head with a soft smile. "you can’t cry on our first date," he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.  

"you can’t make me cry on our first date," you sniffle, voice barely above a whisper.  

"touché," he murmurs.  

and then his lips find yours.  

the kiss is slow, unhurried—like he has all the time in the world. like he wants to take his time. his fingers slide into your hair, holding you close, and when you press against him, you don’t know if you want to smile or cry all over again.  

but you do know one thing.  

there is nowhere else you’d rather be.

rafe pulls away, his lips barely ghosting over yours as he exhales, his nose brushing against your skin like he’s memorizing the feel of you. “let’s sit, yeah?” his voice is low, gentle, and you nod, but not before pressing the softest kiss against his lips. he smiles against your mouth, then steps back, pulling out your chair with an effortless sort of grace. you settle into the seat, placing your flowers carefully beside you, the delicate petals brushing against your arm.  

your arms tighten around yourself as you take in the scene before you—an intimate table set under the open sky, flickering candlelight casting golden hues across the linen, the sound of the waves lapping gently against the boat. it’s beautiful, breathtaking, and it knocks the air right out of your lungs. your throat tightens as tears well up, your voice trembling despite your best effort to steady it. “how did you plan this all in one day?”  

rafe’s brows knit together like the question itself is absurd, and he reaches across the table, his hand warm as it closes over yours. “one day?” he echoes, shaking his head, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “baby, i’ve been planning this for two weeks. three if you count the seven days straight i begged my dad for the boat.” he says it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most natural thing in the world to spend weeks making something perfect just for you.  

your breath stutters as you swipe at your damp cheeks with the back of your hand, overwhelmed. “t-this is…” the words get caught in your throat, and rafe watches you, his face soft with affection but laced with the slightest bit of concern.  

“baby.” he moves before you can blink, dropping to his knees beside your chair, his hands resting on your thighs as he looks up at you, all blue eyes and steady presence. “if i knew this would make you cry this much, i would’ve just taken you to mcdonald’s.” his lips twitch into a teasing grin, and the laugh that bubbles out of you is watery but real. you lean forward until your forehead touches his, exhaling shakily.  

“no, n-no, it’s perfect… i j-just…” you try to gather yourself, grounding yourself in the way his hands hold you like you’re something precious, something he never wants to let go of. you breathe deeply, eyes flickering between his. “i think i’ve been telling myself for so long that i didn’t want this—the romance, the grand gestures, all of it. convinced myself i didn’t need it, because it’s easier to not be disappointed by something when you’ve made yourself believe you never even wanted it in the first place. but now…” you swallow hard, your fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. “this whole date, this entire day… it’s been incredible. and i can’t believe i let myself miss out on you for almost two decades.”  

rafe’s gaze flickers with something unreadable, something deep. he cups your face, tilting it ever so slightly. “i’m here now,” he murmurs, the words like a vow. “and i’m not going anywhere for at least another couple of decades.”  

he pulls you into his arms before you can respond, guiding you against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. his fingers thread into your hair, grounding, soothing. “i’m sorry i’m such a mess,” you mumble into the warmth of his skin.  

“you’re my mess,” he murmurs, lips pressing softly against your temple.

it takes five tissues and a few deep breaths before you’re composed enough to properly sit down and eat. you lift the cloche, and immediately, the rich steam curls into the cool evening air. the scent hits you next—warm, savory, mouthwatering, like something fresh out of a five-star kitchen. your eyes sweep over the dish, taking in the careful presentation, the attention to detail. “this looks delicious…” your voice is tinged with awe as you glance up at him, suspicious. “who made this?” a part of you half-expects a chef to step out from behind the mast.  

rafe leans back in his chair, smirking. “i did.”  

you arch a brow. “no, you didn’t. you were with me all day.”  

his grin deepens as he watches your skepticism unfold. “where do you think i went after i left your house this morning?”  

you narrow your eyes, still not convinced. and he just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you’d doubt him.

"i should probably explain how i planned all of this," he says, voice smooth, almost sheepish, like he's letting you in on some grand secret. you nod, twirling your fork into the soft, buttery pasta on your plate, waiting for him to continue.

"this boat is my family's, but really, it's my dad's. no one touches it without his permission, and he’s very… very particular about it." rafe exhales a small laugh, shaking his head as if recalling some past scolding. "but i wanted to do dinner here. thought it’d be more fun, more private. so i asked him—begged him, really—promised i wouldn't break anything, or at least, i'd try not to." his lips curve into a smirk before he leans in slightly, his voice dropping as if this is the part that matters most. "and finally, when i told him i really wanted to impress you… he said yes." he watches your face, gauging your reaction. "i think he likes you, which is a first."

your heart lightens, the weight of uncertainty easing just a little. his father likes you? you hadn’t been sure.

"really? he seemed a little…" you hesitate, searching for the right word.

"frigid?" rafe supplies, already nodding like he knew that’s what you were going to say. "yeah, he’s cold. has a hard time showing affection, all that shit. but he’s a good dad. we have our ups and downs, but he loves us, wants the best for us—most of the time." there's something almost distant in the way he says it, like he's repeating a fact rather than feeling it, but you don't press.

he exhales, shaking off the moment. "anyway, the plan was always dinner. but then, after i picked you up from the elderly home two weeks ago, we went to the beach, and you said you wanted to start having more fun." he glances at you, eyes twinkling under the warm glow of the string lights. "so i started thinking—what’s fun? i mean, dinner’s great, dinner and a movie is great, especially with you, but i wanted something more. i thought about a roller rink, ice skating, maybe an aquarium or the zoo. but the fair just felt… right. versatile, fun, a little chaotic."

you smile, warmth settling in your chest. all of those options would have been perfect, because they'd be with him.

"initially, everything that happened yesterday wouldn’t have happened," rafe admits, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his features. you nod, a little sad at the reminder.

"the plan was simple. you’d stay over at mine, we’d be lazy, stay in bed till noon. my parents and wheeze were coming back at two, so i figured i’d leave you with her for a couple hours. topper’s dad owns the yacht club right by the dock, so topper set it up so we could use their kitchen. i was gonna cook, come back, pick you up, take you to the fair, and text topper when we were close so he could go back, heat up the food, plate it here, and leave." rafe shakes his head, smiling at how much effort it had taken. "same plan, really, except we were at your house instead of mine. i cooked, picked you up, took you to the fair, texted topper fifteen minutes ago, he came, reheated everything, plated it, and left."

you stare at him, stunned. "jesus… that’s…" you start, grinning as you shake your head in disbelief.

rafe laughs, running a hand through his hair before picking up his fork. "yeah. and i hope you like it, because this is literally the only meal i can make."

you chew, smiling against your bite. "you know, you could’ve saved yourself a lot of time if you just ordered the food."

he shrugs, like the thought had never even crossed his mind. "i wanted to cook for you."

your heart stutters, just a little. "well, it’s really good," you admit, nudging his foot lightly under the table. "even if it’s the only meal you can make."

he grins. "better than nothing."

it took nearly two hours to finish eating, though neither of you minded. conversation flowed so easily, conversation leading to laughter, to teasing, to the occasional soft gaze that lingered just a little too long. the food sat half-forgotten between you, growing cold while you got lost in each other. the whole evening made you forget—truly forget—every dark cloud that had loomed over you in the past months. none of it mattered here. none of it existed. all that was real was this moment, the warmth of rafe's presence, the way he looked at you like nothing else in the world held his attention.  

after the last bite, rafe took the wheel, guiding the boat a little further out into the open water. not too far—just enough so the shore looked like something out of a dream, the golden glow of restaurant lights stretching across the waves, bars and shops humming with distant life. you curled up together on the bow, your head rising and falling with his steady breath, his arms wrapped securely around you. the throw blanket, already there like it had been waiting for this moment, draped over both of you. when you tilt your head up, you find his eyes already on you, like he had been watching you all along.  

"thank you for this," you whisper, voice barely louder than the gentle slosh of water against the boat. "this has been the most fun night." your eyes glisten in the soft light, emotions swelling in a way that makes your heart ache in the best way.  

"you don’t need to thank me," he murmurs, brushing his lips over yours, a fleeting, teasing touch. "i did it with pleasure. you’re my favorite person to be around, baby."  

your smile is small, but it holds so much, and you find his lips again, kissing him once, then again, and again, unable to stop yourself. "still gonna thank you," you breathe, nuzzling into him. "i would've been happy with just a mcdonald’s date, but you went the extra… extra mile. you didn’t have to do that."  

rafe scoffs, his face twisting in a way that tells you he hates the mere thought. "you’re too good for a mcdonald’s date," he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. his lips trail down your jaw, slow and deliberate. "you’ve gotta know your worth…" the words are a murmur against your skin, his mouth lingering along your jawline, up to your ear. his teeth catch your earlobe gently, the softest bite, and your fingers dig into his bicep instinctively.  

"please…" the word leaves you in a breath, but the way it sounds—soft, needy—makes rafe tense for a beat.  

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. you’re so close your noses brush, sharing the same air. he’s asking you something without speaking, his gaze searching yours. you nod, slow and certain, and then his lips are on yours, the kiss stealing the breath from your lungs as he eases you down onto the soft cushions beneath you.  

the kiss is dizzying, has your mind floating, thoughts scattering like grains of sand in the wind. rafe kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like tasting you is the only thing that makes sense. his hands are impossibly warm, feverish against your skin, and soon he’s caging you beneath him, pressing closer, deeper. his lips leave yours only to travel down your neck, and your breath stutters, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.  

"rafe…" his name is barely a whisper, a plea, as your hands tug at the fabric of his shirt. you need him closer.  

he doesn’t make you wait. his shirt is off in a second, discarded somewhere in the dark, and his hands skim the hem of your top, fingers toying with the fabric before he pauses. his gaze finds yours again, softer this time. "you’re sure?" he asks, voice quiet, careful.  

you nod, your hands sliding into his hair as you pull him in, kissing him slowly, deeply. "i’m sure," you murmur against his lips.  

he pulls your top over your head, tosses it aside like nothing else matters but this. his mouth is on your skin immediately, mapping you out with slow, careful devotion, like he has all the time in the world. he kisses down your neck, lingers there, like he wants to memorize the way you shudder beneath him. his lips trail lower, between your breasts, his tongue and teeth leaving red marks behind—deep, burning reminders that you’ll feel long after the night is over.

"god, you're so fucking beautiful," rafe groans as he unhooks your bra with a precision that should be concerning—but the thought barely forms before his mouth is on you, his lips wrapping around your nipple, and suddenly, you can’t think at all.

your breath catches in your throat, a soft, shuddering gasp spilling from your lips as heat shoots straight through you. your fingers tangle in his hair, instinct taking over as you pull him closer, urging him on. "oh… oh—" the sound escapes you in a breathless whimper, pleasure twisting sharp and sweet through your body. your free hand fists the throw blanket beside you, lips parting as your head tips back into the pillow. the sensation is overwhelming, toeing the line between pleasure and something almost too intense, too much—but you don’t want him to stop.

rafe switches between your nipples, sucking and teasing until they’re left swollen, aching, but before you can even process the sensation, he’s moving lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. the warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you, but your mind stays hazy, pliant, following wherever he leads.  

two firm taps against your thigh. "up," he murmurs, and without thinking, you obey, lifting your hips like it’s second nature. he strips you bare in one swift motion, your skirt and underwear slipping down and away before you can so much as blink. the cool air kisses your exposed skin, but the heat of rafe’s mouth follows a moment later, his lips dragging slow, purposeful kisses from your lower stomach downward, inching closer, closer—  

your breath catches. he pauses. his gaze flickers up to meet yours, something dark and unreadable swimming in his eyes. "tell me you want it."  

at first, the words sound like nothing more than a demand, thick with lust. but when you really look at him—when you see the way he holds himself there, waiting—you realize he’s asking for more than just permission. he’s asking for certainty.  

"i want it," you whisper, the plea slipping out without hesitation, breathy and soft. "please…"  

something shifts in his expression, something unreadable yet electric, and then he’s gone—no, not gone—he’s there, right there, between your legs, his mouth stealing the very breath from your lungs.

the moment rafe’s tongue drags through your folds, pleasure slams into you so hard your mind blanks. your hands fly to your mouth, muffling the moan that tries to rip free, but it does nothing to quiet the way your body trembles beneath him. his grip tightens on your thigh, firm and unyielding, holding you in place as his tongue plunges deeper, tasting you, savoring you like a starving man.

everything else fades—thoughts, time, reality—until the only thing left is sensation. his mouth. his tongue. the slow, torturous way he builds you up, pushing you higher, higher, until you’re on the verge of tears.

"rafe… rafee…!" his name tumbles from your lips in a soft, breathless cry, your hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, desperate for more, for anything, for everything. your back arches, fingers tangling in his hair, clutching tight like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.  

he doesn’t stop. not as your body trembles, not as pleasure coils tighter, hotter, unbearable. not as tears burn the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. he keeps going, tongue lapping and lacking along your sweet cunt, dragging you to the very edge of bliss until you’re trembling, right there, ready to break—  

and then he pulls away.  

"no… no, no—" the whimper leaves you before you can stop it, pure desperation twisting in your chest as your hands fumble down between your thighs, chasing the release he so cruelly denied. but before you can touch yourself, rafe tsks, catching your wrists with ease.  

"uh-uh," he murmurs, his voice thick with something dark and dangerous. still gripping your wrists, he rises to his knees, unbuckling his pants with deliberate slowness. the hunger in his eyes makes your breath stutter.

his bulge alone leaves little to the imagination, but when he finally pushes his pants down, your lips part slightly, breath hitching as you take him in.

you'd seen him before—felt him before, had his cock in your mouth, remembered how he'd stuffed your mouth, memorized the way he stretched your throat—but somehow, the reality of it fitting inside you hadn’t fully processed until now.  

your pulse quickens. there’s no way. no way in hell—  

but rafe is already leaning down, tilting your chin so your gaze locks with his and only his. his eyes are molten in the dim light, steady and unshakable as he brushes his lips over yours, a whisper of warmth. "trust me, yeah?" his voice is low, rough, but so, so gentle. "just gotta trust me… i’ll make you feel good, i promise." it's hard not to believe him.

your stomach flips, nerves twisting with something softer, something deeper. slowly, you nod, and rafe rewards you with a lingering kiss—soft, patient, meant to soothe.

as his lips trail down your jaw, your arms instinctively loop around his neck, pulling him closer. he keeps you distracted, kissing you deeply, pulling you under his spell as his hands guide your thighs apart.  

your breath stutters when you feel him there—thick and hot, his tip gliding through your slick folds, teasing, testing. your body tenses. "r-rafe…" you stammer, voice unsteady, eyes flying open to meet his.  

he’s already watching you.  

"you’re okay," he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss against your lips, his thumb stroking your hip. "you’re alright."  

then he’s pushing in, forcing your cunt to expand and take all of him and your eyes fill with tears.

your walls stretches around him, foreign and overwhelming, a gasp breaking free as you clutch at his hair, fingers curling tight. the stretch is slow, unrelenting, inch by inch as he sinks deeper, forcing you to take him, molding you to fit him.  

"breathe," he urges, his voice firm but soothing, and only then do you realize you’ve been holding your breath. you exhale shakily, thighs trembling around his hips.  

"fuck," rafe rasps, his forehead nearly touching yours, breath warm against your lips as he sinks into you, slow but deep, stretching you, filling you completely. the moment he starts to move, sliding in and out of your slick, trembling heat, a shudder wracks through you, pleasure blooming so intensely it steals the breath from your lungs.  

your nails dig into his shoulders, your body clinging to his instinctively, overwhelmed by the sheer depth of sensation. "oh god—rafe, god—" his name spills from your lips in a broken sob, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, not from anything but the unbearable bliss of having him like this, of being his.  

you wrap your leg around his waist, and his body answers before his mind does, his hips rolling forward, pushing deeper, pressing impossibly close. a guttural groan rips from his throat, his hands gripping your hips like he never wants to let go. "fuck, baby," he groans, voice thick and ragged, "you feel so fucking good…"  

he thrusts into you again, and again, and again, each movement more intense than the last, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else, as if you weren’t already his.

rafe’s fingers dig into your hips, gripping so tight you think you’ll wear his bruises for days, a mark of this moment, of him. his thrusts are relentless, slamming into you, pushing you higher, higher, until the pleasure is so consuming it’s nearly unbearable. the ocean roars around you, but it’s nothing compared to the symphony of moans and breathless cries spilling from your lips, to the desperate slap of skin against skin as he takes you apart piece by piece.  

he looks wrecked—utterly, beautifully ruined—his jaw clenched, eyes dark and hazy, drowning in lust, in you. "fucking christ," he grits out, voice wrecked, nearly a growl, his head tipping back as your walls flutter around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go.  

you can’t think, can’t form a single coherent thought beyond the white-hot pleasure slamming into your every nerve. he fucks you senseless, over and over, hitting that devastating spot inside you again and again until you’re sobbing, whimpering, utterly wrecked beneath him.  

"rafe… m’gonna— i can’t— n-need—" you babble, voice breaking, tears slipping down your cheeks as the pleasure coils tighter, unbearable, uncontrollable.  

"hold it," he pants, forehead brushing against yours, his own restraint fraying, his body trembling with the effort. you want to obey, want to listen, but you can’t—god, you can’t. "please… please!" your voice is nearly unrecognizable, high and desperate, trembling as he shifts, lifting your thigh higher, forcing himself even deeper.  

"just a little longer, babygirl," he rasps, mouth trailing over your parted lips, kissing you like he’s savoring your surrender. but you can’t kiss him back—you can’t do anything but take it, take him, take every last ounce of pleasure he gives you.  

"i c-can’t… can’t—!" your body is wrecked, overstimulated, pushed past the point of reason as he pounds into your already trembling, sore cunt.  

"that’s it," he groans, voice tight, desperate. "so fucking good, baby… doing so good for me." his rhythm falters, thrusts growing sloppy, more frantic, his control unraveling as he chases his own high.  

"cum, baby."  

his words crash over you like a tidal wave, and before you can even process it, you’re breaking—shattering—pleasure detonating through you so violently your vision goes white. your entire body trembles, clenches, your mind floating into oblivion as you come harder than you ever have, tears slipping from your lashes, lips parting in a silent scream.  

your heart is racing, hammering so wildly you think it might just burst right out of your chest.

rafe eases out of you carefully, and you wince at the overwhelming sensitivity, your body thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. his hands are on you instantly, soothing, tracing gentle circles along your waist as he watches you with quiet concern. "you good?" he murmurs, voice low, intimate, like it’s just the two of you in the whole world.  

even as exhaustion settles deep in your bones, as every muscle in your body hums with the ache of what you’ve just done, you nod. "that was…" you trail off, searching for the right words.

rafe’s lips twitch, but he stays quiet, waiting, his blue eyes filled with something unreadable. then, playfully, he tilts his head. "good..? bad..? overwhelming..? underwhelming..?" he teases, voice soft, coaxing, and that boyish grin—the one that always gets you—spreads across his face. even like this, damp skin glowing under the moonlight, hair a wild mess, he looks devastatingly beautiful.  

you smile, stretching out the anticipation before answering. "really, really, really…" you pause just to see him raise a brow at you. "good. like, seriously, mind-numbingly good."  

rafe chuckles, the sound warm and low, and he leans in to press the gentlest kiss to your lips. "yeah," he whispers against your mouth. "you did give me that impression."  

you laugh, giving his chest a weak shove, and he just grins, sinking down beside you with a deep, satisfied sigh. his arm curls around your waist, and instinctively, you tuck yourself against him, head resting over his heart, listening to its steady, soothing beat.  

a few beats of silence pass before he breaks it, voice amused. "you know there’s a bedroom down there, right?"  

your head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "rafe. are you serious?" disbelief laces your voice as you gesture to the makeshift bed and the throw blanket tangled around your legs. "we had sex here when there was a perfectly comfortable bed waiting right below us?"  

he’s already laughing, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders as he tugs you even closer. "but now you can say you’ve had sex under the stars," he offers with a smirk, like it’s the best selling point in the world.  

you roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, curling into a smile as you settle against him again. "yeah, that’s really something i’m gonna go brag about," you say dryly, and rafe chuckles, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.  

your heart swells, impossibly full, and when you lift your head, his lips graze yours, the touch so light it’s barely there. then, in the quiet, in the peace of the night, he whispers, "i love you…"  

you kiss his nose, his cheek, then his lips, slow and tender. "i love you too."

a.n —  they finally did it. YAY. i hope this was up to everyone's standards. more coming soon. leave a comment cause i rlly love to chit chat with y'all!

chapter index — next. chap

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let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist & interact with post to remain tagged <3

[fairestwriting]

Hello 👋 could I please request headcanons for leona's fem s/o defending him everytime one of the other characters start making backhanded comments to his face (if you've seen some of the vignettes you'll know what I mean) she doesn't reveal things like he's depressed or anything (tho he is) she just tells them it's shitty of them calling him lazy/selfish constantly without even knowing him personally

[Everyone treats leona like crap and I take personal offense to it >:( ]

You know i make fun of him on a regular basis. but theres a line thats gotta be drawn when it comes to leona bullying. cause damn this guy needs a real Break he cant even have issues in peace

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

Before you got closer to him, there’s a fair chance the comments didn’t even stand out to you at all. It always felt a little unfair, yes, but not in a way that was particularly shocking, they were all just rude comments like any other. Back when you weren’t quite friends yet, and maybe even at the start of your friendship, you might have interjected with a simple ”hey, he’s not that bad” or "you don’t need to be rude about it”. It was just a gesture of basic politeness then, something the people around you seemed to lack.

But obviously, your perception of those interactions, and the way you see Leona’s situation itself, soon went through a rather radical change. Possibly even before you two started dating, or even before he “told you too much” — His own words, mumbled dismissively but bitterly, the day he came back after spending a weekend with his family and then proceeded to complain for a little longer than usual — As he warmed up to you, you started to notice things about him more. You started to see the spark of actual passion he has in his eyes during his club activities, the level of detail he gets into when analyzing things, the precise way he moved his chess pieces when you two played...

Above all, though, you started to notice how he often looked actually tired when he took part in any of the “slacking” he’s so infamous for. Learning the littlest bit more about his family life just worked as the final piece of the puzzle you’d been putting together without even noticing — And then, other people’s “rudeness” started to sound like something much more cruel. It didn’t help that he never seemed to react to it whenever he overheard others gossiping, or whenever you told him about the things you heard. “Why doesn’t he care?” The thought would echo in your mind for ages, trying to understand him through the tiny slivers of vulnerability he didn’t mean to show.

Now, as his girlfriend, you feel you just can’t let people say whatever they want, and you feel it more strongly than you ever have. ”Why don’t you mind your own business instead of talking about someone you don’t really know?” You snap back on instinct when one of your classmates, who was in Savanaclaw, comments on how lazy their dorm leader is. Their mouth closes instantly, regardless if you’ve made your relationship public or not — You realize that, on top of all the negative treatment Leona got, it was also extremely rare for others to defend him in any way at all. Enough that even a response that simple elicits shock from others.

”You know, it’s crazy to see you hanging out with Leona like that. I never thought I'd see anyone get so excited to spend time with him.” You hear some other day, while spending time in Savanaclaw’s common area, sat right next to Leona, and it just makes your blood boil. He’s just half-glaring at your particularly cocky acquaintance, sighing like he’s heard it a million times before, which you know he probably has. ”Hey, make sure you don’t get too influenced, we don’t need another person who just sleeps all day—”

”Yeah, you’re right. This type of person can be such a pain. I’m so glad I don’t know anyone who’s, you know, actually like that.” You say through grit teeth, just barely holding back aggression, and in the corner of your vision, the subtle flash of surprise in Leona’s face only encourages you to continue. ”Imagine if like, the Magift team had this sort of player in it… the club would be done for.”

They stare at you with wide eyes, having very much picked up on the aggression. The entire room is silent, you refuse to break eye contact, arms firmly crossed. ”Well, I mean…” The student stammers, but then, Leona himself speaks up for once. ”Did you not get her message? You need me to tell you to shut up instead?” He snaps, and they frantically shake their head, eyes fixed on the ground. You feel pride swelling in your chest, almost unable to hold back your smile.

”You know, Herbivore, if I needed a bodyguard I’d already have one.” He tells you later, in that same day. His tone has that snarky edge that feels like his default, but it’s much less pronounced than usual. You can even see a sort of softness in his eyes while he tries to play it cool. But needing and deserving are two different things, you think. As interactions like these repeat, with you defending him every time, you hope your message fully gets through to him, one day.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

FEAR OF WATER

rafe cameron x fem!reader

SUMMARY: after an abusive past, y/n struggles with toxic communication in her relationship with rafe. when fear pushes her away, love teaches her to stay.

based on this ask !! this was a really angsty and emotional one to write and i LOVED it anon, so thank you, and apologies it’s taken a while <3

(check out my other rafe cameron & drew starkey works here !!)

WARNINGS: angst w/ a comforting ending, slightly toxic!reader (unintentional), emotional abuse (by readers ex), trauma responses, arguing, crying, cursing, soft!rafe, fear of letting people in, flinching, detailed descriptions of emotional abuse & manipulation. (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

THIRD PERSON +

The slam of the front door rattled the picture frames on the walls, the weight of Y/N’s footsteps heavy against the wooden floor as she stormed into the kitchen. Her hands were shaking—she hated that they always did when she was this upset. It made her feel weak, even when the anger inside her burned so hot she thought it might consume her entirely.

Rafe followed behind, slower, guarded. He had that look in his eyes again—the one that made her stomach twist with guilt before she could even process why. The look of someone who was tired, not from the fight itself, but from the exhaustion of never knowing how the next argument would go.

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this,” she spat, her voice sharper than she intended. “You know exactly what you did.”

Rafe exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Y/N, I don’t—what did I do? Just tell me.”

His calmness made her angrier. It made her feel unheard, like he wasn’t taking this seriously. Her brain was wired to expect resistance, to expect gaslighting, to prepare for the fight that had always followed in her past relationship.

“You said you’d call, and you didn’t. You do this all the time, Rafe. You make promises, and then you break them, like it doesn’t even matter.”

“That’s not fair,” he said carefully. “I got caught up at work. I should’ve called, I’m sorry, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, right. There’s always an excuse.”

He frowned, stepping closer, but she took a step back, arms folding over her chest like she was shielding herself from an attack that wasn’t coming. He sighed, something pained flickering across his face.

“Do you hear how you’re talking to me right now?” His voice was quiet, not angry, not defensive—just… tired.

And that was when it hit her.

She wasn’t even really arguing with him. Not Rafe. Not the boy who held her when she had nightmares, who traced circles on her back when she was overwhelmed, who had never once raised his voice at her even when she threw words like daggers. She was arguing with the ghost of the man who had hurt her before, who had made her feel like she had to fight to be heard, to be understood.

Her chest tightened, shame creeping up her spine.

She was training him.

She was teaching Rafe—patient, loving Rafe—that no matter how hard he tried, it would never be good enough for her. That he’d always be walking on eggshells, waiting for the next time he slipped up and she lashed out.

She was turning him into someone who feared her.

The realisation knocked the air from her lungs, and before she could stop herself, her feet were already moving, carrying her toward the door.

“Y/N, wait,” Rafe called, but she couldn’t—she couldn’t.

If she let him say something kind, if she let him look at her with that soft, exhausted sadness in his eyes, she’d break down right in front of him.

She barely registered getting into her car, barely noticed the shaking of her hands as she fumbled with the keys.

And then she was driving.

Her vision blurred with tears, and she blinked them away furiously, but they just kept coming, spilling down her cheeks in hot, silent streams.

She had pushed him too far this time.

She knew it—knew, in the deepest part of her heart, that there was only so much someone could take.

She wanted to be better. She needed to be better. But how could she, when she didn’t even know what that looked like? When she had spent so long being told that love was a battlefield, that the only way to be heard was to yell louder, fight harder?

She should’ve let Rafe in. She should’ve told him why she reacted the way she did, why she felt like she had to accuse before she could be accused, hurt before she could be hurt.

But it was too late.

She had to leave before he could do it to her.

Because that’s what she had been taught—that love never stayed, that sooner or later, they always left.

And she’d rather be the one walking away than the one being abandoned.

The thought shattered something inside her, and for the first time in a long time, she let herself sob.

—

Rafe had never felt this kind of exhaustion before.

It wasn’t the kind that came after a long day working in the heat or the kind that settled in his bones after a sleepless night. No, this was different. It was the weight of not knowing—the crushing uncertainty of whether or not he had just lost the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He hadn’t stopped calling since the moment Y/N ran out of his house. The first few went straight to voicemail. Then, after what felt like an eternity, a text finally came through.

I’m safe. I just need some space.

The relief had been instant—so strong that his knees nearly buckled. But it didn’t last long. Because the truth was, she might be safe, but she wasn’t okay.

And the worst part? He didn’t know how to fix it.

Rafe sat on the edge of his bed, phone still clutched in his hands, staring at the screen like it might give him the answers he needed. But there were no answers—just the hollow ache in his chest and the endless loop of their fight playing over and over again in his head.

It wasn’t the argument itself that unsettled him. Couples fought—it was normal. He and Y/N had had disagreements before, sure, but never like this.

The way she’d looked at him tonight wasn’t how someone looked at the person they loved. It was how someone looked at a threat.

And that… that was what haunted him the most.

Rafe never wanted to be something Y/N had to defend herself against.

His thoughts raced, trying to piece together why she had reacted the way she did. It wasn’t like he’d done anything that bad—he’d forgotten to call. That was all. It wasn’t like he lied, or cheated, or intentionally hurt her. And yet, the second he tried to explain, she had shut down, turned on him, twisted it into something it wasn’t.

It was almost like… she expected him to hurt her.

The realisation hit him hard.

Y/N had mentioned her ex before, offhandedly. Just a couple of times. She never said much, just that he was shitty, that he messed her up.

But this… this was more than just the baggage of a bad breakup. This was damage.

And if there was anyone who might have more answers, it was Sarah.

—

Sarah wasn’t surprised when she opened the door to find Rafe standing there, disheveled and tense, like he’d been pacing for hours.

She sighed, leaning against the frame. “I figured you’d show up eventually.”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Did she tell you?”

Sarah nodded her head. “She sent me a short text. It was reallt vague, but I gathered it wasn’t good.”

Rafe swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I just… I don’t understand. She got so defensive. It was like—like she thought I was trying to hurt her. And when I tried to calm things down, it just made her angrier.”

Sarah’s expression softened. “Rafe…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “You know her last relationship wasn’t good, right?”

“She said it was shitty, but—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise how bad.”

Sarah sighed, crossing her arms. “Her ex was emotionally abusive. Manipulative. The kind of guy who’d twist things until she thought she was the problem. He made her question everything. Gaslit her, isolated her. It took her forever to get out.”

Rafe’s stomach twisted.

Y/N had never told him any of that.

Sarah continued, her voice quieter now. “She’s not like this because she wants to be, Rafe. It’s a trauma response. She learned to survive by being defensive. By fighting back first before she could be blamed. And now, even when she’s with someone who actually loves her, it’s hard to unlearn that.”

Rafe nodded slowly, his jaw tight. He could see it now, see how it all fit together.

How the moment something felt like it could go wrong, Y/N would push him away. How she always needed control over the situation, how she sometimes twisted his words—not because she wanted to hurt him, but because that’s how she had survived before.

She wasn’t fighting him. She was fighting the past.

Sarah sighed. “I don’t want to say more—it’s not my story to tell. But if you really care about her, you’ll be patient. She needs to learn how to trust that you’re not him.”

Rafe nodded, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I do care,” he muttered. “More than I probably should.”

Sarah gave him a small, sad smile. “Then don’t give up on her yet.”

—

Rafe sat in his truck, staring at the dark road ahead, his mind still reeling from everything Sarah had told him.

It all made sense now.

It wasn’t that Y/N didn’t love him. It wasn’t even that she wanted to hurt him. It was that she didn’t know any different.

And that broke his fucking heart.

He thought about the way she looked at him when they weren’t fighting—when she was curled up in his arms, or when she laughed at something stupid he said, or when she kissed him like he was the only thing keeping her steady.

That was her.

Not the girl who lashed out. Not the girl who pushed and twisted things in an attempt to stay in control.

He couldn’t let this be the thing that ended them.

Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that Y/N deserved to be loved the right way. She deserved someone who wouldn’t run just because loving her required patience.

She deserved someone who would stay.

And if that meant showing up even when she didn’t know how to ask him to—if that meant proving to her that he wasn’t like the man who hurt her—then he’d do it.

He threw the truck into drive, determination settling in his chest.

He needed to see her.

He needed to talk to her.

So Rafe headed towards his place to grab his phone before heading to Y/N’s to fix things.

He had barely stepped into his house when the knock echoed through the quiet space.

He frowned, glancing toward the door. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, and after the night he’d had, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for surprises. But when he pulled it open, his breath caught in his throat.

Y/N stood there, her frame swallowed by an oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands as she twisted the fabric between trembling fingers. Her eyes—blood-shot and swollen from crying—met his with a hesitance that made his chest ache.

She looked afraid.

Not of him.

But of what came next.

“Y/N—”

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was hoarse, like she’d been crying for hours. Maybe she had. The weight of everything unsaid hung between them, thick and suffocating. Rafe wanted to say something, anything, but she beat him to it.

And when she spoke, the words tumbled out in a frantic, shaky rush.

“I—God, I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, sniffing as she swiped a sleeve under her nose. “I just—I need to say this before I lose my nerve.”

Rafe nodded slowly, heart pounding. “Okay.”

She took a deep breath, and then, like a dam breaking, everything spilled out.

“My ex—he wasn’t just shitty, Rafe. He was toxic. He—he manipulated me, controlled me, made me think I was losing my mind. Every time we fought, he’d twist my words until I couldn’t even tell what was real anymore. And when I got upset, that became the problem. I was the problem. He convinced me I was crazy. That I was too much, too sensitive, too difficult to love.”

Her voice cracked, and Rafe’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He had felt it before—the anger, the quiet rage that settled deep in his bones whenever he thought about the way Y/N’s past had left its mark on her. But now, hearing her say it aloud, it burned white-hot in his veins.

“I spent so much time walking on eggshells, just waiting for the next thing he’d use against me,” she continued, voice thick with emotion. “So eventually, I just… I learned to fight back first. Before he could get the upper hand. Before he could make me feel small again.”

Rafe swallowed hard, feeling something inside him break at the way she spoke—like she still carried the weight of it all, like she still believed she was the problem.

“Y/N,” he started, but she shook her head.

“I need to finish,” she whispered. “Please.”

He nodded, his throat tight.

She exhaled shakily. “I didn’t mean to treat you like him. I swear I didn’t. But I don’t know how else to be. Every time we fight, I feel like I have to defend myself before you can hurt me. But you never do. You’re nothing like him, Rafe. You’ve never made me feel small, never made me question myself. You’re the only person I’m actually terrified of losing, so tonight—” Her voice wavered. “Tonight, I left before you could.”

Rafe felt his heart shatter.

She had run because she thought he’d leave her. That he’d get tired of her, of the way she struggled to let go of the past.

She didn’t realise he never would.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she barely seemed to notice, too lost in her own confession.

“I don’t want to be like this,” she whispered, voice raw with desperation. “I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want to hurt you just because I don’t know what healthy love is supposed to look like.”

“Y/N…” Rafe’s voice broke, and suddenly, he was moving—closing the space between them, cupping her face in his hands with a gentleness that made her shudder.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, she just leaned into his touch, like she was memorising the feeling of him still being there.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry, Rafe. I know I’ve been difficult, I know I’ve been hard to love, but please—please don’t go anywhere.”

He felt his own tears spill over at that—at the sheer, heartbreaking fear in her voice.

She thought he was going to leave.

She truly believed that he’d wake up one day and decide she wasn’t worth it.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might slip away again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Ever.”

Her breath hitched, and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, like she was trying to anchor herself to him.

“I promise,” he continued, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “You are not too much. You are not difficult to love. I don’t care how long it takes for you to believe that, I’m not going anywhere.”

A sob wracked through her body, but this time, it wasn’t just pain—it was relief.

And then, in the quietest voice, she whispered, “I’ll get help.”

Rafe pulled back slightly, searching her eyes.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I want to get better. I want to be better. For us.”

She let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with a mixture of fear and determination.

“Now I’m not afraid of the water,” she whispered. “I’ll dive right in. And I can be brave, so I’m gonna give it a try.” Her lip trembled. “Because I know you’ll be on the other side.”

Rafe’s heart clenched.

Because for the first time since she had come into his life, Y/N wasn’t running.

She was staying.

And so was he.

Rafe cradled her face, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, his own tears still slipping down his cheeks.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “I’ll always be right here.”

She exhaled shakily, nodding as she let herself fall into his embrace, arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

And as they stood there, wrapped up in each other, Rafe knew—this was what love was supposed to be.

Messy. Imperfect. But real.

And this time, neither of them were afraid of stepping into unknown waters.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

thank you so much for this request anon, i love me some angst !! pls keep requesting everyone, i am working my way through them and i have like four in my drafts rn to be edited so stay tuned !!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[dehlizalah]

Phantom Touch

namgyu x f!reader

𖦹 tags: Slow burn, angst, heavy teasing, toxic relationship (ish), fwb,drugs, alcohol, situationship, descriptions of sexual activity but not really smut (yet)

𖦹 Word count: 4113

𖦹 Part three of Phantom Touch | Part one Part two

Namgyu becoming a little more softer in this one :)) We would cheer !!

You told yourself you were just being paranoid, that Namgyu was probably so shitfaced that he wouldn’t have even been able to distinguish your face. You leaned into the stranger, letting him kiss your cold body. You clench your jaw, trying to snap out of it. Your hands ache. A slow pulsing burn that itches far deep into your bones, something inside of you that is crawling to get out.

It’s the kind of pain that isn’t physical—not really. It’s something else, something worse. A muscle memory of a touch you shouldn’t miss. A phantom sensation of hands that aren’t there but might as well be.

You continued to entertain the man, until you felt a vibration in your bag, which was perched next to you. “One second,” you said abruptly as the man crawled off of you. You unsteadily reach from your bag to your phone, the warmth of the strangers touch still lingering. The vibration lasted about two beeps. Sliding your phone out, your eyes flickered through the screen.

2 New Messages

You knew who it was going to be. The thought of it makes your stomach churn. For a slight moment, you hesitated to even unlock your phone, your heart clenching strongly. You opened it, pleading that it wasn’t him.

You read the message and your heart stopped.

Namgyu: ‘Didn’t expect to see you here. lol’

Namgyu: ‘You good?’

That was it? Namgyu was normally a dry texter but this.. This felt like a taunt. A tease almost. No mention of what you were doing, no possessive digs as he used to, no sly remarks about the handprints the stranger left on your thighs.

lol. The single, meaningless addition made your stomach do cartwheels. He was trying to keep it light, acting like it was some coincidence. He acted as if you both had just randomly met in the streets, glancing at each other. No, he saw you do the things that he once did with you, with a man you had never even met before.

There was no changing the fact that you let a stranger touch you all over, that wasn’t even remotely the worst part. The worst part was namgyu, who watched every single second of it. He had seen you, the way your body reacted to a stranger roam your body, the way his lips hovered over your skin.

A lump formed in your throat. A mix of emotions flooded your mind. You should be angry, you wanted to be angry. The only emotion that you could seem to focus on was that familiar ache; the one that came from years of yearing and false love.

Your hands started to sweat, coating your body in a thin layer of unease. A clammy heat pulsated through your body, your fingers clenching the screen, unable to move.

The stranger next to you gently touched your thigh “Is everything good? You seem really sketched out right now.”

“Sorry i have to-“ Without finishing your sentence, you grabbed your bag stood up, looking for the bathrooms.

You pushed through the sea of bodies, the lights flickering on beat. The music floods the club, your head throbbing as you try to swim your way out. Your hands were still trembling, gripping onto your bag, like it was the last thing keeping your grounded, two feet on the floor.

You slipped into the bathroom, locking the single toilet, desperately trying to catch your breath. Leaning against the sink, gripping the edges so hard your knuckles become red.

Get a grip.

Seriously, you needed to get your shit together.

Exhaling sharply you looked into the mirror, barely even recognizing the person reflecting from you. Smudged eyeliner, your lips were slightly parted; lipgloss barely even on.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for a paper towel, tapping the towel on your skin. No matter how many deep breaths you took, the tightness in your chest refused to leave. It wasn't just the alcohol-it was him. Always him.

You told yourself you knew better than this.

You knew that namgyu enjoyed this, seeing you get all flustered at the thought of him. He likes the sense of power he gets from it. The possession. He likes having a hold on you.

Your phone buzzed again.

Dread slowly filling you up.

You squeezed you eyes shut for a second before forcing your self to look at your phone, opening the message.

Namgyu: ‘Didn’t take you for a club girl. Well, not anymore, at least. Guess old habits die hard. lol.’

Your jaw tightened. There it was again - that lol. You were convinced that he did on purpose, throwing it in like a careless shrug. To him this was funny, it had little to no significance to him, just like you had no significance to him either.

"Old habits die hard."

What did he think he was? Some all-knowing god, watching from above, smugly amused at your attempts to move on? As if he had you all figured out, like no matter how far you tried to run, you'd always come crawling back.

Like he wasn't the one who started the habit in the first place. Like he wasn’t the one who would beg to smoke together, like he wasn’t the one who took you to the club for the first time.

It was completely and utterly infuriating.

Your fingers violently curved around the phone, fighting the urge to say something sharp, something to hurt him like he hurt you. Something to cut a deep scar in him. But no, this is exactly what you thought he wanted. He wanted you to bite, he wanted you to be the one to crack first, to prove that even after everything that happened, you would always come back.

You really did fight the urge to say something, but your fingers had a mind of their own, the alcohol slurring from your mind to your fingers.

You: ‘Didn’t know you cared. Don’t worry, you don’t have to.’

The moment you sent the text, the read receipt popped up almost instantly. Of course, he saw it right away.

You watched the three dots appear, then disappear, like he almost didn't bother responding at all. Then-

Namgyu: ‘Didn’t say i did.’

So typical. This is exactly what you imagined him to say. Dismissing you with as little effort as humanly possible.

Your fingers twitched over the keyboard, the words practically clawing their way out. Fine.

If he wanted to be a dick, you could match him. After all, leaving him was all about making him feel how you felt, right? to make him suffer; even if it was a small fraction of what you felt.

You: ‘Right. You just text every random girl you've fucked in the middle of the night for fun? Damn, must be exhausting.’

Sent. Delivered. Read.

You hoped this would give you some leverage. You hoped that he would actually think for once, think about his real feelings.

And then-

Namgyu: ‘You think you're special?’

Namgyu: ‘Lmao.’

Namgyu: ‘Hate to break it to you.’

Namgyu: ‘You're not the first.’

Namgyu: ‘You're not the last.’

Namgyu: ‘Don't make this deeper than it is.’

All of the messages came in one rapid burst, leaving him little room to even breathe yet think about what he was saying. It was subtle, and maybe you were reading into it too much, but you knew what this meant: frustration. Frustration. Namgyu acts all erratic when he doesn’t get what he wants. He probably did a line of coke before texting you, hence the reckless behavior.

You let out a soft chuckle, this was funny. He acted like you were nothing to him, just another saved contact on his phone, yet here he was; blurting out the first thing that came to his mind.

Should you even bother responding? Maybe you should have let him drown in his words. This was too much of an opportunity to miss. If he wanted to play the game, why don’t you?

You: ‘Funny. You act like you don't care, but you're the one blowing up my phone.’

You: ‘What's wrong? Not enough coke in the world to make me go away?’

You: ‘Must suck.’

Read.

The silence on your screen sent wavelengths, that was all you needed to know. You had finally got under his skin. You thew away the paper towel that you used to wipe yourself down, and was met with another vibration off your phone again.

Namgyu: Hope he fucks you better than i did. Shouldn’t be hard right? You looked real desperate out there.

For a slight moment, you stood still, his words impairing your vision. A slow feeling of heat crawled up your spine, clamping onto your sides.

He was pissed.

Not in the usual way, where he would act like he didn’t care, dismissing everything you had to say while he rolled his eyes, pushing his long hair back. No, this was different, it had gotten ugly really quickly.

That’s what he saw out there? He saw you as desperate?

Your fingers curled around your phone so tight your knuckles ached. It would be easy to snap back, to give him what he wanted — anger, frustration, proof that he still had a hold on you.

But no. Not this time.

You: ‘You can see from those VIP rooms, can’t you?’

You: ‘Must be nice having such a perfect view, should i send you a video?’

Read.

You unlock the bathroom, strutting into the club. You came out a different person than before. The girl that looked in the mirror, crying, gasping for air was no longer seen. Without further hesitation, you walk up to the bar, and order two shots. Anything strong.

While waiting for the shots, your phone buzzed in your bag once again. Damn.. how much of your time does he need?

Curiously, you check the notification and just as you expected, it was namgyu.

Namgyu: ‘So this is what you do when i’m not around?’

Namgyu: ‘Didn’t know you were that desperate.’

A slight chuckle came out from your mouth. Not around? How contradicting. You knew he was watching from those vip areas, it was inevitable. You hoped he saw you laugh, you hoped it stung. You swiped away from the text, deliberately ignoring it and put your phone back in your bag. Sliding off the chair, you took the two shots and started to look around.

You gaze your eyes up to the vip rooms before looking back into the corner you were sat at, the stranger still surprisingly still there. His eyes flick over to you; laced with curiosity. Kneeling down to the table, you slide the shot his way and smiled brightly.

“Consider this… an apology.” you say softly, trying to get on the man’s good side. “For leaving you hanging” You continued.

He laughed taking the shot and signaling you to clink glasses. “Cheers!” You both say laughingly.

Whilst you and the man were having a good time, conversely, namgyu was loosing his temper. Insanely quick.

As you laugh with the stranger, you feel the weight of a gaze burning into your skin. You don't need to look up to know exactly who it belongs to.

Your phone buzzes again. You take your time, dragging your fingers along the rim of your empty glass before finally checking the message.

Namgyu: ‘Keep playing with me.’

Namgyu: ‘You really think he wants you?’

He’s starting to unravel, his raw feeling starting to show. You tilt your head, focusing up to the vip rooms, looking through the slightly steamed windows. Even with the dim lighting you can still make up a long slender figure, he looked stiff. Angry.

You smiled one more time looking up at him before focusing back on the stranger, leaning in enough to close the small gap between each other. Your draw your fingers up his arms, letting out a small giggle.

As the next song plays, you pick up your phone and start to type.

You: ‘I don’t know… He seems quite interested.. in me.’

You: ‘Maybe i’ll let him find out what you couldn’t.’

Read.

He had practically been glued to your messages, waiting for anything. He read it almost immediately again. It feel like the energy had shifted. The air feels more tighter, it’s subtle, quiet but definitely there.

You can feel namgyus eyes follow your every move, beaming into your skin like lasers. You couldn’t see his expression from up there, but you didn’t need to.

The stranger starts to catch on, he notices the shift in your moods, how you were extremely anxious before now you look like your on top of the world.

He leans forward, tilting his head trying to read your expression. “So.. i don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but before you didn’t really seem like this place was… you know.. your scene.”

You dragged your fingers around the rim of your glass, trying to resist smiling.

“That’s funny, someone just told me that.”

You felt amused. Even a random stranger could tell the difference, that meant namgyu definitely had. It would make him itch, grip onto the table in pure frustration. Exactly what you wanted.

Once again, you are met with a vibration of the phone. Do you even need to check? You already know— it’s going to be him. You try to hold the pure enjoyment you get out of this, it was euphoric. You were finally getting what you wanted.

Namgyu: ‘Stop.’

Namgyu: ‘You don't even like him. What are you trying to prove?’

Namgyu: ‘We both know you'd rather be here

—with me. So quit wasting time.’

The vulnerability was practically seeping out through these texts, of course, he couldn’t just ask for you. He had to act like you’d eventually come crawling, like you were already his. How pathetic.

You tap the glass of your drink, once again glancing at the vip section. You know he’s there, watching this mess unravel, one by one.

You softly grabbed the strangers collar, letting out a laugh, dragging your fingers on his cheeks, ruffling his hair. Namgyu loved it when you did that to him, how you twirled his hair around your fingers and brushed your soft fingertips against his face.

The stranger is saying something— laughing, but you can’t seem to focus on that. You’re focusing on tracing the exact places you once did with him, twirling his hair nice and softly, making him tingle. You keep your touch slow, calculated.

You were touching him, lovingly. But it wasn’t for the stranger, it was for him.

Namgyu.

Another buzz.

Namgyu: ‘You really think that man cares ?’

Namgyu: ‘Men only want sex, don’t be a fool’

Namgyu: ‘He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you like i do.’

You brush your hands through your hair, then softly dragging your nails against the man’s jaw, just to be petty.

Another buzz.

Namgyu: ‘Look at him, he’s practically stiff.’

Namgyu: ‘Your weirding the poor guy out.’

Namgyu: ‘Quit the act, just come up here.’

The entitlement radiates through the phone, but behind the phone, you could practically taste his jealousy.

You smirked, letting his words marinate, no response for him. You climbed up the stranger and sat on his lap, facing toward him. The stranger held onto your waist, pulling you in as he layed a sloppy drunk kiss on your lips.

You still felt the weight of namgyus stare, pressing you down. You felt electric, this is the best dopamine rush you’ve experienced in a while; the same feeling you once felt when namgyus hands were on you, it had come back. The idea of him watching was lighting a spark in your head.

You slowly and sensually started to move your hips back and forth on the man’s lap, your mouth slightly parted with a small smirk. The strangers grip tightened, his hands lazily moving up and down your waist. Your mind is elsewhere, on him, who were stood behind the glass of those VIP rooms.

Another buzz.

You climbed off the man’s lap, wiping his spit off your lips. Glancing at your phone, you tell him you’re going to get more drinks and walk over to the bar.

As you step away, the air becomes more tense. The thrill of being watched lingers through your skin, the weight of namgyus stare pressing deeply into you.

Sliding yourself onto the chair, you order another drink, as you wait you unlock your phone.

Then you finally look.

Namgyu: ‘That was for me, wasn’t it?’

Namgyu: ‘Just say it didn’t mean anything.’

Namgyu: ‘Lie to me.’

Lie to me. Lie to me? A three word sentence, so easy to understand. But it wasn’t that, it was the intent you couldn’t quite grasp. It would be so easy for you to lie to him. The weight of his stare felt like volumes, the way he watches, it makes your chest tighten.

You can barely make up your reflection in the phone, Flushed skin, lips once again parted, slightly shaking. His presence felt like a ghost. So far away, yet so meaningful.

Your bartender slides the drink to you, but you hadn’t even noticed. You were too spaced out. You exhale, thinking about how you reply to this.

Your fingers anxiously hover over the screen, hesitating every word that you type.

Tell me to stop.

Before you hit send, a slender like shadow falls over you.

The atmosphere shifts once again, that familiar sent of cheap musky cologne mixed with cigarettes formed behind you. The hairs at the back of your head stood.

And then—

A hand.

Long slender fingers decorated with chunky silver rings tap your hand. Your breath stutters, phone slipping into your pressed together thighs.

“You’re taking too long.”

Namgyu.

His tone is different to what you once heard. The raspy voice he would holler down your ears as you cried, begging for an answer.

‘Why don’t you love me?’

The phrase you once said repeatedly echoed through your mind, the memories once shared with him, the nights you spent shouting his name.

It had only been a week or so since you last talked, so why did it feel like it had been an eternity? Why did it feel like you had glued together the missing piece, after searching for ages?

The room feels smaller, like you were trapped; The music felt distant, it muffled behind the sound of your own heartbeat, pumping out of your chest.

He kept his fingers hovering over you hands, gently; but it felt as if he hesitated, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you in or push away.

That was Namgyus whole deal. He never knew what he wanted.

One moment, he was lighting up a joint sat on your mouth, smirking as he flicked the lighter. The next moment, he sat at his desk beside his bed, acting like the history you two had shared the night before was all a myth, nothing but a piece of fiction.

You swallowed hard as he reached for the phone you had dropped, due to his presence. He grazed his fingers between your thighs, gripping the phone, unlocked.

Tell me to stop

He swiftly takes the seat next to you, tapping is fingers on the desk, holding the phone in the other.

“You wanted me to see that?” His voice became small, a little cocky but he had held back. “Or was it just for you?”

You gripped both of your thighs and held strongly, frustratedly. The aching pain of anxiety pulsated though your palms. You need to push him away, now. It’ll never happen if you don’t do it now.

His eyes are stuck to you, like he’s too afraid to blink. He was filled with such emotion, it was almost indescribable.

Yearning? Desperation? Possession?

You can’t read him, even namgyu can’t read himself, right now.

His fingers linger against your wrist, his thumb barely touching over your pulse. He feels it-how fast it's racing, how much this moment is getting to you. And he likes it.

"You should've picked a better actor."

His lips curl into something smug, but his voice betrays him-low, strained, aching.

"He touched you like he didn't know what to do with you."

You swallow, trying to steady yourself. "And you think you do?"

His grip tightens. "I know I do."

His words were real, true. It was embarrassing. You urged yourself to become a better person, run away from things that hurt you, people that hurt you. But here you are, heart racing to the same man that you swore you’d never run back to.

It’s humiliating, how you fold to him every, single, time. His presence strips away every single part of resistance that you worked so hard to build.

Sure, the act earlier on was real, it was how you truely felt; this emotion now, it’s raw. A soft touch. Your heart is pounding — pulsating loudly. Not from fear, not from anger, but from something much worse. Incredibly worse.

Need.

Namgyu keeps his dark eyes upon you. His eyes were endless, like the space between stars in the dark nights sky. They held something desirable, heavy emotion, and something dangerously close to desperation.

His lips parted, as if he wanted to blurt something out, one last jab before you cave in. He hesitates, Maybe because he knows you already know the truth just as much as he does.

You’re not running away.

Not really.

Your running away from your emotion, that deep feeling of dread that lingers apon your ever morning after spending the night with him.

He lets out a soft exhale, his grip on your wrist slightly tighter — not letting go but conversely not keeping you there. You could leave whenever your heart desired. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Your heart desires what your mind doesn’t. Your body desires the opposite of your mind.

“You always run,” he says, his voice soft, delicate. The bitterness that usually graces his tongue is absent, replaced by something quieter, something real.

He brushes his warm hands against yours, the rough cool metal of his rings sends a shiver down your spine. His hands feel rough in random places, calloused along the pads of his fingertips.

“You could go,” he says underneath his breath, his space like eyes flickering between yours. “You have always been able to go.”

“But you don’t want to, do you?”

The way he says it, it was far from a question. As if he had found the last peice of a puzzle. No cockiness, no small disrespectful remarks, just honesty. Pure, truthful honesty. This was unusual for him to show so much.. emotion.

You force yourself to look down into your lap, only this made it worse, it made you realise that his hand on yours was the touch you had been craving for so long. The warmth, the weight, the silent promise in the way his fingers curl around yours.

You force the lump that was once again forming in your throat, you wanted to tell him how you truely felt, the words were right there, on the tip of your tongue, desperate to climb out. Just this once, you would let yourself let go.

“It doesn’t matter what i want Namgyu. You know that.” Your voice unsteady. “It doesn’t change the way this night will end. It doesn’t change the mornings id wake up dreaming of something that we didn’t have, and what we could of had. It doesn’t change the way you change between day and night.” You inhale, sharply shaking your head as hurtful tears start to form. “So tell me, what is the point in even acknowledging what i want? It does not matter.”

Tears fell like a gushing wave, you felt frustrated. Emotional, it was indescribable.

Namgyu exhaled. For once, he didn’t look cocky or smug, like he was going to shout out some careless remark and call it day.

For once, he looks real. Sober, somehow. He had definitely done drugs, but you were blinded by it, emotions speaking for itself.

You can’t do this.

“You don’t—“

Just as namgyu starts to speak, his hands frustratedly brushing through his long hair, You step back from the chair, unlocking your hands from his. “I can’t do this right now.”

Your voice trembles, betraying all of the honest emotions flooding your brain.

You stormed out, head low, tears falling violently. You don’t even wait for his reaction, you were too scared of confirming those very real emotions. Shoving through the crowd, the pulse of the music vibrating through your shoes.

You don’t know where you’re going— you just knew you had to go, for good.

Until.

A hand grabs your wrist, firmly. You started to tense, already knowing who it was.

“Please.”

[asterafroditis]

𐔌 . ⋮ too late to speak .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Azul Ashengrotto x gn! reader

𓏵 879 words

ᝰ.ᐟ 3rd Person POV, no pronouns used, unestablished relationship with reader, angst, hurt/no comfort

might give this a part 2 with a happy ending if I feel like it or anyone asks (-ω-；) feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Azul always knew you were kind.

Not just polite or charming, but truly, genuinely kind. The kind of person who greeted everyone by name, who asked how their day was and actually listened to the answer. The kind of person who saw past his sharp businessman’s smile, his smooth-talking arrogance, and treated him as if he was worth more than just a contract.

But that was just how you were with everyone.

He told himself that, over and over again. That you were just friendly. That there was nothing special about the way you spoke to him, that he was foolish for thinking he meant anything more to you than the next student you happened to befriend.

So he waited.

Waited for a sign. For proof that you might see him the way he saw you. Because Azul Ashengrotto didn’t take risks he couldn’t afford to lose, and losing you—the idea of you rejecting him, looking at him with pity—was something he could never gamble on.

So he said nothing.

And in turn, neither did you.

You used to think Azul would be the one to confess first.

He was strategic, after all—always had a plan, always thought five steps ahead. If he wanted something, he found a way to get it. And for a while, you let yourself believe that maybe, maybe, you were something he wanted, too.

You caught the way he lingered whenever you spoke, how his usually quick-witted tongue tripped over itself when you leaned a little too close. The way his gaze softened when he thought no one was looking.

You noticed it all. And it made your heart race, made your stomach twist in that agonizing, hopeful way.

But Azul never acted. Never said a word.

So, eventually, you convinced yourself you had imagined it.

That if he truly wanted you, he would have done something by now.

That maybe, despite the way you thought he looked at you, despite the way you wanted him to look at you—he never actually felt the same.

But you had to be sure.

So you tested him.

"Azul, I need your help."

He looked up from his ledger, barely registering your words at first. He had spent the past hour going over the Lounge’s weekly earnings, making adjustments, analyzing profit margins—but all of that became meaningless the moment you stepped into his office.

You were smiling. You always smiled.

"Of course," he said smoothly, placing his pen down. "What can I do for you?"

You hesitated, shifting on your feet. That wasn’t like you. You were usually so confident when asking him for favors, teasing him about his endless contracts and over-the-top business plans.

This time, though, you looked... nervous.

"I... well, you know I’ve been spending a lot of time with—" you said a name. Azul barely heard it. His mind had already started ringing, a dull roar drowning out the sound of your voice.

No. No, no, no.

Not that name. Not them.

"I think I like them, Azul," you admitted, fingers gripping the hem of your uniform. "And I—I want to tell them. But I don’t know how to do it without making a fool of myself."

Your heart was pounding. It was humiliating, really, standing here, asking him of all people for help with this.

Because you weren’t just asking for advice. You were waiting. Watching.

For the slightest change in his expression. A flicker of something—anything—that might prove you hadn’t been wrong.

That all those moments weren’t just in your head.

That Azul wanted you.

But Azul didn’t react.

He blinked once, his expression unreadable, and then—he smiled.

The same careful, practiced smile you had seen him use a hundred times before.

"I see," he said, voice perfectly even. "Well, that is quite the dilemma."

A laugh escaped you—light, relieved. That was that, then.

It was never real, was it?

Azul had never liked you the way you liked him.

His throat closed up. His hands curled into fists beneath his desk.

You—you were asking him for advice on how to confess to someone else.

He should’ve seen this coming. He did see this coming, deep down. But he had been too much of a coward to act. Too afraid of rejection to reach for the one thing he wanted more than anything.

And now?

Now you were asking him to help you love someone else.

He couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

"Azul?" Your voice was so soft, so sweet. So unfair.

He forced himself to smile. To laugh.

To play the part of the perfect, unaffected friend.

And when you beamed at him, oblivious, he knew—he had already lost.

You had your answer.

It stung. More than you wanted to admit.

But at least now you knew.

At least now, you wouldn’t spend another second waiting for something that was never going to come.

You smiled at Azul, one final test, but he didn’t hesitate. He launched into his usual confident spiel, offering you advice like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t crushing your chest with every word.

And for the first time, you really believed him.

Azul didn’t want you.

Not like that.

And if that was the case, then maybe moving on really was the right choice.

[inseobts]

Midnight Snack

luffy x gn!reader

he gets hungry at night so you both go steal some snacks

words count: 1.2k

tags: fluffy, sfw, soft, gender neutral

masterlist || ko-fi

The gentle sway of the ship rocked you awake. It's the middle of the night, and the sky above is studded with thousands of stars. The moonlight filters in through the window, casting a soft glow on the room you share with Luffy. The air is cool, but your body is warm under the blanket.

But there's something you didn't anticipate... Luffy’s stomach grumbling loudly.

You turn to your side, blinking through the darkness. Luffy is sprawled out next to you, his back against the pillow, but he's restless. You can feel him shifting beside you, his body twitching. Then, another loud growl.

“Luffy” you whisper, nudging him “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

Luffy’s eyes flutter open, squinting as he stares at you, his face lit by the soft glow of the moon. He lets out a long yawn, stretching his arms above his head before blinking at you, clearly still groggy.

“Hungry,” he mumbles, rubbing his belly dramatically, as if the sheer force of his grumbling stomach could somehow shake the walls. “Really, really hungry.”

You groan softly, your mind still trying to wake up “It’s the middle of the night, Luffy.”

“So?” He grins, as if the time of day, or night, rather, means nothing when it comes to food “I want a snack.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes “What kind of snack are we talking about? We’ve already gone through the whole kitchen twice this week. Sanji’s gonna murder us if we do it again.”

Luffy grins even wider, turning toward you with an almost childlike gleam in his eyes “That’s the fun part! We won’t wake him up. We’ll sneak a snack!”

You blink at him, unable to stop a small laugh from escaping “You really are impossible.”

“Well, you love me for it” Luffy says, his voice a little too proud as he bounces up in bed. He pats his lap with a mischievous look “Come on, let’s find the perfect snack!”

You rub your eyes, reluctantly sitting up “What kind of midnight snack is perfect, anyway?”

Luffy shrugs, still grinning “One that makes me feel full, and one that makes my stomach stop growling.”

That… was probably as good of an answer as you were going to get from him.

You smile, rolling your eyes fondly at him “Alright, alright. I’ll go with you, but this better be quick. We need to get back before the others wake up.”

Luffy stands up, his enthusiasm now fully evident, and pulls you by the hand “We’ll be fast! C’mon, I know just the place!”

The night air hits you as soon as you step outside, cold but fresh, and the ship is unusually still, the soft sound of the waves lapping against the hull making the night seem peaceful. You follow Luffy down the stairs, both of you trying to be as quiet as possible, though that’s easier said than done when Luffy’s practically bounding from step to step.

“Shh!” You whisper, grabbing his arm to slow him down “We need to be quiet. We’re sneaking, remember?”

Luffy shrugs, his grin never faltering “I’m always quiet when I want to be!”

You can’t argue with that logic, so you simply shake your head and follow him to the kitchen.

As you reach the door, Luffy quickly pushes it open, but you stop him just before entering “Wait. Remember, no ingredients! Not unless we want Sanji to skin us alive.”

Luffy pouts “Aww, but meat…”

“We’re not eating Sanji’s food!” you whisper harshly, but then your mind clicks “Maybe there’s something else we can find.”

Luffy tilts his head, looking at you like you just suggested you go on a treasure hunt “Like what?”

You scan the kitchen, trying to think quickly “Uh… fruits! There might be something hidden away.”

Luffy’s eyes light up “Fruits! Yeah! Let’s find the best fruit!”

You both start rummaging through the small storage area, chuckling to yourselves as you dig through crates of apples, bananas, and even the occasional coconut. But nothing seems to satisfy your cravings.

“Wait, what’s that?” Luffy suddenly exclaims, his eyes locking onto something in the far corner of the kitchen. He runs over to the shelf and pulls out a small jar “Aha! Pudding!”

You stare at the jar in his hands “Luffy, that’s a jar of pudding.”

“Perfect snack!” Luffy says proudly, popping the lid off and sniffing it. He then dips his finger in and takes a big lick “Mmmm! Delicious!”

You stare at him, blinking “You’re eating pudding straight from the jar with your finger?”

Luffy shrugs, totally unfazed “Why not? It’s good! Wanna try some?”

Before you can protest, he sticks his finger in the jar and brings it toward your mouth.

“Luffy!” you laugh, swatting his hand away, though you’re unable to suppress your smile.

“Oh come on, just a little bit!” He gives you his best pouty face, the one that always gets to you.

You roll your eyes but can’t help yourself as you lean forward, letting him feed you a small scoop of pudding from the jar. You can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“See?” Luffy says triumphantly “I knew you’d love it!”

You wipe your mouth, laughing “I swear, you’ll eat anything, won’t you?”

“Anything that’s yummy” he replies with a cheeky grin.

You chuckle again, and then, for a moment, the two of you just look at each other, the jar of pudding forgotten between you. It’s so simple, sitting together in the kitchen, in the middle of the night, just enjoying each other’s company.

“I’m glad we’re doing this” you say softly, leaning against him.

Luffy grins wide, putting his arm around your shoulder “Of course! There’s no one else I’d rather sneak snacks with.”

You smile, feeling your heart flutter a little at the sweetness of his words.

“Well, as long as we don’t wake anyone up” you say, raising an eyebrow.

He pulls you closer, a wide, mischievous grin on his face “Well… maybe we should wake them up. I can always go for more pudding.”

You laugh, shaking your head “You really are impossible.”

But as Luffy leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, you realize that, impossible or not, this was the kind of adventure you loved. Even if it involved sneaking around in the middle of the night for a perfect snack.

[starlvcied]

₊˚⊹♡ rin itoshi x f!reader " FRAMED RIVALRY " CHAPTER 001

in which your academic rival, aka the captain of the soccer team, sneaks his way into the photography club with you. ꨄ︎ CHAPTER 001

cw: swearing (a lot) , rin definitely needs therapy wc : 3k

the sun shines down on the soccer field, casting shadows across the grass. you adjust the lens on your camera, the clicking of the shutter becoming a steady rhythm in the background as you move, trying your best to capture the intensity of the game. your fingers are quick and precise as you focus on each shot, freezing the action in time. the soccer players, all in their matching uniforms, run with a kind of urgency, their feet pounding the ground with every stride.

you’ve been a part of the photography club for two years now but no matter how often you’re on the sidelines of these games, there’s always something inspiring about watching the players. you find yourself naturally drawn to the skill, the precision of it all—except for one player.

rin itoshi, the captain of the soccer team, moves differently. the aura he gives off on the field is magnetic, but in a way that makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous. he’s tall, lean, his movements calculated. his sharp, teal eyes never seem to leave the ball, and his hair falls just enough to obscure part of his vision—but somehow, it only enhances his intensity. 

you didn't like him. it seemed as if nobody actually liked rin itoshi. people just pretended to like him because he’s “cool”. he’s a rude, egotistical snob who thought he was better than everyone. you didn't pay him any mind in the halls, or when he would roll his eyes when you got a question right, though. there are a lot of rude people in the world, and your motto was “just smile and nod.”

you snap a picture of him, the ball seemingly suspended in midair as he prepares to strike. just as you click the shutter, a player from the opposing team rushes past you, and you stumble, your foot catching on the uneven turf. ouch.

the next thing you know, you’re colliding into someone—a solid body, a slight grunt, and then the unmistakable feeling of being pinned against the grass. your camera, thank goodness, is still in your hands, though you can feel the strap digging into your wrist from the awkward angle.

“sorry! i didn’t mean—”

but the person you’ve collided with doesn’t respond. you glance up quickly, your heart sinking as you realize who it is: rin itoshi. his teal eyes don’t even flicker toward you. instead, he simply pushes past you with a scoff, his sharp features barely shifting as he continues his stride across the field, his focus entirely on the game.

you’re left standing there like an idiot, with nothing but the faint echo of your own voice hanging in the air. you’ve been so used to getting nods, polite acknowledgments even from strangers, yet, for rin, you might as well not have existed at all. and that pissed you off.

you try to shake off the embarrassment, but it sticks with you like a bitter taste in your mouth. maybe it’s because you’ve never been completely ignored before. maybe it’s because you’ve heard the rumors about him—how he’s cold, distant, and borderline unapproachable. and now you understood how those statements came to be. still, it doesn’t help that he’s the kind of person who has no time for anyone unless they’re on his level—or so it seems.

the next morning, you arrive at school, the early bell ringing through the hallways. you’ve almost forgotten about the incident, tucked it away in the back of your mind where it doesn’t sting quite so much. but then the announcements come, calling for all students to gather in the classroom for a project assignment.

you’re a second year now, and the pressure of being in the student government and managing your club is always there, a subtle weight on your shoulders. so when the teacher announces the project topic, your focus sharpens.

debate. the topic? “do leaders need to be emotionally detached to succeed?” it’s a complex one, but it’s right up your alley. you’ve always been interested in leadership, in the psychology behind decision-making. but then the next part hits you: “for this project, you’ll each be paired with someone and will have a debate against another group.”

you glance around the room, already sizing up your potential partners. it’s all in good fun—until the teacher reads the names. and then your heart sinks.

“y/n, you’ll be paired with rin itoshi.”

you swallow thickly, the name ringing in your ears like an unwanted echo. rin itoshi? the same rin who so rudely ignored you yesterday?

your mind starts to race. the two of you could not be more different in your approach to leadership. you’ve always believed in understanding others, being empathetic and connected. rin, on the other hand, leads through sheer control, his focus on the end result rather than the people involved. emotionally detached? he practically embodies it. but could you find common ground on this topic?

the tension between you isn’t just academic—it’s personal. you’ve heard rumors about his cold nature, his obsession with soccer, and his overwhelming pride. he doesn’t care about anyone unless they can help him with his goals. and now, here you are, forced into a partnership with him for the most important debate of the semester.

the teacher hands out the project guidelines, and you find yourself sitting next to rin. his presence next to you feels almost suffocating. he doesn’t look at you as you sit down, his expression unreadable. his posture is straight, his focus already on the project—though whether that focus is on you or the assignment is unclear. 

this is going to be a long few weeks.

the days that follow the project announcement feel strangely heavier, as though the universe has decided to test your patience. you and rin Itoshi are thrust into a partnership that feels more like a battlefield than a collaboration.

the first meeting, if it could even be called that, happens during lunch. you find him sitting at one of the tables in the library, already with a notebook open, pen poised in hand. he doesn’t look up when you approach, not even when you slide into the chair across from him.

as the nice person you were, you went out of your way to stop at the nearest cafe outside of the place you had agreed to meet up. you ordered two iced americanos and buttered croissants. it wasnt pleasant working on an empty stomach. you got comfortable in your seat before speaking.

“i brought you some co-”

“i don't drink that.” he interrupted with the roll of his eyes, pushing the coffee away from him and back in your direction. your jaw nearly dropped to the floor. okay, maybe you shouldn't have assumed that he liked americanos, or coffee in general, but he could have definitely been more polite about it.

“okay, im so-”

“let’s get this over with.” he interrupted once more, reaching over to grab a ballpoint pen from his bag. you sighed, your eye twitching as you tried not to go off on this guy. it wasn’t worth it.

“so, how do you want to tackle this? should we split the research, or—”

he interrupts you with a single, clipped sentence, barely a glance in your direction. “i’ll take care of the facts. you handle the emotional arguments.” could he stop cutting you off?

your brow furrows at the dismissal. first he continuously cuts you off, and he isn’t asking for your input, isn’t interested in collaborating in any meaningful way. you can already tell that this will be one of those “i do everything, and you just follow along” situations. but you’ve dealt with arrogant people before. and you’re not the type to back down easily.

“i’m not just here to fill in the emotional side,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “we’re supposed to argue the same side, remember? that means we both need to agree on a stance. i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you and i have very different ideas about what leadership even is.”

rin’s eyes flicker up at last, his teal gaze meeting yours for the first time in days. there’s a sharpness there, a challenge, but it’s not enough to throw you off balance. not yet.

“you’re overcomplicating this,” rin says flatly, his voice cold as ever. “leadership doesn’t need feelings. It needs results. leaders who rely on emotions are weak.” his words cut through the air, the arrogance thick in them. “so shut the hell up. i’ll prove that whats right in the debate. you just need to back me up.”

there it is—the familiar arrogance that laces every word he speaks. you resist the urge to roll your eyes. he’s treating this as if it’s a one-man show, like your opinion doesn’t matter at all.

“i think you’re missing the point,” you reply, trying to keep your composure. “you can’t discount emotions entirely. understanding them is what makes a good leader. you’ll never connect with the people you lead if you don’t even try to understand them.”

rin narrows his eyes at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It’s like he’s testing you, trying to provoke some kind of reaction. “are you trying to tell me that a leader should let their emotions cloud their judgment?”

“are you a fucking idiot? no, i’m saying a leader should be aware of their emotions and how they affect others. you can’t just bulldoze over everyone and expect them to follow you.”

there’s a beat of silence, and for a moment, you think he might actually engage with you—maybe even acknowledge your point. but instead, he leans back in his chair, the smirk still lingering on his face.

“fine,” he says, almost bored. “prove it, then. if you think emotions matter so much, show me how they’ll get the results we need.” his voice is a little quieter now, but the challenge is unmistakable. “but don’t waste my fucking time.”

the air between you two is thick with tension, an unspoken understanding passing between you. this won’t be easy. and it certainly won’t be fun. but for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to back down. something about the way he challenges you—pushes you to be better, even in this strange, antagonistic way—lights a fire inside of you.

“fine,” you say, your voice steady. “i’ll prove it. but don’t think for a second that i’ll just let you steamroll me into agreeing with you.”

rin shrugs, as though he couldn’t care less about your resolve. “we’ll see.”

you both return to your work, each of you diving into your research. but the tension between you doesn’t fade. it simmers, thick and heavy, like something waiting to boil over.

the next few days blur together, the steady rhythm of research and debate preparation keeping you both busy. despite the friction between you, you can’t deny that there’s something undeniably effective about working with rin. his sharp focus on results, his ability to cut through distractions—it’s almost admirable. but it’s also maddening, because you know he’s only interested in his own perspective. and you’re stuck trying to make him see yours.

you’ve made some progress in gathering emotional case studies, examples of leaders who were able to harness their emotions to drive their teams to success. it’s compelling material, but every time you bring it up, rin shoots it down. “that’s all sentimental crap,” he’d say. “it doesn’t matter if they felt something. what matters is what they achieved.”

it’s frustrating. but you can’t give up. 

finally, the day of the debate arrives. you walk into the classroom, the desks now arranged to represent a court room, nerves buzzing in your stomach. you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but the thought of standing side by side with rin—who is so self-assured, so completely confident in his ability to win—makes the pit in your stomach tighten.

when rin walks in, he’s his usual self—cold, distant, but somehow commanding. his eyes sweep the room briefly, and then he makes his way to his desk, taking his seat without a word. you don’t even exchange pleasantries.

the debate begins, and the first few minutes pass in a blur of facts and figures. rin speaks with the kind of authority that only someone like him could wield. but you’ve prepared just as well. you know your material, and you’re determined to make your points count.

as the debate progresses, the audience grows increasingly engaged. your argument is strong, but rin’s is relentless. his words are sharp, calculated. it’s clear that he’s trying to wear you down, to undermine your confidence as if you’re the one he's debating against. and the tension between you grows thicker with every word spoken.

the days slip by, and you and rin seem to be locked in a battle of wits, neither of you willing to give an inch. despite the constant friction, a strange kind of understanding is starting to form between you. it’s not friendship—not by any stretch—but there’s an undeniable force that pulls you together, even if it’s mostly out of mutual stubbornness.

and then, without warning, something happens that catches you completely off guard.

it’s a wednesday afternoon when you first notice him.

you’re at the photography club meeting, organizing the week’s shoot plans and sorting through the photos from the last session. the room is small and cozy, filled with the soft hum of conversation and the clicking of camera shutters. it’s your safe haven—your space to let your creativity flow without anyone judging you. as well as the place where you and your two best friends crack up a storm almost 24/7. at least it used to be.

you glance up from your camera, surprised to see rin itoshi standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze sharp as always. he surveys the room, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips, before his eyes finally settle on you. his usual smirk is nowhere to be found, but there’s something just as dangerous in the way he looks at you.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, your tone a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “this is the photography club, not whatever you're thinking it is."

rin doesn’t respond immediately. instead, he steps into the room, a hand on your shoulder as he moved you to the side with the same quiet confidence he always carries. “i’m here to join,” he says simply, his arm dropping to his side, his voice flat but laced with something you can’t quite place.

your brow furrows in disbelief. “join? why would you want to join the photography club?”

he shrugs nonchalantly, though his eyes never leave yours. “maybe i just like photography.”

“‘maybe i just like photography’ my ass,” you thought. you stare at him, trying to gauge whether he’s serious. the arrogance that typically surrounds rin’s every move is still there, but this time, it’s tempered with something else—a kind of unreadable intent. you want to scoff, to call him out on the fact that you both know he’s only here to stir up trouble, but something about his response keeps you from doing so.

“right,” you mutter, clearly unconvinced. “well, this isn’t a competition. if you’re here to just… mess around, fuck off.”

rin doesn’t even blink at your words. instead, he steps further into the room as if he owns the place and grabs the nearest camera, inspecting it with the kind of precision that makes it clear he knows what he’s doing. there’s no hesitation in his movements, as if he’s done this a hundred times before. his gaze flicks over the camera, his fingers adjusting the lens as if it’s second nature.

the other club members watch with a mix of curiosity and confusion. rin Itoshi, captain of the soccer team and the most notorious loner in school, is standing in your domain, looking every bit the part of someone who belongs. 

“i’ll take a few shots,” rin announces, his voice almost bored. “see what i can do with this.”

you stand there, speechless, watching as he lifts the camera and starts taking pictures of the club members. each shot is precise, deliberate. there’s no denying it—he’s good, great, even. he doesn’t just like photography; he’s skilled, his confidence in handling the camera evident.

still, you can’t shake the feeling that this is a game to him. that he’s here to prove something, even if he’s not admitting it. you feel your irritation flare up again, and you can’t help but retort, “you’re not just here because you like photography. you just want to outdo everyone, like you always do.” ‘you stuck up piece of shit,’ you wanted to add, but you didn't.

rin glances over at you, that same unreadable expression on his face. he’s still holding the camera, his eyes flickering with something almost imperceptible. “no need to make everything a competition,” he replies coolly, his voice lacking the usual bite, but the edge is still there. those words sounded funny coming from his mouth. “i told you, i just like photography. where’s the.. leader? or whatever.”

“you’re looking right at her.” you said, placing your hand on your hip. he gave you a scoff and an unconvinced look.

“got a problem?”

“i do not.”

you narrow your eyes at him, but you don’t press further. he’s not giving you anything to work with, and you know he’s not going to back down or admit anything.

“fine,” you say, the frustration bubbling in your chest. “but if you want to join, you better pull your weight. this club isn’t just for show, soccer boy.”

rin simply shrugs. “we’ll see, camera girl.” he says, turning his attention back to the camera. and just like that, it’s as if nothing has changed—except now, rin itoshi, the most competitive person you know, is in your club. and he’s not here for the reasons he claims.

don't feel like proofreading this whoops

tags : @mixolya

[annwrites]

punish

⸻ part i: august underground ⸻

| chapter one. |

· pairing: serialkiller!billyhargrove x fem!reader · type: part of a series · summary: tina, a classmate of yours from hawkins high, is dead. a young woman being found brutally murdered in the woods puts your small town on high alert, even if everyone is trying to convince themselves that it had to have only been an outsider passing through, because things like this don't happen here. you attend the funeral with a grieving nancy, who's distraught over the loss of her friend, and under such grisly circumstances, at that. and while you're reluctant to feed yourself possible faux comfort of it being a one-time horrid occurrence like so many others, you fail to fathom in your imagination who the killer just might be—and that his reign of terror over the town is far from over as the bodies begin to pile up...and that he's soon to set his sickening sights upon you. but it's not your blood he thirsts for. what he has planned...will end with a new face upon milk cartons across the country. one you never would've imagined would grace the 6 o' clock news with the headline reading...'missing', and the question inevitably becomes: will you be found? · tw: dead dove, murder, mutilation of a female body (only discussed, not recounted), stalking, obsession, misogyny, disturbing sexual themes · tags: sapphic themes & interactions (nancy wheeler & reader) · word count: 7.8k · ꒰a/n꒱: the title of this fic comes from ethel cain's song of the same name. likewise, the first part of this series is inspired by ethel cain's song of the same name as well. the work as a whole is inspired by the sharp objects tv series, true detective s1, as well as ethel cain's album perverts.

“Did…did you hear what he did to her body?”

You drape curls over either of your shoulders and ensure your black satin ribbon is positioned exactly-so at the back of your head. 

It’s not that you want to be ‘dolling yourself up’ for such an occasion, but you do think it’s important that you look respectable…out of honor for the deceased. 

You stand and pad over to Nancy, then seat yourself beside her upon her quilted comforter. 

Your eyes meet hers and you shake your head. 

“Is it…” You sigh. 

Of course it’s bad.

Nancy smooths the skirt of her dress nervously. 

“He…shoved a tree branch inside…” She trails off for a moment, then swallows thickly. “Inside her. It…came out of her stomach.”

Your own turns at the vision that’s now been painted within your mind, and your eyes well with tears. “It sounds sick, but I wonder if just being raped would’ve been a kinder fate. If she was alive when he…did that, I mean. I hope she wasn’t.”

You sniffle. “I really hope she wasn’t.”

The car is silent as Nancy’s dad drives everyone to the wake. You merely stare out the window while holding Nancy’s hand.

The two of you are frightened. Things like this…they don’t happen here in Hawkins. Such violence is entirely unheard of. 

You didn’t know Tina well, but Nancy had been friends with her.

She’s, in truth, been rather quiet about it all. Which you understand. There’s something about the discussion of horrific things that makes it feel like if you dare speak too much about it, that you’ll be next. That tragedy is contagious. 

But Nancy’s silence stems, instead, from grief. You think that it’s because it isn’t real for her yet: that Tina is dead. 

You’d questioned her about whether she truly wanted to come today; had assured her that if she wanted to wait—only wanted to visit Tina’s grave once she was laid to rest—that that would be completely understandable. But she’d insisted. Had stated that she needs to see her, so as to believe that it’s true: that she’s dead, gone…lost, and, by extension, confirmed your suspicions.

So, you’re coming along with her to say goodbye while you truly hope within your heart that Tina has found peace. And that whoever did such an evil, vile thing to her is soon caught, and is made to feel even a fraction of the fear and pain that she did in those terrifying final moments. 

They say they look like they’re sleeping.

She doesn’t look like that to you. 

No one sleeps so perfectly. 

Some people may sleep on their backs, but not with their hands clasped so-exactly over their…stomach. And not while dressed in their Sunday best. But you suppose such attire is required, so as to hide the violation beneath. 

Their hair isn’t smooth and parted so evenly over their shoulders. 

Women don’t go to bed with faces full of makeup. 

And people don’t sleep inside coffins in parlors that reek of lilies and gardenias, surrounded by countless people wearing suits and dresses as they cry over the loss of the one who’s been put on display for everyone else’s sake. For their comfort.

What a strange arrangement funerals are. 

One dies, and then is made into a spectacle for everyone else’s viewing pleasure. For everyone else to speak of and study while all one can do is lie there…unspeaking, unmoving, unseeing.

Funerals really do seem far more about the audience, and far less about the reason such an audience has been convened to begin with. 

You think you want to be cremated when your time comes. You should probably tell someone that, or write it down somewhere where your final wishes will be easy to find. 

And you should probably do so soon. 

Which isn’t to say that this isn’t going to turn out to be a one-off…occurrence, even if that sounds, somehow, crass to think. But if it isn’t…if there’s someone in town that now has a thirst for hunting young women, then it doesn’t hurt to think ahead. 

You begin to slowly look around then, wondering if he’s here. 

Some seem to think that maybe it was just an outsider passing through town. But you wonder if that’s not just a pleasant lie they’re feeding themselves to give themselves a false sense of security. So that they can play pretend that everything is okay. That they’re safe. That whoever it was got what they needed to out of their system, and all will soon return to normal.

They might as well just say it: they already want to forget. Want to turn a blind eye, and pretend like Tina wasn’t murdered in cold blood, then defiled during a fit of black rage afterward.

Nancy turns to you with tears slipping down her cheeks and your heart shatters at the sight. She opens her mouth to speak, then promptly shuts it before whimpering in pain. 

“Do…do you want something to drink, maybe?” you offer, unsure of what else to say.

She nods silently and you give her a small, forced smile before stepping away and heading toward the back of the room to a table that’s laden with various refreshments.

“She was a slut, yet we’re expected to sit here and listen while the preacher and her parents drone on and on for the next hour about how sweet and fuckin’ innocent she was?”

You blanch, and nearly drop the cup of ice water you’ve just filled for Nancy.

“Dude, that’s… I mean, the two of you went out, right? This is her funeral, Billy, so—” the young man speaking in reply seems at a loss for words at the cruel remarks which just spewed forth from Billy Hargrove’s lips so easily.

How can he talk about her like that? Of course it’s true that death doesn’t erase the terrible deeds one has committed, but in no way do you think that going out with boys and maybe messing around with them in the backs of their cars is that. As if he’s some pious little saint himself. He himself certainly garnered a reputation around Hawkins High, and not long after first gracing its halls, which, without quarrel, serves as indefensible proof otherwise.

What a fucking hypocrite.

You should say something.

But you don’t want to cause a scene.

Because, what if instead of getting him to shut up, it only serves to rile him up further, and he then loudly proclaims similar sentiments for all to hear? And then that is how today will be remembered.

You lightly shake your head while doing your utmost to tamper down your pounding heart that’s ready to fly into fight mode, and pour yourself a plastic cup of lemonade before returning to Nancy with drinks in-hand.

Billy watches as you step away, wholly oblivious to his dark gaze that’s now settled upon you. It has been for some time now, in truth. But one as innocent and naïve as yourself would never have a clue as to his infatuation. It’s one of many things he likes about you: your purity.

Sometimes he thinks it might be love...what he feels. 

Billy leans back against the edge of the archway which separates the foyer from the parlor and takes a sip of his spiked Coke before licking his lips and tipping the lip of his cup toward you as you take a seat beside Nancy Wheeler. “That’s the girl you get down on one knee and make a life for. Who you bust your ass to make happy and feel safe.”

He glances to Tina’s casket and sneers. “Not every set of lips is worth so much goddamn effort.” 

You remain still and silent throughout Tina's funeral service while Nancy cries quietly beside you.

You honestly feel like you might be sick, because none of this seems real.

Tina had been in the library where you work no more than a couple of weeks ago, checking out a new romance novel. And now...now here her lifeless corpse lies before you.

You keep expecting her to open her eyes, sit up, smile, and exclaim that the joke is over; you all played along beautifully, and everything is okay once again—you may all returned to your regularly scheduled programming now.

You don't want this to be real. Don't want this to be the new reality that Hawkins will be forced to live under the mourning veil of until a resolution comes to fruition, one way or another.

You don't know which theory you prefer, in truth: it being a mere passerby, meaning the threat has come to a finish just as quickly as it began, or that it's someone here, perhaps in this very room. At least that way, the perpetrator can be caught and brought to justice. Rather, so that Tina's family, as well as her memory can obtain as much.

Prison would be too kind a fate for him, whomever he may be.

They should bring back public hangings, you muse to yourself as you twine your fingers between Nancy's to give her a sense of grounding and steadiness as the pastor's speech draws to a close.

Billy leans back against his Camaro as he retrieves a lighter from his pocket, then sets the cigarette, which is perched between his lips, ablaze.

He watches as you tread quietly behind Nancy from across the parking lot, and as he focuses upon your angelic face—it resembles that of a pretty little porcelain doll; so fragile and easy to break—he takes note that you've been crying. Not at quite the same volume as your friend, clearly, but you have.

It makes you seem impossibly more beautiful, though. Hauntingly so.

He then ponders what your tears might taste like.

He groans and quickly palms himself over his pants at the thought of drinking them down—licking them clean from your supple, untouched skin—as you slide along his length while whimpering beneath him. From fear, overstimulation, or just the overwhelming feeling of being absolutely loved and devoured by him, he's not sure. In truth, any would do. Preferably all—simultaneously.

You have no idea how good he could be to you. For you.

You can't fathom the things he'd do just to make you happy. To keep you safe.

All he wants is a chance to show you.

He knows that in time, when things are just right, he will.

The languid summer air is sweltering today.

You shift uncomfortably atop the metal folding chair you're seated upon, then lift one of your legs so as to drape it over your opposite one, but know you won't be any more comfortable that way—your thighs will merely stick together; slippery with sweat they are—so you instead settle for once again crossing your legs at the ankles and folding your hands politely in your lap as you try desperately to focus on the pastor before you as he reads a passage from the Bible. The book of Psalms, you think, but aren't sure. The humidity settles over you like a heavy, suffocating blanket, causing your lids to droop and your senses to numb.

A sweat-soaked tendril of hair sticks to the back of your neck while a drop of perspiration slides downward, between your shoulder blades.

This isn't the right weather to be dressed all in black in, you think.

And then you lightly shake your head and force yourself to snap out of it.

Who thinks like that at a burial of all places? About choice of wardrobe?

Selfish, you think, mentally chastising yourself.

Eventually, the pastor, similarly to at the funeral home, steps aside, leaving an open opportunity for anyone who might like to give a few kind parting words to the gathered crowd, in honor of the deceased, a chance to do so.

Nancy shifts infinitesimally beside you, and you glance to her, only to find her already looking at you.

Her eyes flit between yours, almost like she's asking for some sort of silent permission or blessing—no, it's encouragement which she's wanting—so as to stand and say whatever it is which is within her heart.

You settle a hand atop her knee and give it a gentle squeeze while forcing a small, pained smile to your lips.

She swallows thickly, blinks, then nods just once before standing and making her way to the head of Tina's casket on uncertain limbs.

She reaches into her pocket and retrieves—with trembling hands—a crumpled piece of paper, which she proceeds to slowly unfold.

"We knew each other since we were six. And you were taken from us at eighteen. Twelve years we had to grow together and learn as friends. But a life shouldn't be quashed down to simple arithmetic—to mere numbers and decimals. To—"

Her lip quivers, but she quickly swallows it down, continuing on. "To dates carved into stone; from a specified start, to an unimaginable end. No, such dates don't show us the in-between. Words can try: daughter, sister, friend. But still it isn't enough. Plenty of us know it can never be. So, you live on through us instead. That's the phrase, isn't it? 'Survived by'. And you are: survived by everyone here. In our mind's eyes, our memories, our hearts, and our souls. We carry you with us, even as we lay your body down here to rest."

She lets out a quiet sob while rolling up the worn paper between her hands before clutching it tightly between them. "We love you, Tina. I'm so sorry this happened to you."

She makes her way back over to you, and nearly falls into her chair as her legs give out beneath her.

Her mom takes her into her arms as she begins to cry all the harder—as black tears streak down her cheeks, painting her face in a gesture of remembrance for the dead.

You silently mill about as Nancy and her mom, Karen, give heartfelt, tearful condolences to Tina’s family.

A cool breeze washes over your heated skin and you ease your neck back, watching as Spanish moss flits gently in the wind above you. The corner of your mouth tugs downwards into a frown at the sight of the ashen branch it hangs upon—all life now leached from it. It’s strange to consider: that a tall, sturdy, and strong oak tree is oh-so-slowly being drained of life by something so willowy and inconsequential.

There’s a term for Spanish moss, kudzu, and the like. Invasive species. An unwelcome outsider—or, in the case of kudzu, welcome, until it wasn’t; until it became too unruly to handle, and was thus left to swallow up every area it crawls its way across, completely uncared for—but too much of a parasite for any one person to know how to properly, or, rather, permanently, eradicate.

You suppose it serves as a reminder of how inconsequential you all truly are: people; humans. The house always wins. Nature, that is. It will one day reclaim all.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that way.

Time is a flat circle which envelopes and encapsulates everything. There is nothing here which hasn’t always been and won’t always be.

Perhaps one should take comfort at such a thought.

You glance around, wondering where your headstone will one day rest while attempting to envision your own burial and who might be amongst the crowd come to watch you become part of the earthen soil.

"You made a very beautiful speech, sweetheart," Nancy's mom states quietly from the front of the car.

"Thanks," she replies, barely above a whisper.

Her mom glances to the rearview mirror and catches your eye. "How're you doing, Y/N? You thirsty?"

She rummages in her oversized purse for a moment before retrieving a lukewarm water bottle for you from within, which she proceeds to hand back to you over her shoulder.

You take it from her and hold it tightly between your hands. "Thank you. And I'm...okay." You pause. "I guess. I don't know. I think...we're just—"

"Scared," Nancy interjects.

You nod.

The two of you grow silent again for a moment and you listen as the AC struggles to crank out cool air to combat the extreme summer heat which means to fight its way into the limited space of the car’s cabin.

“I know I’m not your old man,” Nancy’s dad starts, and you smile slightly, already sure you know where this is going to lead. “But I still consider you one of my own since our house has always stood as a sort of second home for you. I just want you and Nancy both to be safe. To mind the town curfew and always be looking over your shoulders. Alright?”

You glance to Nancy and she shakes her head with a grin. “Yes, dad.”

His eyes shift toward the rearview mirror and you give him a smile. “Yes, Mr. Wheeler.”

Nancy slides your hand into her lap. “You’re still…staying over tonight, right?”

You nod while giving her a small, playful nudge. “No, I just brought a bag over this morning because I’m slowly moving in.”

She snorts. “I’ll trade your parents Mike to get you all to myself.”

Her mom shakes her head. “Nancy…”

She glances to the back of her head with a sheepish look upon her face. “Just kidding.”

Nancy flops back onto her bed, then rolls her head to the side, watching as you peel yourself out of the black dress that clings to your sweaty skin, eager to be rid of it.

You try not to picture embalming fluid seeping out of Tina’s pores then, only for it to soak into the satin pillow which rests beneath her head from inside her locked coffin, staining it…what color is embalming fluid, anyway? For some reason, you imagine it as being blue. You wonder if that’s accurate.

You gently shake your head, sending the thought fleeing.

“What’s wrong?”

You glance to Nancy, letting your dress pool around your feet before stepping to the side. You then pick it up from the floor to toss in her hamper before going to shower. “Nothing. Just…today, I guess. I think I feel strange about being there.”

She sits up and her brows bow in confusion. “Why?”

You shift on uncertain feet and shrug. “I wasn’t close with her like you were. We were acquaintances, but barely, at that.  I guess I just feel like it wasn’t my place to attend today, maybe.”

She stands and pads over to you, then slips her hands into both of yours. “You were there as a sign of respect.”

Her eyes flit downward and you watch as her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink. Or perhaps it’s just the blush she’s wearing, causing the illusion of her pale skin warming. Her gaze meets yours once again. “I would’ve fallen apart without you today.”

She wraps her arms around your neck. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers, nuzzling against you.

You hug her back. “Me too.”

You take a step back and grip each of her forearms. “I’m here whenever you need me.”

She nods while stepping toward you once more, and she presses a firm kiss to your cheek. “I know.”

You’re currently leaned back against the foot of Nancy’s bed, amusing yourself with a hundred piece puzzle on the floor while she flits through glossy magazines atop her bed—her legs swaying back and forth behind her while Flashdance plays quietly on her box TV across the room that’s set atop her dresser.

All of a sudden, your view is blocked by the page of a magazine being hovered in front of your face.

“She’s really pretty,” Nancy states while hanging her head off the edge of the bed.

“Uh huh.”

She sighs irritably. “You’re not even looking.”

“I’m trying to figure out where this piece goes.”

She shoves the magazine further into your face until it blurs.

You groan before snatching it out of her grip.

“Hey!”

You lean your head back and blink at her. “I thought you wanted me to look at it.”

She merely raises a brow in response.

You glance to the page and take a moment to study a picture of Molly Ringwald. “She was good in Sixteen Candles,” you remark before tossing the object behind you.

Nancy then playfully rests her chin atop your head and you bite back a smirk. “You don’t think she’s pretty?”

You press the puzzle piece into place. “She is.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

You laugh quietly. “Someone’s in a better mood.”

She rolls onto her back. “Do you think that’s bad? To feel happy for even a second while Tina is…” She trails off.

You turn around while resting one of your arms atop the mattress. “No. Of course not. She’s…gone, Nancy. And forcing yourself to be miserable in some twisted attempt to ‘honor her memory’ won’t change that. Don’t punish yourself.”

“I know.”

There’s a knock at Nancy’s door then and both your heads turn in that direction.

“Yeah?” Nancy calls, expecting it to be her mom checking on the two of you.

You’re both surprised when the door swings open, however.

“Am I interrupting girls’ night?” Steve asks while hanging in the doorway.

Nancy sits up then and perches herself on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

He shuts the door behind him before coming to seat himself next to her. “Thought I’d stop by and tell you in-person.”

You turn around and gaze up at the two of them, and Steve gives you a gentle smile, which you return.

“Tell us what?” Nancy insists, now on-edge.

“There’s going to be this…memorial-type-thing in the woods tonight. For Tina.”

“The woods—” you start, before Nancy interrupts, speaking your very thoughts aloud.

“The ones where Tina was murdered ? Not those woods,” she says incredulously.

Steve turns more toward her while sliding one of his knees atop her bed and resting his hand against the small of her back. “I think it’s just people trying to change how they remember that place. Throwing it back in his face—what he did there.”

Nancy looks to you with tears shimmering in her eyes, so you stand and seat yourself next to her.

“No one who shows up there tonight will be going to honor Tina. They’re going to throw a bonfire—a party—in the woods so they can get drunk. Right on top of where she was…” She sniffles.

Steve’s eyes flit to yours and then back away so quickly you almost doubt it happened.

“I’m sure that’s why some will be there tonight. But I just thought that, for you, maybe it could serve as some small form of…closure.”

“We’re all under curfew,” you remind him.

He shrugs. “It’s not like anybody our age is going to be adhering to it. Not tonight, anyway.”

Nancy speaks up then. “My parents would never let me out of the house, even if I wanted to go. You know that. So I don’t understand why you’re even bothering with—”

He looks at her bedroom window on the other side of the room, which is shrouded in billowy white curtains. “Could just do like I used to in high school when I wanted to come see you.”

He looks at her once more. “But if you’d rather stay here, I understand.”

Nancy wipes a tear from her cheek and you feel mildly irritated with Steve at the sight of her renewed emotional distress. Before he showed up, the two of you had been having a pleasant evening—she’d finally been in higher spirits for the first time in days. And now… Now she’s mournful again.

“Do you want me to go?” Steve asks her quietly.

Nancy turns fully toward you. “What do you think we should do? Should we go? I don’t know if I can take seeing that: people tossing beer bottles and trash all over where she—she was… And just laughing and pretending like everything is fine, and—”

She begins to sob then and throws herself against you.

Steve shifts awkwardly atop the bed, then clears his throat. “Maybe I should go…”

“No,” Nancy whimpers. “Can you both just hold me, please?”

Steve sidles closer and envelopes her back with his chest.

Nancy lies her head upon your shoulder and you each hold her as she cries, just like she asked.

“Ow!”

“Shh, just go slow and we’ll be fine,” you insist while silently closing Nancy’s window until it’s open only a crack.

You turn back around and watch with a pounding heart—terrified that the two of you are about to be caught any moment now, that her parent’s bedroom light will flicker to life and you’ll be busted and banned from their house, even if the two of you are technically adults now—as Nancy climbs down the trellis on the side of the house.

Once she’s reached the ground, she and Steve both stare up at you as they beckon you down to them.

“This is so stupid,” you mumble silently to yourself before following along behind your friend, praying that you won’t come to regret this when the two of you wind up in handcuffs for disobeying town curfew.

Your head lulls to the side and you watch as street lights and storefronts flit quickly by the car window.

You hope there’s not a deputy cruiser just waiting around a bend in the road up ahead somewhere.

The three of you may not be underage anymore, but you’re sure that won’t much matter since you and Nancy are barely even nineteen. You glance to Steve then and immediately grow cold all over.

No one knows who it is yet.

Steve hadn’t been lying about this supposed gathering in the woods, right?

No.

He isn’t like that. He’d never hurt Nancy. Would never hurt a fly, you’re sure. But that’s what makes it all the more plausible, isn’t it: that no one would ever suspect someone like him. Someone so kind and straight-laced and…well, he’s just your regular golden boy, isn’t he?

Is this how things will be from now on? You suspecting every single man you pass on the street and in store aisles? Doubting any sense of safety or trust you once felt toward any given person because of the terrible unknown that now lies over everyone’s heads in this town?

You stare at the back of Nancy’s headrest, wondering if she’s now thinking the same thing. If it’s come to her yet: the terrible possibility that the two of you could be next—tonight.

You feel sick.

“How did you find out about this…gathering?” you ask worriedly.

Steve clears his throat. “Tommy told me about it this afternoon.”

You nod. “Who do you think it is?”

You stare at the rearview mirror, expecting him to look at you. Rather, you wait for there to be a tell. Some jerk of a muscle or sudden movement which will confirm your suspicions. You pray he does no such thing. Pray that you’re entirely wrong.

Steve shrugs. “I wish I knew. That anyone did so this can all be over. I mean, I have no idea who the hell would’ve wanted to hurt Tina to begin with. Especially like that.”

He flips his right blinker on. “Just makes me sick.”

You and Nancy stay close to Steve as you all draw nearer to the bonfire.

Nancy’d been right about that much.

You’d, luckily, been wrong. About Steve, that is. You hope so, at least.

Nancy loops one of her arms around yours and you rest a reassuring hand against it.

“Either of you guys want anything to drink?” Steve asks while tucking a curl behind Nancy’s ear.

“Water,” you reply.

“And a Coke,” Nancy adds.

He nods and makes his way over to a cooler while you lead Nancy over to a fallen log for the two of you to seat yourselves upon.

“This feels…” Nancy trails off and shakes her head. “I just keep thinking—wondering, rather—if he’s here. I’d give anything right now to be able to read minds—find him out.”

Her eyes meet yours. “Maybe I’d shove a broken beer bottle shard in his neck.”

She’s never been the angry, violent type, but you figure she’s entitled to being as much now.

“He deserves that and worse,” you say.

Steve returns with your drinks then.

An older girl with a teased strawberry-blonde ponytail takes a standing position before the fire—flames licking at the sky above her frizzy head of hair—and she raises the amber bottle in her hand high above her to gather everyone’s attention.

You watch as beer sloshes from the open neck before she lowers the drink to her side again. “So, we all came here tonight for Tina. To give a big middle finger to the sick fuck who did this to her.”

She clears her throat, and pauses, like she’s trying to remember—or figure out—what she’s meant to next say. “So, uh, I’ll just open the floor to anyone who might want to say a few parting words to her, or tell stories to keep her memory alive.”

The young woman steps away, swaying lightly on her feet, leaving an opening for someone to then take her place.

Nancy shakes her head gently beside you. “A drunk to kick us off. Great.”

You turn slightly toward her. “Do you want to start everyone off? You don’t have to, since you spoke at her burial. I mean, you don’t have to anyway…”

She gently shakes her head. “No, I’ll do it. It should be someone who knew her. And who isn’t already under the influence.”

You and Steve stay seated as Nancy takes the vacated spot of the drunk girl.

Nancy clears her throat, then glances nervously to you and Steve before starting.

Sick fuck she’d called him.

She has no idea.

And the drunken cunt better watch it, or she’ll be next.

He shrugs slightly to only himself, knowing she wouldn’t be. Tina might’ve only been the beginning and the end, in truth. He’s just…not sure yet. There’d been something about it—the intimacy of being the only one present in her final moments; all that she could see, or hear, or feel—it’d been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Something which had transcended this plane—empty and superficial it usually seems.

Or so he’d thought.

But to discover something more—something not typically seen by the naked eye—had taken ungovernable rage to achieve. Though, it had been calculated. Planned. At least in theory. But once they were there—just the two of them—in these very woods…it’d been a far heavier experience than he’d thought to prepare himself for.

The feeling he discovered… It was intoxicating. An absolute release and escape from the torment he’s been forced to endure and tolerate because he has no other recourse but to. Having absolute dominion over another and their bodily autonomy—over a woman—he’d be remiss to pretend at it having no sort of hold over him now.

But he’s sure that there must be another way to fill that void—to go about reaching that pinnacle again. One which doesn’t require that sort of repeated, bloody sacrifice.

It’s not that he sees human life as being sacred. He doesn’t. Not anymore. Not that he’s sure he ever did. But rather that he’s new at this and still yet unsure of himself. He can’t get cocky. Can’t allow it to swallow him whole. He needs to be cautious going forward. More cautious, that is.

He must take things in stride.

His vision flits to Nancy’s waifish form as he barely listens to the meaningless, mournful words leaving her lips.

He’s supposed to feel guilt. That’s what a normal person would be experiencing by now.

But he doesn’t. Not in the least. After all, she was the first to shed blood. To drive the knife of betrayal straight through him, leaving it forever lodged within his black, tarred soul. He was merely repaying the fact.

You feel tired. The warmth from the fire is gradually causing your body to relax and your mind to go hazy.

It’s been a long day.

You’d hoped to be in bed by now, but you know that you can always just sleep in tomorrow instead, if need-be.

You glance around, waiting for Nancy and Steve to return. He’d taken her somewhere nearby to relieve herself after finishing off her bottle of Coke once people’s condolences were through being paid. You don’t like being alone here, even if you’re surrounded by people.

You look so pretty tonight. What, with your skin all awash in a fiery glow and your heavy lids drooping sleepily over innocent eyes. You’re damn-near irresistable. Hell, you always are.

He likes how you don’t know it. That you wouldn’t have the first idea of how to use your body to your benefit against lesser men—lesser than him, that is.

He hasn’t always been so versed in salacious feminine wiles, but he’s learned. It’d taken quite some time to, but he inevitably did. And now—now he knows what he needs, as opposed to what he’d once thought he wanted.

He’s not pleased that you’re here tonight, however. You should know better. This isn’t you: a rule-breaker. Mischievous. But he knows who to blame for it: your presence in a place you ought not to be at to begin with.

Billy can tell that even now—even after earning himself a diploma and attending a nearby college—that little Pretty Boy Harrington still hasn’t wised up. He thinks…what? That if some psycho comes out of the woods, armed with God-knows-what, he’ll be able to protect you and Nancy both? He has no idea what he’s up against. None of them fucking do.

Billy smirks at the knowledge, and then he stands.

“This seat taken?” questions a baritone timbre to your right.

Slowly, you lift your head to gaze up at none other than Billy Hargrove. Your eyes trail downward from his smooth, tanned face, which is framed by golden-brown curls, to a sculpted chest advertised by a partially unbuttoned shirt, and then to blue jeans which cling to his muscled legs. You then proceed to follow his index finger—the rest of his hand is wrapped tightly around a bottle of beer—to the bit of empty wood next to you.

You glance across the way to where Nancy and Steve now stand chatting amongst themselves, then back to him, and you shake your head. “No.”

In truth, you have half-a-mind to tell him to piss off after the things you heard him saying at Tina’s funeral earlier in the morning.

You refrain, however.

It’s just like you to always keep your mouth shut when you have something to say.

You tell yourself you’re merely picking and choosing your battles. As if you’ve ever fought any to begin with…

He gives you a gentle smile, then seats himself next to you. Close enough that his thigh is now pressed up against your own. And fuck, if that isn’t enough to set his blood on fire.

He takes a drink, then tips the neck of the bottle toward you with a quizzical brow.

Unbeknownest to you, it’s a test. One which you promptly pass.

“No, thank you,” you reply while shaking your head, then lifting a water bottle for him to see.

He finds himself pleased with your response. “I didn’t know that you and Tina were close.”

You glance to Nancy across the way again before staring at the fire ahead once more. “She and Nancy were.”

He clicks his tongue. “I see. So you’re here for moral support, then?”

You nod.

He nudges you gently, forcing you to look at him.

“That’s sweet of you. The two of you’ve always been good friends, haven’t you?”

You nod yet again. “Since we were in kindergarten.” You look at him. “So all our lives.”

He studies you for a moment. “You looked really pretty—at the funeral.” He slides a feather-light hand down your back, not wanting to frighten you away like the skittish little fawn you are.

He knows it will take a patient, dexterous hand to reel you in and groom you properly—particularly for his own selfish wants and needs. That it will have to be a gradual process, even if he wants you all to himself now. Not later.

You shift beneath his gaze and he promptly removes his hand.

The two of you remain quiet for a moment, while Billy considers.

“You want to take a walk?”

Your head jerks back in Billy’s direction, sure that he can’t be serious. “No. I’m okay. Thanks, though…”

His eyes narrow slightly and he cocks his head softly to the side. “Why not?”

Your brows furrow. “Because it’s dark. And I mean…look where we are. The stretch of woods we’re in.”

He stands then and extends a hand toward you. “C’mon. You’ll be with me. I can keep you safe. Promise.”

He grins and gives you a wink that’s meant to make him seem charming. But the sight of his canines glinting against the firelight instills a different sort of sensation within you.

“I’m okay, Billy, really.”

His features shift. It’s so small a difference that you’re not sure you even trust your eyes—what you just saw. Perhaps it’s just the flickering fire playing tricks on you. Perhaps you’re just tired. Perhaps…

“There’s just something I want to show you. I think you’ll really like it.”

He’s always known you to be more amiable and submissive. He fights against his own bubbling displeasure at your disagreement.

His temper, at time goes on, is seemingly becoming harder and harder to keep a lid on.

You look to Nancy and fill with relief when you see she and Steve coming your way.

And then is when you stand, and he smiles, thinking he finally has you.

Until he’s promptly disappointed.

You keep your eyes trained on him, watching as his smile disappears at the company of your friends coming to join you. Encroaching on what should be his.

He’s so fucking sick of everyone and everything getting in his way.

Tina is only the beginning.

“Hey,” Nancy calls softly, coming to stand by your side. “You ready to head out?”

Billy steps closer to you. “I can take her home.”

All eyes come to focus upon him.

“If she wants to stay awhile longer, I mean,” he tacks on while shifting on his booted feet.

Nancy pulls you closer to her. “She’s staying at my house tonight. The next few, actually. So we’re headed to the same place. That’s nice of you to offer, though.”

Billy’s jaw flexes, but briefly. And then he relents. “You all enjoy your night, then. And be safe.”

He turns and circles the fire, gazing across the way into the deep, dark woods, feeling a familiar itch which he needs to tend to. Tonight. One of…self-gratification.

There’s few ways left for him to self-soothe now. Masturbation being chief among them. He’ll have visions of you to keep him company as he sees to his carnal needs this evening, at least.

He so anticipates when you will be the one physically helping him along, knowing exactly what he needs and how to give it to him by him only needing to give you a specific look, or a mere gesture.

He’ll train you so well. His perfect, innocent girl. He can hardly wait.

“What did Billy want?” Nancy asks with a sour tone while pushing bubbles around the bathtub.

You’d taken yet another shower yourself once the two of you snuck back into the house for the night—albeit a brisk one—wishing to wash the smell of woodsy smoke and mosquito bites from your body so you’d be clean when the two of you finally laid down to sleep. You’d both gone in through the front door, however, since the house was all dark when you got back, meaning everyone else had already gone to bed for the evening. No reason to risk breaking your necks climbing back up the side of the house and through a window again.

You rest your forearm along the side of the tub and shrug slightly. “He kept…asking me to go into the woods with him. He said he wanted to show me something.”

She sits up straighter then. “He what?” she asks, now thoroughly alarmed.

Your eyes flit to hers and she lies each of her warm, wet palms atop your forearm while proceeding to grip it securely. “Show you what?” she questions.

“We didn’t get that far. I told him no, and then you and Steve came over and we left. It’s just the way he was acting…the look on his face.” You lean back and shake your head. “I don’t know. Maybe I was seeing things that weren’t there because of the heat of the day, or exhaustion. Or maybe he’d just had too much to drink.”

She pulls the stopper from the drain and the tub begins to gurgle. “He’s never been one to keep it in his pants. Even today he was just looking to make another notch in his belt, I’m sure. I never understood what Tina saw in him.”

You fleetingly consider making her privvy to what you overheard Billy say about the girl in question at her own funeral, but decide against it. Nancy’s been through enough today.

You stand and hand Nancy a towel as she emerges from the tub, which she promptly wraps around her naked form.

“But you’d never be into someone like him,” she states while taking a smell step toward you.

You snort quietly. “He’s nice to look at, but, no, I very much doubt that.”

Nancy smiles. “Good.”

She’s most-certainly frightened.

Not that you blame her.

You know because, before turning in for the night, she set out an old star projector you haven’t seen since the two of you were ten or eleven years old.

You watch idly as various planets and solar systems make their way across the ceiling, stretching, then folding back in on themselves before circling around again and again.

Everything always comes full-circle.

You feel Nancy shift onto her side, and her hand comes to rest atop the crown of your shoulder. “I think I might take some flowers over to her grave tomorrow.”

You turn onto your side then as well to face her. “I’m sure Tina would like that.”

Nancy’s eyes flit between your own. “I always feel better when you’re here.”

You smile sleepily. “I’m glad.”

She glances away for a moment, and her expression changes to one that makes it seem as if she’s lost in thought. And then she returns her eyes to yours. “You never did answer me earlier.”

Your brows furrow. “Hm?”

“About if you think I’m pretty.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I doubt that you need me to tell you that you are, Nance.”

“But do you think I am?” she asks softly while moving closer.

“Y-yes, of course I do. Why?”

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, and then she does something entirely unexpected.

Nancy pulls herself flush against your body and proceeds to press her lips against your own.

The moment lasts for only that—a moment—before you pull away in shock. “Nancy, what’re y—”

“I’m sorry,” she immediately supplies while her eyes well with tears. “I just thought… That maybe you felt…”

She sniffles. “Please don’t be mad.”

You remain silent—your mind entirely blank.

You silently curse yourself for the sudden loss of words on your part. Because she’s staring at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something. Anything.

“It’s just…you’re with Steve. That’d be like—no, it would be—cheating.”

She nods slowly. “I know. I’m not…doing it to be unfaithful to him. I just… I’ve wanted to. For a long time. Especially today. Have you never wanted to…?”

“I’m…not sure. I don’t know.”

You suddenly feel doubtful toward yourself. Have you ever wanted to? Do you want to?

It doesn’t matter what the answer is. You won’t be inserting yourself into their relationship like this. You’re not that kind of person: a homewrecker, for lack of a better term.

She gingerly tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “He doesn’t have to know, Y/N.”

You stare back at her in disbelief. This isn’t the Nancy that you know. She’d never cheat. Steve has done nothing to deserve this.

“Nancy—”

“Just for tonight, please. Couldn’t we try?”

Try?, you want to say. Try what?

“Nancy, we’re both exhausted. You’ve been through a lot today. The past week, really. Let’s just go to sleep, okay? I’m not mad. I promise. Maybe I do feel…something. But you’re spoken for, like I said. And I don’t…” You shake your head. “Even if you weren’t, I wouldn’t want to risk ruining our friendship over something that could never last anyway.”

She winces.

And you fill with guilt.

“I think you know what I mean. No one would ever accept something like that. Not here. Not in a small town like Hawkins.”

Her chin wobbles. “I know. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.”

You take one of her hands in yours. “It’s okay. I’m flattered, I think, if nothing else.”

She flushes. “Guess you know about my crush now…”

You begin to see recent moments spent with her in an entirely different light then. Like when you’d undressed after the funeral and she’d blushed at the nearly-naked sight of you. Or all the times she held your hand today. Or how she’d seemed even the least bit jealous about Billy having spoken to you this evening.

“Guess so,” you reply in a mere whisper.

The two of you grow quiet again momentarily.

“Could…you hold me?” she asks, while also preparing for rejection.

You give her a soft, reassuring smile. “Course.”

She wraps herself around you then while resting her head between your breasts. “Thanks.”

You close your eyes, ignoring your hammering heart, worried that she can hear it. “Welcome.”

It’s late.

And he shouldn’t be here.

Usually, when he wants to check up on you, he does so outside your house.

But you’re with her tonight.

So, here he sits across the street, staring up at Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom window instead.

He finds sleep difficult to find unless he’s looked in on you for the night. He’s made quite the habit of it for weeks on-end now. He’s just doing it to ensure that his darling girl is safe, that’s all.

Even if the only thing anyone in this town has to be afraid of now—most of all—is him. Especially a sweet young thing like yourself.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispers against the humid night air before turning his Camaro over and driving himself back home, ready to begin planning his next step.

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