#where they stuck you in a small room and filled it with fog and you had to crawl out of it?

[morganbritton132]

More add-ons to the Steve Has Older Siblings agenda:

1. Steve would love for no one he talks to on a regular basis to ever meet any of his family but he’s not mad about Jason coming into Scoops Ahoy to be a dick to him and promptly having Robin say, “Wow. You’re going to act like that with that hairline? Bold.”

Its the first time she has said anything even somewhat nice to/about/for him. (She finds out post-Starcourt that Steve has a brother)

2. Their dad threatened to cut them out of their inheritance if they didn’t spend half the summer at his house at least until they finished an undergrad. Coincidentally, this time always corresponds to when Richard and Angela have to travel out of town to meet with an “important client.” This is somehow Steve’s fault.

3. One time for the entire summer, all three of them pretended he was invisible. It made him cry multiple times. They still make jokes about it even though they’re trying to be better siblings to him because being an asshole is inherited from your father and the only way to get rid of that trait is to have it beaten out of you.

4. When the fire department came to school and walked them through a house fire simulation, Steve thought it was so cool that he reacted it at home with a smoke machine pressed up against Claire’s bedroom door. She did not appreciate the fire safety lesson.

5. Everytime Tommy came over on their weekend, they all made a point to talk about how much they liked Tommy and how cool Tommy was. Tommy was the little brother they always wanted. No reason. Just being assholes.

[kateschi]

windswept

synopsis: sometimes all you need is a chance to forget.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: oh what i would give to have just one car ride with him

the apartment feels too quiet. too still.

the kind of silence that presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, until it settles deep in your chest.

you’re curled up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, staring blankly at the dim glow of the television.

the muffled noise plays in the background, but you’re not really listening. the weight inside you sits heavy, like an anchor pulling you down, thick like fog that refuses to lift.

you don’t even register the front door unlocking until the familiar creak of hinges cuts through the silence, followed by the heavy thud of boots against the floor.

then—his voice.

“the hell’s up with you?”

katsuki stands in the doorway, still clad in his hero gear, the faint scent of smoke, sweat, and something distinctly him clinging to the fabric.

his red eyes sweep over the room, flickering over the untouched food on the counter, the dim lighting, the way you’re curled up too small.

his shoulders, still tense from the long shift, subtly shift as he exhales, his lips pressing into a firm line.

you try to force a smile, but it barely lifts the corners of your lips. “just… tired, I guess.”

he doesn’t buy it. of course, he doesn’t. katsuki’s always been good at reading you, picking apart the things you don’t say.

his jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. he watches you for a long moment before he moves, stepping further inside with purpose. “c’mon.”

you blink at him. “huh?”

“get up.” his voice is gruff but not unkind. he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. “we’re goin’ for a drive.”

you hesitate, glancing at the clock on the wall. “katsuki, it’s late—”

“so?” he quirks a brow, already tugging you toward the door. “the hell else are you gonna do? sit here ‘til you rot?”

a small, breathy laugh slips from you despite yourself, the corner of your lips twitching upward. “you sure know how to make someone feel better.”

he scoffs, but it’s softer than usual.

his grip on your hand tightens for just a second before he leans down, pressing a quick, fleeting kiss to your temple—so light you barely register it before he’s already pulling away, grabbing his keys.

“just get in the damn car.”

the city looks different at night.

streetlights flicker past in long, golden streaks as katsuki’s porsche hums down the empty roads, smooth and effortless.

the usual chaos of traffic is gone, replaced by open streets and the occasional glow of late-night diners.

the rhythmic sound of the engine beneath you is steady, a soft reminder that you’re moving, that you’re not stuck in that quiet apartment anymore.

you lean against the seat, watching the world blur outside the window.

the cool night air slips in through the slightly cracked window, crisp and clean, carrying the distant scent of rain. it feels… lighter. like you can breathe a little easier.

katsuki glances over at you, his right hand resting comfortably on the gear shift, fingers tapping against it absentmindedly. “feelin’ better?”

you inhale deeply, letting the fresh air fill your lungs before exhaling, letting it take a fraction of that weight with it. “yeah.”

his fingers still. he watches you for a moment longer before making a quiet, satisfied noise in the back of his throat. “good.”

the conversation lulls, but it doesn’t feel heavy like before. the silence between you is comfortable, filled with the distant hum of tires against asphalt, the occasional flick of a turn signal.

then—without warning—katsuki shifts gears, smoothly taking a sharp turn onto an open road leading out of the city. the tall buildings begin to thin, replaced by wide stretches of road and open sky.

you glance at him, brow furrowing slightly. “where are we going?”

he smirks, flicking a switch near the dashboard. “you’ll see.”

a soft whirring noise fills the air as the roof of the car slowly retracts, revealing the vast expanse of sky above.

a rush of wind follows, tousling your hair and sending a thrill down your spine. the scent of distant rain lingers in the cool breeze.

your breath catches in your throat.

katsuki nudges your knee with his hand, his touch warm even through the fabric of your pants. “stick your head out.”

you hesitate, blinking at him. “what?”

“go on.” his voice is softer now, coaxing, reassuring. “I got you.”

you glance up at the open sky—dark and endless, sprinkled with faint stars—and, slowly, carefully, push yourself up.

the second your head lifts above the car, the wind rushes past, whipping through your hair, filling your lungs with crisp, night air.

the world around you blurs—lights stretching, road disappearing into the horizon—until all that’s left is motion.

you close your eyes, tilting your head back, letting yourself feel it.

the weight that had been sitting heavy in your chest feels a little lighter, carried away by the wind, by the vast openness of it all.

a breathless laugh slips from your lips.

then—warmth.

katsuki’s arm wraps firmly around your waist, securing you against him, his grip steady but gentle.

“don’t do somethin’ dumb and fall out,” he mutters, his voice just above the roar of the wind.

you grin, glancing back at him. “I won’t.”

his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he scoffs lightly, his hold tightening just a fraction. “won’t let ya fall anyway.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[kentogetsmewetter]

Drugs & Money

⋆｡°✩Genre: musician eren x f reader

⋆｡°✩Synopsis: You only went to the house party because your friend swore it’d be worth it celebrities, stars, maybe even some connections. You weren’t expecting much. But then you met him. Eren. He was already gone in more ways than one, but something about him pulled you in. You talked, you smoked, and one night… that’s all it was going to be

⋆｡°✩Contents: drug usage(weed), sex(p n v), unprotected sex, overstim, fingering, edging, choking/asphyxiation, dirty talk, pet names( baby, pretty, etc)

series masterlist

You were already high by the time you stepped into the house. Cute little house party your friend invited you to. Spoke about all the famous people and familiar faces you could find here. So you said fuck it, you needed this anyways.

You weren't the giggly kind of high right now you hardly ever were. You were that slow motion, colors to bright, I feel my heart in my eyelids kind of high. The kind that makes you feel like you’re watching your own life from across the room.

The music hit you first, loud, distorted, vibrating straight through your chest, shaking the floor, and making your heartbeat feel off-sync. Some remix you couldn’t name, but the bass was low and smooth. There were lights were flashing from every angle, harsh white strobes, with strips of blue and red LEDs running around the edges of the ceiling, and a rotating light in the corner that kept spinning out sharp flashes of color that made it hard to focus on anything for too long and cheap fog machine that had filled the room with a light haze

People were everywhere. Packed shoulder to shoulder. Some were dancing, their bodies grinding and swaying with drinks in their hands. Others were standing in circles, shouting over the music, holding red cups and their phones. Of course there was a couple making out hard near the staircase, and someone was passed out on the couch. You stepped over an empty bottle on the floor, the air smelled like weed and sweat, the feeling was warm, kinda gross, but never unfamiliar.

You hadn’t been here long with your friend, but it was already enough time for the room to start feeling too small, too loud, too chaotic. You weren’t exactly new to the scene, you'd been to enough parties like this to know the drill. But tonight, it was different. The air felt thicker, like everyone was trying to outdo each other with their presence.

The friend you came with was somewhere else across the room, her laugh cutting through the crowd like she owned the place. You could see her talking to some guy by the couch, her hands animated as she laughed a little too loudly at something he said. It was the same every time. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. She was the more social one out of you two, and she knew how to flirt her way into anything she wanted.

You, on the other hand? You weren't the type to stand on the wall at a party or be the center of attention. You were just here to vibe, get lost in the music, and maybe forget a few things. You took a quick look at her, giving you a thumbs up, giving you a signal she was doing fine, and mouthing something you weren't able to make out. 

You nodded back, but your mind wasn’t really on her. It was on the itch that had been growing since you first stepped into the house. The kind of buzz that made your thoughts feel like they were speeding up, but your body was stuck in slow motion.

You were already thinking about your next hit. Not because the edible you took wasn’t good, it was, but because it just wasn’t enough. Your high was starting to dull, and you needed that next wave to hit and drag you under, just a little deeper.

That floaty, warm buzz was creeping through your limbs, but your head wasn’t quite where you wanted it yet. You knew what you needed. You knew it was in your bag. You just needed a quiet enough space to roll it up.

You'd been in this house more times than you could count. It always looked the same. You knew the layout by heart, the flow of it, cause everyone was always hosting parties at this house. So, even with the chaos of the party pressing in around you, people dancing, music pulsing like a second heartbeat, you moved through it with ease.

Shoulders bumped yours. A girl spilled her drink and cursed at you, but you could care less, laughing as her friend pulled her into another room. Someone tried to talk to you, leaning in way too close, but you slipped past before they could even finish their sentence. Your mind wasn’t on people. It was on that next hit.

But as you made your way through the thick haze of perfume, weed smoke, and sweat, that feeling crept in, like someone was watching you. Not just looking, but watching. Your skin prickled beneath your clothes, heat curling up your spine in a way that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. You didn’t look over your shoulder. Not yet. But you felt it. That heavy kind of gaze, the kind that sticks to you.

You shook it off, just enough to keep moving. It was probably nothing. A guy staring too hard. A girl being weird. The usual. But the weight of it stuck with you as you pushed through a final couple of people and stepped into the kitchen.

The shift in energy was immediate. The kitchen was quieter, calmer. The bass was muffled through the walls, and the light in here was warmer, less intense than the flashing strobes in the other rooms. Only a few people lingered here, two girls whispering near the sink, a couple of guys passing a bottle back and forth at the table, eyes glassy and not paying you any attention. No one in here mattered. No one in here was watching.

You finally exhaled, letting your shoulders drop as the tension slipped away. You walked over to the counter, the surface sticky with old spills you slid your small bag in front of you. Your fingers moved automatically to the rolling papers, the grinder, and the little can with your stash tucked inside. You found comfort in rolling up. You dumped the bud onto the counter and started breaking it down with practiced ease, fingers moving fast but precise. The smell hit you right away earthy, sweet, sharp it made your mouth water just a little.

You glanced up once, just to make sure no one was hovering. No one was. You were good. The beat of the music from the other room thudded softly through the walls. You lined your paper, flattened it out smooth. Tapped the ground bud into place, spreading it with your finger, neat and even. Licked the edge and rolled it tight, sealing it with the tip of your tongue like you’d done a thousand times before. That quick flick of your lighter, the brief spark, and you were already bringing it to your lips.

The first inhale was deep. You held it, let it burn slowly in your lungs, and exhaled through your nose. With the fog curling up and around your face, you craved this feeling. Hell, you lived in it. For the most part, you stayed high. Not out of control, but enough, enough to stop overthinking everything. But when it came to parties like this, loud, hot, too many people in your space, you smoked way more.

You brought the blunt back to your lips, fingers resting light but steady. The ember flared again, burning red for a second before fading back to black as you pulled another hit. You sucked in deep, slow, controlled, just the way you liked it. The taste hit your tongue earthy and bitter, with that faint hint of sweetness you always picked up when the wrap burned just right.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, just long enough to feel it settle. That buzz behind your eyes. That soft hum in your chest. That room was too loud, too bright, too much. But in this moment, with smoke in your lungs and the music thumping somewhere far off, it didn’t matter. You exhaled again, watching the smoke swirl in front of your face before disappearing into the air. And just like that, you were right where you wanted to be.

A slight movement pulled your attention to the doorway. A person was standing there, leaning against the frame like it was built just for him, shoulder slouched, posture loose, but eyes sharp and locked onto you. You clocked it instantly, he was high, and not off anything light. You’d seen that look before, and you knew it well. You were floating too, but he was somewhere deeper, somewhere darker. It showed in his face, in the way his jaw was loose but his eyes were tense. Like his body had let g,o but his mind was racing.

You’d definitely seen him before. That much you were sure of. There was something about him the way his face lingered like a memory, like a song you’ve heard in passing too many times but forgotten. He seemed so familiar and didn't at the same time.

The kitchen light cast a soft glow across his face, flickering just enough to make the whole moment feel cinematic. His eyes were bloodshot, lids heavy, and his pupils were blown wide, so wide you could barely see the green around the edges. His stare was intense, direct, and completely unbothered by being caught.

His hair hung down in soft waves, messy but not unkept. A few strands clung to his forehead from the heat in the room, the rest framing his face in a way that felt too perfect to be accidental. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away when your eyes met his. He just watched you slowly, deliberately, like every movement you made was worth studying.

The way your fingers cradled the blunt, still warm between your fingertips. The way your lips had just wrapped around it, your exhale still thick in the air. The way your body leaned back against the counter, all relaxed, like you didn’t give a single fuck who was watching. But he was.

"You always roll up like that?" Oh, look at that, he finally speaks. You watched him push off the doorframe. His movements were slow, measured, and calm as he walked toward you with that heavy-lidded stare, red eyes glassy, lips parted like he was still tasting whatever high he was on. He had a certain pull about him. It lingered in the way he moved, the way his eyes never rushed, how he seemed like he already knew what you were going to say before you said it. 

It was the kind of pull that could drag you under if you weren’t careful. The kind that didn’t just ask you to look, it dared you to get close. And if you did? If you leaned in just a little too far? You’d fall. Not gracefully either. You’d fall hard and fast, right into his world.

One made of blurred nights, smoke-stained breath, and music that rattled your ribs. A world stitched together with chaos, where rules didn’t matter and everything was beautiful for just long enough to ruin you.

And maybe just maybe, if he played his cards right, you’d let yourself get pulled into it. You weren’t sure if that made you reckless or just curious. But either way? He was already reeling you in. 

"Like what?" you replied, casual, as if he hadn’t just been watching you roll up like it was something sacred. You planted your palms on the edge of the counter behind you and pushed yourself up with a slow, fluid motion onto the counter. Your legs swung once before crossing at the ankle. You took another hit, exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, then let the blunt dangle between your fingers. 

He was closer now. Not too close to give you any discomfort, but enough that you could see the fine cut of his jaw under the low yellow kitchen light. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a tattoo.

"Like you're trying to seduce the paper." His voice was thick with amusement, raspy but edged with that slow kind of charm. His gaze was locked onto you like it was second nature. And he had a smirk, lazy, crooked, even a little smug, it was already on his lips like he’d been waiting to say that line all night. 

"You always stare that hard at random people you don't know?" The smirk on his face deepened, spreading just enough to make his dimple show through the stubble lining his jaw. He stepped in even closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. 

His hand moved toward yours, slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him, but you didn’t. His fingers brushed against yours, the touch was feather light, but still enough to send a small jolt up your arm, as he reached for the blunt in your hand. Not to hit it yet, just to tilt it, tapping the ash off to the side with the pad of his thumb, his touch light but confident. He was careful with it, like the moment was too good to rush.

"Only the ones worth staring at," he murmured then bringing it to his lips. The way he inhaled was slow, intentional. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, not just with the hit, but with you. His cheeks hollowed just slightly, his lashes lowering as the embers lit up the tip of the blunt. The orange-red glowing over his face for a second, catching in his eyes before fading again. And somehow, it was beautiful. Effortlessly so. He exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling between the two of you. 

“Real smooth,” you murmured, a quiet fake chuckle slipping past your lips. Your voice was low, but there was a little glint of amusement in your voice, like you were entertained, but not impressed yet. 

“Smooth, hmm?” he echoed. The blunt sat between his fingers, held out toward you, but not all the way. No, he didn’t stretch his arm. Didn’t offer it plainly. He kept it close to his mouth, like you’d have to lean in to take it. Like he wanted you to. The ember still softly glowing at the tip, smoke coiling off of it in lazy swirls that blurred the space between you. 

And something about the way he held it loose and confident, like he had all the time in the world, made your stomach flip just once. Like, this wasn’t just about sharing a hit. Like it was already a game and you’d just stepped into it. “You want it?” he asked, voice thick and a little raspy from the smoke. “Gonna have to come get it, pretty."

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him like really looked. The blunt hovered between his fingers, still close to his mouth. You stepped forward, slow, deliberate, your shoes thudding softly against the tile floor. Each movement felt heavier in the quiet space between the two of you, like the air had thickened.

He didn’t flinch. Just stood there, watching you with that lazy smirk, eyes low but locked onto yours like he already knew you were going to do it. You didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. You leaned in, your lips brushing just barely against the blunt between his fingers. You didn’t mean to, or maybe you did, but either way, the warmth of his skin sparked something low in your gut.

You kept your eyes locked onto his as you inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill your lungs deep, deep enough to sting a little in your chest. His head tilted just slightly, the kind of subtle movement that made him look even more relaxed even more dangerous. His eyes trailed over your face like he was memorizing it. Every blink, every twitch of your mouth, every breath. He looked ten times better like that, but then you pulled away, exhaling through your nose. 

“Yea… you seem dangerous,” he said, voice dipping lower as a small chuckle left his lips, the sound barely above the hum of the party behind him, but somehow it curled around your spine like smoke.

You tilted your head, arching a brow, a slow smirk teasing your lips. “Yea? And you seem like you like that.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward again, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he brought the blunt to his lips, he inhaled deeply, cheeks hollowing just enough to show off the sharp lines of his face, the strength in his jaw. His lashes dipped low as he held it, eyes fixed on you through the thickening smoke.

Then he moved, his body shifted forward, and you didn’t flinch, couldn’t. His arms came down slow, steady, hands planting firmly on either side of you on the counter you were resting against. Caging you in without touching you… Not yet. His presence was overwhelming this close, and you could feel it feel him the heat and danger and the kind of charm that wrecked people.

And you weren’t trying to run. The closer he got to you, you could smell the intoxicating mix of smoke, cologne, and something warm and musky clinging to his hoodie.

One of his hands peeled away from the counter, smooth and careful, reaching for your face. His fingers brushed your jaw first, then trailed lightly up to your chin, tilting it just slightly. His touch was gentle, almost too gentle for someone who looked like that, it was like trouble molded into something beautiful.

Your lips parted instinctively, not even realizing it until he just leaned in, so close you could count every freckle dusted across his cheeks. Then he exhaled. The smoke flowed from his lips to yours, warm and slow, curling into your mouth like it belonged there. You inhaled without breaking eye contact, the taste of him mixing with the burn of the weed. 

When you finally released it, the smoke came from your mouth, weaving through the narrow space between your faces like it had its own pulse. His thumb brushed your bottom lip light, but lingering. Just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “That mouth gonna get you in a lot of trouble,” his smile depended his voice, low and rasped around the edges like he wasn’t just talking about the words that came out of it. “Hope you can handle it.”

You blinked slowly, lips still slightly parted, the warmth of his breath ghosting across them. “Hope I can handle it?” you echoed, tilting your head slightly, the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile. “Seems like you’re the one getting caught up.” 

His eyes flicked to your lips again, hungry. But he didn’t move. Not yet. For a moment, he just stood there, gaze locked on yours like he was trying to decide something. Like if he crossed that line, there’d be no going back. His jaw tensed slightly, the muscle ticking beneath smooth skin. One of his hands curled tighter against the counter, and his thumb still rested beneath your bottom lip, unmoving.

“Maybe we both are.” The air felt heavier with every passing second, every beat of silence. And then he gave in, slowly, like gravity was pulling him forward, he leaned in. His nose brushed yours, breath mingling, lips hovering. He paused there, eyes flicking up to meet yours one last time. Almost asking. Almost warning. And then he kissed you.

Soft at first. Just a press. But it didn’t stay that way. The second you responded, leaned in, breathed him in his hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, fingers curling just enough to make your pulse jump. His other hand moved from the counter to a harsh grip on your waist, grounding you, anchoring you in place as the kiss deepened.

You knew in that moment you were trapped. Not physically, of course. Not in the way that made you want to run. But in the way that made you want to stay,  it was the kind of trap you didn’t mind falling into because something about him the way his mouth moved with yours, his hands that felt like fire along your body and made you crave the ruin.

And ruin you, he was. You felt it in your chest. In the way your heart pounded too fast, too loud, like a warning for what's to come. In the way your breath hitched the moment your fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the dark, messy strands like you’d been waiting to touch him forever. His hair was soft, thick, and your grip tightened just enough to make him let out a sound low in his throat.

You could feel his breath, hot and uneven, ghosting over your lips. Your tongue tangled with his tongue it was slick and warm, pulling moans from your throat; you didn’t know you’d give so easily. He kissed with his whole body, leaning into you, pressing his chest to yours, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you firm in place like you might try to run and like he wouldn’t let you.

Every slide of his mouth, every roll of his tongue against yours, felt like fire under your skin, each movement sending ripples of heat crawling down your spine. Your lips parted wider for him, inviting him in again and again, letting him taste you until you couldn’t remember where he ended and you began. It wasn't careful, it was chaotic his mouth moved like he had all the time in the world and none at all.

He tasted like smoke and sin. Earthy yet addictive. Like every warning you’d ever been given and every temptation you’d never been able to resist. And every pass of his tongue over yours made your stomach twist tighter, your thighs clench, your fingers dig harder into his hair like he was the only thing grounding you to the moment. You were drowning in it. In him. And you didn’t want to come up for air. You needed more. And shit, maybe you needed him.

His other hand found your waist without hesitation, the hand sneaking around your wasit , fingers pressing into the curve of your wasit as the kiss deepened even more, your mouths moving in sync like you’d done this a hundred times before in different life. Then he tapped at your side twice a silent cue, and you understood immediately

You jumped, instinctively he lifted you effortlessly and sat you on the counter. His body settled between your legs, heat pressing into heat, and your thighs wrapped around his waist like second nature pulling him closer until there was nothing between you to. 

Your breath was still tangled with his when he pulled back, just slightly, teasing you with the space he created. His lips hovered over yours, close enough to touch, to tempt, but not close enough to satisfy. That wicked smirk was still playing at the corners of his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Your lips were swollen and tender, tingling with every breath you drew. The taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Your chest rose and fell at an uneven rhythm, breath catching as you tried to steady yourself. It had only been a few seconds. Just a few seconds of kissing him but it already made you so dizzy, he made you feel so dizzy.

Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tugged hard, deliberately. Just enough to make him falter. His breath hitched it was subtle, but you felt it right against your mouth. “Pull away again,” you whispered, voice low right by his ear, “and I’ll find someone else to finish what you started.”

“I promise,” you felt a soft press of his lips against yours. But your body reacted instantly. Your breath caught, and your stomach dipped, and your skin lit up in the places where he touched you. “You won’t find someone else that'll fuck you like me,” he added, his breath brushing against your ear. You could feel the cocky smirk on his lips without even seeing it. 

“Let’s get outta here,” he said, no hesitation, no asking. “Wanna fuck you somewhere nice.” Before you could even respond, his hand wrapped around your wrist. And he was already pulling you through the crowd, weaving through bodies like they were nothing, like he had tunnel vision for you and only you.

 You stumbled a little at first, heels clicking against the floor as you followed him, half breathless and half laughing. “Real princess treatment, huh?” you muttered under your breath, sarcasm dripping from your tone, though you didn’t slow down. Didn’t want to. 

The door swung open, and the night air hit, sobering in the best way. The muffled bass from inside faded as the two of you stepped into the dim parking lot, lit only by streetlights and a flickering neon sign in the distance.

He let go of your wrist but stayed close, walking ahead just a few steps, And there it was a glossy all black BMW S1000RR, sleek, dangerous-looking his motorcycle. You paused for a second, rolling your eyes. Of course, he had a bike. He turned to look at you, catching the expression on your face. A smirk tugged at his lips again, but this time, it was softer like he was proud of your reaction.

“Come here,” he said softly, motioning with two fingers. “ You ever been on one before?” You shook your head no while he reached for the helmet hanging from one of the handlebars “Make sure your hold on tight."

He slipped the helmet gently over your head, his fingers grazed your temples, tucking strands of hair behind your ears with a tenderness that made your stomach flutter. The inside of the helmet was cool against your skin, but his touch left behind a nice warmth.

His hands didn’t drop away immediately. They hovered, lingering near your jaw as he crouched slightly to adjust the strap beneath your chin. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, brushing against the sensitive skin just below your jawline. The pads of his thumbs ghosted over your throat, not enough to tickle, but enough to make your breath catch in your chest.

He was focused, brows furrowed like this tiny act of fastening a helmet required precision. Like you required precision. Like he was trying to get it exactly right because you were something worth protecting. “There,” he murmured, finally snapping the buckle into place. “Fits nice.”

You blinked up at him through the visor, heart thudding a little too hard. He was so close, close enough to kiss again if you tilted your head just right. But this time, there was no rush. No urgency. Just a quiet stillness that made the moment stretch, heavy with something unspoken. Then he smiled not the smug, cocky smirk you’d come to expect from him but a real smile. Soft. Gentle. One that reached his eyes. He tapped the top of the helmet with one hand, like a playful little seal of approval. “Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.” 

You rolled your eyes, but you felt your lips pulling into a reluctant grin that you couldn’t quite fight off. “So thoughtful,” you teased, the words light and airy, but your voice wavered just slightly. Maybe from the adrenaline. Maybe from how he was still looking at you.

“C’mon,” his voice low as he swung one leg over the bike and settled onto the seat with ease. The metallic clink of the kickstand echoed softly as he nudged it up with his foot. You hesitated for a second just a breath before stepping forward. The bike gleamed under the soft streetlight, and your heart was pounding harder than it should’ve been. But not from fear. 

You climbed on behind him, the leather seat cool against the backs of your thighs. Your hands found his waist first, unsure, but then slid around him fully, hugging him tighter than you meant to. But it wasn’t dramatic or obvious. Your chest pressed gently to his back as your arms locked around him, and he didn’t say a word. Didn’t tease you for it. He just shifted slightly like he was making room for you. Like he wanted you that close.

You were nervous maybe even a little scared but you’d never say it out loud. Still, something about the way he felt beneath your arms, solid and warm, made your shoulders relax just a bit. Part of you trusted him. You didn’t know why. You just did.

He reached forward and twisted the key. The engine roared to life with a deep growl that vibrated through your legs and straight into your chest. You gripped him a little tighter instinctively. “Ready?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk, the wind already starting to whip through his hair.

You swallowed the nervous flutter in your throat and nodded, even though he couldn’t really see it. “Ready.” And just like that, the bike surged forward, the night swallowing the both of you in its arms.

As soon as he pulled off, the world shifted beneath you. The engine growled beneath your thighs, a deep, thrilling vibration that traveled up your spine and settled somewhere in your chest. Then came the rush of wind cool and sharp hitting your body like a hard as the bike surged forward.

You felt it instantly that rush. The kind that made your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. You understood completely now, why people loved this. The speed. The freedom. The absolute high of it. It was like flying like letting go of everything and trusting the road to catch you.

Your arms tightened around his torso, more out of exhilaration than nerves now. You pressed your cheek lightly to his back, his hoodie warm beneath you, and you smiled. Really smiled.

Through the visor, the city unfolded around you like a dream. The night was alive buildings lit up in soft golds and neons, headlights streaking like fireflies past in a blur. You sped between rows of cars, through wide intersections. And with him in front of you, the handlebars steady beneath his hands, you felt… untouchable. Wild. Beautifully reckless. 

“You good?” he yelled, his voice barely cutting through the wind rushing past you both. The world was a blur of headlights and neon streaks, cool air whipping against your skin, but you could still hear the grin in his voice. 

“Yea.” You called out clutching him tighter, your arms snug around his torso. “Wouldn’t want to fall off before I get what you promised.” You joked and he let out a low rich laugh but you felt it more than you heard it, the way it rumbled through his back against your chest.

“You seem like you don’t scare easy,” he called out, his voice cutting through the wind as he slowed the bike, easing onto a quieter, dimly lit street. The city lights blurred past in streaks of gold and red, casting a warm glow over his silhouette.

He turned his head just enough to glance back at you, and for a second, your eyes met. His were sharp, gleaming like polished emeralds beneath the streetlights steady, unreadable, and yet somehow teasing. “It’s hot,” he added, the words rough around the edges, dipped in something unspoken.

You let out a low, breathy laugh, the sound muffled slightly by the helmet. “You saying I’m brave,” you teased, “or just crazy?” He smirked, eyes flicking back to the road, but not before you caught the curve of his smile, the way it tugged at his cheek like he was trying not to enjoy you so much.

“Little bit of both,” he said, voice smooth, playful. “But I’m not complaining. I like a thrill ride with pretty girl.”  The wind had died down now, but your heart still raced from the ride and from him. He pulled into a small, gravel-lined driveway beside a tucked-away apartment building. Not flashy, but private. One porch light flickered weakly overhead, casting a golden halo across the cracked steps leading up to the door. The kind of place that looked lived-in, but it suited him.

He cut the engine, and the sudden silence was almost startling. Your arms lingered around his waist for a second longer than necessary, not quite ready for the ride to be over. “This is me,” he said, voice softer now in the quiet. He kicked the stand down with a sharp metallic clink, the engine falling silent beneath you both.

For a beat, the only sound was the ticking of the cooling metal and the soft hum of city life in the distance. Then he turned toward you, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, and reached up slow and steady.

His hands brushed against your jaw as he unclasped the helmet, fingers careful and sure. The buckle clicked free, and he eased the helmet off your head like he was handling something fragile. His hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary, thumbs brushing along your temple as he took you in. “Still good?” he asked, voice lower now, quieter. “Or having second thoughts?”

You let out a soft breath smoothing your hair back into place, When you looked up, your gaze met his and the world seemed to narrow down to just that. Him. The dim glow from the porch light softened the sharpness of his features, made his green eyes gleam like secrets you weren’t sure you were ready to learn. He looked different now. More human, waiting for your answer. 

“If I wasn’t good,” you said, voice steady despite the nerves fluttering beneath your skin, “I wouldn’t be here.” His grin went wide at that a flash of teeth and dimples that made your stomach twist in the best kind of way. For a second, he just looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the way you stood there under the lights , hair kinda wild from the helmet, lips still a little swollen, eyes daring and unreadable. 

Then his hand reached out, brushing against yours. The contact was brief, feather-light but electric. Your fingers found each other naturally, slipping into place. His thumb swept gently across the back of your hand like a secret.

“C’mon,” He tugged you forward with that same quiet confidence, pulling you up the short flight of stairs. You followed close behind, heart beating fast but he heat of his palm grounding you. "I need to make good on a few promises."

Then he reached the door, he let go of your hand just long enough to get the key from his pocket. It clicked into the lock with a sense of finality, metal scraping against metal. He shoved the door open with one shoulder, the hinges creaking softly as the warm, dim light from inside spilled into the stairwell. And then just like that as soon as your foot hit the hardwood floor, it was over.

Not because you were scared. Not because you doubted anything. But because the moment the door shut behind you, everything else fell away. The air shifted, You could feel him behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath at your neck, the subtle creak of the floorboards as he stepped in after you. 

You barely had time to take a breath before his hand slid around the back of your neck. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm, possessive, like he needed to feel you anchored there. Then his mouth crashed into yours. There was no build-up, just raw heat and hunger. The force of it caught you off guard, it made your balance falter as you stumbled back a step. But you didn’t pull away. You kissed him back just as hard, lips parting instinctively, tongues tangling in a clash of want.

This kiss wasn’t like the ones before. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t teasing. It was hungry and full of need. Desperate in the way only two people who couldn’t wait anymore could be. His mouth moved against yours with need , pulling moans from your throat as your bodies pressed agasit each other. His other hand found your waist, pulling you forward, guiding you backwards with every step never once breaking the kiss. You felt the heat of him through your clothes, the tight coil of tension winding between you both like it could snap at any second.

Your back met the nearest wall with a soft thud, and still, he didn’t let up. His tongue swept into your mouth again, slow at first, then deeper, exploring you like he needed to memorize the taste. Every kiss, every glide of his mouth, was more demanding than the last. Your hands gripped at his shirt, pulling him closer, trying to match his rhythm, trying to keep up.

His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make you gasp and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him. Still, he didn’t pull back. He pressed in closer, crowding your body against the wall like he couldn’t stand the space between you, like even your clothes were too much.

Your hands slid under his shirt, fingertips grazing his hot skin where his shirt had ridden up. He was solid beneath your touch lean muscle, but still felt a little tense and when your nails scratched lightly down his spine, you felt the way his breath caught, the way his hips stuttered against yours for just a second.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, the words low like he wasn’t sure how you were already undoing him. He finally pulled back not far, just enough to look at you, and even that separation felt like too much. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded with heat. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispered, voice wrecked and raw.

You smirked, one hand still curled around the hem of his shirt. “Good.” He let out a soft laugh, low and breathless, the sound buzzing against your lips. Then he leaned in again, slower this time more controlled but it still hit you just as hard. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he wanted to savor every second.

One of his hands slipped down to a doorknob behind you, fingers twisting it open without looking. You barely noticed the click of the door; all you could focus on was him his mouth brushing yours. 

His hand wrapped around the base of your throat, his grip firm with a slight squeeze—just enough to remind you of his control without taking your breath completely. The pressure sent a jolt of heat down your spine, a warning and a thrill all at once. You could still breathe, but it made every inhale feel heavier, more deliberate.

He leaned in, lips brushing your skin as he trailed soft, kisses along the side of your neck. Each one slower than the last, like he wanted to tease you as long as he could. When he reached the base of your throat, he lingered, kissing there again and again, tongue flicking lightly between kisses, leaving your skin tingling in his wake.

The heat built low in your stomach, spreading fast and your breathing quickened. Your thighs pressed together without thinking, trying to ease the ache building between them but it didn’t help. Not with the way his lips moved against your skin. Not with the soft scrape of his teeth when he got too close to your pulse point.

His grip on your throat loosened just slightly, but his thumb stayed under your jaw, keeping your head tilted just the way he wanted. Every soft breath he exhaled sent a shiver through you. And he felt it because you felt the way he smiled against your skin. 

His hands found your waist, gripping you firmly but there was something in the way he lifted you that made your breath catch. You gave a little jump, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, clinging to him like it was second nature. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck, your breath fanning against his skin, and let out a soft, breathy laugh that made his lips curl against your temple. “Cute,” he murmured, barely audible, like the sound of you laughing was something he wanted to hear all the time.

He stepped the two of you forward with ease, then gently laid you down against the mattress, your back sinking into the silk sheets as his body followed, hovering over you. He didn’t let his full weight settle just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, just enough to trap you in as yours legs never left his waist. 

Then his lips were on yours again. This kiss was deeper, needier, like the tension between you was finally cracking wide open. His hands didn’t waste time, sliding down your sides, fingers curling at the hem of your skirt. You gasped softly when you felt his fingers slip underneath, the rough pads of them brushing along your thighs before pressing against your panties—already damp, already giving you away.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. And the grin he wore wasn’t kind. “All I did was kiss you,” he said, tone playful teasing you as his fingers pressed a little more firmly as he let out a low, mocking chuckle that made your stomach flip.

You turned your face to the side with a quiet whimper, trying to hide your embarrassment, but you couldn’t not when he was this close. Not when his hand was still right there, pressed between your thighs like a secret he now knew. “Guess you’re easy to read, huh?” he teased, voice low, lips brushing along your jaw now.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, the words slipping out sharper than you meant, but it only made his grin widen. He didn’t say anything back. Just let his thumb drag in slow, deliberate circles over your clit through the soaked fabric, teasing but never giving you enough. The pressure was there just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath hitch but it stayed annoyingly soft, like he wanted to keep you on edge.

"Tell me what you want." His fingers then slid lazily up and down the damp cotton, drawing out every reaction. He knew exactly what he was doing. The way your hips jerked under him, the way your chest rose and fell so quickly now it all fed the look in his eyes. "I promise i’ll give you everything.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your hands tightening around his arm, nails pressing just a little into his skin. Your body betrayed you, rocking into the slow rhythm of his thumb even as you tried to hold back.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice softer now breathy, shaky, stripped of that earlier bite. It was barely a word, more like a plea you couldn’t swallow down. The sound of it made something flicker in his expression. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his fingers kept moving.

“Much better,” he murmured, voice low and close to your ear, the smugness softened by something tender. His breath ghosted over your skin as he spoke, and it sent another wave of shivers rolling down your spine. “Sound so fucking pretty like that.”

 Then you felt it his fingers hooking into the edge of your panties, he was moving so fucking slow it was driving you slowly insane. He didn’t rush, just tugged the fabric to the side with a ease, exposing you to the cool air of the room making you suck in a quiet breath as your thighs clenched without thinking. You were soaked, there was no hiding it.

He paused and he leaned back slightly, just enough to look really look. For a moment, he didn’t even touch. Just stood there, his hand still holding the fabric aside, eyes fixed between your legs like he was hypnotized. Like he’d never seen anything so pretty in his life. Your slit glistened, glossy with arousal from everything he’d done, and everything he hadn’t. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, and the way he looked at you made you feel stripped bare in more ways than one.

“Fuck.”he whispered, more to himself than to you, like the sight alone knocked the breath out of him. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, gaze locked on your glistening slit like he was trying to memorize the sight. “Look at you…”

You felt exposed in a way that wasn’t just physical. His stare wasn’t just hungry it was awe. He wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was caught. His thumb brushed the crease of your thigh, featherlight, but still not where you needed him. 

“Could you hurry the fuck up?” you snapped, breath shaky, hips shifting restlessly beneath him. The way he was taking his time his fingers barely grazing your skin, his mouth leaving featherlight kisses that burned hotter the longer they lingered it was maddening. Every touch made your skin tingle, made your body arch up into his like it had a mind of its own. But none of it was enough. You needed more. Now.

He paused, the corners of his lips curling into that smug, knowing smile. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and amused, like your impatience was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “You’re real mouthy for someone about to lose her mind,” his voice teasing as his fingers slipped a little lower, still just barely brushing where you needed him most. “ It’s cute, tho. Makes me wanna take all fucking day.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again, slower this time. “Beg a little more, and maybe I’ll pick up the pace.” Your whole body buzzed with need, your hands fisting into the sheets, every muscle tense and ready to snap.

You really didn’t want to beg. That shit was embarrassing as fuck. The word please already tasted too sweet, too vulnerable on your tongue, and he knew it. That’s what made it worse.“Fuck you,” you hissed, voice low, stubborn. Your pride still clung to whatever scraps of control you had left, even though your body was already betraying you.

You started to grind against his fingers, slow and deliberate. If he wasn’t going to give it to you, you’d take what you could get. The friction sent a jolt of heat up your spine, your lips parting with a quiet gasp. You circled your hips again, your thighs tensing as you pressed into his touch, chasing whatever relief you could carve out for yourself.

But then you felt it, His fingers slowing your breath hitched in your throat, chest rising and falling in short, frustrated pants. He was doing it on purpose. You knew he was. He wanted to see how long you could last before you snapped.“So impatient,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, laced with dark amusement.

“I was gonna be nice. But now?” His thumb traced lazy, taunting circles over your clit too light to satisfy, just enough to make your whole body tense again. “Now I think I wanna see how long you can keep pretending you don’t want to beg.”

You glared up at him, chest rising and falling, mouth open like you wanted to curse him out but no words came. Just shaky breaths. Every nerve in your body felt raw, overstimulated from nothing. Nothing, except the ghost of his fingers, the low hum of his voice, and the way he was looking at you like he had all the time in the world. His eyes dragged over your face like he was savoring every reaction. Your furrowed brows. Your parted lips. Your thighs twitching from the effort of staying still.

“You look so pretty when you’re frustrated,” he muttered, the pads of his fingers pressing down just enough to make your hips buck. Then he pulled away again just a little. Just enough to make you whine. You hated that sound. Hated how easily he could pull it out of you.

He leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he whispered, tone dripping with something sickeningly sweet. “You’ve been talking all night. Don’t go quiet on me now.” You bit your lip, jaw clenched, trying not to give him what he wanted. But his fingers moved again, sliding slick and slow through your folds, pressing into that spot that made your breath catch mid-sentence. Your back arched. Your hand flew up to his wrist on instinct, not to stop him, but to hold on. He chuckled darkly, “That’s it. Say it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let the word fall from your lips again. Not this time. You weren’t gonna give him the power of hearing you beg not when he clearly wanted it so bad. “Fuck you,” you spat again, voice hoarse but steady. Your hands grabbed at his arms, not to push him away, but to hold on because every slow, teasing motion of his fingers was driving you insane.

He slowed them down even more, practically a whisper of pressure now, maddeningly soft. You ground your hips against his hand, trying to get any friction you could, but he only pulled back slightly, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Mm-mm,” he teased, shaking his head like you were misbehaving. 

“Keep playing,” you warned, your voice low and thick with heat, but firm. A spark of defiance flickered in your eyes as you met his gaze.

He laughed an actual laugh, deep and amused, like he hadn’t expected you to have that edge. Then his expression shifted. Something darker, hungrier, moved across his face. “Oh, is that a challenge?” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath ghosting over your lips.

His finger slid inside, slow and deliberate, and you gasped, the sound catching in your throat. Your lips parted around a moan, one hand gripping his shoulder hard, the other fisting the sheets beneath you. He didn’t rush his movements were torturously controlled, like he wanted to see how long you’d hold out before cracking. 

You bit your lip to stifle another moan, not because you wanted to, Hell no, but because you knew he wanted to hear it. Feel it. Watch you fall apart under his touch. So you didn’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet. 

You sat up a little, shifting your weight just enough to close the space between you. Your fingers trailed down from his bicep, tracing the veins in his forearm before drifting lower over his torso, past the hem of his shirt, and finally to his waistband. It was a slow, deliberate motion. Teasing, but casual, like you were just playing around… even though both of you knew exactly what you were doing.

“You talk a lot of shit,” you murmured, voice smooth and low, the kind that skimmed over skin like velvet. Your fingers tapped lightly at his waistband before resting there. “But your fingers?” You let your words hang, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Starting to feel more like a warm up than a threat.”

His jaw tightened. You caught the change in his expression just as the fire flickered behind his eyes. Something primal and sharp passed over his face, darkening his whole demeanor. His lips parted, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something slick, but he didn't. 

Instead he took a sharp deep breath in and asked. “What are you doing?” Your palm hovered, then settled over the front of his jeans, fingers curving around the bulge with the gentlest of pressure just enough to make him flinch. His hips flexed, almost instinctively, like his body was reacting faster than his mind could catch up. You worked the buttons of his jeans with a kind of reverent focus, your breathing shallow but steady. He made a sound—low, unsure, half-wrecked. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

You slid your hand beneath the denim, your fingers brushing heat and skin and then there it was. You pulled it out, slow, letting the weight of him settle heavy in your palm. Your breath hitched this time, just a little.

 He was pretty. That kind of pretty that was almost mean. Thick, with a pinkish-brown head slicked with precum, the bead catching the dim light. Veins curled along the shaft like subtle outlines, and he twitched when your thumb swept across the head, smearing the glistening fluid. Your gaze flicked up to him, and the look in his eyes glass-sharp, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he was barely holding it together made you smile, just a little. 

“I promise,” he whispered, his voice low and ragged against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your jaw, “you don’t want to go there with me. Before you could fire back, or even catch your breath, he slid another finger inside you. The stretch was sudden but smooth, making your body yield to him, and you did, clenching around his fingers with a soft, involuntary gasp that escaped before you could stop it.

He moved with a rhythm that felt almost criminal too smooth, too knowing, like his hands had done this a hundred times before, and every time was just as dangerous. His fingers slid in and out of you with a slow, practiced precision, the kind that didn’t rush, the kind that just built pressure, stroke by deliberate stroke.

You gasped when his fingers curled upward, brushing against that spot deep inside you the one that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The one you were silently begging for. Each curl sent sparks racing up your spine, like static lighting up your nerves, and the warmth pooling low in your belly quickly began to simmer into something hotter, heavier.

Then his palm pressed down, grounding you, holding you still while his thumb slid up grazing over your clit with the lightest pressure. The contact was maddening. Perfect. Just enough to pull a soft, broken moan from your lips before you could even think to bite it back.

“Mmh,” he exhaled, close and ragged, voice thick with satisfaction. You could hear the smugness in it, feel it in the way his pace stayed steady. “Just like that." His eyes never left your face, watching, drinking in every twitch, every sound, like he was taking inventory of every weakness you’d tried to hide. And he was using every single one of them against you.

One of your hands gripped the sheets tightly, but you held on firm, refusing to let him see you break. Not yet. You’d be damned if you gave in first. You were aching now, pulsing around him, hips betraying you as they chased every motion of his fingers. He smirked against your skin like he could feel it feel how badly you were holding on.

But you didn’t give in. Not yet. Even as your thighs trembled beneath his touch, even as the pressure built inside you with every fluid thrust of his fingers, you refused to look away. Your breath came shallow, pulse beating faster and faster, but your eyes, your eyes stayed locked on his. You wanted to see him break first. You wanted to watch that confident smirk crack, to see the composure he had fall undone in your hands. You wanted to pull him under with you and make him drown first. 

Your hand moved slowly to his cock, already flushed and heavy in your palm. He was beautiful like this, veins running thick along the shaft, the head slick with precum, glistening in the low light. You ran your thumb over the swollen tip, pressing into it just slightly, watching the way his breath hitched how his jaw tensed, just for a moment. His eyes faltered just barely, but you caught it. That flicker. That crack in his cool. And still, he didn’t stop. Just barely cracked. 

His fingers kept pumping into you with maddening precision, relentless and deep, curling just right every time like he was trying to force the moan back out of you. His thumb returned to your clit with that same expert touch, dragging tiny circles that made your legs shake, made your stomach tighten but still, you held your ground.

Your grip on his cock tightened just enough to make him twitch in your hand. You dragged your fist down his length in one slow stroke, then up again, your thumb teasing the underside of the head where you knew he was most sensitive. His breath grew heavier. His jaw clenched tighter. But his fingers never stopped. And neither did yours.

He didn’t say a word in response to your teasing, didn’t acknowledge the way your hand kept working him over, the way your touch made his breath catch. No smug remark, no smirk—just action. His thumb pressed down hard on your clit, sudden and unrelenting.

The jolt of sensation hit you like a wave, it was sharp. Your breath stuttered. Your head spun. It was too much, too perfect, too overwhelming. Tingles shot up your spine and spread through your limbs, your skin buzzing like static. Without thinking, your thighs snapped closed around his hand, trying to soften the pressure, to ground yourself.

But he didn’t like that. Not one bit. His grip tightened on your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make a point, and then he forced your legs apart again, roughly, spreading your legs wide like he owned you. “Don’t do that shit again.”His voice came out low and rough. There was no trace of playfulness left, just frustration, dominance. His eyes were locked on you, sharp and feral, like you’d crossed a line he didn’t think you would.

The way he looked at you it made your stomach flip and your breath catch again. His jaw was clenched, throat flexing as he fought to keep control of himself. But the way his fingers stayed buried deep inside you, his thumb still circling your clit now with an even firmer pressure made it clear, He wasn’t letting you off easy. Not anymore.

You could already feel yourself slipping. No matter how much you tried to keep your breathing steady, to lock your gaze on his like you still had the upper hand, your body was betraying you. Every twist of his fingers, every slow, punishing stroke of his thumb over your clit was unraveling you bit by bit. The heat was pooling in your belly, your thighs trembling as the tension built with no mercy in sight.

You were losing this battle. And he knew it. He wasn’t nearly as close as you were, not even close. You could see it in the way he now moved, calm and controlled, his breathing steady, his jaw no longer twitching like before. That composure you’d wanted so badly to break? Still intact. Worse, he looked smug now.

“Already falling apart, aren’t you?” his voice thick with quiet arrogance as he dipped his head, brushing his lips along the shell of your ear. “All that attitude, all that fucking mouth where is it now?” Your muscles tensed as he curled his fingers deeper, slower, drawing another sharp gasp from you. You could feel yourself clenching around him. It was humiliating how easily he could read you, how every movement of his hand felt designed to push you closer to the edge without letting you tip over it. 

He chuckled softly as your hips rolled helplessly toward his hand. “Look at you,” he whispered, eyes fixed on yours. “Trying so hard to hold it together. I can feel how close you are. You’re soaking my fingers, baby.” You wanted to glare at him, say something smart, but all that came out was a breathy whimper that only made his grin deepen.

“What happened to making me break first?” he taunted, pulling his fingers back just slightly, just enough to make your body cry out for more. His thumb paused, denying you that friction right when you needed it most. “You were real bold a few minutes ago.” Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing contact, but he caught your thigh in one hand and held you down with quiet strength. 

 “You don’t get to take now. Beg.” Your head fell back against the pillow for half a second, breath ragged, thighs still trembling in his grip. You were so close it was ridiculous, every nerve ending felt frayed, oversensitive, like your body was already tipping without permission. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hissed through gritted teeth, your voice shaky, raw with need and frustration. Your glare could’ve killed if your eyes weren’t already glassy with tears you refused to let fall. But your hips betrayed you. Even as you tried to hold your ground, they rocked forward, desperate for more of him, seeking out even more friction.  You hated that he could see it the need, the unraveling, the war you were losing in real time. But he didn’t gloat. Not out loud. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he let his fingers curl upward again with ruthless precision. And just like that, he hit it, that spot. The one that sent a sharp jolt straight through your spine. The one that had your whole body seizing in pleasure, your thighs trembling around his hand. Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming at first, just a breathless gasp, your mind blanking as the sensation pulsed through you in waves.

Your hands fisted the sheets at your sides, desperate for something to anchor you, to keep you from falling apart. The pressure in your belly was unbearable now, the tight coil threatening to snap at any second. You throbbed with every curl of his fingers, every agonizingly perfect drag of his thumb over your clit. You were so, so close. So close it hurt. 

“You wanna cum?” he asked, voice thick with mock sincerity, like he was genuinely curious. Like he wasn’t watching your body twitch and tremble in his hands, like he couldn’t feel how close you were. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes burning into yours with a heat that made it hard to breathe. “Beg, then.”

You tried to hold on, tried to keep the glare in your eyes, the venom in your voice, but it was getting harder by the second. Your walls fluttered around his fingers, clenching with every deep stroke, every teasing grind of his palm. Your legs quivered, threatening to close again, to trap his hand there, to make him finish it. You were right at the edge. Teetering. Just a few more seconds. Just a little more. 

Your thighs quivered, one last act of rebellion as they tried to press together, to trap his hand there, to force him to keep going. But he didn’t allow it. “You keep playing.” He pressed his palm down hard against your pelvis, pinning you in place as his fingers curled deep again, the pressure making your back arch off the bed. Then, just when you thought he’d finally give it to you, His fingers slowed. Stopping would be too easy. 

You couldn’t keep your focus. What had started as steady strokes, confident, teasing, meant to unnerve him was now nothing more than a distracted glide along the thick length of him. You were losing rhythm, losing control, your grip slacking as your mind blurred under the weight of your own pleasure.

It just rested there, curled loosely around him, fingers twitching, but your body too consumed with the way he was making you feel. You tried, tried to keep stroking, tried to keep the upper hand, but the pleasure kept spiking through you in waves, your body clenching around his fingers so tightly it was making your head spin.

His fingers dragged in and out of you with a slow agonizing pace, curling just enough to tease that tender, aching spot inside you, but never fast enough to push you over. The friction was maddening.

He got off to this. Not just the act, no, it was deeper than that. It was the way your body responded to him, the way you tried so hard to hold onto your pride even as it shattered piece by piece under his touch. It was addictive, the sight of you squirming, gasping, toes curling, your breath catching in your throat as you fought a losing battle against the wave building inside you.

He watched you with a kind of hunger that went beyond lust. He was studying you, memorizing the way your back arched when his fingers pressed just right, the way your hips jerked when he dragged his thumb over your clit with pressure. He saw the way your hands trembled, fisting the sheets one moment and reaching for him the next, torn between resistance and surrender. 

But what he loved most… was your face. The wet tears collecting in the corners of your eyes. Your lashes fluttering, mouth parted in a desperate moan, you tried and failed to silence. The raw vulnerability in your expression, mixed with rage and arousal and frustration, was almost too much for him. Almost. “Say it,” he whispered, mouth against your skin. “Tell me what you want. Beg me.”

That's when the small bit of pride you had left went down the drain. “Please… fuck… please, I wanna cum so fucking bad.” The words spilled from your lips in a broken rush. There was no more venom in your voice now, no glare, no pride, just need. Honest, aching need.

Your chest heaved with every desperate inhale, eyes half-lidded and glazed over, lips parted as your hips subtly bucked against his hand, chasing even the slightest motion. Your body was trembling, slick and swollen, wrapped so tightly around his fingers it felt like your walls were trying to keep him there, begging on your behalf.

But he only tilted his head, brows raised in mock confusion, that smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like he was delighted by how far you’d fallen. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked, voice calm like he wasn’t the reason you were breaking down right now. His tone was all arrogance, but his fingers were still deep inside you, barely moving, just enough to drive you mad.

“Please,” you whispered again, your voice cracking as your hips rolled forward, needy and shameless now. “Please, make me cum” And that was when he pulled his fingers out. Completely. The emptiness was brutal. Your cunt clenched around nothing, spasming from the loss, aching as the tension in your core twisted into something painful. The coil that had been so tight, so close to snapping, recoiled violently, your whole body flinching as the withdrawal hit you like a slap.

“Next time,” he said softly, his voice soaked in promise as he leaned in, the words brushing over your ear, “try begging before I’m bored.” Then calmly.” Turn over.” 

You lay there for a second, still breathless, chest rising and falling like you’d just sprinted a mile with no finish line. Your body was pulsing, cunt empty and aching, thighs slick with need, nerves still singing from the edge he’d pulled you off of. But your pride? That was a slow-burning fire in your chest, and it refused to die quietly.

“Was it not enough for your ego to have my pussy wrapped around your fingers? Hearing me beg?” you rasped, voice low, wrecked, each word soaked in defiance even as your chest heaved with the aftershocks of everything he’d just done to you. Your eyes locked onto his, narrowed and gleaming with a challenge you had no business throwing, but did anyway. Because that was you. Spite burned through your veins even when your body was trembling and your thighs were still slick with denial.

His brow twitched. It was quick, barely there, but you caught it. A small fracture in the control he wore. And that was all you needed. “You really are full of yourself,” you continued, voice dropping low and dangerous. “Must take a hell of a lot of effort walking around with your head shoved that far up your own ass.” His smirk faltered not fully, not yet, but it tightened at the edges, like he was holding something back, letting you think you had the upper hand for now. 

Your pulse thudded in your throat, your body still aching, your legs slick and trembling from the edge he had ruthlessly pulled you away from. But none of that mattered in the moment. You had him almost cracked, and that meant everything. So you smiled slow, wicked, showing all your teeth. A direct challenge.

“Cute fingers, though,” you murmured, tone dipping into something silkier, darker, as your eyes dropped pointedly to his hand still hovering near your thighs. Still shining with your slick. “Too bad they’ve got no stamina. Might have to find someone better next time.” That hit. You saw it. His jaw clenched, just for a second. His tongue darted across his bottom lip like he was biting back a response, like he was this close to snapping and giving you what you really wanted, but not because you begged for it. Because you provoked it.

“And I’ll turn over,” you said slowly, like the words meant nothing to you. Even though your entire body was still humming from the brutal tease of denial. You glanced at him with a look that fire in your eyes hadn't dimmed, even as your legs still trembled beneath you. “But only because I wanna see you try and make up for how disappointing that was.”

Then, with a slow roll of your hips, you started to turn shoulders shifting, spine curving as your body tilted forward. You moved with deliberate care, letting your back arch just enough to taunt, just enough to say this isn’t submission, it was more like bait. You’d give him your body, sure. But your control? That was a harder thing to steal. You had just begun to settle onto your stomach, hair spilling over your shoulders, when you heard it. 

He let out a soft, mocking laugh. The kind that sent a chill crawling down your spine because it didn’t sound amused at all. No, it was knowing, the sound of someone who’d already won and was just letting you think you had the upper hand. “Yeah,” he drawled behind you, dragging out the word like it tasted good on his tongue. “I know it was cute. Real cute.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

He ran his hands slowly along the curvature of your body, fingertips dragging over the swell of your hips, the dip of your waist, tracing the curve of your spine. He wasn’t just touching you, he was claiming every inch, silently reminding you whose hands had just left you trembling.“The way your body was tensing around my fingers? Shaking?”He let out a low chuckle like the memory alone was enough to amuse him. Like he could still feel you clenching down on him, so helpless and so close.

“Don’t get cocky, sweetheart,” he added, that smirk dripping from his voice. “You would’ve cum if I’d let you.” You felt your breath catch not from the words, but from the way his hand followed the path of your spine, firm and unhurried, pressing down just enough to make your back arch in response. It was a silent command. A gentle threat. “So let’s not rewrite history just yet,” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” leaned in close so close that the warmth of his breath grazed your ear, “The little act is hot. All that mouth, all that pride…” His lips hovered just above your skin, not touching, just letting the heat of him linger

“But your pussy?” he whispered, dragging one fingertip down as slow as could be, until they reached the soaked mess between your thighs. He didn’t rush. No urgency. He dragged a single fingertip through your folds with featherlight touch, collecting the slick he’d drawn out of you earlier. His touch was almost ghostly in its gentleness, teasing the hypersensitive skin there, making your thighs twitch as your breath hitched sharply in your throat.“She’s a terrible liar,” he murmured, voice thick with smug satisfaction.

His fingers traced you again, slow, unhurried, reverent in the most mocking way, drawing out another pulse of wetness that clung to his skin like proof. Your core clenched instinctively around nothing, aching, fluttering with a need that hadn’t faded, it had only sharpened, turned desperate with every second he held back. He didn’t have to say another word. Your body was already giving you away. And he knew it.

He let the weight of his words linger, the silence that followed wasn’t empty, it with intent. You could feel it in the way his presence hovered behind you, how his gaze seemed to burn into the curve of your spine. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, barely there, just enough to make your breath catch. You could feel the smirk on his mouth even before he spoke. “Now be a good girl.” 

“Arch that back for me.” His hand found your hip, grip firm, fingers digging into your flesh in a way that made it clear this wasn’t a request. But a command, and when you didn’t move right away, just breathed, just trembled, he chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “You wanna keep mouthing off, or are you finally ready to show me some manners?”

You held your breath for a second too long, felt your muscles twitch under the weight of his voice and that low, hungry command. The words echoed in your ears Be a good girl, arch that back and your body responded before your pride could stop it. Your hips shifted. Barely. Just a subtle tilt forward. But it was enough. He noticed, of course. How could he not?

Still, your mouth moved before your better judgment could catch up. “You’re really obsessed with hearing yourself talk, huh?” you muttered, voice low, almost breathless but still sharp. “Maybe if you actually fucked like you talk, I’d be impressed.”

Then he laughed, “Oh, you wanna talk about being impressed?” he said, voice suddenly closer, heavier, right at the base of your neck. “but the second I told you to arch, your back damn near curved itself.” His hand slipped under your belly, lifting you just slightly, angling your hips exactly where he wanted them. “Your fucking dripping,” he whispered, voice rough, almost reverent. “And you’ve got the nerve to talk shit?”

“Keep talking, tho,” he murmured, his breath fanning hot against the back of your neck. “I like hearing you pretend you’re not already mine.” You felt the shift in his weight behind you, the quiet stroke of his hand along his cock, slow and deliberate. He let the head drag against your slick folds, teasing, it was rude in how unhurried it was. He slid it up and down, letting it part you, nudge against your entrance, only to pull away again like he had all the time in the world. And to be honest you were a few seconds from putting it in yourself.

Every time the tip caught just right against your clit, your thighs twitched. Your breath stuttered. You were soaked and aching, your core pulsing with a need that had tipped from sharp to unbearable. And still he didn’t give you anything. Your hips pushed back instinctively, seeking friction, begging without words. “What the fuck are you- why the fuck are you dragging this out?” you snapped, voice rough with frustration, but he just chuckled low under his breath like he loved the sound of your unraveling.

“I mean, unless you're stalling because you’re sca—” That was it. The final push. You didn’t even get to finish the word. He snapped. Without warning, his cock slammed into you in one brutal, fluid thrust, burying himself deep inside your soaked cunt like his patience had finally shattered. “fuck~” The sound that tore out of you wasn’t pretty it was loud, raw, a ragged moan dragged straight from your core. Your whole body jolted forward from the force of it, your fingers scrambling for grip, your thighs quivering beneath him.

You clenched around him instinctively, tight, desperate, like your body had been waiting for this the entire time. He groaned against your back, low and guttural, his nails digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave marks.“Still talking, huh?” he let out a heavy breath, his voice tense. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Each thrust hit deep and unforgiving, his hips snapping into yours with a rough, deliberate rhythm. There was no teasing anymore, just pure, punishing motion. He didn’t give you a second to adjust, to breathe, to think. Your cunt fluttered around him, struggling to keep up with how hard and fast he was fucking into you, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room with every deep stroke.

Your breath was caught in your throat, mind going hazy as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, pressure building with every sharp drag of him against your walls. “You feel that?” he rasped, leaning down so his chest brushed against your back. “That’s what happens when you don’t shut that pretty fucking mouth.”

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, forcing back the moan that clawed its way up your throat. Your body was screaming for relief thighs trembling, your cunt fluttering around him with every rough stroke but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again.

He was relentless. His pace didn’t falter for a second. Each thrust felt deeper than the last, dragging along every sensitive nerve inside of you like he was determined to fuck the attitude out of you—rip the words out of your throat if he had to. You could hear how soaked you were, the wet sound of your bodies crashing together was filthy and echoing through the space. “Y-You’re gonna have to do a lot more than that if you wanna shut me up,” you rasped, your smirk shaky but defiant as you turned to look back at him.

You felt his fingers curl harder around your waist, the bruising grip tightening as a low, dangerous laugh left his throat, half disbelief, half dark amusement. “Yea?” he breathed, leaning over you until his mouth was back at your ear, his chest hot against your back. “You’re talking real reckless for someone who’s dripping down my cock.” With that, he shifted his angle just slightly and hit that spot. Your whole body jolted, a cry catching in your throat before you could swallow it down. Your back arched without permission, your thighs quivering violently as heat surged up your spine.

He felt that reaction and chased it ruthlessly. Every thrust after was laser-focused, aiming right for the spot that made your toes curl and your mind blur. “Still holding on?” he hissed, voice breathless now, ragged around the edges. “Or you starting to realize whose pussy this is?”

But you, still biting back moans, still trembling, spat back a shaky laugh. “I-I’m just letting you borrow it,” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of pleasure, “Don’t get twisted.”

Your breath was coming in short, sharp bursts, now your hands clutching at the sheets like they could somehow ground you while your body was threatening to give out entirely. Your thighs trembled violently with every thrust, knees slipping wider apart, and your spine curved in a perfect arch that only made it easier for him to drive deeper. He was punishing that spot inside you now, over and over, like he knew exactly where it was and what it did to you, and he liked watching you fight it.

“Just borrowing it, huh?” his cock dragging slow for one brutal second before slamming back into you hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. “You sure about that?” Your mouth opened like you had something to say, something slick, something sharp, but all that came out was a breathy gasp, broken and raw. Your lips trembled, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure surged through you in blinding waves. You felt the coil in your belly tightening again, faster now, tighter than before. The tension was unbearable

“You’re shaking,” he breathed, lips dragging along your spine as he thrust into you deeper, slower, now more intentional. He felt it the way you clenched around him, like your body was losing the war your mouth kept trying to win. He let out a low groan, his pace faltering for only half a second, like the feel of you was almost too much.“Bet I could make you cum without you even realizing it.” 

His hand slid down between your legs again, and you could’ve screamed when his fingers found your clit barely brushing it, just a featherlight stroke that made your hips jerk uncontrollably. Your moan broke free this time, raw and helpless. Still, you held on. Barely. Your voice came out hoarse, cracked, but laced with the last strands of defiance. “If I cum…” You panted, “It won’t be for you.”

“Sure,” he muttered, voice low and biting, like your last shred of defiance amused him more than it should have. His hand down your back, fingers curling around your throat, not hard, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. He yanked you back into him, your body colliding with his. The sudden closeness made your back press flush to his chest, skin slick with sweat, heat radiating between your bodies. His grip tugged you upright, locking you in place, and you could feel every twitch, every breath, 

His hips rolled forward, the angle shifting just enough to make your mouth fall open, no sound escaping. His cock dragged along your walls in a relentless rhythm, deeper now, more precise like he had mapped your body and was now playing it by memory. Every stroke felt sharper, more intense, like he was trying to pull every reaction he could from you. 

His fingers flexed around your throat, the pressure gradually increasing, not enough to truly hurt, but just enough to steal the pieces of your breath, to blur the line between control and surrender. The grip was deliberate, practiced. It wasn’t just about dominance, it was making sure you felt everything. And you did.

“Keep telling yourself that, baby,” he rasped against your ear. The way your breath caught and fluttered beneath his palm made your head spin from pleasure. Every nerve in your body lit up under the weight of his touch. His cock dragged against your walls relentlessly deep, precise, and unforgiving. He moved like he had a point to prove, and each stroke seemed to go against everything you were saying, each rougher than the last. Your body betrayed you with every second, clenching down around him, chasing that pressure, craving it.

The lack of air only made everything more intense. Your senses were heightened, your body hypersensitive to every slick grind of his hips, every low growl in your ear, every pulse of heat that you felt at the base of your body. You were dizzy from the lack of air and from the overwhelming pleasure that tangled itself with pain in the most addictive way. Your legs shook. Your mind blurred. And still, he held you right there, half breathless, fully undone, right on the edge of falling apart for him.

His hand slipped lower, trailing down your stomach with intention, until the pad of his finger found your clit. The first touch was anything but gentle, he circled the swollen bundle of nerves with rough, merciless pressure, dragging tight, practiced motions that made your hips twitch and your breath catch in your throat. A soft, broken sound escaped before you could stop it, small and helpless, and he grinned behind you like he’d been waiting for it.

A soft, involuntary whimper slipped past your lips, your body betraying you faster than your mind could catch up. You were close, so close. You could feel it in the way your cunt clung to him, gripping him with every thrust like you were trying to hold him inside forever. In the way your nails dug into his skin, desperate for something to anchor you. In the way your mouth hung open, but no air came, just the heat of sensation building to a sharp, impossible peak in your abdomen.

He could feel it too. The way you squeezed around him, the twitch of your thighs, the quiet, breathless sounds you didn’t even know you were making. And it made him meaner. Harsher. More deliberate. He rubbed harder, faster, fingers merciless as his cock pounded into you with maddening precision like he knew your body better than you did and was determined to remind you of it. “ Definity shut you up now, huh?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but still a little chuckle escaping his lips.

You didn't even have the energy to respond back as you felt your head growing lighter with every passing second. Your vision had already started to blur the world around you, narrowing into nothing but sensation. Each shallow breath you managed was precious, stolen between his relentless thrusts and the pressure of his fingers tightening just enough to keep you between consciousness and not. Each breath came shorter, shallower, more strained, your chest rising in tiny gasps that barely reached your lungs 

His hand around your throat tightened just a little more, and it sent your head reeling. The lack of oxygen was electrifying, making every nerve in your body hyperaware, your skin burning under the weight of his touch, your thoughts shattering with every thrust that dragged along your soaked walls. The coil in your core was painfully tight, hot, throbbing, and on the verge of snapping. Your body trembled, thighs shaking, heart hammering erratically as you hovered at the edge of release.

Your fingers clutched his arms, anything to ground yourself as your body betrayed you, hips pushing back into him, chasing that final spark. Your mind swam, floating somewhere between pleasure and passing out, and still he didn’t stop. His grip held you exactly where he wanted you, his cock slamming deep, hitting that perfect spot over and over he wanted you to break. Your head rolled back against his shoulder, barely there, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that,” he grunted out

“C-close…,” you whimpered, the word barely audible, a shy whisper slipping from your mouth. You could barely recognize your own voice, fragile and pleading, stripped raw by desperation.

His hips slammed into you again, deeper and more deliberate than before, and the angle shifted ever so slightly, hitting that spot that lit your nerves on fire. And that’s when it hit. It tore through you violently that long, aching release pleasure erupting through your body in waves so intense your vision momentarily darkened, your back arched hard as a broken moan escaped your lips. Your cunt clamped around him in uncontrollable pulses, tighter than before, wetness flooding down your thighs. You saw stars behind your eyelids, white and blinding, your entire body shaking as your orgasm slammed into you with brutal force.

You were cumming and slipping at the same time drifting in the blur of not enough air, not enough thought, only the overwhelming rush of being so completely filled, so completely wrecked. 

 “You were talking all that shit earlier…” his hand finally released your throat. You collapsed forward almost instantly, your body folding into the sheets.  A desperate, ragged gasp tore from your lungs as air rushed back into your body, sharp and overwhelming. The dizziness faded just enough to remind you where you were, who had you, and what he'd just done. “Can’t even form a sentence now, huh?”

But there was no time to come down. Because he didn’t stop. He was still moving behind you, still buried deep inside, still thrusting into your overstimulated, trembling body like he hadn’t just dragged you through the most intense high of your life. Every stroke now felt like too much, too deep, hitting nerves that were already fried and sparking. "P-please."

Your legs twitched with every thrust, your cunt still fluttering and wet, clenching around him involuntarily with every drag of his cock along your swollen walls. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, each one laced with a whimper as the pleasure turned from intense to unbearable.

“Y-You’re… fucking evil,” you choked out, voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper against the mattress. You didn’t even sound angry. You sounded wrecked. And you were, as your body tried and failed to recover. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it all, the way your body was still trying to catch up with what he’d just taken from you.

But he heard you. And he only fucked you harder. “You love this, don’t lie.” He was close, you could feel it. The way his cock twitched deep inside you with every punishing thrust, how his rhythm stuttered just for a breath before slamming back into you even harder. His breath had gone ragged, each exhale now a harsh sound against your skin, broken and uneven like he was fighting it, trying not to lose himself too soon. His fingers tightened where they gripped your waist, hips grinding forward with bruising force as he chased his high

And still, he didn’t let up. Not even as his cock throbbed inside you, swelling with the threat of release. Not even when he hissed through clenched teeth, his composure fracturing more with each second. His pace grew rougher, deeper, like he was trying to drag out every last second of control before it all snapped.

He buried himself to the hilt, again and again, grinding into that spot that had you whimpering and clenching around him, your body betraying you with every pulse. “Fuck…” he growled, voice low, cracked, like it burned coming out of his throat. “You feel so fucking good…”

But it didn't last long until his thrusts turned erratic, hips slamming into you with raw, desperate force. All that composure he held like was peeling away, layer by layer, until he was just as ruined as you sweat trickled along his body as his eyes locked on the way your body clenched and quivered around him.

You were gasping now, each breath barely landing, your face pressed into the mattress, lips parted and trembling as your walls fluttered around him, wet, tight, crazy sensitive. Your body was trying to recover, to breathe, but the rhythm of his hips refused to give you a break. Your legs twitched uncontrollably. Your thighs burned. Tears rolled down your face as the pleasure became unbearable, curling deep in your stomach again like your body didn’t care that you’d already come, didn’t care that you had nothing left to give.

“Can you do one more for me?”  he grunted through clenched teeth, fingers digging into your waist as his thrusts turned frantic, cock twitching inside you with the promise of release. “Cum with me. Please.” Then his hand slid down, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing hard, fast, perfect circles.

You screamed a high, cracked sound torn from your throat as your body convulsed beneath him. It hit you hard. Your cunt clamped down so tight it made him groan, deep and guttural, like it ripped straight from his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck yes” he growled, hips bucking one last time before he slammed into you to the hilt and stilled, his body shaking as he spilled inside you. His cum filled you completely, and the way he clutched your body to his tight, shaking, breathless made it feel like everything shattered and melted at once.

You were stuffed so full of his cum you felt the way it spilled into you, warm and slowly. He probably had never come so much in his life. You were both gasping, spent, and wrecked. Your face was buried in the sheets, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, and both of you were trembling in the aftermath as he placed small kisses along your perfect skin. the intensity; from the overstimulation; and both of you from the way it had built and burned and broken in perfect sync.“Told you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, still out of breath, “that pussy is mine.”

The room was silent now, except for the ragged sound of both your breathing, his chest still rising and falling against your back, your face buried in the sheets, damp with sweat and tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. His body was heavy over yours, but not in a crushing way. In a grounding way. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you there, as if he let go, you might float away.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Your legs were still trembling faintly beneath him, nerves buzzing, overstimulated. Your breath came in soft gasps, each one bringing you a little more back to earth. You were sore. Soaked. Completely unraveled. But warm. Unfortunately, you felt safe, too safe. 

“My name’s Eren, by the way,” he said, his voice low and warm against your ear, still breathless but steady. “Eren Yeager.” And that’s when it clicked. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body, still curled into his, went suddenly still, even though you were limp from exhaustion, your mind surged forward, stunned awake. Eren Yeager. The name echoed in your head, over and over, dragging up pieces you should’ve put together hours ago.

The voice. The jaw. Those eyes. How had you not seen it? You blinked slowly, your gaze drifting toward the curve of his jaw, the way his damp hair clung to his temples, the lazy rise and fall of his chest. And yet now that you knew it was so obvious. The tension in his shoulders, the way he looked at you like he was always calculating something deeper. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on you from the beginning. You didn’t know how you couldn’t have noticed before.

It wasn’t just the name. It was everything about him. The energy. The weight of his presence. And now that he’d said it, now that the words had left his mouth, your brain was scrambling to figure out the man wrapped around you with the name that carried so much behind it. And he knew what was happening in your head. You could feel it in the quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his lips against your skin. The way he pulled you a little tighter, a little closer, like he was sealing it in.

“Figured it out, huh?” he murmured, his breath brushing your neck. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

☆this will be a 6 part mini series so comment if you would like to be added to the tag list

[chleem]

request ❤️ reader gets nightmares that are really overwhelming and scary for her. She gets physical anxiety symptoms and she needs rafe to calm down after she has them.

Rafe is out at a party for most of the night and isn’t home to help calm her down like she needs when she’s scared.

He comes to bed at like 4 in the morning and she’s an anxious mess and needing him. Lots of angst and bf rafe 💕💕

bf!rafex gf!reader

⋆.˚ Warnings: swearing, verbal fight, drunk rafe, crying reader (read at own caution

word count: 2.3k

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“Aw, shit,”

Rafe chuckles under his breath as he stumbles across the hall, unsteady from the alcohol. He’d have too many drinks tonight- his gaze unfocused, legs ready to give up, mind spinning in a blur of noise and lights from the party he’d just left behind.

None of his friends were sober enough to drive, so he called a cab, barely managing to not throw up in there. 

“Baby! I missed you,” He yells, a drunk smile tugging at his lips as he approaches the doorway of his bedroom. 

No response. Which, is normal, since, its… four in the morning. 

Rafe lets out a laugh, more to himself, as he stops at your vanity table, lazily taking off his watch. For a few seconds, the sound of the metal clicking against the wooden surface is the only thing filling the space.

He shuffles a little closer to the bed, ready to collapse in beside you, but then he sees it. Even through his clouded senses, he knows- you’re not in bed.

His brow furrows, confusion starting to emerge. 

A knot tightens in his stomach. Where are you?

“Babe?” Rafe yells louder this time. 

He pauses, listening, but the house is eerily quiet.

“Y/n?” 

His drunken state finally catches up with him, and something clicks in his foggy mind. He blinks, squinting toward the bathroom door.

The lights are on.

Rafe's stomach lurches again, and his eyes widen as he realizes the small detail that his alcohol-fogged brain hadn’t processed before. He would’ve noticed the moment he walked in, if not for the haze clouding his thoughts.

Why hadn’t he? Fuck.

Without thinking, he pushes the bathroom door open with a bit more force than necessary. Other than the harsh, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the room is still—too still.

And then he sees you.

Sitting near the bathtub, your legs curled in tight to your chest, hands gripping your knees so hard your knuckles are white. Your face is buried in your arms, and your body trembles with a slow rhythm.

Rafe freezes in the doorway, the realization slowly coming in; you’ve had a nightmare.

His feet feel heavy as he steps into the bathroom, his body moving on autopilot towards you.

The alcohol clouds his mind, but something deep inside knows what to do- what you need.

But… will it translate well? 

Rafe flops down beside you, and you don’t look up at first. 

He reaches out, his hand tugging gently on the hem of your shorts, to get your attention. 

His voice, though slurred by the alcohol, carries warmth and softness. “Fuck- baby… what’s- what’s wrong?" he asks, the smile he tries to offer shaky and uncertain.

You don’t answer right away, and there’s a look in your eyes, like you’re stuck between worlds- the nightmare and the waking world, each pulling you in different directions.

Rafe has seen you like this before; panicked from a nightmare, to the point where it consumes you physically. 

Now, he’s usually sober to deal with it- to help you find your way back. He’s used to taking control of the situation, grounding you with his presence. But tonight, everything’s off-balanced.

He shifts, leaning into your shoulder, letting his weight fall against you. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, feeling the warmth of your body against his.

It’s dead silent for a moment; 

"Where were you?”

Your words snap him out of his half-sleep, and he blinks.

His eyes are barely open, his head still resting on your shoulder. 

You sound… annoyed?

“…what?”

“Where were you, Rafe?” you repeat.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first.

The warmth of your skin against his, the rhythmic sound of your breath, almost lulls him back into slumber, but then your voice breaks through again.

“I…I needed you.”

Your voice cracks, almost like you’re holding back a cry. 

“I'm right here, aren’t- aren’t I, baby?” His voice, you can tell he’s too far gone, his words slow, barely making sense as he shifts closer to you, arms leaning in like he’s trying to wrap himself around you.

But it doesn’t feel right.

“No- no, Rafe, get away from me,” you suddenly move a few inches away, causing his head to slip off your shoulder with a soft thud.

Rafe mutters something under his breath, shaking his head, feeling disoriented, and shifts, trying to sit up, but his body feels heavy, uncoordinated.

It’s a few seconds before Rafe tries again, his hand reaching out to touch the flesh of your thigh. 

“Y/n, shit, what’s wrong?”

No response. 

“I’m right here. Talk to me.”

“You’re barely awake,” you say instead, a sniffle following after. 

He squints his eyes at you, trying to read your face, but everything in his vision feels like it’s moving too fast, too slow- he can’t pin it down.

“I’m here,” he says again, though this time it sounds more like a question than a statement.

“You’re not,” you let out a sad laugh, the sound barely escaping your lips, “you’re not.”

His brows furrow deeper, and a flash of frustration flows through him. The words come out before he can stop them, “fuck you mean?”

Rafe can see the way you flinch- surprised by the sudden change of tone. 

“You’re drunk. I don’t- I don’t want to talk to you like this,” you say, your voice strained.

He knows you’re right. He’s drunk. He can feel the weight of it in his head, in the way his words are coming out wrong.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, his voice rough and slow, “…but talk to me. I’m listening. Swear- ”

“What’s the point?”

"…just tell me what’s wrong," he coos, the hand grazing your thigh giving it a soft squeeze. 

“No-“

“C’mon-“

“No-“

“Babe, I swear, I’m-“

“No, Rafe,” you interrupt, the sharpness stopping him in his tracks. You say his name like it’s final, like you’ve already made up your mind, and it stings more than anything he’s felt tonight.

He pauses, his breath catching in his chest. Somehow, he’s sober enough to know he might’ve crossed a line. Yet, he’s drunk enough to not acknowledge it. 

Rafe pulls his hand away, frustratingly running it through it hair. 

He shakes his head, like he’s disagreeing with you. 

“Just- you're crying, and fuck- sitting here, all fucked up and shit. Tell me what’s wrong, c’mon.”

Rafe watches the way your teary, red eyes dance across his features, almost as if  searching for something in him.

And then you speak, your voice breaking just slightly, "I’ll tell you when you can make out a full sentence.”

“What? What’s that suppose to mean-” 

“I don’t want you when you’re drunk,” you cut him off, your voice tight with frustration and hurt. “I don’t want you like this,” you repeat, quieter now. 

“‘Like this’? Jeez, can’t a man party-“ Rafe mumbles, his words slurring together as the alcohol still weighs heavily on him.

“I called you- the whole night!” The sudden high-pitched tone of your voice serves as a reminder that this might be escalating into something more than just a misunderstanding. 

Before he can even respond, you abruptly stand up, the movement so sudden that it sends a jolt of panic through him. His heart races, and for a second, he just watches, stunned, as you distance yourself from him.

“Where you going?” 

He yells after you, body sloppy as he stands up. His hand reaches for the bathroom doorframe to steady himself, "y/n, where you going?”

He watches helplessly as you collect your bags and jacket, the movement sharp and quick, like you’re ready to escape.

"I'm going home," you say. It stabs at him, and for a second, all he can do is stare at you, disbelieving.

“Fuck you mean?” He stumbles towards you, his voice thick with confusion and panic. "this is your home, y/n.”

Rafe licks his lips, frustrated as he watches you pack up.

“Stop-“

His hand tugs whatever’s in your hand away, trying to drag your wrist back toward him, towards the bed. 

"Stop doing that. Just get in bed, I’ll hug you, or whatever, talk to you-“

“No, I don’t want to-“

“Alright, then what you want? Tell me-“

“I want to-“

“Yeah?”

“I want to go home.”

Rafe licks his lips, a dry, humorless laugh escaping him.

“You know I don’t like repeating myself," he mutters, his gaze narrowing slightly.

He gives your wrist a tight squeeze, leaning in close to you. His eyes, fogged by the alcohol, flicker down to the pout on your lips- helpless, but trying to look tough. 

Rafe’s a sucker for you; even more so now that he’s drunk. 

The shift is almost imperceptible, but it's there.

“You wanna go home? Sure. I’ll drive you. When I’m- I’m all sober.”

“That’ll take you forever,” you say, “I’ll go by myself.”

He winces, the idea of you walking out- alone- killing him.

“Fuck- forget it. You’re not going home. This is your home.”

His hand grips your wrist tighter, almost desperately, like he's trying to keep you from slipping through his fingers.

But then, it happens.

You whimper, and the sound cuts through him like a knife. The tears that follow fall down your cheeks, slowly, like a beautiful sad montage from a movie.

"Don’t you get it?" you choke out, your voice trembling, "I don’t want to be here. Be around you right now.”

And just like that, everything inside him freezes.

Rafe’s hand falls away from you, his brows furrowing. 

"It's four a.m- I’ve called you all night. I needed you. I needed you and where were you? Drunk, high, I don’t know…"

Rafe’s mouth is opened ajar, chest tightening as he listens to how hurt you are. He’s fucked up, he knows, and now the consequences are crashing down on him. 

"I'm scared, Rafe. I know it's stupid, but I'm scared, Rafe.”

Your hand comes up, wiping the tears away, but they keep falling, stubbornly, as if your heart just can’t catch up to your mind. The way your fingers tremble, the quiet sobs that escape you- Rafe feels like he's shattering with every breath you take.

“And I know it’s not your fault- but at least, just, I don’t know. I hate how you’re drunk right now. I hate how- how I’m crying, I hate how much I need you, rely on you-“

Your words are cut off when Rafe pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly as if he could absorb all your pain, all your fear, just by holding you. 

The sudden closeness of him- the warmth, the scent of alcohol mixed with his familiar presence- makes your body tremble even harder, but this time it's not just fear. It’s everything. It’s the vulnerability. The relief. The frustration.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holding you as his own breath hitches, feeling the way your body shakes against his. 

His hands stroke your back, trying to soothe you, to comfort you, but he knows it’s not enough. He knows this isn't fixed by just a hug.

“I’m here. I’m here- I got you,” he whispers in your ear, feeling your hands ball into fists on his shirt.

“I’m scared, Rafe,” you mumble into his chest, your voice muffled. 

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, his voice hoarse with the mix of guilt and desperation. 

You cry into his chest, the wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt.

Rafe's eyes flutter shut, the weight of the situation hitting him harder than the alcohol ever could. He tightens his grip around you, trying to offer what little comfort he can. He holds you longer than usual, unwilling to let go just yet.

Between your sobs, you manage to say, “you smell.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, “no shit.”

And then he feels it- your hand landing on his side, the playful hit landing softer than it usually would. 

“…Let go of me, Rafe," you whisper, your voice soft but clear.

For a moment, Rafe doesn’t move. He stays there, his arms still wrapped tightly around you, his thumb tracing circles on your back.

Then, as if answering his own unspoken fears, you add quietly, "I’m not going anywhere, Rafe.”

He lets go reluctantly, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, as if afraid you might slip away.

You give him a forced smile behind those cried-out eyes of yours, "wanna take a shower?" you ask.

He lets out a tired chuckle, "I can barely keep my eyes open, babe.”

You tease him, a playful pout forming on your lips. “…I don’t wanna sleep with stinky Rafe.”

His eyes widen a bit, caught off guard by your shift in tone- how quickly you went from crying to being… well, cute? He can’t help but feel flustered at the sudden change, and despite everything, it makes him smile a little.

“Alright, alright,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand gently, his grip a little unsure but steady. “but you’re, you’re helping me.”

“Of course,” you reply, ready to guide him to the bathroom. But just as you're about to move, Rafe suddenly pulls you back, a serious look in his gaze behind the tired, alcohol haze.

“But you gotta tell me about your dream… what’s got you crying, alright?” he says, his voice dropping low. 

You tilt your head, studying his face as you consider his words. Then, you say, "don’t fall asleep, okay?”

“Then keep me awake, talk to me, touch me, whatever,” he mutters, though his eyelids are still heavy. He wants to listen, to be there for you, even if his body is fighting to stay awake.

You reach up, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead, your touch light. “Okay,” you whisper, “I’ll keep you awake.”

Just like that, Rafe’s being pulled back toward the bathroom, his body mostly leaned against you for support. His legs are unsteady, and he’s still half-dazed from the alcohol, but he doesn’t fight you as you guide him forward.

A shower might sober him up anyways. 

Besides, you’re not crying, you’re off the floor, and you’re not trembling anymore. 

As you start to strip down, Rafe’s gaze follows you.

He stands there quietly, his tired eyes tracing the lines of your figure, the way you carry yourself, despite being tired and scared on the inside. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice rough, guilt washing over him. 

You finish taking the last piece of clothing off, walking towards him, hands reaching for his shirt, “it’s okay.”

“It’s not-“ the shirt goes over his head, “y’know I’m better. Sober, I mean.”

You meet his eyes, and in that moment, Rafe can see the calmness in them. It’s subtle, but it’s there- like you’ve already started to find your ground again, even if he hasn’t.

“I know you are,” you say, "you’re here now. That’s all I need.”

Rafe nods slowly, a breath escaping him, your words a relief to the storm inside of his mind. 

“And y’know- y’know this is your home.”

“…I know.”

“Then don’t- don’t ever say that shit, ever again,” the way he says it, it’s almost like a threat. 

“…don’t give me the chance to.”

“I won’t,” Rafe says, assurance in his tone. 

“…okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

You help him undo this belt, the material dropping to the floor with a hard thud. Rafe shrugs his pants off, so now the both of you are naked.

Hand in hand, you guide him into the shower, the sound of the water running softly as the steam starts to fill the room. 

The warmth of it envelops you both, washing away the tension, the fear, the misunderstandings.

Rafe pulls you closer once inside, and you lean into him, resting your head on his chest as the water cascades down around you.

For now, it’s just the two of you- no more words, no more fears, just the comfort of being together.

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

took a long break bc i got busy! yall miss me???

btw i have like ten identical nightmare- type requests in my inbox. all remotely similar T_T

elevator | other

[miguelhugger2099]

OMG imagine the one bed trope w miguel. like idk why itd happen, maybe like they’re scoping out an anomaly in another universe and somehow the portal back gets blocked and they gotta stay the night at a hotel, but miguel and reader are stuck in the same bed (she SWEARS she booked two beds but oops! all the rooms are filled up!) and like oh no they need this hotel!! so at first they’re really rigid and like miguel’s all tense, he’s like “i’ll sleep on the floor” but reader is like “no it’s okay we can share! i don’t move a lot in my sleep anyway” (that’s a lie btw.) so then like miguel’s wide awake in the middle of the night, and reader keeps shifting in her sleep, and they end up in a pretty compromising position if ykwim… and then maybe she wakes up and finds miguel like so flustered and starts teasing him a bit and then things heat up ofc… idk just a thought! it’s been so long since i’ve seen the one bed trope tbh. (fem reader btw plssss)

Forced Proximity

i tried with my best with this 🫠 i wanted to try something new instead of regular p in v i hope that's okay 😭 thank u for requesting! if anything, i'd be happy to redo this when my requests open again

Miguel x Reader, Suggestive/Smut, Word Count: 2,271

Just as you and Miguel were about to shoot your webs at the new anomaly, a black bubbly portal opened up and sucked them up into another dimension. “Dammit!” You cursed, groaning at the convenience of an anomaly escaping. Miguel is already beside you, mask eyes squinted in focus as he clicks buttons on his watch. “Where’d he run off to?” You ask him. “No clue. Trying to track him now but the touchpad isn’t responding.” He grunts and furiously taps his screen but it seems to be glitching. He tries to open a portal back to HQ but it only warbles a little bit before shutting close again. “Let me try.” You lift up your watch to try and press the same coordinates when it responds the same way: a little warping but it shuts close. “Lyla,” Miguel calls out and she pops up between you two. “Run an analysis on our watches.” Her small heart glasses fog up with various numbers and letters, codes that only she knows. “Looks like the watches are bugged, Mig. Probably an effect the anomaly had.” “So we’re stranded?” You rip off your mask and place a hand on your hip. “Yup!” She nods. “For how long?” Miguel pinches his nose bridge with his finger and thumb.

“Well, most part-time spiders are off doing other missions in other dimensions and the other half of them have the day off. No one will be available until morning.” “So, we’re staying the night.” You lift your arms up and slap them down. “I’m finding a hotel.” You turn and look around for any around you two. Miguel sighs and faces Lyla. “Is there another way home? Are we safe from the glitching?” Lyla nods, pulling up frames and data for him to look at. “Safe from glitching. Probably just a program issue. Maybe an update issue. Unfortunately, not even Margo is at HQ so your next bet is waiting for a spider to portal you two back.” She explains and glitches out of the air. He tries to find a new solution but comes up short, deciding to just accept it before he grows angry. Miguel hears you calling his name as you run back to where Lyla and him were standing. “Okay, I found a hotel! I talked to this lady up front–luckily the currency is the same as yours–and we got extra lucky,” You huffed with a wide smile on your face. “They’re pretty busy but she managed to get us a room with two beds and two bathrooms. Left her a tip, hope you don’t mind.” You placed your hands on your hips and continued to grin at the frown on his lips.

Miguel rolled his eyes and called for Lyla, her little form glitching back and perching on his shoulder. “Lyla, get back to base. Let the others know we’ve been stranded and call for backup whenever someone’s available.” Her vibrant yellow glare shifts as she moves, her hand coming up in a salute and a police hat glitching on her head. “You got it, boss! Have fun you two!” She giggles and phases out. Miguel passes by you coldly, heading for the hotel where you booked for the night. You yawn behind him, just wanting to rest after a wasted day of failing to catch an anomaly. You walked through the hallways of the hotel, checking down at your key for the number of your room. Once you found it, you slipped the keycard on the lock and opened the door. “Home sweet–” You cut yourself off after peeking into the room and what greeted you was a singular bed. “Wha–?!” You glanced back at the roomkey number and the plate outside, finding the two matching that this was indeed your room for the night. “I swear I asked for two–” “I’ll take the floor.” Miguel grumbles behind you, his entire frame stiff and rigid. You take a look up at him and his face is unamused and staring straight ahead to avoid your eye. “No, it’s–it’s fine,” You chuckle nervously and walk over to the bed. You pat the edge of it and try to convince yourself and Miguel that everything was fine. “There’s so much space. It’s like–what– a king size? We have plenty of room to share!” Miguel doesn’t seem convinced in the slightest, already making a move to grab a pillow. “I don’t even move that much in my sleep! Promise! Pinky promise.” You hold up your pinky to Miguel and he stops to stare at your hand with a deadpan expression. “Fine.” He grunts, placing the pillow back down and not wanting to deal with you any further since he was exhausted.

You, in fact, actually do move a lot in your sleep–Miguel figured out. He really was exhausted and expected himself to pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow but with you next to him, it was like the energy hadn’t left his body. He laid there straight as a pole with the blanket at his chest and staring at the ceiling. You were in dreamland, snoozing and sprawled on the mattress– blissfully unaware of Miguel’s misery by the situation at hand. You shifted around in your sleep, your hand hitting his shoulder or your leg bumping against his ankle. Miguel could handle it. He’s spent many uncomfortable all-nighters so he thought to himself that one more wouldn’t be too damaging for him. It wasn’t until you moved further to his side of the bed that had Miguel’s heart racing. You turned to his side, throwing your leg over his and your arm draped around his neck to bring him closer to you. His arm instinctively went under your body and held your waist while you pressed yourself against him, so as to not make the position uncomfortable for either of you. Miguel’s cheeks burned while you nuzzled to his chest, acting like he was some sort of teddy bear. He hoped his heartbeat wouldn’t wake you from your slumber. Your thighs were close together and any closer you’d start accidentally grinding on him. Miguel looked back up at the ceiling and prayed that you’d move soon.

His prayers were not answered. You woke up after feeling a bit too much heat and it became unbearable to sleep through. You blinked away the sleep groggily, wondering why the pillow you had been on had gotten a little more firm. You lifted your head to see you weren’t on your pillow but basically cuddling up against your boss. You looked down to see your legs intertwined together and turned your head to apologize when you stopped seeing Miguel’s cheeks flush red. His eyes did not meet yours but you felt the pounding of his heart. A smile curled up on your lips, apology wiped off your mind and instead leaning into wanting to taunt him for how shy he’s acting. “Miguel,” You tease with a bit of laughter. “Aw, c’mon. A little accidental cuddle gets you nervous?” Miguel glares at you from the corner of his eye. As you laugh, you continue moving against him. You don’t notice how he takes a sharp inhale when your knee brushes against his crotch as you lift yourself up. Your hands rest on either side of his head. “Did you even sleep? Or did you just stay up all night like some perv?” You snort, having the time of your life seeing your usually sulking boss look so cute with red scattered across his cheeks. Miguel squeezes your waist then uses both his hands to grab you and force you down on his thigh. You gasp in shock, all playfulness leaving your body as your core hits his firm muscle. The action ignites a spark in your chest that sends it straight between your legs, making you whimper, all in a split second.

You snap your head towards him, cheeks already burning and mouth dropped open in shock. Miguel meets it with a cheshire like grin, his own blush on his cheeks but less now that you’re  more flustered than him. “Careful,” He says. “Wouldn’t want to be some sort of perv, huh?” You could’ve sworn his voice dropped down an octave. You stutter, unable to respond back as he rendered you speechless. His thigh flexed and it sent a jolt up your spine with your cunt throbbing which he felt. Maybe it was him being tired, drained from the day that he was acting out of character. Too tired to care about the consequences while his mind clouded and numbed his usual feelings. For now, he enjoyed the way your hands gripped onto his shoulders, cute eyes wide open and feeling the delicious beat of your pussy on his thigh. He rubs your hips on his thigh, his muscle flexing to put some stimulation to your pussy. You squeak and lean forward as the pleasure runs through your body and makes you grow hot. “Miguel…!” You gasp and moan. You automatically grind yourself on him and his grin widens, leaning back to see the show. Miguel feels your wetness seep through the thin fabric of your suit and panties onto his own suit. He phases just a small part of his thigh out his suit to feel just how wet you’ve gotten with a little teasing. “Already?” He murmurs and your cheeks burn brightly. “You like this, huh?” “Fuck…” You huff out, hanging your head to not meet his gaze. Your nails dig into his shoulder as he moves your hips. “C’mon. Show me how much you like this.” You know he was only doing this to get back at you for teasing him, for booking a one bed instead of two and with how his patience had run out from being stranded here, you decided not to test that anger anymore.

So you slowly moved up and down his thigh with a soft whimper, shutting your eyes close while you did so. Your breathing grew heavy, and you shook with every slight movement on his end. Slowly, you picked up speed, the lust flooding your mind and the pace you were going at hadn’t been enough. You humped his thigh faster, still opting out of looking down at him. “Shit…Not enough…” You murmured under your breath, not thinking he’d heard you over the accumulating wet sounds on his skin and shuffling of bed sheets. “Let me help.” You hear him say and feel his hand by the zipper of your suit at the nape of your neck. Weak from your pleasure, you let him tug your suit off your torso. Miguel tapped your thighs as a signal to lift yourself up while he slipped the rest of it off you. You were now bare in front of him, his hands placed back at your hips. You still felt embarrassed, trying to cover up your chest with your arms and hands. Miguel wasn’t having it, growing annoyed at you covering yourself. He cupped the back of your neck and pulled you flushed down on his chest. “Keep going.” He growled. The rumble of his voice went straight to your cunt once more, succumbing to him as you began grinding yourself on him, skin to skin. Your folds smeared your juices on his thighs coating him in your wetness. The swollen nub of your clit rolled deliciously between you and his thigh and you panted softly as you tried chasing you high.

“There you go. That’s it.” Miguel murmured, bucking his thigh to your pussy to the same pace of your humping. He held your hip with one hand to help you and his other hand raked up and down your back, his talons scratching your flesh. “You’re doing so good. Good girl riding my thigh, yeah?” He purred which made you groan and buck your hips faster. “Miguel…” You breathed out. “More, more.” You pleaded. His talons pricked your skin. “Cum on my thigh first and maybe I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

Peter B. met you two once the portal fully opened up in your stranded dimension. He greeted you with a smile, Mayday babbling in her carrier. “Hey! Glad you guys survived the night. Took a minute to get you guys. Sorry about that.” He playfully punched Miguel’s and your shoulder. You beamed at him and held Mayday’s little hand, wiggling it around softly enough to make her giggle. “Hope it wasn’t agonizing.” Peter chuckles to you. You chuckle back and step away from Mayday, giving the two a smile. “Not at all. He’s surprisingly good company.” Miguel doesn’t react behind you. “Oh, yeah? Must be going soft. Big guy isn’t just pleasant for anybody.” Peter says. “Funny how things work out.” You grin and turn around to peck Miguel’s cheek and walk towards the portal. “I’ll see you guys later?” You give a wink and slip into the portal, your body phasing out and leaving the two men behind. Peter gapes at the warping space where you had just left and slowly turns to Miguel to see his friend, very much stiff but his face has a slight tint to it. “Did something happen–” Miguel shoves his face aside and phases his mask over his head to hide his cheeks. “Cállate.” He mutters and enters into the portal towards his dimension.

Peter gets snapped out of his stupor by Mayday babbling and waving her arms around as if cheering Miguel and you on. Peter looks down at her and grabs her little hand in his. “He’s growin’ up, huh?” Mayday squeals.

[redsakura101]

Quiet Affections: Silent Sorrows (Part 1)

Jason Todd x Reader

A prologue to Quiet Affections: Dead Roses, but it can be read as a stand alone. Silent Sorrows (Part 2) can be read here.

After a fight filled with heated emotions, Jason leaves a posy of flowers for his love. A small gesture, expressing what his words fail to convey. You realise just what these flowers mean.

Word count: ~2.0k

“Don’t look at me like that” Jason’s voice is firm, quaking, trying so hard not to crack. 

“Like what?” Your throat burns, as tears threaten to fall.

“Like I’m good! Like I –” he takes in a sharp breath and chokes out,

“Like I deserve you.” 

You're shaken out of whatever anger you felt, your eyes soften, hearing the pain in his voice.

The anger that bubbled within you as you argued now simmered away. 

You finally take it in, noticing how his shoulders are tensed, stature rigid like a caged animal backed into a corner. 

How could you be so blind, you don’t even know how this fight got to this point. 

It started out so small and menial, now it feels like you’re both laying it out there.

Difficult to decipher what words are meant or not.  

And now all you want to do is hold him.

Keep him close and tell him sweet nothings and that he deserves all things good in life.

Tell him that whoever told him that he didn’t deserve the good in life, should watch out as you’ll hunt them down for making him feel this way. 

Arms fall slack at your side as you take a step towards him, but before you get too close. 

He turns away. 

He leaves.

Walks out the door of your apartment, and shuts it.  

The noise in Jason’s mind is buzzing, his flight or fight response kicking in as he walks out. 

He doesn’t want to fight you, the sorrow and hurt in your eyes pains him greater than any injury he’s sustained on patrol. 

All he wanted to do is tell you how sorry he was. 

Tell you how he never wanted to make you feel this way. 

That you didn’t deserve this mess of emotions.

But the words he means get stuck in his throat and come out in a twisted iteration – choking out snippets of the insecurities he has. 

His words failed him.

He had to get out of there.

He couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe in that room. 

He had seen how your eyes softened, seemingly already forgiven him before he’d even said sorry. 

Couldn’t fathom how you could do that so easily. 

Couldn’t understand how you could look at him like he was worthy of you and your affections. But he supposes that’s why he’d fallen for you so easily. 

Fuck. Jason’s mind wouldn’t stop, as all the ugliness of his thoughts begins to cloud his mind. He needed to clear his mind, distract it. 

The heavy weight of his combat gear acts as a comfort. The heaviness of his boots ground him.

A sense of familiarity as he pushes back the thoughts that chase him. 

***

The shutting of the door echoed in your apartment. 

The silence is deafening.

The air is thick with the heightened emotions that linger like a dense fog. 

You take in deep breaths trying to regulate yourself, as wet tears begin to roll down your cheeks. Sinking down into the couch, hands holding your head. 

How did this happen? 

You were both just enjoying dinner a few hours ago.

A delicious meal that Jason had cooked for the two of you. The aroma of pasta and a sweet tomato ragu still lingers in the air.

You had settled on the couch together, watching the TV but not really paying attention as you just enjoyed each other’s presence. 

Then you’d made an offhand comment – an offer for him to stay the night, selfishly you just didn’t want the evening to end.

Relishing in the comfort his presence provided you. 

You’d known he was planning to go on patrol, but you also noticed how his eyes were a little less perceptive, a little more tired.

Too many long nights out. 

You just wanted him to give himself a little reprieve. 

To take care of himself as much as you cared for him. 

But it didn’t pan out. Instead it evolved into an argument where no one wins. 

You’d both said things, hurtful things. Words that sliced deeper than a knife. Leaving you with a heavy heart of regret. 

You’d never had an argument so heated with him.

You didn’t know what to do now.

You didn’t want to hurt Jason.

Never wanting to be another person in his life to cause him harm.

You just wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone. That you were there for him. That you needed him. 

Why didn’t it come out that way? 

Why did your words fail?

Now all you think about is how Jason’s out in the city, mind impaired with emotions, and you’re worried sick out of your mind just wanting to tell him it’s ok. 

That you both are ok.

It was just a fight and you’d get through it, together.  

But you can’t reach him now. 

Instead you just lie on the couch and curl into the cushions, the tears have dried.

Eyes drift shut, as you fall asleep unsettled. 

***

It’s 4 am when Jason lands on your fire escape, he peers through the curtains. 

The dim glow of your lamps casts a gentle glow on your face. 

Angelic, is the word that comes to mind. 

He sees you sleeping on the couch, how you're curled into yourself. There’s no way you're comfortable, already anticipating how you’d likely wake up with a stiff neck. 

His chest aches as he remembers all the things said in the heat of the moment.

Regret crawls in and settles into his mind.

He stops himself from simply unlocking your window and holding you close. 

But he refrains.  

In his hands he holds a posy of flowers composed of purple Hyacinths, blue Hydrangeas and Olive leaves.

Tied neatly with a little string and a red ribbon. 

While prowling the streets he’d seen the dim glow of the Farmers and Flower market, watching as the hustle and bustle of vendors sold their goods. 

Despite the crime and grit that haunts Gotham, the city still has a vibrant wholesale produce market open from 2 am to 7 am, serving the needs of Gotham’s florists, grocery stores and restaurants. 

Sometimes when Jason needs peace, he watches over them. 

If his family saw him like this they'd never believe it.

They'd already been suspicious of his strange behaviour on patrol.

He should've never told them about you - in fact he never intended to tell them.

Not yet at least.

But you consumed so much of his life and he wanted to keep diving in.

So when he offhandedly mentioned it a few weeks ago to Dick that he'd been dating someone, it spread among the family like wildfire.

And now tonight they noticed as he was a little more aggressive, a little less chatty, moving quicker with no restraint.

They immediately came to a conclusion that something was wrong.

His mind boggles as their incessant chatter floods the comms, comments and teasing remarks that hit too close to home

As Tim questioned, "trouble in paradise?" As Steph tacked on to tease “are you in the doghouse Red?”.

Dick while sounding genuinely concerned asked "you ok Little Wing?" only pushed Jason to feel more ticked off.

He shut it off and continued the night alone.

He'd deal with them another time.

For now as a sense of calm washes over him, the harsh fluorescent lights convey a sense of warmth. 

Eyes watching over the hustle below him.

On the fringe of the market he noticed a vendor selling flowers. 

It seemed to be a family business as he noted the seemingly mother and son duo organise and arrange the beautiful flowers whilst selling them to clients both returning and new. 

The aroma of dewy flowers and the musky sweet smell of foliage fills his senses. 

In a moment of quiet.

His body moves and before he knows what he’s doing, he appears at the stall. 

Popping his helmet off, revealing his masked face. 

The woman, a little wary, watches him closely with pointed eyes.

A true Gothamite, always alert even of the supposed protectors. 

Behind her, her son’s posture grows tense and guarded, eyes flickering to the guns in Red Hood’s holsters.  

“Can I help you?” She asks, breaking the silence. 

This brings Jason out of his thoughts, it's amusing to her, watching as this violent vigilante of Gotham seemingly becomes small like a shrinking violet. 

He coughs into his hand clearing his throat, a little awkward, all confidence leaves him. 

“What flowers say 'I’m sorry'?” 

She blinks. 

His voice is rough, but sounds raw. 

A tell tale of the aftermath of an argument.

This is not how she expected her evening to go.

In the presence of the Red Hood, as he asks how to say sorry…with flowers.

She shares a look to her son, before looking back to the tall man clad in kevlar, leather and armed to the brim. 

Despite the mask she can see the signs of a man who’s going through the strains of an argument.

Likely with a spouse. 

Before she can answer, her son suggests as he begins to pluck a few flowers from their place, “Hydrangeas are a good idea. Especially blue ones, they mean sincere remorse and regret” 

“Paired with Olive leaves, represents a want for forgiveness, an Olive branch if you will,” she laughs a little. 

“I heard that purple Hyacinths also mean sorrow…” Jason adds. 

She smiles softly at him, “just in luck we’ve got a beautiful delivery of Hyacinths.” 

They work silently to put together the flowers, asking a few questions here and there. 

As he gives short responses, watching them move around and find the perfect flowers for him, pruning them to size. 

The way she interacts with her son with a maternal warmth, seeps into her behaviour, he thinks if his life were different, he would’ve appreciated having a mother like her. 

Caring. 

Thoughtful. 

It makes him think of you.  

How big would you like the bouquet? Just a small gesture, nothing extravagant. You wouldn't like a big bouquet, it would come across as forced.

Would you like twine? Yes.

Maybe a little ribbon? If that’s what you recommend.

What colour? Red.

Would you like a little note tied to it? No.

While they don’t traditionally put together bouquets, as they’re a wholesaler.

She thinks this is a worthy exception, and it’s a little fun. 

Especially when she has some other customers come through, seeing their faces as they’re a little taken aback by the vigilante standing to the side patiently waiting.

No questions are asked aloud, but she sees them in their eyes as they analyse him.

Soon they’ve finished, and present him with a little posy, thoughtfully arranged and carefully tied with twine and a red ribbon they’d found. 

She watches as he takes it with a gentleness contrasting to the violent news stories she’d associate with him.

He seems so young, younger than she realised. 

Around her son's age, her eyes which were once pointed and analytical now soft with a gentleness and understanding.

It must be tough facing what he does for the city and never being fully appreciated. She only hopes this little posy of flowers helps ease the pain he's trying to mend.

“Thank you…”

“Anna, and my son’s name is Franklin”, he nods at this,

“Thank you Anna, Franklin, for your help.” 

He fishes out money and passes it to her.

Before she can protest and hand it back, he disappears just as quietly into the night. 

She glances at the bill in her hand.

$100. 

She sucks in a deep inhale, it's a lot more than what was necessary.

Hell she would've done it for free, just to say thanks for keeping the streets of Gotham safe.

For keeping her and her son safe by doing so.

Gotham is tough, but these moments make it worth it.

“Well, that was one of the weirdest things I’ve seen in Gotham. And I’ve seen Robin save a cat from a tree, in the middle of a fight with the Penguin!” Her son jokes. She laughs and they continue on with their work. 

Little does she realise, this odd little occurrence wouldn’t be the last time she helps Red Hood find the perfect flowers.

Now Jason’s on your fire escape, posy in hand, gently placing it on your window sill. 

Stealing one last glance at your sleeping form, before disappearing back into the night. 

Read Silent Sorrows (Part 2) The continuation of this and what reader does with the flowers Jason gifts her can be read Quiet Affections:Dead Roses This was a little rushed so hopefully it all makes sense as I wanted to tie it into the Dead Rose story. Also I just love the image of Red Hood surrounded by flowers, the contrast between the two is perfect.

[kedsandtubesocks]

you, my golden hour

Rancher!Javier Peña x Cowgirl!Reader

summary: 1997. as a fallen rodeo star, you can handle anything - except maybe your city’s hometown hero

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, Post Season 3 Javi works on his family’s ranch AU, unspecified age gap (only age mention is reader can drink and Javi is older), major pining & yearning, emotional hurt & comfort, light angst with tender fluff, reader has a backstory and family, no physical description of reader but gendered language is used and reader can ride a horse, use of pet/nicknames, mention/description of rodeo accident, themes of dealing with burnout, small texas town toxicity, light Spanish use, reader & javi having insecurities they bond/heal over, bar scene with alcohol consumption, spicy moments with allusions to smut, intense makeout where Javi gets handsy, soft!Javi, dreamy & protective!Javi

word count: 10.2k (I’m sorry)

a/n: the second installment of ‘let’s rodeo’ and my love letter to Javi & Texas, the heart of this series - this fic is near & dear to me and I just appreciate getting the chance to write this, so to @lowlights @ahauntedcowboy & @perotovar for giving me the courage to post this know I’m so grateful… and to you reading this thank you, so dearly appreciate you too ♡

You haven’t thought of Javier Peña in years.

Older than you, he was handsome and had a smile that rivaled the Texas Friday night lights. He eventually hooked up with the number one town sweetheart who was even rumored to have won a local state beauty contest.

By the time you heard of their engagement, you already had started your plans for the circuits, for the road. You didn’t mourn or even feel heartbroken over the news.

Even after that, the rodeo consumed you. It kept you in a tornado like whirl for years until that fateful day it spat you out.

When that ride stopped, Javier Peña came back into your mind with a strange fog-like entrance.

While still on bed rest, the news on the TV had been showing a small special on the War on Drugs and the lull of it filled the room.

Your grandmother was the one who brought him up.

“That’s what Chucho’s son is involved in.”

“Wait, Javier Peña’s into drugs?” You asked a bit confused even without the pain killers.

“No. He’s going after the people who sell drugs.” She clarified.

Oh.

“He also didn’t get married either. Do you remember?” She had added.

You did. You heard he left the little Miss Homecoming Queen at the altar. Quite a scandal that made him the talk of the town for a while.

Then he became a big shot drug enforcer who took down one of the largest drug cartels in history and he again became the talk of the town.

It’s been a few years since your accident and now Javier Peña is back home.

Now driving into the Peña ranch you feel both so young, yet so aged at the same time, like you’re stuck between two realities.

Your sister bounces out of the truck with uncontainable glee and you’re grateful she’s excited.

Chucho Peña comes to greet everyone. His classic cream cowboy hat and gentle smile are all a beautiful welcome. It’s also adorable seeing your grandpa reunite with his old friend.

Señor Peña’s kind eyes eventually land on you with a sweet twinkle.

“It’s good to see you, mija.”

You’ve always adored Chucho Peña.

His son on the other hand…

You never knew Javier enough to fully know him. Even with his dad and your grandpa being pals, the years between you and Javier didn’t help. He existed outside your orbit, a figure almost out of reach.

“And that son of yours!?” Your grandpa of course perks up asking about him.

“Ah sí Javi’s here, just out in the stables.” Chucho explains casually.

The last time you physically saw Javier Peña he was walking out of the bank. You’d been waiting in your family truck when he stepped out. By that point, a small bit of shadow was forming against his jaw and upper lip as his facial hair began to grow thick. He was a young man on the verge of stepping into the threshold of being grown.

Now before you he’s a fully grown man.

For a minute you think the man in the barn is someone else because it doesn’t seem like Javier.

Yet when he turns, you see his eyes.

Rich soil of the earth stunning eyes and you know it’s him.

His body has filled out and his shoulders even look broader. He sports a similar mustache like his father’s and it adds to his older appearance. There’s a weathered weariness on his face evident in the wrinkles carved out by his eyes and on his forehead.

The button up shirt he’s wearing allows a peek at his chest and his skin shines with sweat from the Texas sun already shining its warmth.

He’s breathtakingly stunning and you can’t take your eyes off him.

He warmly greets your grandpa with a wide smile that touches his eyes and brightens his face. He’s still that charming young man you saw, a brilliant comet out of your galaxy.

But then his gaze lands on you and his eyes narrow. A conflicting recognition and confusion swirl in his eyes. He knows you, seems to remember you, but not fully.

His dad clarifies your name and you deflate a bit. Then Javier’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

So, he does remember you.

“Oh, yeah. Good to see you.” He nods fully realizing who you are.

“Guess the horse must be for you then?” Javier adds and your heart sinks a bit.

A grimace tugs on your face but you try recovering quickly.

“No mijo,” Chucho thankfully answers quick and gentle. “I told you, it’s for her hermanita.”

You grin small and tight in agreement.

“Oh…yeah of course.” He nods.

Your little sister immediately jumps in bright and eager to share her excitement. Thankfully the focus effortlessly shifts to her and the reason why you’re all here.

The horse is beautiful, playful and eager for attention. This first meeting already feels good. Of course, everyone holds their breaths when your sister goes for the ride.

And it couldn’t have gone more smoothly.

You even exhale relieved.

“You seemed nervous.” A smooth warm voice comes out besides you.

As you lean against the ring’s fence you discover Javier Peña moving to rest beside you.

“Just like the first day of school kinda nerves. Want to make sure everything goes smoothly.” You answer as your sister effortlessly trots around the ring with ease.

“Yeah, I bet. They already seem to be clicking.” Javier notes genuine and you’re grateful too.

Your grandfather now calls out to you.

Both you and Javier turn towards where the older men stand close to each other like conspiring headaches.

“To celebrate, we’re having dinner here!” Your grandpa cheers happily and a dread drop kicks your heart.

Immediately you stammer out panicked about how you all can’t impose.

“No pasa nada, mija.” Senor Peña gently reassures you saying not to worry. “Besides, you’re all more than welcome here. It’s been a while since Javi and I had guests.”

You don’t miss the unashamed hum Javier makes.

“And grandma?” You reply, trying to reach for more excuses not to stay.

“She can walk.” Your sister teases suddenly and you give her a sharp look.

“Will you go pick her up, please?” Your grandpa gives you his best pleading face before simply throwing the truck keys to you

Stubborn old man.

“Hijo,” Señor Peña calls out again, but this time to his son. “You should go too.”

Shit.

“No Pop, it’s okay!” Javi politely declines and you want to second that.

“Aye,” His dad chides and then he pointedly gives Javier a look that screams - Don’t be rude, go with her.

Damn.

The walk to the truck is quiet, awkward as hell, feels like two parents shoving their kids together to play nice.

Heading into the main part of town, silence fills most of the drive. You're also mentally kicking yourself for not getting the radio fixed last week like you should’ve.

“So uh, your grandma…still volunteering at the women’s shelter?” Until Javier offers a small branch of conversation.

“Yup.” You nod.

“Oh good, that’s good.” He replies.

But silence returns.

“So, you taking a break from the rodeo then? Pop used to tell me about you all the time.” Javier comments light, casual.

You feel like a cat with its hairs standing up. But even with that sensation, knowing Señor Peña spoke so fondly of you does simmer the sting.

“Sort of.” You decide to rip this off like a bandaid, get it over with now. “Had a bad accident a while back. Still haven’t decided if I wanna return.”

It’s been two years since you’ve been home.

“Oh…” Javier’s voice drops, the same way everyone does when you tell them.

“I’m sorry.” Except you’re surprise at how sincerely soft his voice is. “I thought I heard something about it. I should’ve fucking remembered… Sorry.”

He apologizes again, surprising you once more as genuine repentance floats off his voice.

You thank him understandingly. After all, it's one of the better responses you’ve been given. But you don’t want to dig into this, especially with him, so you quickly change the conversation.

“So how long are you here for? I’m sure there must be other drug cartels waiting for you to take them down.” You offer casual.

Not only had he taken down Pablo Escobar a while back, you briefly heard of his very recent grand move against the other cartel in Columbia.

He’s impressive, the town’s hero and golden boy.

“Uh actually, I’m retired. Gonna take a step back for a bit.” Javier answers just as polite and calm as you had answered him.

Oh. You hadn’t heard that. Or maybe you did and forgot.

You now feel like the foolish one and genuinely congratulate him.

“It takes a lot to decide when to step away. Besides, you deserve a break after all you did.” You mean those words.

After all, they were the same comforting words his father told you when you came back home.

A pause fills the truck and you worry you’ve maybe overstepped.

“I…yeah.” Javier breathes out. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

Your heart flutters at how small and genuine he sounds.

“So…how about them Dallas Cowboys, huh?” Javier offers light and for some reason you laugh.

It’s not much, but it feels like a lifeline.

When you arrive to pick up your grandmother she gasps so giddy when she sees the surprise guest with you. Her excitement lights up the drive while she talks about her day taking full advantage of having Javier listening to her.

“Oh I’m so glad you’re back home safe Javi!” She gushes and then says your name.

You’re already panicking.

“With so many of your friends living out of town, maybe you’ll get to spend more time back in the city with Javier!?” She offers to you brightly and absolute horror seizes your heart.

Shooting a petrified face at her you silently plead for this discussion to die.

Javier in the back seat weakly laughs. Because of course Javier, ever the gentleman, had your grams sitting up front.

“Oh don’t give me that look.” Your grandma playfully teases back at you. “At least go rent a movie with him.”

The thought crosses your mind about turning around and dropping her back off.

“Did you know,” Javier innocently jumps in. “The first ever blockbuster was opened in Dallas?”

Your grandma coos in awe as if he’s just explained a miracle.

“See! Now you have to go with him to one!” She urges.

A horrified indignant noise escapes you. While behind you, Javier snickers even more and you’re tempted to drop him off on the side of the road to let the coyotes feast on him.

The minute you arrive at the Peña’s home you can’t get out of the truck fast enough.

Dinner fortunately goes smooth and you’re surprised at how eased the rest of the time unfolds. You do hate how many times your eyes flicker towards Javier like if you’re still trying to soak him in.

Then, from across the table, Javier’s gaze flickers to you fast catching you staring red handed. Your heart transforms into a jackrabbit, petrified and thumping fast, almost making you flee right then and there.

Until your grandpa addresses you. His warm eyes dance with a surprise in his gaze.

“We’ve decided to have some of your sister's training here.”

Your heart now skips over itself.

Your gramps and sister both explain the plan hatched while you were on the road. In order to get used to competing in different spaces, your sister decided to train here at the Peña’s.

You’re hesitant, but understand the logic. You’re even impressed. But you can’t pinpoint why you’re so nervous about this.

Señor Peña now calls to you, sensing your hesitation, and tenderly grins.

“Don’t worry mija,” his kind eyes crinkle with understanding. “It’s no trouble at all.”

His reassurance is grace and you smile back relieved while thanking him deeply.

“Seems like you’re the boss here.” Javier suddenly joins in with a casual tone and you freeze.

“Well yeah, that’s my coach you’re talking to.” Your sister proudly declares.

“Coach?” Javier’s voice perks up curious.

“Yeah.” You answer with a small smile. “That’s me.”

“Been barking orders at me all these years so why not put her in charge.” Your sister innocently adds and in pure sobbing annoyance you want to shove her face into her plate.

Thankfully everyone laughs, illuminating the room.

But you’re faced with a new reality. You’re going to be here more, seeing Javier Peña more.

And you don’t know how you feel about that yet.

-

The Peña ranch in the morning sits tranquil and the peace gives you the focus on training.

You’re surprised at how good your sister and the mare already bond. You explain a few drills and have your sister run a few repetitions of them.

“You sound like a tough one.” Javier’s voice surprises you and you almost jump over the fence.

Glancing back, he approaches you with two thermoses.

“Pop and I thought you might need an extra pick me up.” He offers and you can’t help but greedily grab at it.

“Tell your dad thanks and that he’s a saint.”

Javier snorts at your reply.

Now your focus returns to your sister. You recommend a type of turning drill vividly remember doing yourself. Your sister playfully salutes you and begins.

“How she looking, coach?” Him calling you ‘coach’ draws a dangerous electricity that snaps up your spine.

“Don’t call me coach.” You dryly tell him trying to keep yourself composed.

“Well isn’t that what you are?” He teases casually.

Your face scrunches up annoyed while his eyes crinkle amused.

“Don’t you have things to do, Javier Peña?” You sigh, already exhausted of this man.

“Javi…you can just call me Javi, coach.”

You’re tempted to childishly scoot away from him. Younger you would have never imagined he was this annoying.

“Don’t call me coach.” You dully repeat.

“Okay, coach.”

Now you contemplate just shoving him away.

But all the annoyance washes away when commotion hits. The horse makes a disgruntled whinny and immediately both you and Javier whip your attention towards the ring. Your sister calmly stays on the saddle, gently soothing down her companion.

After asking if she’s good, her eased thumbs up reassures you. She does a few trots to calm everyone down. You even exhale relieved.

“You lost in thought?” Javier comments.

“Yeah.” You answer him with a mutter. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You almost don’t tell him. But you surprise yourself and do.

You explain the type of pace that comes with training in barrel racing. There’s a pattern and method to it all. You don’t realize you’ve rambled until you blink and realize Javier stares so directly at you. His eyebrows furrow slightly as if he’s focused hard listening to your words.

Embarrassed, you’re about to stammer out an apology when Javier whistles low.

“You know your fucking shit.” He nods appreciatively and hearing his pride ignites something dangerous in your chest.

Another surprise sharp whistle comes. Out from the barn, a further ways away, Chucho stands staring out. He even waves at you and you wave back.

“You gonna work today, hijo?” He calls out.

Javier curses under his breath.

“Busted.” You joke and now he’s the one side eying you.

“Please you’re the one slacking off here!” Your baby sister suddenly complains loud and cheeky “You’re not getting paid by the hour, coach!”

“Guess we’re both in trouble.” Javier snickers.

You roll your eyes but quickly sneer at your smiling sister.

“Alright then. See ya later…bandita.” Javier already walks away by the time you hear his goodbye.

But it hits you.

He thankfully stopped calling you coach. But now, what replaced it…

Little Bandit.

The nickname rips through you with a barbed fierceness you’re not prepared for.

The rest of the month follows this same routine.

On training days Javier shows up with something for you to drink. Once he even came with a few goods from the bakery across town.

No matter what, he watches practice with you for as long as he can before getting called back to the ranch.

During these moments together, he asks about how the turns are made or why you correct your sister when you do. It’s friendly. You actually start enjoying his company especially when your grandfather so eagerly leaves to hang out with Chucho instead.

The greetings and thanks are always the same.

“Thanks, Peña.”

“Javi,” he patiently corrects you everytime.

You can’t bring yourself to call him that just yet.

At the start of the new month everyone sleeps in and arrives later to the Peña’s ranch.

This time you’ve brought more barrels. Thankfully you can move them with the help of your sister. Suddenly besides you, boots clamor onto the truck and rapidly you snap your attention to the source of the sound.

Javier Peña smoothly climbs up to help you with the rest of the barrels.

He’s in a striking soft purple button up shirt. Sweat already shines against his bare arms. Thick worn in working gloves cover his hands. His hair seems a bit curlier today and he wears aviator sunglasses that suit his face.

Effortlessly Javier grabs onto one and lifts it by himself.

You’re stunned. Even your sister stops and stares just as surprised.

Javier is strong. Doesn’t seem like the muscular type but he’s built and radiates a type of seasoned strength of a well grown man, a rancher man.

His arms firmly hold the barrel, sturdy and toned, and you can’t look away.

“Where d’ya want me to put it?” Javier yells and you trip out of your thoughts to dumbly point where the barrel needs to be placed.

Your grandfather whistles proudly seeing Javier.

“If this rancher thing doesn’t work out for you Jav, you got the makings of a fine rodeo man.” Your grandpa teases.

Javier chuckles, with his eyes averted a bit bashful.

“Could add him to the team.” Your grandpa notes with a twinkling gleam of something mischievous.

You reply a dry no as you move to get off the truck.

In a flash, Javier jogs over and immediately reaches his hand out to help you get down. Placing your hand in his, Javier helps you down and you thank him.

He’s wearing gloves. This shouldn’t feel so significant. Yet the way he firmly holds your hand makes your heart sprout wings.

Even back on the solid dirt ground your legs don’t feel as if they’re under you.

Javier doesn’t stick around after that and you’re allowed to focus.

It’s later in the day, later than the usual practice times, and the Texas sun beats down with a fierceness. You call for more water breaks to keep everyone hydrated.

During a break, a rustling catches your attention. There towards the barn, Javi moves in and around the place.

You just catch the smallest glimpse of him with a hammer in his hand as he heads into the smaller enclosure. Curiosity gets the best of you.

Grabbing another water bottle you justify it as wanting to be polite, but curiosity gnaws at you.

The clang of hammering approaches louder and louder until you spot him in a goat pen. He hammers in a reinforced slab, probably fixing a hole. His back to you allows a glorious full sight of his broad shoulders at work.

He even switches to a drill and watching him casually use power tools, you never thought you’d find this so attractive.

One of the goats nearby makes a blep of a noise at your appearance and you almost want to shush them.

Javier glances over his shoulders spotting you.

“Hey there, bandita. Qué pasó?” he nods at you as the nickname flares up your heart.

“Just…knew how hot it was getting and gramps told me just to check up on you.” You lie waving the water bottle.

Javier turns to face you and you’re greeted with the sight of his full sweaty glory. You should be turned off seeing how bad his shirt sticks to him, how he smells of hay and dirt, but it’s incredibly hot.

The hard work of his day evident on every inch of him brews a dark cloud of desire in you.

“Oh well, tell your gramps thanks.” He replies snagging the water bottle from you.

His plus lips, the glorious sight of his thick slick neck, and the movement of the sweat just covering him as he drinks from the water bottle…

Getting this weak over the sight of him just drinking a water bottler you now think is the lowest you can go. You wonder about walking down by the river nearby and just jumping in to cool down.

From a distance, your sister yells out for you.

“Duty calls.” Javier smirks. With a sheepish smile you shrug then wave a quick goodbye.

You practically run out of that barn like a fleeing field mouse.

Later that night, alone in your room, your fingers slip under your sheets to slide under your sleep shorts. You imagine licking the sweat off Javier’s neck, picture his thick strong fingers, that fix up barns, hoist up barrels, and wonder how thick they would feel inside you.

You fall into desire’s blissful sticky release.

When you shower the next morning, you rationalize that those thoughts of Javier simply come from needing to scratch an itch.

Besides, you couldn’t get tangled with Javier. He’s older. He’s Laredo’s golden boy. He doesn’t go after broken cowgirls like you.

In the shower you turn the heat up more. A part of you hopes it will scorch off the building desire in your heart.

-

The morning is muggy, a soupy cloudy early day begging you to curl back into bed. Soft chirping echoes of the mockingbirds fill the air. You opted for earlier practices this week so your sister could prepare for a trip with her friends coming up. You agreed, wanting her to still enjoy moments outside of this.

“You out here all alone, bandita?” Javier.

He breaks the morning’s stillness. Holding his routine two drinks, he approaches you bundled up in a nice jacket that flatters him.

Thanking him, you greedily grab the drink and savor its warmth.

You explain that your sister is free roaming around the ranch this morning and it’s why you’re all alone. You stare at the empty riding area where the dirt sits holy and untouched.

“Do you miss it?” Javier asks. His voice is quietly probing, gentle as the morning mist.

That question holds a million answers all tied up in a messy knot.

“Sometimes.” You answer truthfully because you did. You missed the adrenaline, the wind blowing past you, speeding around a barrel so fast it was like you were out running the wind.

“Can I ask…” Javier and his soft, kind voice presses on. “What happened?”

Might as well. You’re now sort of friends with Javier even though the word feels sticky in your heart.

“You know that saying about how you just gotta get back on the horse? Well it's easier said than done.” You mutter.

It happened during a ride in Arizona. You’ve fallen and wrecked before. But this one just felt different. You took a barrel close and then everything slipped away. You remember being on the saddle, remember feeling your body float. Then the world went dark.

You woke up to a nasty concussion, a broken arm, and a couple of rowdy scrapes. You don’t remember your foot getting caught in the stirrup, but that’s what had happened.

“Holy fuck...” Javier breathes out, the weight of your words hang in his. “Shit I’m sorry.”

You thank him earnestly and reassure him it’s fine, just unfortunate shit like that happens. Everyone knew how dangerous the sport could get. The rodeo was a rough ride and every cowboy knew that.

But for you, you just couldn’t shake it off.

“I’m glad you made it out.” Sincerity blooms in his voice and your lips tug grateful at how considerate he is as you thank him again.

“You haven’t gone back?” Now he dances on a tight line.

“Nope. I tried after getting the clearance from the doctors but… it just didn’t go well.” You truthfully tell him.

You didn’t want to ride anymore, didn’t want to face everyone or the pressure of the race or the terror swallowing you whole. It felt as if you were burnt dry and exhausted from the inside out.

Your grandma gently embraced you and held you for what felt like hours.

“Then don’t go. You don’t have to do anything that makes you this worried and sick. Nothing is worth you being this scared, not even the damn rodeo.” She told you tenderly and with the most profoundly kind smile. You cried out of relief.

“It’s brave,” Javier says so firmly understanding. “Making a decision like that is really fucking brave, hard as fuck too.”

You gently grin and thank him again while blinking away a few tears.

“Same goes for you too.” You tell him.

From your gramps, who had gotten the full story from Chucho, you learned more about what happened with Javier and his final days in Columbia.

“I don’t know much but, what you did was brave too.” Your voice comes out softer than you expected.

He barks a laugh now. It’s dry, bitter, and can catch fire.

“Doesn't feel like it.”

You understand maybe more than he even knows. So you think about maybe what you would’ve told yourself.

“You did what was right.” You begin. “Everyone else might judge you or say shit but it doesn't matter. You’re not meant to please everyone or do what everyone expects you to do. And if that’s seen as a bad thing then…I don’t know, fuck them and fuck that.”

You say it so simply Javier busts out laughing. It’s a true blue laugh, so sweet it crinkles his beautiful dirt road eyes.

You’ve never seen him laugh like this before. And he’s beautiful.

You join in snickering as well but try to ignore the butterflies suddenly nesting in your stomach.

He’s really such a dream. A carved out Texas man so seasoned from the world, yet he still stays so kind and devoted to his family.

You get why many in the town, especially the girls during your time in high school, are all over him. Now you’re afraid you might’ve fallen into the same pit traps they did.

You’re falling under the spell of Javier Peña.

“So you’re really not going back to catching drug dealers and what not?” You ask when the laughter settles.

“I could’ve.” Javi answers. “Damn DEA would’ve taken me back. But…I just couldn’t see a future with it anymore.”

“And now here I am.” He says with a boyish soft grin.

“Now here you are”. You repeat with a nod.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” You truthfully tell him. You knew his dad worried about him. But the quiet truth is that you’re grateful for this time getting to know him now.

His eyes soften and your heat bursts.

“Thanks, glad I’m here. Glad you’re here too, bandita.” Then he softly nudges you. It’s playfully, friendly but it’s his words that almost take you out by the knees.

“Anyway, the government’s dumb. They don't deserve you.” You nod and Javier snorts amused.

“Guess I should listen to a cowgirl like you.” He teases.

You shrug. “Some people say I’m not one anymore.”

Especially because you didn’t ride anymore.

“Fuck them and fuck that.” He repeats your words and your lips twitch with a bubbling giggle.

Right now, it feels like you and him are two lonely birds sitting on a wire. Yet there’s something comforting about it, knowing it’s with him.

Then it dawns on you. You enjoy spending time with him. You know there’s desire already trickling in for him. But now he’s becoming someone precious to you.

You can’t even deny that anymore.

“Thanks, Javi.”

You don’t miss the way his eyebrows shoot up high.

Thunder roars suddenly clashing into the air interrupting the moment.

The dark clouds now loom on the horizon and coat the morning in an impending murkiness.

“Guess a storm’s coming in.” Javi mumbles.

Thankfully your sister rides back in quick and Javi decides to do some final things around the ranch before the storm rolls in. Before the rain comes, you and your sister pack up quickly. But it’s too late.

The rain pours down in a blink, almost like a hole in the sky popped to let a faucet drain out. The wind even picks up dangerously quick. It’s chaotic trying to wrangle the hose back to the stables but you and your sister manage.

“Come inside!” Gramps yells from the Peña’s porch and you and your sister scurry to the shaded sanctuary.

“You coming in?” Your sister asks while drying herself off with a towel. You don’t move from your spot by the steps.

“I’ll be in a bit.” You reassure her. She glares suspiciously and you shoo her away.

Javi hasn’t come back yet.

Noises clang out from the barn. A poisonous worry erupts through you and immediately you rush back out into the rain.

Inside the barn Javi tries yanking up a barn ladder that’s fallen over. It’s sturdy, wooden, and stuck in a hard position.

You move to help. Without any words or having to explain anything you both, as a team, work to yank the ladder out. Patiently and slowly the ladder gets moved to a spot the wind won’t knock it over.

The rush of it all has you breathing heavy.

“Thanks bandita.”

You breathlessly laugh and turn to maybe make a joke about now becoming a ranch hand and stealing his job. But all words, all thoughts, die instantly.

Having to work together to push the ladder, you now notice how close you are to him.

The sight of Javi soaked to the bone from the rain is corruptible. His clothes stick to him showing off his thick frame and shoulders. His drenched hair now seems darker with the curls more pounced.

He’s also heavily breathing too.

Now his lips, how soft and wet they look, have you hypnotized.

The pattering rain pours down hard on the roof, the only noise in the barn. You notice a shift in Javier. His eyes ever so slightly soften, almost hazing over. You might just be imaging it, but his face gradually seems to lean closer. Or maybe, you’re the one leaning towards him.

You’re possessed with an ache to kiss him, to see how the rain tastes on his lips.

It’s just you and him, soaked to the bone. You probably look like a drenched mess of a creature, but you’ve never wanted someone this much.

“Aye!”

Chucho suddenly shouts out from outside the barn and your heart stops.

Like a skittish roadrunner, you scramble away fast from Javier and just in time. His dad walks in from the other side of the barn holding an umbrella with an extra in his hand.

“You kids okay?” He calls out.

Both you and Javi yell back, quickly moving towards the elder Peña.

“You two look like a couple of soaked barn cats.” Chucho teases.

You weakly laugh and thank him for the umbrella.

Javi grumbles at his dad while he grabs the umbrella to open it up. Ever chivalrous, Javier holds it above you and him. Yet the entire walk to the house is quiet.

Fuck. Did you ruin this tentative whatever was forming between you and him? Or were you just imagining things?

You stay quiet the rest of the time waiting out the storm.

“You okay?” Your sister, keen as always, notices.

You lie with a smile saying the weather’s getting to you. When in reality, it’s a man that has.

Because you can’t stop thinking about Javier Peña now.

-

The rain stays for the rest of the week and everyone takes the schedule changes with stride. Your sister even heads out earlier on her trip earlier during a lighter drizzle.

By Saturday night the storm settles down.

Your closest friend from high school, now back in town for the month, even calls your home phone begging you to take advantage of the better weather.

“Look, before I go back to Florida let’s enjoy a nice night out, yeah? Maybe play some pool?” She pleads.

It’s how you now find yourself at the bar. You haven’t gotten dressed up in a while and you’re reminded of how nice it feels.

As much as you jokingly fussed about going out, being with your best friend laughing at the bar is lovely.

Ricky, one of the bartenders, actually was in the same grade as you two and it’s nice reminiscing, snickering over a nice drink.

“So how’s it been hanging out with Mr. Hero of the town himself?” Your friend smirks.

You make an unamused face at her while Ricky perks up.

“Wait, who are you hanging out with?” He whispers excitedly.

“Javier Peña.” Excitedly, she spills and you roll your eyes when Ricky gasps.

“You’ve fallen for the guy half the county is in love with!?” He hisses. You hate it, but it’s true and tastes soberly cold.

“Okay but practically all of our class was and maybe still is in love with him.” Your best friend adds.

“Well y’all do remember, he left Lorraine Wilson at the altar right?” Ricky reminds everyone and your mouth turns acidic.

“Oh fuck you’re right.” Your friend whispers.

“Might be bad news.” Ricky tensely tells you.

You want to hiss that he’s not like that. He’s kind, a bit annoying, but with a good heart.

“Shit, speak of the devil and he shall appear.” Ricky says in a low awed tone.

Worried you whip around to see what caught his attention. Absolute horror drowns you.

Javi and another man step into the bar and you want to run.

Your best friend squeals excited beside you, but you can’t comprehend what she says. Javier has stolen your attention.

Ricky called him the devil and he does seem like an angel dipped in temptation.

The sleek blazer he wears is dressed down by his nice button up shirt and jeans. His hair is styled nice, seeming so soft and begging for someone’s fingers to run through it. A buzz swarms in your head seeing him outside the ranch looking this gorgeous.

That’s when he spots you. For a split moment you two see each other. His eyes widen and before anyone can react you whip back towards the bar.

“Looks like you’re about to fall outta your seat.” Ricky snickers and you death glare at him.

“Okay,” your friend nudges you. “The guy he’s with, I think that’s David Martinez. He was in Peña’s class right? He’s so hot now, what the fuck?” She breathes out.

You almost toast to that because you felt the same about Javier.

So you keep your head down, enjoy your drink and maybe wonder about suggesting that game of pool your best friend advertised.

“Would you two beauties be alright with a bit of company?” A sweet male voice comes out and immediately draws the attention to him.

Behind you stands Javier Peña and his friend.

David has always been kind to your family and his mom even worked with your grandma at the shelter. You appreciate that Javi still hangs out with him.

“Yes of course. We’d love some company, right?” Your friend brightly asks you and you smile polite.

Your heart however rages like it’s a wild bucking bronco trying to break free.

The guys buy a round of drinks. Everyone laughs reminiscing about that one famous senior prank where the class managed to get two cows into the school.

The atmosphere is friendly, light. But your eyes constantly flicker nervously to Javi. You can’t stop staring at him, can’t stop thinking about him. Now here he is a Texas dream, or maybe your nightmare.

You turn back to take another sip and in that shift, your best friend turns to direct all her attention to David who moves to sit beside her.

But now Javier smoothly slides into the barstool next to you.

“Nice to see you outside the ranch.” His voice comes out smooth and rich.

You agree. But the air turns awkward, as if neither of you know how to tackle this new situation.

Suddenly heels clicking fast arrive. Standing to the side is a girl you recognize from your sister’s class that just graduated high school.

“Hi,” she smiles, staring at Javi with obvious hearts in her eyes.

He politely but cautiously greets her back.

“I was, um, wondering if you wanted to maybe dance with me?” She’s bold. You can at least appreciate that.

“My friends all dared me to ask you since it’s, ya know, you.” She gushes and giggles.

“Uh, appreciate the thought but I’ll have to pass, sorry.” He turns her down gently.

As if she finally realizes you even existed her eyes blink to you.

“Oh hey!” She recognizes you as an older sister to one of her classmates. And then for something else.

“Yeah didn’t you like, used to be a rodeo cowgirl or something and then something happened so now you’re not doing anything anymore?”

She’s being underlyingly mean. Her misleading chipper tone, vapid smile, are all soaked in venom meant to shake you or even scare Javi away from you.

But you’re used to it by now. You’re about to comment how she shouldn’t even be here.

Javier however speaks first and fast.

“Hey,” Javier’s voice jumps shockingly sharply, almost reprimanding. Your eyes go wide at how fast he reacts. He even glares at the girl.

Besides you, your best friend immediately turns around.

“Oh hey!” She greets the young newcomer. “Weren’t you that girl caught buying weed only for the cops to figure out you were actually buying oregano?”

Her cheerful tone makes you bust out a snort because yeah, she’s right.

The girl’s face falls absolutely mortified.

“Now get the fuck out of here.” Your dear friend finishes sweet but the undercurrent of her voice looms threatening. The disgraced girl rushes away before she can even reply.

You wheeze into your hand and fondly lean against your dearest sweet friend.

“If she or any of her little punk ass friends try anything again, I’ll shove my heel so far up their asses.” She reassures.

“Don’t worry,” Ricky now jumps in. “I’m definitely telling our bouncer those little shits managed to sneak in.”

Gratitude carves out an ocean in you and you’re thankful for those who understand.

David whistles appreciatively and your friend, with a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder, returns to her discussion with him.

You feel Javier’s eyes burning on you.

“Does shit like that happen often?” His concerned and low voice floats out among the music.

You shrug.

“Back when I first came back it did, but it's dying down.”

You were supposed to be a big rodeo star. You even had an official big name brand sponsorship lined up. But, after the accident, not returning to the rodeo painted you a failure in the eyes of the town.

Especially compared to its bright shining star you sit beside.

Suddenly a warmth slides over your hand resting on the bar. Javier squeezes your hand gently, a reassuring comfort.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters deeply sad. “S’fucking awful.”

You thank him, even make a dry joke about small town bullshit which earns you a small dry chuckle.

“The shit I got after Lorraine…” he sighs and now you find his hand doesn’t leave yours. You don’t want it to.

“I get it. Shit’s brutal.” He finishes, a steeled hardness lingering in his tone.

Now your hand squeezes his.

His eyes, gleaming tiger’s eyes gemstones, flicker up to you and you smile softly.

Javi’s hand feels so lovely. It's rough, a bit callous but cozy. Just like him.

“Hey!” Your best friend suddenly cheers. “Let’s dance!”

She interrupts the moment but you can’t blame her. A hesitant scrunched up reaction tugs at your face though.

“It’s a slow dance.” You waver.

“That’s the best kind! Come on!” She urges and you spot her hand already intertwining with the guy’s.

“You go,” you urge with a beaming grin. “I wanna finish my drink.”

“Aw, come on now bandita,” now Javi slides off his seat.

Standing up straight, he extends his hand out to you.

“You gotta at least get one dance in.” He smirks.

It’s just one dance and you don’t know if you’ll ever get another chance to dance with him. That thought alone outweighs the hesitation. Placing your hand in his, Javier leads you out to the dance floor.

Javi maintains a polite distance from you. Yet the faintest scent of his cologne floats off him, a siren’s song pure of temptation. His hand keeps yours in its protective hold while he gently guides you to the beat of the music.

Being this close to him clouds your focus in a tantalizing haze begging you to get lost in. But you can’t. You can’t even stare into his eyes. So your focus flickers out to the rest of the bar.

David and your best friend dance close, already getting cozy with each other. Then your eyes move to the door.

The bar’s bouncer sternly starts throwing the three girls out and the one you recognize stares at you with disgusted hatred.

You snort.

“What?” Javi mutters, his voice silky against the low music.

You nudge your head towards the bar’s entrance and Javi follows your gaze.

“Oh hey.” He comments, noticing the scene.

“Good riddance. Poor girl must be pissed seeing you dance with someone me though.” You mutter a bit gleeful at the thought.

“Wait, what?” Javi sounds insulted.

“Uh yeah,” you reply, confused. “I mean, it’s kinda funny. You’re Mr. hometown hero here with the town’s nobody.”

“No.” Javier snaps fast. “Anyone who says or believes that’s a pinché cabrón.”

They’re a fucking asshole and the way he speaks with a conviction refuses to allow any doubt to refute him.

“And besides…I’m not a hero.” That’s when Javi’s voice drops, transforming into a whisper tangled among the slow country ballad playing.

“I’m not that golden bullshit guy everyone thinks I am.” His voice contains a stinging rawness you recognize.

Now you’re the one snapping back at him.

“Yeah you are. You’re good, Javi.” You begin firm.

“You’re noble and kind. Brave.” The words flow from your heart and you don’t even stop them. “You’ve worked hard to help people. I’m sure there’s shit you regret and you might not think you’re good because of it, but you are.”

He stays silent. Only the tune of the slow jam settles between you and him. You’re worried you’ve maybe said something to upset him.

Then Javier exhales your name and it has never sounded so tender.

Your throat tightens and when you finally look at him, you’re greeted by a galaxy.

The lights of the bar dance in his dark road eyes that stare directly at you as if the rest of the bar has melted away. Javi’s hand gingerly against your back now slides down gently. In that same motion, he slowly begins drawing you to him.

You don’t resist and catch his eyes flickering to your lips.

A sudden clamoring collision erupts and startled, you clutch onto Javi.

The cause of the commotion is a man who tripped into some chairs. He effortlessly laughs it off. The group he’s with helps him up and you’re thankful it’s not a bar fight.

You sigh relaxed.

That’s when you notice Javier shifted to draw you closer to him. In an almost protective hold, he has you now close against his broad chest. His cologne smells divine, makes your mouth water.

Like a bolt of electricity striking you, you’re galvanized and scramble immediately out of his hold.

“Wait, bandita, what’s wrong? You okay?” He’s so concerned and you dare not look at him.

“Just need some air.” You reply moving away from Javi towards the door leading to the small patio outside.

Your best friend swiftly rushes to you.

“Hey, you okay?!”

You rapidly reassure her that you’re fine and just need air. You even joke about not being able to handle your drinks anymore.

“That fucker didn’t try anything, right?” She asks low and deadly.

You shake your head and squeeze her hand. It’s enough for her to let you leave. Your body operates on autopilot until you stumble into the night air.

It feels like you’re resurfacing. You move to lean against the railing and simply gather yourself.

You feel possessed again needing to kiss him.

And it’s not just that. You want all of him all the time now and it’s infesting you. You’re barely keeping your head above water or maybe you’re this far gone under the waves.

For a moment you think it might be drizzling again. Until you blink and realize the water against your eyes are tears threatening to spill.

You’re so afraid of how badly you want Javier, and how badly it might shatter right before your eyes.

Someone says your name cautiously.

Embarrassed, you turn towards the door.

Javi stands a few steps away from you. His handsome face crumbles instantly seeing you. Quickly he rushes to your side, as if on instinct wanting to help, until he stops.

“Bandita, are you okay!? Fuck… did I do this?” He stammers out worried.

“Did I overstep?” His voice is wrecked. He’s so apologetic already.

You shake your head trying to pathetically dab away the tears. Unable to look at Javier, your attention stays on the dark stretch of parking lot.

“I promise it’s not you. It’s me.” Maybe it will always just be you.

“Querida…”

Darling…he’s never called you that.

“Whatever it is, please let me help.” His voice pleads unbearably tender and you want to cry even more.

He really is so good, too good.

“I just…I just can’t take it...” you begin with a watery cough.

You finally look at him. The furrowed brows, his worried soaked eyes, concern paints him so young. You’re reminded of the young man you saw walking out of a bank all those years ago and how a piece of him stands before you now.

“I like you so much Javi.” Through the heartache, you finally admit it out loud. “Maybe even more than I wanna admit and I don't know if I can’t keep fighting it.”

His face scrunches up and his eyes rapidly scan over you.

“Fight it?” He mutters out. “Why fight it?”

Now you stare at him a bit confused. You have nothing to lose now. So you hold your heart out to him. You reveal it all…the fears and worries sprouting in your heart like uncomfortably cacti about how he deserves someone just as refined and established as him, that he'll eventually get bored of someone like you.

All your words come out hollow, especially thinking about how he can have anyone he wants.

Javier, suddenly in the middle of your ramble, interrupts, upset, snapping your name fiercely that any other words you want to say vanish.

“You’re the only one in this town who actually understands, who maybe even really fucking sees me.” He growls.

Your heart even jumps hearing how determined and raised his voice got.

“You…” Javi now chokes out and suddenly runs a hand over his face. Then his hands go to his hips. His eyes fall to the floor as if he’s taking a moment to gather himself.

“Fuck… you don’t even know what you do to me, how much you fucking mean to me.” Javier breathes and the words get caught in your ribs.

“Whenever you’re not around I can’t stand it. I just wanna be with you….all the damn time.” He coughs out as if he can’t even believe his words.

Those earth pool eyes of his flicker to you.

Under the watch of the clouded Texas deep night sky, it’s just you and him.

You don't know who moves first. Instead it feels like two magnets finally flinging together so fast the collision knocks you awake.

Because in a blink Javi’s hand holds face while his other yanks at your hips. Then he kisses you.

It’s all encompassing.

Immediately your hands scramble to claw at him, begging to get him as close as possible.

His mustache scrapes beautifully against your lips. You taste the beer lingering on his tongue and he’s divine. The wall of the bar suddenly hits your back.

Now you’re flush against him, fully pinned under all of Javier, and you moan. His tongue with hungered finesse licks into your mouth. One hand stays firmly holding your face while his other runs across your body trying to map you out.

His hips rut against yours and you go dizzy with aching raw need.

“Mi pretty bebita, so good to me.” He whispers out thick and heavy. You whine wanting him more, wanting him inside you every way possible. Everything feels molten.

Javi playfully bites your bottom lip and your knees almost buckle. Your mind simply chants for him.

A clash of teeth, a burning heat devours you while you chase every taste of Javier that he gives. It’s an unleashing of something raw and aching, as if finally you can breathe against him while something inside you whispers yes, yes you and I are here and you don’t want to ever leave.

A sudden droplet plops onto your head. You ignore it especially when your tongue swipes against Javi’s and he groans out the most heavenly noise.

A few more large obvious water drops come.

You and Javi freeze, halting mid make out like a paused VHS tape.

Then the rain arrives.

“Shit!” Javi coughs out immediately pulling away. He quickly shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over you, a makeshift umbrella.

Filled by the most buoyant bliss, you laugh.

Javier snorts, shaking his head but he must sense it too, all of it amongst the rain.

And it’s beautiful.

-

“I’m surprised you don’t wear this as much.” Javier comments as he picks up your Stetson cowboy hat.

He’s shirtless, only wearing his jeans. You’re treated to his bare broad shoulders and wonderfully sweet ass in his jeans. It’s an utterly devastating combo.

Sitting on your bed waiting to settle in for the night with him, you shrug.

You didn’t expect him to be so curious and constantly snooping around anytime he’s in your bedroom. Then again, you still can’t believe he’s even in your bedroom.

Sneaking away that the first weekend after the bar didn’t last long though.

Your grandma caught him a few Sunday mornings later trying to sneak out and she ran to you screaming excitedly when she could start planning the wedding. You still haven’t recovered from that.

Even with the blessings from both sides, including Chucho and your gramps, you still wanted to just enjoy being with Javi in these intimate carved out spaces.

His presence already is crystallizing here. His wallet and packs of nicotine gum clutter the night stand. His extra pair of sunglasses sit beside yours on the dresser. His faded worn Texas A&M University t-shirt is tossed by the bed and his boots are by the door. You treasure it all.

Javi, now standing in front of you, places the cowboy hat on top of your head.

The familiar presence of wearing it is like greeting an old friend. You bashfully grin at your handsome rancher. Javier’s eyes gloss over you, taking in the sight. His hand moves to tenderly hold your face.

“You look good, like a true damn cowgirl.” He mutters and your heart flutters against its cage.

“Know you can ride like one now too,” his voice dips with a magnetic undertone as his words hold the heavily sexual double meaning.

You playfully smack his shoulder and he smirks.

“I’m still surprised you don’t call me cowgirl instead of bandita.” You note gently.

“Do you mind that I call you that?” One of his eyebrows lifts up curiously.

No, you didn’t mind at all. You were just curious and you even tell him that.

Javi snorts and his thumb now strokes your cheek.

“The way Pop used to talk about you and how you’d race made you sound like some wild bandit trying to outrun outlaws or something.”

You snort now and your fondness for Chucho Peña triples.

“And then,” Javier continues. “When I met you, I knew I was fucked.”

Now your face scrunches up confused and you ask why. A small charming grin tugs his lips.

“Cause the minute I saw you glaring at me in the barn you stole every fucking inch of me.”

Javi’s thumb now moves to run over your lip and desire bubbles in you. You kiss his thumb, delicate and reverent.

“My pretty little bandit.” His voice is low, a fond rumble in his chest that you want to drown in as much as you can.

You think of all the awards you’ve won, the tournaments you’ve faced. Yet they all seem to fall so short to those words, to this man you so endlessly adore.

In your cowboy hat, you yank Javi close and kiss him. Quickly you and him both tumble into your bed sheets, melting against each other in pure bliss.

In the afterglow, you snatch up the cowboy hat again and now place it on Javi’s head. Your gruff rancher's face twists into a grumpy frown and you grin giddy.

“You look good, a classic Texas man.” You compliment him, almost mirroring the words he told you.

His face scrunches up more.

“Always thought I looked stupid wearing these.” He huffs taking off the Stetson.

“Everybody looks good in a cowboy hat.” You reply truthfully and place the hat back on him.

“Especially you.” You add letting your hand slide across his bare chest. The sight of him in the cowboy hat, your cowboy hat, flickers to life the simmering heat from earlier. He’s already so beautiful and now a cowboy hat on, shirtless, with the dimming post sex glow radiating from him, he’s personified sin.

“Cowboy hat doing it for ya, huh?” Javi’s little cocky smirk has you glaring playfully at him.

“Shut up.” You huff but then swiftly kiss him. Soon enough you become one again with the man taking root in your heart.

Early the next morning, when he thinks you’re asleep, Javier’s fingertips trace over your face with butterfly wing delicateness.

“So fuckin’ crazy about you, baby.” He whispers to your unknowing sleeping form. You feel your heart blossom, a morning bloom wanting to keep him tangled in your soul for as long as he’ll stay.

You think again of two lonely birds on the wire, maybe not so lonely anymore.

With a soft kiss goodbye against your forehead Javi heads out and you soak molten in his words.

You end up not seeing him for a few days. Over the phone he explains, annoyed, of having to run around trying to find a specific fence wire and how it’s kept him away.

Even with how much you miss him, it does allow you space.

Earlier this month, you decided on a new training schedule. Each week would alternate between practice at the Peña’s ranch and yours.

Currently practice is at your family’s ranch.

“Next time you talk to that boyfriend of yours, tell him to get tacos from that place he got us lunch from last time.” Your sister yells as she finishes up a few drills around the ring.

You roll your eyes. “He isn’t a food delivery service.”

She simply shrugs.

The day is winding down. Early evening approaches and the Texas sun starts to bathe everything in a golden glaze straight out of a George Strait song.

“You know…I’m happy for you.” As you and her start putting everything away for the day, your sister casually drops that line.

“About what?” You smirk.

“You and Javi.” She clarifies. Her face is messy with sweat but she beams bright. “You deserve someone like him.”

Your sister, always so kind, maybe too kind for a world this harsh sometimes.

“What? Someone who always manages to steal the last biscuit or flirts with grandma more and more everyday?” You tease and your little sister snickers.

“Well yeah. But what I mean is…you deserve someone who sees how great you are.”

Her words crash into you with a tidal wave of emotions. Her attention rests with her horse, getting in a few final brushes before she turns in for the day.

“I know you… think you’re some sort of failure or that you’re not good. But you are. You’re actually the fucking best.” She says so simply. “And I’m happy Javi sees it too.”

Tears clog your eyes and dry out your throat.

“You sound like a bad hallmark card.” You laugh watery but the gratitude flows out.

Your sister glares then throws the grooming brush at you. You laugh harder when she misses and once she’s out of the stable you playfully shove her.

“You heading back?” She notices your slow pace that hangs back.

You reassure her you’ll be home in a minute and just need a few minutes to yourself. With an understanding nod she walks back to the house.

Now alone you head to the very last stable and head to your ace. You miss your old companion and seeing this sweet creature nudge his muzzle against your hand conjures a sad nostalgic tug in your heart.

Grabbing the saddle, and untangling the reign, you head out to the ring.

You’ve been talking about your old rodeo days with Javi a lot recently. You ask him about Columbia as well. In the sacred soft space of pillow talk. you and him gently unravel more memories, more secrets to each other. It’s made you nostalgic, even a bit wistful.

Plus, you haven’t done this in a while. You frequently rode at a leisurely place along the trails by the river from time to time. But getting into the ring is still so sacred.

With your horse all set, you hoist yourself up and onto the saddle.

Just a few laps is all you do. You focus on the sound of the dirt under the hooves, the light breeze on your face, the feel of riding again.

Then, after gaining more confidence, you speed up.

It’s not even close to the speeds you used to hit, but it’s quick. You even make a lap around the ring going this speed.

One rotation, one good lap and you’re soaring.

It’s nothing. It’s not even an attempt to get back into the rhythm of racing. But it’s a ride and home in its own way.

You slow down, let the horse trot out of his groove to calm down. The entire time, your chest feels so light.

Your eyes glance out and then your heart drops.

Javi, with his flat out jaw dropped, stares at you as if you’ve spouted wings. You didn’t even hear him approach.

He breathes out your name.

Scrambling, a bit embarrassed, you quickly dismount, and after guiding the horse to the side you rush towards him.

You’re about to apologize for not noticing him when Javier ends up speaking first.

“You’re incredible.” He exhales in awe and it knocks the wind from you.

He must see whatever emotion colors your face because he repeats himself again firmer.

“You’re amazing, bandita.”

You weakly laugh thanking him.

“Does that mean-”

“Nah,” you gently cut him off and explain how you just enjoy a ride like that from time to time.

“It’s like just taking a casual drive type thing.” You shrug.

Suddenly Javi’s hand moves to rest on your arm leaning against the fence. He rubs so soft and comfortingly.

“Thank you,” he says gently. “For letting me know you.”

You want him to know every inch of you. The same way you want to know Javier in every way that you can. You want to carve out a home in your heart for him.

The hand that was on your arm moves to your cheek tilting your face towards his. He wears his classic aviator sunglasses you’ve grown fond of stealing from him.

He’s so gorgeous. It’s like the Texas sun was made to bask Javi in its glow. He’s a modern Helios, beautifully crafted with his deep earthy eyes and golden face.

“Proud of you, mi bandita.” He mutters with words soaked in adoration.

You swallow hard and let the truth sink into you.

“Thank you Javi… I’m proud of you too.” You earnestly tell him.

He snorts bashfully and you think you might be doomed to think about this man forever now, but it’s alright.

There’s something foreign in your chest growing so bright you feel as if you’ve swallowed a sun and maybe you have. Because Javier is bright, so unexpectedly warm.

A man crafted right out of the Texas golden magic hour.

And as Javi leans forward to kiss you so tenderly, you step forward into the sun, into his kaleidoscopic glow and it’s beautiful.

[djarindroid]

Nightmares

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: You can't make it through the night without the terrors from your past haunting you, will Daryl be able to help you? (setting: early Alexandria)

Warnings: minor description of blood and violence

Word Count: 1,564

Terror flowed through your entire body, you had to get out, had to find the rest of your group. Your heart pounded in your chest as you desperately searched for a way out of this hell. Panic flooded your mind as you ran, you could hear the voices of your captors just behind you. 

Your clothes were covered in so much blood that they stuck to your skin. You couldn’t even recall whose blood it was. Tears streaked down your face as you felt the ominous presence behind you getting ever closer. A hand gripped your shoulder, spinning you around and…

You bolted upright, drenched in sweat and heaving in air as you took in your surroundings. The fog on your mind began to clear as you looked around. You were in your bed, in your room, safe. Although your brain hadn’t realised that. You needed to get fresh air, and space. 

On unsteady legs you climbed out of bed. Going as quickly and quietly as possible, so as to not wake anyone else up, you made your way through the house. Rushing out of the front door, you halted and folded over with your hands on your knees. Gulping down as much air as you could manage, trying to ignore the way it burned your lungs. 

You squeezed your eyes shut to try and stop the way your head was spinning. You clutched at your chest, willing your heart rate to slow down. 

‘Ya good?’ The gruff voice made you jump, not expecting to see anyone at this time of night. But you should have known that Daryl would be out here. You carefully turned over to where he sat, perched on the edge of the porch seat leaning towards you. 

Your alert brain quickly scanned him for any injuries. You wouldn’t find any, you were safe here, hidden behind these walls. Your breathing steadied as you continued to stare unblinkingly at him.

He gently called your name, leaning further forward, slight concern etched on his face at the fact you hadn’t spoken yet. 

‘Yeah... bad dream,’ you managed to get out. You looked around, taking in the quiet peaceful surroundings. Your thundering heart began to slow, as your brain finally began to accept there was no immediate threat.

‘Wanna talk about it?’ Daryl asked, his eyes still on you, taking in your panicked state. You almost felt small under his gaze, knowing you probably looked like a deer caught in headlights. 

Silently you made your way over and took a seat next to him. Your body relaxed slightly at Daryl’s closeness, his familiar smell grounding you. 

‘Do you think we’re safe here?’ You hesitantly asked, instead of answering his question.

He stayed quiet for a moment, pondering your question. You watched him slowly exhale as he said ‘safer than we were out there.’ 

You nodded, looking down to your hands that rested in your lap. You knew he was right, there wasn’t a risk of walkers pounding at your door, not much risk of bad people around here either. But why couldn’t you relax? Why couldn’t you just forget and start anew? 

Silent tears began to make their way down your face, you hadn’t even registered you were crying until Daryl gently placed his red cloth into your hand. 

You muttered a quiet thanks as you quickly wiped your face, willing the tears to go away. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Terminus,’ you admitted quietly. 

Daryl didn’t say a word, but you felt his eyes shift to you. You kept your own eyes down as you worked up to telling him more. Every night since you’d escaped that place had been filled with visions of the terrible things those people did.

‘That was meant to be a safe place, we were meant to be ok there and look how that worked out.’ Your mind flashed with the memory of you and the people you’d come to call your family all on your knees as other people’s throats were being sliced. You shoved the heels of your hands into your eyes in an attempt to try and erase the vision. 

‘I can’t stop thinking that this,’ you gestured around you, ‘is all fake, and we’re gonna end up worse than before.’ You couldn’t stop the tears now, they were running freely down your cheeks.

Daryl remained silent beside you, he could understand the weight of your fears. It was one of the reasons he had barely slept himself, and opted to stay out keeping watch on the porch. 

He turned, to fully face you before speaking ‘think Terminus messed with all our heads.’ After another moment of consideration he added, ‘but I don’ think this place is the same. There’s decent people here. Ain’t no one gonna let it go that way again.’

You nodded, his words easing your fears. The shadows of doubt in your mind began to shrink. You sniffed, once again looking out at the empty street in front of the porch. He was right, you did all have each other’s backs, and no one here had given you reason to think they had other intentions.

‘Ya know I’d never let anything happen to you,’ he spoke quietly, almost a whisper. That caused you to finally look over to him, meeting his blue eyes. The sincerity in them soothed the part of you that had been damaged by fear. ‘C’mere’ he murmured as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you gently into his side.

Your body instantly melted into him, comforted by the way he held you so softly. Your head came down to rest on his shoulder as he spoke again. ‘I won’ let that happen to you ever again.’ 

Your tears slowed as his words wrapped around you in a protective embrace that shielded you from the lingering shadows. You turned, curling further into his side and wrapped your arm around his middle. Daryl’s arm held you tighter and the gentle squeeze of his hand on your arm cemented everything he had just said.

You trusted Daryl, more than you thought was even possible. The tears had completely stopped now, replaced with a quiet acceptance. The acceptance that no matter what, you would do everything you could to also protect the man holding you. 

After a while Daryl murmured ‘you should go back to bed, try and get some proper sleep.’ You knew he was right, but you didn’t think you could handle going to lay in bed by yourself. Knowing the nightmares could start again as soon as you let your eyes close. 

‘I can’t,’ you muttered, almost embarrassed. Daryl had just completely eased you, yet the thought of going upstairs alone was too much for you to do. Daryl’s presence was an anchor to you and the thought of leaving his side brought your fears back to the surface. 

His hand, still wrapped around your arm, squeezed you lightly in reassurance. ‘I’ll come with…if it’d make ya feel better.’ His words caught you off guard, Daryl hadn’t spent a night inside since your group had arrived in Alexandria. You sat up again, not shifting too far away from his warmth but enough so you could peer up to his face.

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that Daryl,’ you said. You kept eye contact, how could you ask him to spend the night inside, giving up his own comfort just so you could hopefully spend a night not scared.

‘Ya ain’t asking, I’m telling you I’m happy to do it,’ you knew he wouldn’t lie to you. He really would come and spend the night inside if it meant you’d be okay. A small smile spread across your face. Gratitude swelled as you gazed into his caring eyes. 

Unable to form the words to truly show your appreciation you simply nodded to him. The two of you rose from the bench and made your way inside. The quiet of the house wrapped around you both as Daryl placed his hand on your lower back, gently guiding you up the stairs.

Inside your room the shadows seemed less ominous with Daryl at your side. His presence made you feel the safest you’d felt in weeks. Silently you slipped back into your bed, watching as Daryl began to make his way to the chair positioned by your window.

‘You can stay next to me if you want,’ you quickly said before he could take a seat. You didn’t want to overstep, but the thought of Daryl’s arm holding you again fueled your confidence to suggest sharing the bed.

Daryl paused, his eyes meeting yours from across the room with a hint of surprise. The subtle shift in your dynamics hung in the air. Without a word, he nodded, abandoning the idea of staying in the chair.

The mattress dipped slightly as he lay down next to you. The boundaries around you blurred as you both found a comfortable position to lie in. You felt his steady breaths sync with your own as his arm draped protectively around you, whilst you settled into his side. 

For once you weren’t scared to close your eyes and succumb to sleep. You found solace from the terrors plaguing your mind in Daryl’s arms. The intimacy of sharing a bed transformed your room into a sanctuary where you could both finally rest.

[cod-thoughts]

Help to make the season bright

Word count: 9.9k

Relationships: NikPrice, PriceNik, team as family

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Simon "Ghost" Riley, Fluff, Niks love language is food you can pry that out of my cold dead hands thank you Soft Nikolai, Christmas Fluff

I posted this while i was gone and never ended up putting it on here so im doing that now! Its two chapters!!

Stuck in a safe house over Christmas, the team does their best to keep spirits up despite the storm outside—and the one raging inside Ghost. It’s supposed to be the season for family, but some wounds don’t heal, and some ghosts don’t rest. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Chapter 1: And so I'm offering this simple phrase

The safe house was unremarkable, a squat, grey structure barely visible against the snow-laden woods. The storm outside had been raging for hours, a relentless whiteout that battered the building with icy gusts and howling winds. Snow piled high against the windows, and the walls creaked under the force of the gale. The wood-burning stove in the corner struggled to fend off the biting cold, its faint glow casting flickering shadows across the room. The scent of damp wood and lingering smoke clung to the air, seeping into every corner of the cramped space.

Inside, the team sat huddled around a battered table. A single bulb swung gently from the ceiling, its dim light highlighting the weariness etched across their faces. Supplies were running low, and the safe house felt smaller with each passing hour, its confined walls pressing in like the snow outside.

Soap blew into his hands, rubbing them together briskly. His breath fogged in the icy air as he muttered, “Bloody hell, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”

“Better than being out there,” Price said from where he leaned against the stove, adding another splintered log to the flames. His voice was steady, calm, but his eyes were fixed on the fire as if willing it to grow.

Soap scoffed, gesturing around the room. “Aye, well, not by much. Think we’ll still be here come Christmas? Stuck in this frozen hellhole?”

Gaz glanced up from the radio he’d been fiddling with, his brow furrowed. Static crackled faintly, filling the silence. “Unless that storm clears, we’re not going anywhere. Could be days yet.”

Soap groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Fantastic. Best Christmas ever.”

Price glanced towards the frost-covered window, where Ghost stood silently, his posture stiff and unyielding. He was a shadow against the dim light, the edges of his figure blurred by the condensation on the glass. The balaclava he always wore revealed only his eyes, which were fixed on the swirling snow outside. His gloved hand rested on the windowsill, unmoving, and the stillness of him felt almost unnatural—like a tightly coiled spring on the verge of snapping.

The quiet unease in the room wasn’t lost on Soap. Ever the optimist, he straightened in his chair, forcing a grin. “Oi, Ghost,” he called, his tone light and teasing. “Fancy helping me brighten this place up? Could string some lights or hang something festive. It’s grim enough without us all sulking.”

Ghost didn’t move, his gaze unwavering as he muttered, “Not interested.”

Soap’s grin faltered, just for a second. “Ah, come on, mate,” he pressed, his voice carrying a forced cheerfulness. “Even you can’t be above a bit of holiday spirit. You could use it, I reckon.”

Ghost turned his head then, his eyes cold and sharp under the dim light. “I said, drop it.” His voice was low, steady, and left no room for argument.

The room seemed to shrink in the silence that followed. Soap shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders tense as he looked towards Price for some kind of signal. The captain’s gaze was fixed on Ghost, his expression unreadable, but after a moment he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Soap leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Suit yourself, Lieutenant.”

Ghost didn’t respond. His hand dropped from the windowsill as he turned away, his steps clipped and deliberate as he left the room. The door to the adjoining space shut behind him with a soft but deafening click.

Soap exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to push him,” he muttered, glancing back at Price.

Price stepped away from the stove, his expression softening slightly. “You weren’t to know. It’s not your fault.”

Gaz, who had been watching quietly from his seat, frowned. “What’s his deal, anyway? He’s been like this all week.”

Price’s response came slowly, his voice quieter now. “It’s not my story to tell. But this time of year… it’s not easy for him. Give him some space.”

Gaz and Soap exchanged a look, both nodding in silent agreement. Still, there was a lingering heaviness in the air, and it seemed to settle deeper into the room now that Ghost had gone.

The hours dragged on, the storm outside a relentless fury of wind and snow. Inside, the safe house had grown oppressively quiet. The stove crackled faintly, its orange glow casting long shadows across the room. Soap had finally abandoned his search through the supply crate, muttering about the lack of decent provisions, while Gaz leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he stared at the faintly glowing radio. Price stood near the stove, his eyes distant, his mind elsewhere.

A sudden knock shattered the quiet. It was sharp and deliberate, cutting through the howl of the storm like a gunshot. The team reacted instantly—Gaz straightened, his hand going to his sidearm, while Soap shot Price a questioning look.

Price moved towards the door, his steps steady but cautious. His hand rested lightly on the rifle propped against the wall as he glanced back at the others. “Stay sharp,” he said quietly. “Could be anything.”

Soap sidled closer to the door, his pistol drawn and ready. “Anything? Or anyone?” he murmured, his humour noticeably absent.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Price pressed his ear to the door, his brow furrowing as he listened. A muffled voice reached him, faint but unmistakable, carrying the weight of familiarity even through the storm. “John! Open the door, or I will freeze out here!”

For a moment, Price froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then the tension in his shoulders released all at once, and he reached for the latch, yanking the door open against the howling wind.

Nik stood there, his figure outlined by the swirling snow, his coat dusted white and his cheeks red from the cold. His breath came in sharp bursts, visible in the frigid air, but the grin on his face was bright enough to rival the glow of the stove.

“Nikolai!” Price’s voice was low but edged with something that sounded suspiciously like relief. He stepped forward, gripping Nik’s arms to steady him as the wind threatened to shove them both back. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”

Nik’s grin softened into something more intimate, his voice warm despite the storm whipping around them. “Could not let you spend Christmas without me, could I?” His gloved hand lingered on Price’s arm, his touch reassuring.

“You’re mad,” Price said, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a rare smile. “This storm could’ve killed you.”

“For you?” Nik shrugged, leaning in closer as his voice dropped to a murmur. “I would walk through worse.”

Price shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he pulled Nik inside, slamming the door shut behind him. The sudden quiet of the safe house felt almost overwhelming after the storm’s chaos, and the others stared at the new arrival with a mix of surprise and relief.

Nik stomped the snow from his boots, shrugging off his coat and shaking out the worst of the frost. His gaze flicked back to Price, his expression softening as he murmured, “Merry Christmas, mishka.”

Price’s answering smile was brief but genuine. “Merry Christmas, love,” he replied, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of them. He reached out, brushing a stray bit of snow from Nik’s shoulder before letting his hand drop.

Soap broke the moment, his voice loud and incredulous. “Nik, you daft bastard! What in God’s name are you doing out there in this storm?”

Nik turned, his grin returning in full force as he glanced towards Soap. “Saving you from yourselves, apparently,” he said, his thick accent colouring his words. He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder, producing a bottle of vodka with a triumphant flourish. “Emergency rations.”

Gaz snorted, lowering his sidearm as he gave Nik a quick nod. “You’ve got your priorities sorted, then.”

Nik laughed, but his gaze slid past the sergeants towards the closed door leading to the adjoining room. His smile faded slightly, and he turned back to Price, his voice quieter now. “And Simon?”

Price hesitated, his eyes following Nik’s line of sight. “He’s…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “He’s struggling.”

Nik’s eyes softened, understanding flickering across his face. He reached into his bag again, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped parcel. “I brought something for him,” he said quietly, holding it out to Price. “Not much, but... maybe it will help.”

Price took the parcel, weighing it in his hand. “He’ll appreciate it,” he said, though his voice was edged with uncertainty.

Nik clasped a hand on Price’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “He has you. That is enough.”

Price’s fingers tightened briefly around the parcel as he let out a low sigh. His gaze lifted to Nik’s, and for a moment, the tension in his features softened. “You’ve always got an answer, haven’t you?” he murmured, his voice carrying a rare, almost teasing note.

Nik’s grin widened, his hand sliding down Price’s arm in a slow, deliberate motion before resting just above his elbow. “Only for you,” he said lightly, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the weight behind his words.

Price shook his head faintly, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile. “You’re mad, coming through that storm.”

“And you love it,” Nik countered, leaning in just enough that his breath warmed the air between them. His gaze held Price’s, steady and unwavering, and for a brief moment, the room seemed smaller, the world outside distant and irrelevant.

The sergeants exchanged a glance, Soap clearing his throat dramatically. “Alright, lovebirds, save it for later.”

Price turned towards him, his expression carefully neutral, but the faintest hint of colour crept up the back of his neck. Nik, on the other hand, laughed easily, his smirk only growing as he released Price’s arm and turned to face the others.

“What do you have in mind for this evening?”

Soap perked up “Gaz, you’re on wrapping duty. Price you’re on food and…Nik, you’re on morale.”

Nik raised an eyebrow, glancing at Price with an amused smirk. “Morale?”

“Don’t look at me,” Price said, his tone dry but softened by the faintest hint of a smile. “He’s the one giving orders now.”

---

The warmth from the stove slowly spread through the room as the storm continued to rage outside. Soap dropped into a cross-legged position on the floor, pulling out scraps of old paper and a small pencil from his kit. His brow furrowed as he carefully began folding and sketching, the sharp movements of his hands betraying his focus.

Gaz raised an eyebrow from where he sat nearby, unspooling a length of thread he’d found in one of the supply crates. “What’s that supposed to be, then?” he asked, nodding towards Soap’s creation.

“Dunno yet,” Soap admitted, though his tone was light. “Just thought... maybe something for Ghost. Don’t know what, but it’s gotta be something, yeah?”

Gaz glanced at the scraps of paper and gave a small, approving nod. “Yeah. He’s not going to say it, but... I reckon he needs it.”

Soap’s hands stilled for a moment, his gaze dropping to the makeshift decorations in front of him. “You think he’ll even keep it? Or just bin it the first chance he gets?”

Gaz leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that we did something. He’ll know it’s from us.”

Soap let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You sound like Price.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gaz shot back with a grin, before sobering slightly. “I mean it, though. He might act like nothing gets to him, but you’ve seen the way he’s been. It’s bad.”

Soap nodded, his hands resuming their work. “Aye. The way he froze up earlier...” He trailed off, his expression flickering with guilt. “I didn’t mean to set him off, you know. Just thought a bit of banter might help.”

“Not your fault,” Gaz said firmly. “Price said it himself. He’s carrying a lot, and it’s not on us to fix it. Just to let him know we’re here. even if we don’t know what’s going on”

Soap nodded again, his movements growing more purposeful. The faint scratch of pencil against paper filled the quiet space as he began sketching small patterns across the scraps. His usual precision was softened here, his strokes more hesitant, but Gaz didn’t comment. He simply continued his work, the two of them falling into a companionable silence.

Across the room, Price sat near the stove, his focus half on the fire and half on the small parcel Nik had handed him. The weight of it felt disproportionate to its size, and he turned it over absently in his hands, the edges of the paper smooth beneath his fingers. Nik, perched nearby, sipped from a steaming tin mug, his eyes quietly tracking Price’s movements.

“Still thinking about him?” Nik asked softly.

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t deny it. “Always.”

Nik leaned back, his mug cradled in both hands. “You have done more for him than anyone else ever could. Try not to let yourself forget that, Mishka.”

Price’s gaze lingered on the flames, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted, his voice low. “He’s still... there. Stuck in it.”

“And he is still here, with you,” Nik pointed out. “He would not be if he did not want to be, you and I both know that.”

Price exhaled, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”

Nik’s smile was small but steady. “No, not simple. But the truth.”

In the adjoining room, Ghost sat on the edge of the cot, his head bowed and his gloved hands clasped tightly between his knees. The faint crackle of the stove in the other room seeped through the walls, but it did nothing to drown out the silence that clawed at his mind. The storm outside howled, the wind battering the safe house with icy ferocity, but to Ghost, it barely registered. His focus was elsewhere, lost in memories he wished he could burn away.

The scent of iron and gunpowder seemed to cling to him, even now. He could still see it—the crimson streaks splattered across the carpet, the pale hand of his mother lying limp against the arm of the sofa. His nephew’s tiny body crumpled in the corner, his favourite toy still clutched in one hand. The echoes of his what his brother’s voice sounded like, it must’ve been raw and frantic, shouting for help that never came. It was all so vivid, so painfully clear, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Ghost inhaled sharply, his chest heaving as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He had found them like that—his family, executed in cold blood—on what was meant to be a day of warmth and love. He had walked into his childhood home expecting laughter and the smell of roasting turkey. Instead, he’d been met with silence and the metallic tang of death hanging thick in the air.

And then there was the fire.

He’d struck the match himself, his hands steady despite the storm raging inside him. The flames had climbed quickly, consuming everything—his memories, his childhood, the evidence of the life that had been taken from him. He had watched it all burn, the heat licking at his face as he turned his back and walked away, leaving behind the only home he’d ever known.

But he hadn’t left it all behind. The guilt stayed with him, a constant weight he carried. He had faked his death that day, disappearing into the shadows, but no matter how far he ran, the memories followed. His family’s silence, their bloodied faces, the betrayal that had led him to them too late. It never stopped. Not even now, years later, sitting in a safe house surrounded by people who would never understand.

His breathing hitched, his fingers digging into his knees. He could feel the storm pushing against the walls, its howl seeping through the cracks like the echoes of the past he couldn’t escape. The sound of boots scuffing on wood and the distant murmur of voices filtered through the walls, but it wasn’t enough to ground him.

A soft knock at the door cut through the noise.

“Simon?” Price’s voice was low and steady, a quiet anchor against the tempest inside him. “You don’t have to come out, but... we’re here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Ghost stared at the door, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. Price wouldn’t push—he never did. That was part of what made it so much harder. Part of what made the heaviness in Ghost’s chest feel like it might crush him.

The sound of Price’s retreating footsteps left the room in silence once more. Ghost dropped his head into his hands, his gloves creaking softly as he pressed his palms against his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the images away, but they lingered, just as they always did.

The storm raged on outside, but faintly, he could hear the sound of the team in the other room—the low murmur of conversation, the occasional soft laugh. It grated at him and comforted him in equal measure, a reminder that he wasn’t alone. Not entirely.

But even now, with the warmth of their voices filtering through the walls, all he could feel was the cold weight of his past pressing down on him.

Chapter 2: Merry Christmas to you

The storm howled outside, a relentless wail that rattled the frosted windows of the safe house. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of burning wood and the faint tang of damp clothes strung up near the stove. The first light of dawn seeped weakly through the cracks, casting long, uneven shadows across the room.

Soap was already awake, moving around the cramped kitchen area with the kind of energy that felt almost sacrilegious at such an early hour. The crackle of the stove and the occasional clang of a pan broke the stillness, his humming just audible over the storm outside. It was cheerful and obnoxious—exactly what one would expect from him.

Price appeared in the doorway, his presence a quiet weight that filled the room. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his hat was pushed back, revealing a tangle of unruly hair. “You planning to burn the place down, Sergeant?” His voice was rough, still thick with sleep.

Soap turned, a wooden spoon in hand, his grin immediate and unapologetic. “Nah, Cap. Just thought we could use a proper breakfast for once. Y’know, something to keep us from freezing our arses off.”

Price’s gaze dropped to the pan Soap was stirring over the stove. The concoction inside was a chaotic mix of eggs, tinned beans, and what looked suspiciously like crisps. His lips twitched, though whether it was a smirk or a grimace was hard to tell. “That meant to be food, or are you experimenting with chemical warfare?”

Soap laughed, unbothered. “Food. Though I reckon it might knock Gaz out if he smells it before it’s ready.”

Price hummed, stepping into the room fully. He glanced towards the back of the safe house, where a door remained firmly shut. “Where’s Gaz?”

“Still sleeping,” Soap replied, his grin dimming slightly. “Ghost too. Or... whatever it is he does when he’s not brooding.”

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed Price’s face before his expression settled back into something more serious. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer than necessary. “Let them sleep,” he said finally. “They need it.”

Soap nodded, stirring the pan a bit slower. “Aye. Think it’s gonna be rough for him today, yeah?”

Price didn’t answer right away, his silence heavy. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

Soap turned around and started muttering to himself, nudging a particularly stubborn clump of eggs across the pan, when the faint creak of floorboards signalled another presence. Nik appeared in the doorway, rubbing a hand across his face but still looking more put together than anyone else in the room. He carried his coat over one arm, the tailored fabric folded neatly despite the storm outside, and his heavy boots made no attempt to soften their steps on the worn wooden floor.

“What the hell is that smell?” he asked, his voice rich with amusement, though his nose wrinkled slightly as he approached the stove.

Soap turned with an exaggerated flourish, brandishing the wooden spoon like a trophy. “Breakfast, mate. A masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”

Nik leaned closer, peering into the pan with a critical eye. “That is not breakfast,” he declared with a shake of his head. “That is a culinary crime.”

Soap narrowed his eyes, jabbing the spoon in Nik’s direction. “Oi, I’ll have you know this is an original recipe.”

“Original, perhaps,” Nik replied, his lips twitching into a smirk. “But edible? I have my doubts.”

Price, who had been leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. “Careful, Johnny. He’s got a point.”

Soap looked between the two of them, his mock offence quickly giving way to a grin. “Bloody brilliant. Both of you, ganging up on me before I’ve had my morning tea.”

Nik shrugged, setting his coat down on the back of a chair. “It is for your own good. You will thank me later.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” Soap shot back, though his tone was lighter now, the weight of the earlier conversation slipping away.

Nik rolled up his sleeves with the practised ease of someone who had done this many times before. “Jealous? No. But I will not stand by and let you poison the team. Step aside.”

Soap hesitated for a moment, glancing at Price for support. The captain raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show. “Go on, Sergeant. Let him work.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Soap relinquished the spoon, stepping back to watch as Nik began unpacking supplies from a crate near the stove. The sharp scent of cinnamon filled the air as he pulled out a small jar, followed by a tin of flour and a bottle of honey.

“What’s all this, then?” Soap asked, folding his arms. “That doesn’t look like beans on toast.”

“It is not,” Nik replied without looking up. His hands moved with practised precision, mixing ingredients in a bowl with quick, efficient motions. “This is for Ghost.”

That got Soap’s attention. He tilted his head, watching as Nik shaped dough into small, neat circles. “Ghost? What, you reckon he’s a pancakes man?”

Nik glanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but pointed. “Everyone has a favourite. Even him.”

Soap looked skeptical, but Price spoke before he could argue. “He’s right.”

The faintest hint of something softened in Price’s voice as he moved closer to Nik, his arms dropping to his sides. He lingered near the stove, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed against Nik’s. It was a subtle thing, easy to miss, but Soap caught it, maybe he can convince Ghost and Gaz to give the two some time alone, especially with the way Price’s gaze lingered on Nik’s hands, and the quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—it wasn’t just appreciation for breakfast.

“You’re showing off now,” Soap muttered, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

Nik didn’t look up, but there was a faint air of satisfaction in the way he flipped the first pancake onto a waiting plate. “Maybe. But only because I can,” He said with a wink.

Price’s chuckle was low, almost private, as he leaned back against the counter. “You’d better hope he likes them.”

“He will,” Nik replied simply, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “Trust me.”

The quiet certainty in his voice was enough to quiet any lingering doubt. Soap fell silent, watching as Nik finished his task with the precision of someone who took pride in even the smallest things. The pancakes were golden and crisp at the edges, their tops glistening with a light drizzle of honey. The smell was warm, sweet, and utterly at odds with the cold storm outside.

Gaz stumbled into the room just as Nik finished the last pancake, his eyes half-closed and his hair sticking up at odd angles. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“Breakfast,” Soap said brightly, gesturing to the stove. “Nik’s decided to show us all up.”

Gaz sniffed the air, blinking as the scent registered. “Smells better than usual,” he admitted, dropping into a chair and rubbing his face. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Nik said, sliding the plate onto the table with a quiet sense of finality. “Just something decent to start the day.”

Before anyone could dig in, the door to the back room creaked open. All heads turned as Ghost stepped out, his movements deliberate and quiet. He lingered in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the faint light spilling in from the room behind him. His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing, before finally landing on the table.

Ghost’s boots barely made a sound against the wooden floor as he stepped into the room, but his presence immediately shifted the air. The faint warmth of banter dulled under the weight of his silence. He was still wrapped in his usual layers—balaclava pulled snugly over his face, hood drawn up against the cold that seemed to cling to him even indoors.

“Morning, mate,” Soap greeted, his tone carefully neutral, not quite as bright as it had been with the others. He waved a hand toward the table, where Nik was setting down a fresh plate of golden pancakes. “You’re just in time. Nik’s gone all domestic on us.”

Ghost’s gaze lingered on the plate for a moment, then flicked to Nik. His stance remained guarded, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. “What’s the occasion?” His voice was low, rough at the edges, as if dragged up from somewhere far deeper than his throat.

“No occasion,” Nik replied, his tone calm and measured. He didn’t press, didn’t look too closely, just gestured toward the table. “Thought you could use something warm.”

There was no hesitation in Nik’s movements as he stepped closer, holding out a plate of pancakes with quiet confidence. The smell of honey and cinnamon filled the space between them, soft and inviting.

Ghost hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the gesture. He glanced at Price, who stood nearby with an expression that gave nothing away, his arms loosely crossed as he leaned against the counter. When no one said anything else, Ghost stepped forward and took the plate. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he wasn’t sure if the food might vanish the second he touched it.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he muttered, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Nik shook his head, his tone matter-of-fact. “No, but I wanted to.”

The room was quiet, the storm outside muffled by the thick walls of the safe house. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, but for once, neither of them spoke. It was rare for Ghost to linger this long in the shared space, let alone accept something so openly.

Ghost didn’t retreat to his usual corner. Instead, he moved to the far end of the table and sat down, his posture stiff as he set the plate in front of him. He stared at the food for a long moment, his gloved hands resting on either side of the plate as if bracing himself.

Soap broke the silence first, his tone a little too loud, a little too eager. “Don’t let it get cold, mate. Nik put his soul into those.”

Nik snorted softly, shaking his head. “Ignore him. Just eat.”

Ghost lifted a fork, his movements slow and methodical as he cut into the first pancake. The fork hovered for a moment before he took a bite. The crisp edges gave way to a softness that melted on his tongue, the sweetness of the honey grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. It was warm, nostalgic, and uncomfortably familiar.

He didn’t say anything at first, his gaze fixed on the plate as he worked through the first pancake. It wasn’t until he’d cleared nearly half the stack that he set the fork down, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Thanks,” he said, quieter this time, though the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.

Nik gave a small nod from his place by the stove, not making a show of it. “Anytime.”

Soap’s grin softened as he leaned against the table, his arms crossed. “See? Told you it was a masterpiece.”

“That’s because you had nothing to do with it, Johnny, I’m sure of it,” Ghost replied, the faintest hint of dry humour slipping into his tone.

The team laughed, a quiet ripple of sound that broke the tension. For a moment, the storm outside faded to nothing more than a faint hum, the warmth of the stove and the quiet camaraderie filling the room instead.

Ghost didn’t linger long after finishing his plate, but when he rose and carried the empty dish back to the counter, he gave Nik a small nod—a gesture that spoke volumes for someone like him. Nik returned it with the same quiet understanding, a moment shared without words.

The warmth of the room lingered even as the storm outside raged on, but the chatter around the table had softened into something quieter. Soap and Gaz had started a half-hearted game of cards, their voices low and easy, though they occasionally glanced toward the window where Ghost had settled again, his posture closed off.

Nik leaned against the counter, a cup of tea cradled in his hands. His gaze flicked between Price and Ghost, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. The two of them exchanged a brief glance—a silent conversation that spoke of understanding without a single word.

Price set his empty mug down on the table, the sound barely louder than the soft crackle of the stove. He straightened, adjusting his jacket as he crossed the room to where Ghost stood by the frost-covered window. The faint glow of the storm outside reflected against the glass, casting pale light across the Lieutenant’s masked face.

“Simon,” Price said softly, his tone low enough not to carry beyond the two of them. “Come with me.”

Ghost turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

Price didn’t answer immediately, his gaze steady but heavy with meaning. “It’s important,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

There was a beat of hesitation. Ghost’s posture stiffened, his fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves. He glanced toward the others, where Soap was muttering about a bad hand and Gaz was laughing under his breath. Neither of them paid much attention to the quiet exchange happening by the window.

Finally, Ghost exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Fine.”

He followed Price out of the main room, their boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The temperature dropped noticeably as they stepped into the adjoining space, the chill seeping through the poorly insulated walls. It was smaller here, quieter, with only the faint sound of the storm and the creak of the house settling around them.

Price moved to the table in the centre of the room, where a single candle sat waiting. Its wick was unlit, the wax slightly worn and uneven. He stood beside it, his hands resting on the back of a chair as he looked at Ghost.

Ghost stopped just inside the doorway, his shoulders drawn up and his stance uneasy. “What’s this?”

Price gestured toward the candle. “Thought we could take a moment,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “For them.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken until now. Ghost’s chest tightened, the weight of the day pressing down harder than ever. He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, until he stood on the opposite side of the table.

“For them,” Ghost repeated, his voice low, almost hollow. He stared at the candle, his hands twitching at his sides as though unsure of what to do with them. “It’s not... it’s not the same.”

“No,” Price agreed. “It’s not. But it’s something.”

The room felt colder, the silence pressing in from all sides. Ghost stared at the unlit candle, the faint tremble in his hands betraying the calm he tried to project. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, but the words wouldn’t come.

Price moved slowly, striking a match and lighting the candle with careful precision. The small flame flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls around them. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly. “Just... be here.”

Ghost’s breath hitched, his gaze locked on the flame. It wasn’t the same—could never be the same as visiting the graves. But the thought that Price had done this, had set this up for him without being asked, cut through the tight coil of grief in his chest.

“I should’ve been there,” Ghost muttered, his voice breaking on the last word. “I should’ve done more.”

Price didn’t move closer, didn’t try to comfort him with hollow words. “You did what you could,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “And you’re still here. That counts for something.”

Ghost’s hands tightened into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. The grief was sharp, an ache he hadn’t allowed himself to feel fully in years. He bowed his head, the shadows of the flickering candlelight dancing across his balaclava.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding, broken only by the faint hiss of the storm outside. Ghost’s breathing quickened, shallow and uneven as he kept his gaze fixed on the candle. The small flame flickered, fragile but persistent, a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on him.

“I miss them,” Ghost whispered finally, the words barely audible. His voice cracked, rough with emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. “Every fucking day.”

Price didn’t speak, didn’t move. He let the words hang in the air, giving Ghost the space to let it out. He knew better than to rush him, knew that the silence was sometimes the only thing that could carry what words couldn’t.

Ghost’s hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white beneath the leather of his gloves. “I should’ve been there,” he said again, his voice breaking. “Should’ve done something. I could’ve stopped it—”

“Stop,” Price cut in gently, his voice firm but low. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

Ghost shook his head, his shoulders trembling under the weight of it all. “It’s all I fucking do. Every year, every day—it doesn’t go away.”

“And it won’t,” Price said softly. He stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding. “But carrying it alone isn’t the answer. You’ve got people now, Simon. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Ghost’s breath hitched, the tremor in his hands spreading until his whole body felt unsteady. The mask felt suffocating, the thin fabric pressing too tightly against his skin. He reached up without thinking, his fingers tugging at the edges of it.

The balaclava came off in one sharp motion, his hands trembling as he dropped it onto the table. His face was shadowed in the flickering candlelight, the faint scars and the raw edges of his grief laid bare. He didn’t look at Price, his gaze fixed firmly on the flame, as though it was the only thing tethering him to the room.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Ghost admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to... let it go.”

Price reached out, his hand resting gently on Ghost’s shoulder. The touch was light, unobtrusive, but solid enough to anchor him. “You don’t have to let it go,” he said quietly. “You just have to let yourself feel it. You owe yourself that much.”

Ghost’s head dipped lower, his chin nearly brushing his chest as the tears finally came. They were silent but relentless, streaking down his face in hot, bitter trails. His hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

Price didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Ghost’s shoulders and pulling him into a firm, steady embrace. Ghost stiffened at first, his instinct to pull away kicking in, but the warmth of Price’s presence was impossible to resist. Slowly, tentatively, he let himself sink into it, his head dropping against Price’s shoulder as the tears kept coming.

“I should’ve done more,” Ghost choked out again, his voice muffled against Price’s jacket. “I should’ve—”

“You did enough,” Price said firmly, his hand resting on the back of Ghost’s neck. “You’ve done more than anyone ever could. And they’d be proud of you, Simon. I know they would.”

Ghost’s grip on Price’s jacket tightened, his breathing uneven as he tried to pull himself back together. The weight of years of guilt and grief bore down on him, but for the first time, it felt like he wasn’t carrying it alone.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the faint crackle of the candle the only sound in the room. When Ghost finally pulled back, his face was raw with emotion, his cheeks still damp with tears. He didn’t look at Price, swiping a gloved hand roughly across his face.

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice hoarse but sincere.

Price gave him a small nod, his expression soft. “Always.”

Ghost’s gaze drifted back to the candle, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the edge of the table before coming to rest near the flame. The warmth of it seeped into his palm, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“They’d have liked this,” Ghost said quietly, his voice steadying slightly.

“They’d be glad you’re still here too,” Price replied, his tone low but certain. “That’s what matters.”

Ghost’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the flickering light. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed to ease, just enough for him to breathe.

The candle flickered faintly as Ghost leant forward and gently blew on it, letting the smoke curl up into the air. Ghost turned to Price and they stepped back into the main room, their footsteps barely audible over the low hum of voices. The warmth from the stove was a sharp contrast to the cold, still air they’d left behind, and the faint scent of cinnamon and honey lingered like a comforting embrace.

Soap glanced up first, his eyes flicking between Ghost and Price before his grin widened. “There you are. Thought you’d gone and disappeared into the storm.”

Price gave him a look, one brow raised in mild exasperation. “Something like that,” he said, his tone carrying a subtle edge that warned Soap not to push. Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t falter. 

Ghost stayed quiet, his mask tucked loosely into one gloved hand as he lingered near the edge of the room. His face was still flushed, the faint lines of emotion lingering around his eyes. He glanced at Soap briefly before his gaze dropped, his shoulders stiff as though he was bracing for a question that never came.

Gaz looked up from the table where he was reshuffling a deck of cards, his movements slowing as he took in Ghost’s expression. “Everything alright, LT?”

Ghost nodded once, his shoulders loosening. “Fine.”

The room fell into a comfortable, subdued silence. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance but didn’t press further, the unspoken agreement between them clear. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t their place to pry.

Nik approached Ghost quietly, his steps measured as he offered a cup of tea. “For you,” he said simply, his voice low enough not to draw attention. His gaze was steady, thoughtful, and without judgment.

Ghost hesitated for a moment before taking the cup, the warmth of the porcelain seeping into his gloves. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice rough but genuine.

Nik nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Anytime.” He said, echoing his words from earlier.

The brief exchange passed unnoticed by the others, but it left something unspoken between them—a quiet understanding, a thread of trust that hadn’t been there before.

The stove’s warmth and the low hum of banter had settled into the room by the time Ghost returned to his seat. He lingered near the edge of the table, the steaming cup of tea from Nik cradled between his gloved hands. The faint aroma of honey and black tea curled into the air, grounding him as the others moved around the room.

“Alright, lads!” Soap clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and cheerful enough to draw everyone’s attention. “Gather ’round the tree. Time to see who’s been nice and who’s been naughty this year.”

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing as he followed Soap’s gaze. Near the corner of the room, a small, potted plant sat perched on an upturned crate, its thin branches barely supporting the scraps of tinsel and paper stars draped across them. A strand of fairy lights blinked faintly, the bulbs unevenly spaced but glowing warmly despite the storm outside.

“That’s what you’re calling a tree?” Ghost muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite.

“Best we could do on short notice,” Gaz said with a shrug, already crouching near the crate. He gestured toward the mismatched pile of wrapped parcels tucked beneath the plant. “And it’s got presents, so it counts.”

Soap knelt beside him, his grin wide as he began sifting through the packages. “Right, let’s get started. Cap, this one’s yours.”

He passed a carefully wrapped parcel to Price, who opened it with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with faint, intricate designs. Price ran his fingers over the edges, his lips twitching into a rare smile.

“Good work,” Price said, nodding toward Gaz and Soap. “Might actually use this.”

“You’d better,” Soap said with mock sternness. “Took us bloody ages to find something you’d like.”

The exchange continued, each gift drawing laughter and soft words of appreciation. Soap’s exuberance filled the room as he opened his own parcel—a set of sketching pencils with a small, leather pouch—and immediately declared it “the best present ever.” Gaz unwrapped a finely stitched pair of gloves, his grin softening as he flexed his fingers in the sturdy material.

Ghost stayed quiet, his tea growing cold in his hands as he watched the others. The way they passed gifts back and forth, the easy warmth of their banter—it felt distant, like watching something through frosted glass. He hadn’t expected anything, hadn’t thought it was possible to be included in something like this. But when Soap reached for a package wrapped in paper adorned with tiny skulls and held it up, he froze.

“And this one,” Soap announced, his grin bright, “is for Ghost.”

All eyes turned to him. For a moment, Ghost didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the parcel in Soap’s hands. It was small but neatly wrapped, the paper clearly hand-decorated with painstaking care. Tiny skulls and symbols had been sketched along the edges in careful detail, some slightly smudged but all unmistakably Soap’s handiwork.

“Come on, mate,” Gaz said, his tone softer now. “It’s not going to bite.”

Ghost stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he approached the makeshift tree. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing over the edges of the paper as he took the parcel. For a moment, he just held it, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name.

“You gonna open it, or just stare at it?” Soap teased, though there was no edge to his voice.

Ghost sat back at the table, carefully untying the string that held the wrapping together. He worked with precise, deliberate motions, taking care not to tear the paper. When he finally peeled it back, his breath caught.

The wooden frame was smooth and solid, its edges carved with tiny symbols. A skull in one corner, a soap bar in another, a boonie hat, a cap, and what looked like a helicopter etched along the surface of the wood—the work was rough but meticulous, each detail imbued with care. Inside the frame was a sketch of the team, their expressions captured with remarkable accuracy. Soap’s grin, Gaz’s smirk, Price’s calm, steady presence, and Nik’s quiet confidence—all of it centred around Ghost himself, his mask drawn with sharp, careful lines.

Ghost stared at it, his thumb brushing over the carvings. “You made this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Gaz did the frame,” Soap said, his grin softening. “I did the drawing. Thought you might like something to remind you of us. Y’know, in case you ever decide to ditch us for some better company.”

The faintest huff of amusement slipped from Ghost, though he didn’t look up. His fingers traced the edges of the frame again, the weight of it grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” he said finally, the word rough but sincere.

Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, their grins widening, but they didn’t push him for more. Instead, they moved on, pulling another parcel from beneath the tree.

Ghost sat back, his grip on the frame tightening slightly as he watched them. It took him a moment to realise the room had quieted again, all eyes turning toward him as Price tilted his head slightly.

“Something you want to add, Simon?” Price asked, his voice light but knowing.

Ghost stiffened, his hand tightening on the edge of the table. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bag, the fabric worn but clean. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low. “Figured I owed you lot something.”

Ghost placed the bag on the table, his movements deliberate but hesitant. His shoulders stiffened under the weight of the team’s attention, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he focused on the bag, untying the knot with careful fingers before reaching inside.

“I, uh...” Ghost cleared his throat, his voice low and slightly hoarse. “Didn’t think I’d be... here for this. But I had these ready. Was gonna mail them to you.”

He pulled out the first item—a carefully folded piece of fabric—and handed it to Soap. Soap unfolded it quickly, his eyes widening as the dark material revealed itself to be a patch, custom-embroidered with a small, detailed skull set against crossed paintbrushes.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Soap said, turning the patch over in his hands. “This is brilliant. You had this made?”

Ghost nodded, his gaze still fixed on the table. “Figured it’d suit you. Something for your kit.”

Soap’s grin softened, his fingers tracing the stitching. “You’re a bloody genius, Ghost. Cheers.”

Next, Ghost reached into the bag again, pulling out a small leather-bound notebook and setting it in front of Gaz. The cover was simple, but the first page had been carefully filled with neat handwriting: To keep track of all the things you’re too stubborn to write down.

Gaz let out a low whistle, his fingers brushing over the cover. “Didn’t think you paid that much attention, Lt” he said, though his grin was warm. “This is great. Thanks.”

Ghost didn’t respond, just gave a faint shrug as he pulled out the next item. It was smaller, more personal—a slim case for cigars, its surface dark and polished. He handed it to Price without a word, his gaze flicking up briefly to catch the captain’s reaction.

Price’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he turned the case over in his hands. The leather was smooth, the edges stitched with precision, and the faint engraving of a compass rose on the lid gave it a touch of elegance. As he turned it slightly, another engraving caught his eye, etched just beneath the compass:

For always leading me home.

Price stilled, his thumb brushing over the words. The quiet weight of the sentiment settled deep in his chest, something unspoken passing across his face. He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening slightly around the case.

“Simon,” he said softly, his voice steady but low enough to hold meaning. His lips curved into the faintest smile, the kind Ghost had seen only a handful of times. “I’ll take good care of it. Thank you.”

Ghost didn’t look up, his attention fixed on the edge of the table. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed how much the gesture meant to him.

Price said nothing more, slipping the case carefully into his pocket as though it were something fragile. The faint twitch of his lips lingered, but his gaze didn’t waver from Ghost for a moment longer, the weight of their shared trust unspoken but understood.

Ghost’s hand lingered on the bag for a moment before he pulled out the final item. It was small and roughly made—a wooden carving of a wrench intertwined with a rotor blade. He hesitated before holding it out to Nik, his grip tightening slightly as though he might change his mind.

“This one’s... last minute,” Ghost muttered, his voice almost too low to hear. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

Nik took the carving carefully, his fingers brushing over the uneven surface. The details were rough, but the effort was undeniable—a simple, thoughtful gesture that clearly meant more than Ghost was willing to admit.

Nik smiled, his expression softening as he turned the carving over in his hands. “You made this? For me?” he asked, his tone full of quiet admiration.

Ghost nodded once, his shoulders stiff. “Yeah. It’s nothing fancy, sorry it’s a little rus-”

“It is perfect,” he said simply, cutting Ghost off, his voice carrying a sincerity that left no room for doubt.

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of the gesture settling over them all. Ghost sat back slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he avoided their gazes. The faint flush of embarrassment was barely visible under the faint shadows of the room, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

Soap was the first to break the silence, his grin wide and teasing but filled with warmth. “Right, well, now you’ve made the rest of us look bad.”

The room filled with quiet laughter, the tension easing as the team shifted back into their easy rhythm. Ghost stayed quiet, his gaze dropping to his hands, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Nik leaned closer, his voice pitched low enough that only Ghost could hear. “You have a good heart, kostochka.”

Ghost froze, the nickname pulling him back to a memory he hadn’t thought about in years. The last time Nik had called him that, he’d bristled at the word, sharp and defensive. He’d thought it was infantilising, a jab at something he couldn’t quite name. He’d snapped at Nik, told him to knock it off, and the name had disappeared after that.

But now... now it felt different. The way Nik said it didn’t sound mocking or patronising anymore—it was warm, soft in a way that caught Ghost off guard. It settled in his chest, strange and unexpectedly comforting.

“You haven’t called me that in a long time,” Ghost muttered, his voice quieter than he’d intended.

Nik smiled faintly, his gaze steady. “Thought you might be ready to hear it again.”

Ghost huffed, the sound low and almost bashful. He glanced away, a faint heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Still sounds ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Nik said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “But it suits you.”

Ghost didn’t reply, his fingers brushing over the edge of the frame in his lap. The nickname lingered, filling a space in his chest he hadn’t realised was empty.

The storm outside had softened into a low, steady murmur, the howling winds reduced to whispers that brushed against the frost-covered windows. Inside, the safe house felt warmer than it had all day, the stove’s soft glow casting flickering shadows across the room.

Soap and Gaz had moved to the floor near the table, a deck of cards spread between them as they traded quiet jabs over their game. Their laughter was light, unguarded, the kind that filled the space without demanding anything in return. Price leaned back in his chair, his cigar case resting on the table in front of him, his gaze distant but content.

Ghost sat between Price and Nik, the frame he’d been given still resting in his lap. His gloved fingers traced the edge of the wood, running over the tiny carvings with slow, deliberate movements. Every so often, his gaze dropped to the sketch inside, his eyes lingering on the details—the lines that made up Soap’s grin, the precise angles of Gaz’s cap, the calm strength in Price’s expression, and the confident hand Nik had around Price’s waist.

The weight that usually pressed on his chest felt lighter here, surrounded by the quiet hum of his team. For years, Ghost had thought of himself as a shadow, something separate and apart from the people he worked with. But now, sitting here with them, the thought felt... wrong. The frame in his hands, the tea still warm in his chest, the lingering warmth of Nik’s quiet words—they all reminded him of something he hadn’t dared to acknowledge in years.

Family.

He didn’t say it out loud. Couldn’t. But the thought lingered, settling in his chest like an ember that refused to go out.

“You alright there, LT?” Soap’s voice cut through the quiet, his tone light but full of genuine curiosity.

Ghost glanced up, his fingers stilling on the edge of the frame. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

Soap didn’t press, though his grin softened into something almost knowing. “Good. Don’t think too hard, though. We need you sharp, this one cheats.”

Ghost huffed a quiet laugh, the sound barely audible but enough to draw Gaz’s attention. The sergeant glanced over, his smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“You’ll have to fend for yourself I’m afraid,” Ghost muttered, though the faint warmth in his voice gave him away.

Nik shifted beside him, drawing his attention and pulling out a small tin from the bag he’d kept near the bunks. “Ah. Almost forgot,” he murmured, holding it out to Ghost. “For you.”

Ghost frowned slightly but took the tin, his fingers curling around the cool metal. He popped the lid open, and the faint scent of honey and butter hit him immediately. His breath caught.

Inside were biscuits, their edges golden and crisp, just like the ones his mum used to make every Christmas. The memory hit him like a wave—his mum humming softly as she shaped the dough, the faint warmth of the oven filling their tiny kitchen, the laughter of his nephew somewhere in the background. It was a memory Ghost hadn’t allowed himself to visit in years, and now it sat in his hands, tangible and real.

“How did you...” Ghost began, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, his grip tightening on the tin. “How’d you know?”

Nik shrugged, his expression soft. “You mentioned them once. I thought they might mean something.”

Ghost swallowed hard, his throat tight as he stared at the biscuits. He didn’t know what to say, the words sticking somewhere deep in his chest. Instead, he looked up, his gaze meeting Nik’s for a long, quiet moment.

“Thank you,” Ghost said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t enough—not nearly—but it was all he could manage.

Nik nodded, his smile warm but understated. “Anytime,” he said, the familiar word carrying the quiet certainty that it always did. Ghost had heard it before, countless times, but something about the way Nik said it—steady, unchanging—made the weight in his chest ease just a little more.

For a moment, Ghost hesitated, his hands tightening around the tin. Then, slowly, almost awkwardly, he leaned slightly against Nik, his shoulder brushing against the other man’s. The touch was hesitant, the weight of it fleeting, but he didn’t move away.

Nik didn’t react immediately, letting the moment stretch in quiet understanding. Then, with the same quiet grace, he leaned back into Ghost just enough to make the gesture feel intentional—balanced.

They sat like that for a while, the warmth between them quiet but steady, the biscuits still cradled carefully in Ghost’s lap.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the stove and the faint laughter of Soap and Gaz filling the air. Ghost shifted in his chair, placing the tin of biscuits to rest on the table in front of him but keeping the frame cradled carefully in his lap. The carved wood was smooth under his gloves, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He glanced to his right, where Price sat close, solid and steady as always. On his other side, Nik leaned slightly back, his posture easy but his presence just as calm, just as constant. The space between them felt warm and safe, like a barrier against the cold chaos that so often consumed his world.

Ghost took a slow breath, letting it settle in his chest before he moved. Carefully, he leaned toward Price, his shoulder pressing against the captain’s arm. But instead of stopping there, he shifted further, resting his head lightly against Price’s chest. His forehead brushed against the rough fabric of Price’s jacket, the contact steady and intentional. The motion wasn’t hesitant—it was a quiet, deliberate moment of trust, rare but unflinching.

Price’s arm moved instinctively, wrapping loosely around Ghost’s back. His hand rested lightly against Ghost’s shoulder, the weight of it both protective and grounding. His head tilted slightly, chin just brushing Ghost’s hair.

“Get some rest, Simon,” Price murmured, his voice low and steady. “We’ve got you.”

Ghost exhaled softly, the tension in his frame melting as he let himself relax fully against Price. His eyes drifted closed, the quiet weight of safety settling over him like a blanket. On his other side, Nik’s hand brushed briefly against Ghost’s forearm—a fleeting but deliberate gesture of reassurance. Between the two of them, Ghost felt completely shielded, an unfamiliar but welcome feeling.

The storm outside raged on, relentless and cold, but inside, there was peace. For the first time in years, Simon Riley let himself sink into it. Surrounded by the quiet strength of his team and the warmth of an unexpected family, he drifted into sleep—deep, steady, and untroubled in a way he hadn’t known in far too long.

[thewintermer]

Dance With Me

The room was dim, the only light coming from the muted glow of the fairy lights strung along the edges of the walls, twinkling softly like distant stars. It was late, much later than it should’ve been. The only sound filling the room was the steady, haunting melody I was playing on the piano.

It wasn’t the kind of music I usually wrote. It wasn’t the kind of music I wanted to write. But tonight, the dark thoughts in my mind and the frustration with the song I couldn’t finish had twisted into something sinister, something raw.

My fingers moved almost mechanically over the keys, playing the same sad, minor chords over and over again. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say with it anymore, but it felt... right in the moment. The loneliness. The ache. The pull of something I couldn’t name.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been playing, but I had lost track of time hours ago. I felt cold. Tired. Empty. And yet, I couldn’t stop.

“Y/N?”

I froze, fingers hovering over the keys as Hueningkai’s voice broke through the fog in my mind. His tone was soft, hesitant. He stepped into the room, his figure a shadow against the light.

“Hey, are you okay?”

I swallowed, trying to blink away the tiredness in my eyes, but I couldn’t quite shake the feeling of heaviness. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice sounding hollow even to myself. “Just... working.”

Hueningkai took a step closer, frowning as he glanced at the piano. His gaze softened when he saw the way my hands hovered over the keys. “You’ve been here a while.”

“Yeah. I’m... stuck.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just continued to study me with those warm, brown eyes of his. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke again.

“Maybe you need to take a break,” he suggested gently. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

I shook my head, hands returning to the keys, the slow, minor tune crawling its way back out of me. “I can’t. I need to finish it. It’s not... right. Not yet.”

He smiled, a small, reassuring smile. Without saying another word, he crossed the room, walking toward the corner where a lamp sat. He flicked the switch, and the room shifted instantly. The harshness of the dark was replaced by a softer, warmer light. The soft golden glow reflected off the walls, the shadows now dancing playfully around us.

“I think you need a change of pace,” he said, turning back to me.

With a sigh, I lifted my hands off the keys and turned toward him, meeting his gaze.

“Come on. Let’s dance. Just for a moment.”

The word dance hung in the air like a question. I almost wanted to roll my eyes. A dance? Really? I was supposed to just get up, move around, and magically feel better? He was kidding, right? I crossed my arms over my chest, a silent challenge.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking back at the piano, “sounds a little cheesy, don’t you think?”

Hueningkai didn’t seem deterred. If anything, he walked towards me, his voice dropping into that playful, coaxing tone that I couldn’t ignore.

“Come on, Y/N. Just one dance. It doesn’t have to be anything big. Just for a few minutes. You deserve it. Trust me, the song will still be here when you’re done. But you need to clear your head, right?”

“You’re not even gonna try?” he asked, a playful challenge in his voice. “Come on, just for me. I promise I won’t make you do anything ridiculous. Just a little bit of movement, get your body in a different rhythm. You might be surprised how much it helps.”

I sighed dramatically, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. But this better not be some sort of... weird exercise routine. I don’t want to end up doing the Macarena or something.”

Hueningkai laughed softly, “Promise,” he said with a wink, offering his hand toward me. “Just a slow dance, okay? No Macarena.”

I reached out, my hand finding his, the warmth of his touch grounding me in the moment. His fingers wrapped around mine, firm but not forceful, and I felt a strange comfort in that simple connection.

Hueningkai pulled me closer, his other hand settling lightly on the small of my back and for a moment, we just stood there, the space between us electric, filled with an energy I hadn’t expected.

“Just follow my lead,” he said quietly, his breath warm against my ear.

I nodded, my gaze flickering to the floor for a brief second, the awkwardness creeping in. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but I let him guide me, step by slow step. We moved together, each of us taking a measured step, a quiet back-and-forth rhythm filling the space. The floor beneath our feet felt solid, but everything else seemed to sway, as though the room itself was dancing with us.

I caught myself breathing a little deeper, my chest rising and falling in time with the gentle beat of our movements. His hand on my back was a steady presence, warm and reassuring, and though I felt self-conscious at first, I found my body settling into the flow of it, like a weight being lifted.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, his voice a soft hum against the music. “Just relax.”

I looked up at him, and for a second, I forgot about the piano, forgot about the frustration, the loneliness. I was lost in the depth of his eyes, the warmth of his smile. It felt almost surreal, like the rest of the world had quieted down, leaving just us here, moving together in this perfect, unspoken harmony.

His fingers brushed lightly against mine, guiding me in a gentle turn. The movement was smooth, easy, as though it was meant to happen. My body moved with his effortlessly now, our feet finding a rhythm in sync, a quiet dance that felt like the most natural thing in the world. I wasn’t thinking about the music anymore, or the unspoken weight of everything else I’d been carrying. I was just... here.

The silence between us was filled with the soft sounds of our breath, the shuffle of our feet against the floor, and the lingering chords of the song that played in the background.

We swayed a little closer, the moment stretching between us like a quiet understanding, and I couldn’t help but feel the warmth of his presence seep into me, melting away the coldness I’d been carrying all night. His face was inches from mine now, his breath warm against my cheek. I could hear the quiet steadiness of his heartbeat, matching the rhythm of the dance.

“See? Told you it’d help,” he whispered, his lips barely brushing my ear. “You just needed to get out of your own head.”

I smiled softly, the ache in my chest easing just a little. “Yeah, you were right,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t so bad.”

His laughter was soft, “I know what I’m talking about sometimes.”

I chuckled, the sound filling the space between us, and he pulled me a little closer, the soft scent of his cologne mingling with the air around us.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of the way my heart was racing. The space between us was gone, and all I could think about were his lips, just inches from mine. My own lips parted slightly, and I felt an inexplicable pull—an irresistible urge to close the distance.

Hueningkai’s gaze flickered down to my lips and without another word, he leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against mine before he gently closed the space between us. His lips were soft, tentative at first, as though asking for permission. The world seemed to pause in that breathless moment, as the warmth of his kiss enveloped me. There was a sweetness to it, a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

For a brief second, I almost pulled away, unsure, but then something inside me loosened. I melted into the kiss, my fingers tightening around his hand, my other hand instinctively resting on his chest. The sensation of him, his warmth, his closeness, felt like the answer to everything I hadn’t known I needed.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, and I felt his other hand gently cup my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. His lips moved with a rhythm that matched the dance we’d shared moments before, steady, comforting, but with a growing passion that felt like it was igniting between us.

I felt a shiver run through me as his tongue brushed against mine, and I let out a quiet gasp, my fingers gripping his shirt as if to ground myself. But Hueningkai didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands slid down my back, holding me tighter, pulling me closer as if he was trying to merge our bodies into one.

I gasped again as his lips left mine, trailing down my jaw, his breath hot against my skin. He pressed soft kisses along the side of my neck, the feeling making my knees weak. His hands moved to my waist, lifting me up with ease, and I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist.

Hueningkai set me down gently on the table nearby, his lips returning to mine in an urgent, heated kiss. I was breathless, my pulse thundering in my ears as I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as if I couldn’t get enough.

His hand slid up my back, his fingertips brushing against my skin, sending a wave of shivers through me. He paused for a second, his lips hovering over mine, his breath uneven as he stared at me, searching my eyes for any sign of hesitation.

I didn’t pull away. Instead, I pulled him back to me, my lips crashing against his in a kiss that was anything but gentle, as if we were both trying to lose ourselves in each other.

"Ahemmm", Soobin cleared his throat, his voice a little unsure but trying to keep it cool.

I pulled away from Hueningkai, breathless and flushed, and Hueningkai, equally startled, quickly stepped back, his face a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. We both stood there, awkwardly trying to collect ourselves.

“Uh... barbecue’s ready,” he said, his eyes flicking to the side in an attempt to avoid staring at us. His voice had a nervous edge, like he was trying to remain calm, but the surprise was still evident.

Soobin looked at us for a moment longer, eyes flicking between us, before finally turning around and muttering, “I’ll... leave you to it,” and walking out of the room.

I was still trying to catch my breath, the heat from the kiss lingering on my lips. Hueningkai didn’t say anything at first, his eyes lingering on me as if he was trying to decide whether to apologize or if it even needed an apology.

But for now, we didn’t speak. 

*******

Would yall like a part 2?

[brimstone-paladin]

Wyll x Tav/Reader ~ Jasmine and Brimstone (Drabble)

Word count: 3.2k

Tw: A little angsty, hurt/comfort, gn Tav

Summary: Haunted by the weight of duty you carry, Wyll comes to help shoulder the burden.

Deep in the night the crickets chirp and the fireflies light a small lake. The sun had fallen behind the horizon long before you had made your way to the small peer, the deepest of nights only lit by the stars themselves. The smell of damp grass and earth filled the air, a light breeze pulling along the scent across the still water. Yet despite the absolute beauty of the scene you could not bring yourself to enjoy even a bit of it. The sweet air hardly made it to your lungs through shallow breaths, the wondrous sight not a thought on your mind as you ring your shaking hands and let your mind cloud with darker thoughts. In this moment you aren't in the beauty of nature, but instead trapped in the anxiety's of your own mind. Quiet, alone, lost. Like you have been for so very long. The feeling was familiar, in fact it almost felt like home. Or maybe like the dread had made its home inside you, a heavy weight you carried with you for as long as you can remember. That creeping sensation that hooked on your every thought on quiet nights like these. A feeling of pure inadequacy.

You see, the world has always seen you as a hero, a kind soul amongst evil doers, a light in the dark, a refuge for the broken, the lost, the needy. Ever since you were a child you had felt that unending duty to serve others, to do what you can to make this dark world even just a little brighter. When you were young that ideal had always come so easy to you, though that was more to do with your black and white righteous thinking than any actual ease of service to others. You stood for those who needed you, no matter the consequences. And in turn those around you saw you as friend, ally, saviour, protector. The shield, the armor on their backs, the light in their torch. It was all you had ever wanted to be. All you ever were.

But time has worn you, the world tested you. Now, just outside Baldur's Gate, close to a sure to be brutal war and still not rid of the evil in your head that could turn you against those you love most, you can only feel the heavy weight of duty. For so long you carried the lives of those around you on your shoulders, lifting them high as if it was no effort at all, ignoring the lost energy knowing that your spirit could not dare be broken against the unending tide. You had to stay strong, you had to keep going. The only other choice was to fail, and the very idea of that disgusted you. People depended on you, they needed you. To fall for even just a moment could mean their very lives. There was no room for failure.

“I was wondering just where you ran off to” an all too familiar voice makes you nearly jump out of your own skin, head swiveling to see the man you held so very close to your heart. His smile was as charming as always, but you could see the way his eyes scanned you. You tried to steady your mind in an instant, to still your shaking hands, to calm your uneven breaths. To your credit you were quite good at that, decades of being hope when there was none had allowed you the ability to steel yourself under the gaze of another. To be the quiet, steadfast hero.

It is unfortunate for you in this moment that he is all too aware of the look, all too familiar with that front. Your face shifts a bit when you remember this, your gaze quickly turning back to the water. You try to find words, to say anything that would send him on his way without worry. But you find that all words become horrifyingly stuck in your throat. Your dread builds, your hands too hard to still, your mind too fogged to think clearly. Panic begins to rise in you. No, no you can't let him know, you can't worry him. He already has too much to bear, you shouldn't burden him with more. Your panic only doubles when you hear the creek of the old water damaged wood move under his slow steps.

“I'm fine” you manage to choke out, the sudden words a bit more aggressive then you meant them to be, a biting edge in your breath. You hear the steps stop, silence returning to the world for one bittersweet moment. Then he spoke again.

“If I didn't know any better I might have almost believed you” he speaks jovially, but you can hear the concern that is weaved into his tone. The wood creaks again as he takes a spot next to you. Your head turns away, a familiar fear gripping your heart. You feel his hand, as gentle as he always is, come to hold yours. You twitch away from the touch almost in instinct and you feel him hesitant, worry found in even the way his fingertips gently graze your skin. But eventually he wins, his hand holding yours.

“You're…You’re shaking” he drops any pretense of calmness, his concern peaking as he grips your hand tighter.

“What happened?” He asks and you feel so very overwhelmed by his presence. The smell of light jasmine and brimstone mix into the evening air, a smell you've come to find the utmost comfort in. But now it only fuels your dread, his watching eyes catching the very bits of you that should be most hidden. The selfish parts, the quiet fears meant for only you to know, the hope you lacked despite how much you gave to others.

This isn't how this is supposed to go. You have never been on the other side of this coin, you have never known what it is to be truly seen. To have someone walk in when you are least yourself, to be the parts you liked least and know that another has caught glimpse of it. It was your burden to carry, not his. It was your duty to stand strong even when you least were. You are failing yourself, failing him, by letting this weakness eat at you. To have finally bent under the pressure was already bad enough, but god's was him seeing it so much worse.

“Just cold” you answer flatly with a clearing of your throat and a retraction of your hand. You didn't deserve his comfort in this moment, you didn't deserve his soft touch. You were weak, and weak is a thing you can afford to be right now. Not when everyone was relying on you most. You can't let yourself fall, not yet, not now, not ever.

For a long moment he does nothing, quiet but still so very there. His presence was suffocating in how much it never left you, bleeding into your very skin. You can feel his eyes searching, his empty hand twitching with its want to hold you. But you did not deserve it.

“My dearest love” he starts with those words he knows hold such a heavy sway over you, calm and quiet, almost pleading.

“Would you look at me?” He asks, the simple request enough to shatter your very being. It was painful enough to have him there, but it was near harrowing for him to want to see you like this. You have to swallow the feeling that creeps in, that stinging in your eyes, that dryness of your throat. He can't see you like this. You can't let him see what you truly were. Just another scared soul. No, he would never love you the same, he would never hold that reverence in his eyes again, that pure unadulterated admiration. He would see how truly weak you were and realize that he didn't know you at all. He'd feel betrayed and he's felt just about enough of that.

“No” your voice shakes.

“No, you don't want me to do that” you answer fully, knowing still that those are the wrong words.

“Not seeing your eyes gleam in the moonlight is already painful enough, but knowing you are troubled and can't even bear to look at me is more than a thousand times that pain” his words are always so perfectly chosen to dig into your soul and bear it to him. A terrible thing it was that you have fallen so deeply in love with your own version of hell. Never before had someone been able to so easily reach into your being and convince you of things against your very nature. A guiding hand, soft and kind, pulling you towards what you know is only painful rejection of your weakest self. And by the gods were you weak right now, a shell of what you should be, empty of your hope and strength. Were it any other time you were sure you'd handle this with enough grace to cast him off, but now it seems as if you've lost that against his soothing words.

“You don't know what you ask of me” your voice is quieter than it's ever been, ashamed to even admit that small part. The wood creaks when he leans ever closer.

“I can only know if you tell me" he replied, your heart sinking in how he nearly begs. His hint of frustration is only found buried under heaps of worry and it seems that no matter what you do you are hurting him. Such is what happens when your spirit inevitably breaks. Your weakness only ever hurt those around you, it was a thing better left buried.

“I've caused you enough pain already. Leave me, I'll be fine in the morning” you answer sharply, hoping that the small cut of your words would help avoid the deep wound staying would inflict. But he was nothing if not persistent, with an unending supply of determination that was usually so endearing to you, but is now turned against you.

“Stars in my sky and singer of my life's joy, you have caused me no grief besides that which you will not let me soothe within you!” His words harshen, his frustration coming to the surface for a moment, but quickly fades with a heavy sigh.

“Please, my love, let me see you” he begs openly now, desperation tinging his tone. You can feel the way he twitches beside you, resisting laying a hand on your skin for fear that you would pull away again. You feel your will to fight slip right out from under you at the thought, knowing he was not touching you because you pulled away, knowing you were the one that once again created distance for fear of his closeness hurting him. In so, you've only succeeded in making it a thousand times worse.

You aren't sure what it is that drives you to finally look at him. Anger was your first thought, frustration having built at how he wouldn't just save himself the pain and listen to you. But that anger, if it was ever truly anger, melts away in an instant upon meeting his deeply saddened gaze that widens in surprise at the sight they lay upon. It is as if something truly snaps within you at that moment, breaking against the tide that is him. Instead you feel tears sting your eyes before quickly falling, your shaky breaths reduced to the choking sound of a poorly hidden sob. His look only seems to twist further, as if mourning the sight and in shock at the same time. You had always been an unbreakable will, strong as the mountains themselves and as durable as the earth. Never once had you swayed, never once had you allowed the perils of your situation to break you. Always the guiding light, always the unending hope. And yet here you sat now but scattered pieces of yourself.

You don't dare try to seek his comfort, but despite what you believe he gives it willingly. His hands, cautious now, moved to hold your face in them. He hesitates again when your face twists further, but he does not fall against your resistance. Careful as he always is with you he holds you, his eyes staring through you like he was attempting to uncover your entire being. He is still so quiet and you think he might be searching for words. But it seems he finds none, especially when you finally fall against his touch, allowing the comfort despite knowing it was for the worse. He could already see you, there was nothing left to do now but let him watch as you shatter into smaller pieces. Your hidden sobs soon fall openly, his thumbs wiping away endless tears in his attempt to heal you. Slowly he pulls you closer until you fall against his chest. You are stiff at first, entirely unfamiliar with this comfort, but soon you lose all care and melt against him, sobbing freely into his chest while he holds you ever so gently.

“I'm sorry” you mutter.

“I'm so- so sorry” you croak through another sob. He shushes you, holding your head against him with one hand while he rubs your back with the other.

“What on the gods green plains do you have to be sorry for?” He asks, completely taken back at the strange apology. You hold him tighter, afraid the truth might banish him and naively believing that your tight grip could stop it.

“You have enough to bear already. I wasn't supposed to give you more. You weren't supposed to see me like- like this” you cry into him, grip tighter and tighter. Don't leave, you silently begged, please don't leave.

“I’m supposed to be strong, to- to be there for everyone. I can't- I can't fail Wyll I-...I can't” you speak the plea in messy words and disjointed sentences, but your point gets across all the same. To your surprise he holds you tighter, closer than anyone has before. Strong arms acting as if to keep your pieces together, as if to keep you.

“Oh love, I should have known” he mutters, quiet and soft. He pulls away ever so slightly and for the briefest moment you believe your world is crashing down. But not a second later do his hands fall upon your face again, his eyes meet yours and despite your searching you only find empathy in his eyes. A knowing stare, recognition.

“This weight you bear, this duty, I know it well. You see yourself as saviour, and that you have been. You spared me the full pain of the darkest of my journey so far and others theirs. And all this time you thought you need bear these dark nights alone? I could not have failed you worse” his tone is sadness incarnate as he once more brushes away your tears. He stares into you knowing, and you can't deny him.

“I would steal the sun if it meant I could hold you for just one night, I would hang the stars themselves to see you smile. The weight of the world is a lot to carry on your own, for once why don't you try letting someone hold it with you?” He speaks the words with untold reverence, dedicating what is left of his very soul to each syllable. There is a promise to his words, nay, an oath. I would carry this for you, it says, I would carry it for the rest of my life, should you let me.

There is a part of you that hesitants at his words, still so sure he should see you as less for not being the ideal you so aspired to. But it is burned back by the sheer devotion his gaze allows. He isn't hesitant now, not in the slightest. He'd do what he promised and more, and his stare made that undeniable.

Finally, with your dread only building but so desperate to believe it true, you lay your hands on his. Fingertips trace the scars of him before gently taking them into your own. You let out another shaky breath, still so unsure, when he grips you tighter, as if a reply to your previous desperate squeeze. I'm not leaving, his tightened grip tells you, I never will. You dare a small smile that falls just as quickly, more sad than anything else, almost as if to laugh at the idea he'd stay.

“I don't deserve you” the words slip pass in a quiet whisper before you even realize what you're saying. But they are the truth, as horrible as it is. You were no hero, you were no saviour. You were still that little kid just trying to do what was right and being beaten down at every turn, weak against the world's evils. Never smart enough, brave enough, strong enough. One good deed was only followed by twenty more that needed done. And now somehow the fate of the world itself rested in your palm. You would never be enough to be what they needed. What he needed.

“You have already earned me a thousand times over and I'm sure you will a thousand times more. You deserve me just as much as you deserve to know that you aren't alone. I am here for you, and I will always be here for you. From our greatest triumphs to our deepest regrets. I am your's and you are mine. My weakness yours and yours mine. My strength yours and yours mine. My burden yours and yours mine” his words increase in intensity, begging to be heard. You hear them, hear him. You hear his determination shine through, his will against yours and in this matter you didn't stand a chance. Perhaps it was your care for him or maybe just his way with words, but it seemed he always pulled your impulses to the surface. He broke down your steel walls like they were nothing but porcelain, reaching that which you tried so desperately to hide and all the while making you feel like this destruction on yourself was a blissful field between starstruck lovers. As if he was not asking from you that which you hadn't let a single soul see. He made it feel so simple to crumble.

You cup his hands in yours before placing your head against them, almost like a prayer. A deep breath settles your cries, the scent of him wrapping around your very being.

“Do you truly mean that?” You ask carefully, as if the question would change his mind. He pulls you up, placing each other's grip between the two of you before he rests his head against your own.

“I mean that and more. I would run out of words before I was finished with the promises I'd make you” you close your eyes at the sweet words, another deep breath bringing him closer to your heart. When you open them again he is still staring, as if you were the only thing that mattered. You can't help the genuine smile that forms at it, his look akin to a lovesick puppy. You somehow even managed a short breathy laugh. He returns it, a smile of his own growing.

“There you are” he speaks, pulling you ever closer. You smile wider.

For the first time in your life you feel your shoulders become lighter, your heart not so heavy as before. For the first time you could breathe again, and the breath was all jasmine and brimstone.

[galaxysupreme17]

A Candle Spell

Y/n = Your Name

AgathaRio x daughter!reader

The house was quiet, bathed in the dim glow of the early evening as Y/n sank into the plush armchair in the living room. Her eyes stared vacantly at the wall, a distant heaviness settling over her like a thick fog. She’d had days like this before, but the weight felt almost too much to shake off tonight.

Agatha, passing by on her way to the kitchen, noticed her daughter’s posture—shoulders slumped, face weary—and paused. She’d seen that kind of heaviness settle over Y/n before and knew it wasn’t something her daughter would bring up on her own.

Agatha glanced at Rio, who was already watching from the doorway with a mix of concern and understanding. Silently agreeing, they each sat on either side of Y/n, offering her the presence of family without pushing her to speak.

After a moment, Agatha placed a gentle hand on Y/n’s shoulder. “You’re carrying a lot on those shoulders tonight, darling. Would you like a little help lightening the load?”

Y/n looked up, summoning a faint smile. “Maybe... It’s just been a hard day. I guess I got stuck in my own head again.”

Rio’s hand found Y/n’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know that feeling,” she said warmly. “But I think we might have just the thing to clear away that fog. Something small, simple, but powerful.”

Y/n’s gaze softened with curiosity as she looked between her moms. “What is it?”

“A candle spell,” Agatha said with a gentle smile. “It’s nothing complicated. Just something to center yourself and clear away the noise.”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a knowing glance before Agatha continued. “Come on, let’s gather a few things.”

They moved to the kitchen, where Agatha pulled out three thick white candles and set them on a tray. Rio opened a small cabinet, selecting a few essential oil vials with an approving nod before joining them.

“What are those for?” Y/n asked, watching Rio pour a few drops onto each candle.

“Lavender for peace, eucalyptus for clarity,” Rio replied with a wink. “And a dash of rosemary for memory. Good for the heart and mind.”

They brought everything back to the living room, arranging the candles on the coffee table in a circle and dimming the lights. The three of them sat cross-legged around the small display, the quiet ritual already bringing a sense of calm.

“Would you like to light them, Y/n?” Agatha asked.

Y/n nodded, taking a match and striking it against the box. She carefully lit each candle, watching as each wick caught flame, illuminating the room in a gentle, golden glow. The warmth of the candlelight softened the space around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of peace and warmth.

Agatha’s voice was gentle as she began guiding them through the spell. “Close your eyes and breathe. Focus on each breath, slow and steady. Feel the warmth of the candles; imagine it like a blanket wrapping around you.”

Y/n let herself sink into her mother’s words, feeling her shoulders start to relax as she breathed in the soft aroma of lavender. The day’s weight began to lift, replaced by the soothing presence of her moms beside her.

“Now,” Agatha continued, “we’re each going to set an intention—something we need—calm, clarity, peace. Let it take shape in your mind, and when you’re ready, release it to the flame.”

Y/n thought of the word “release.” She didn’t need to name the details, didn’t need to say out loud what felt heavy. She just needed to let it go, let the warmth and light of the candles carry it away.

Watching her daughter’s expression soften, Rio placed her hand over the nearest candle flame, murmuring a small spell under her breath. Instantly, the flame shifted from yellow to a gentle, calming blue, filling the room with a soft, tranquil glow.

“Blue for calm,” Rio explained with a small smile. “Something I learned a long time ago.”

Y/n watched in quiet awe as the flames flickered, her own heart feeling lighter, more open. She looked up at her moms, realizing they seemed just as calm and centered, their expressions softened by the candlelight.

Agatha’s voice brought her attention back to the moment. “Magic isn’t only about spells and charms, Y/n. It’s also about connection—to ourselves and to each other.”

Rio glanced at Agatha, a playful glint in her eye. “And to some old memories, right, my love?”

Agatha smiled, catching on. “Ah, yes. Do you remember the very first time we did this spell?”

Y/n’s curiosity was piqued. “When was that?”

Rio laughed softly, her gaze meeting Agatha’s with a spark of fondness. “Salem. Ages ago—literally.” She winked at Y/n, leaning back as she began. “Your mom here was something of a mystery to me at the time.”

Agatha rolled her eyes, her lips curving with affection. “That’s because you were just about the most insufferable charmer in Massachusetts.”

Rio shrugged, unrepentant. “I had to stand out somehow! Besides, I’d never met anyone who could keep up with my magic and my...wit.”

Y/n watched them, completely captivated. “So, you were both witches even back then?”

Agatha nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Yes. But we weren’t exactly a team. We were both rebels of sorts, hiding from the chaos of the witch trials.”

Rio’s voice softened as she picked up the story. “We were both trying to keep our heads down, but I couldn’t ignore your mother. She had this calm strength, something I couldn’t look away from.”

Agatha smiled, her eyes twinkling with memory. “And you, with that boldness. I didn’t know whether to hex you or admire you.”

Rio laughed, squeezing Agatha’s hand. “Some things never change.”

Agatha continued, glancing back at Y/n. “Rio thought it would be a good idea to impress me by enchanting an entire room of candles to flicker in different colors. It was…obnoxious.”

Rio grinned, unashamed. “But it worked, didn’t it? I think that’s what started it all, you know. Just us, sharing a quiet moment with a spell and a few candles in a world that didn’t understand us.”

Y/n, her heart swelling with warmth, reached over to hold both of their hands. She could almost see it—her moms, younger but still the same, sharing a quiet moment just like this one. She felt a deep sense of gratitude, not only for the stories but for the love they’d given her.

“So, magic’s always been like this for you both?” she asked quietly, looking between them.

Agatha nodded, her eyes filled with a gentle pride. “Magic is more than a skill. It’s how we connect, create something lasting, meaningful.”

Rio leaned in, pressing a kiss to Y/n’s forehead. “And it’s how we find our way back to each other, no matter what. Every spell and quiet moment like this is our way of grounding ourselves.”

Y/n felt a warmth in her chest that seemed to grow with every breath, every soft flicker of the candles. The weight that had settled over her earlier had vanished, replaced by a quiet peace and a deep love for the two people sitting beside her.

As the flames flickered and softened, casting their shadows across the room, the three of them sat together in contented silence, savoring the comfort of the moment.

They stayed there until the candles burned low, their lights dimming into the darkness. Rio squeezed Y/n’s hand one last time before blowing out the final flame, leaving them in the cozy twilight of their family room.

And in that gentle, shared silence, Y/n knew that as long as she had this—her moms, their love, and the magic they’d shared—she would never face the darkness alone.

[mega-pixie-dream-girl]

Snowed In - Part I

1996

Pairing: Dave Mustaine x f!reader

Summary: When a festival gets canceled for inclement weather, Y/n–the young guitarist from an up and coming band selected to tour with Megadeth–is stuck at a vacation rental. Her bandmates get stuck in town and Dave comes back just in time to get snowed in together with her. Dave doesn't mind showing her a few tips and tricks on the guitar, but there is another tune a-hum between them.

𝓦𝓐𝓡𝓝𝓘𝓝𝓖𝓢: power dynamic/mentorship, Dd/lg, age gap, size

read Part II here

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It started innocuously enough. When Dave first reached out to my band inviting us to tour with Megadeth on their upcoming tour, I was beside myself–it was the dream: to go on tour with such a successful rock band as their opener. I figured we wouldn't be spending much time with the big shots, but once we were on the road Dave actually spent time with us–chatting, jamming, sharing meals at backstage catering. He had advice for us. He took a liking to us–he took a liking... to me.

Now I stood by the window, watching the snow out in the field. We had the rare break in the tour schedule and this vacation rental was the perfect place to rest for a few days when one of the festivals got canceled due to the report of a possible blizzard–how could such a light dusting of flurries take down a major concert? "Inclement weather"... it seemed silly. But my thoughts drifted to Dave's warm smile, melting the stiffness of disappointment that had been filling my chest. 

Hopefully the Megadeth guys would be here soon, returning from any PR obligations and from jetting away for a few days. My bandmates had gone to town to get groceries and it was my job to get the fire started in the hearth. In my heart, I wish time would burn up like the fiery logs, until Dave would arrive. I thought of the promo photoshoot we did before the tour, his biceps playfully wrapped around my small frame and how I fit right under his chin, framed by his apricot hair–he was a lot more experienced at posing for the camera than me and knew exactly where to put his hands. I can still smell the cologne he wore that day–my body warmed to the thoughts I play over in my head night after night, my heart a skipping record, hearing that first nonchalant utterance of "sweetheart" on his tongue. I wonder, had I fallen right into his knowing checkmate in this game he must have played so many times before?

At first, our practice sessions were purely musical–honing my skills on the fretboard and learning the intricacies of his compositions. But gradually, other elements crept into our exchanges. The warmth of his fingertips tracing delicate patterns along my exposed flesh, sending shivers down my spine. His voice, low rumbling whispers in my ear, making my heart race faster than any riff. 

I knew I was playing with fire–every compounding moment when I sent him one more burning doe-eyed gaze, every rehearsal I showed up effortlessly braless bouncing breathless, every playful tilt of my head onto his shoulder. This man held my dreams of 'making it' in his callused palms, but after years of staying on the straight and narrow path, putting everything into my music, I let myself be intoxicated by his nearness whenever I could steal the moment.

The familiar crackling of the gravel driveway broke through the quiet snow-dampened stillness, followed by the creaking of the front door. I felt the frigid outdoor air draft through the old farmhouse, tickling my neck, my breath puffing a small fog in front of me. 

"Daddy's home!" called out the familiar snarky voice, "Heeey-llo?"

"Dave? In the living room!" I called back.

Dave kicked off his boots, hung his stiff leather jacket on the stair railing, and walked up behind me. "The guys left you all alone?" he purred with a smirk. "Do they expect little you to shovel all this snow by yourself?" 

"It's not that bad." I shrug.

"Well, we're not in Cali anymore. It's going to get much worse tonight. I hate driving on these icy roads, so I decided to beat the storm," Dave said, "...and I wanted to make sure my Cali girl has everything she needs here." 

Dave encircled me with his chiseled arms from behind, holding out a box of graham crackers in one hand and a bag of marshmallows and cacao powder in the other. I couldn't help but breathe in, lifting my chest closer to his offerings of s'mores and hot cocoa supplies, grazing his arms. 

I lift my chin to look up at him, "In the mood for something sweet?" I ask.

"Mmmm… you could say that…" His voice was deep, almost hungry sounding. "So where are your ‘mates anyway?" 

"Went to town to pick stuff up."

"They better hurry or they may be spending the night at town hall until the roads are clear…" Dave looks at his watch, furrowing his brow. "It may just be you and me tonight," he smirks, his hazel eyes penetrating me. He leaned over to the little radio on the mantle and turned it on.

"18:00 2 INCHES. 20:00 5 INCHES. BEEP BEEP BEEP MONROE COUNTY: 18:00 2.5 INCHES. 20:00: 7 INCHES…"

I turned around in his loose embrace, "Maybe you can show me the fingering for the chords in Sweating Bullets?"

Dave smirked down at me, recognizing my desire for his attention. Biting my lip, I gently shifted closer to him. He put the groceries aside and wrapped his arms around me tighter, giving me a slight squeeze, his muscles flexing. He put a finger under my chin and tipped it up so that my eyes were forced up to his sultry gaze.

"You want me to show you the fingering, sweetheart?"

I blushed, gazing back at him, his lips slightly curled but otherwise poker faced. Typical Dave.  His eyes were like nets for my quickening breath. 

Dave chuckled with a smirk. He looked down at me, admiring my flustered cheeks. He slowly dropped one hand to my hip and pulled me closer, holding me against his strong, worked out body.

"Don't be shy now... You asked for some help with the chords and you'll get it. But I have a few conditions–" The lights flickered and then the room was darkness. 

Dave looked around the dim room, the only light now coming from the soft glow of the fireplace. "Fuck..."

The sudden fading of the room around us felt like floating in a sensory deprivation chamber, every rise and fall of his breath against me sending shivers down my spine in the absence of our surroundings.

"Looks like it's nothing but the two of us for a while, sweetheart. Hope you're prepared to spend a long time in the dark with me. It'll give me plenty of time to show you the… chords."

"BEEP BEEP BEEP REPORTS OF POWER OUTAGES IN MONROE…"

Dave was absolutely enjoying the effect the darkness had on me. He always saw right through my best efforts at rock n roll toughness–I was so easily flustered, and being in the dark was definitely exacerbating it. I could hear my own nervousness and excitement in my little breaths and undoubtedly he could hear it too.

"Come on…" He leaned into my ear with a whisper, giving my hips a squeeze. He put his lips against the side of my neck, just barely touching the skin. The vibration of his words against my throat awakening my heat. "Let's sit on the couch over there and get comfortable. You still want to learn the chords don't you?"

Dave grabbed a guitar and carried it over to the couch. He could see the way I stumbled around in the darkened room, bumping into chairs and things as my feet tried to feel their way. He gently placed a hand in front of me and guided me over to the couch.

"Watch your step, sweetheart. You're all over the place…" He teased in a soft tone, still enjoying how the darkness had me flustered. As we got to the couch he laid the guitar against the edge of the couch and sat down, stretching his arms out and pulling me close to him, situating me between his legs and wrapping an arm around my waist. I could feel his smirk in the air, but in the cold room he was warmth. 

"There we go." He said, his lips tickling my ear. "Much better." He slowly traced the tip of my inner thigh, his touch feather-like, before putting the guitar across my lap.

I tried to regain my cool. "Oh, so the secret to Dave Mustaine's playing is having an extra pair of hands?"

"You've figured it out, sweetheart. That's my big secret. I just need a pretty, little thing to have on my lap while I play..."

"For warmer tone, of course..." I replied slyly.

He pulled me tightly against his lap, his hands snaking under my shirt and pulling up at the hem until the heat from his chest radiated against my bare back.

"Very observant, sweetheart. You're picking up on things fast. Seems like someone is ready for a more… advanced lesson." He whispered in my ear.

Dave gently reached out and put his hands over mine, situating them into the correct position for the chords. His large, muscular, and callused hands held my own small, lithe (albeit callused) hands. He curled his lips, noticing how the size difference made me look so small compared to him.

"There we are. Now try it, sweetheart." He said, keeping his hands over mine, his lips brushing against my ear. His chest lightly grazed my back as he spoke, the faint scent of cigarettes and ambrette filling my nostrils.

Dave smiled, watching me play. He couldn't help but admire how my body moved and how I concentrated on the chords while his muscular frame was pressed against me from behind. I struggled to focus on the music with the electric feel of his hand on top of mine, his arm around my waist, and his warm breath against my neck. His every touch made my skin tingle.

"That's it… keep going… mmm, you're doing great sweetheart…"

I could feel Dave's steady gaze. I loved getting to show off in my element, passionate and focused and skilled; He slowly moved his hands away from mine, allowing me to play on my own while his arms curled around me, keeping me pulled against his chest.

"'Atta girl. You know what you're doing, sweetheart. That's right. Like that." He muttered into my ear, nuzzling the side of my neck as I played, his nose and lips setting my skin alight while his wavy hair fell around me, perching on my bare chest. I couldn't help but gasp lightly at his tender sensuality, giving me the kind of attention I craved from him.

"Mmmm… don't tense up now… keep your hands relaxed." He teased as my body reacted to his grazing hands. I felt him lightly nip at my earlobe before speaking again, his tongue just barely flicking against my ear.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You're doing so well. Let's try it a little faster." 

I picked up the tempo. He shifted his arms tighter around me, my back against his chest with no space in between, the sturdiness of his muscular torso scaffolding his embrace. I could feel his body already responding in his jeans and couldn't help but shift into him every time I changed chords.

"BLACK ICE DANGERS! GAS PUMPS OUT OF SERVICE IN THE FOLLOWING COUNTIES…"

"m'uugh just like that, sweetheart. Keep going…" He whispered, his hot lips brushing against the side of my neck as his hands crept along my body, tracing every contour.

"You like it when I touch you like this, don't you?" He whispered.

"m'Dave. Show me something harder." I whine.

"Something harder? I think I can work with that." He chuckled, pausing for a moment before continuing. "Why don't you put down the guitar, sweetheart?"

.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡.｡❅* ...to be continued... read Part II here

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submission for @mustainegf contest #1

[vivianleighwishesshewasme]

The lion, the witch and the redo

(trigger warning, mentions of kidnapping, past abuse and manipulation) Not intended for anyone under 18!

Movie's always make time travel look like some hippy cosmic voyage down a long tube or some rushed process where you whoosh to your intended destination. Neither were true. 

It was like a restless sleep or a coma. You know you can't simply open your eyes and wake up. You're stuck until your consciousness wills your body to move. 

A migraine-like headache usually accompanies hammering into your brain like  tiny needles tattooing the destination into your internal compass. 

It hurt like hell. 

"You're awake now huh?" A low gravel filled voice flooded the room along with the sunlight streaming in through the window. I hissed and brought my hand to cover my face trying to blot out some of the harshness. 

"No, not even begrudgingly." I replied with my voice raw with rest. His deep chest laugh rumbled through the room. He reminded me of my grandpa Rockwell. Tall, thin and with a voice built like an engine. Always a low rumble to it. 

I pushed myself up to sit against the head board. I turned my head, allowing my eyes to take into the soft yellow room. There appeared to be one bed. My ghostly captor, clearly a corporal man, now sat at a deck across from me. There seemed to be a sitting or reception room off to the side. 

"We need to get you…" He swung his hand back and forth as if the gesture helped him think. My brain fogged back to last night. 1925, sounds slightly American and slightly Italian. American Italian man from 1925. I was going to have to adjust to a lot of "new" foreign things. He cleared his throat, getting my attention again. " We need to get you up to date, with the past, so to speak." He smirked at his own cleverness. I was behind the times, but 1925 was modern for him…cute. I got a wise guy. 

"First, I need coffee." She grumbled. 

"You need clothing. You laying in my bed in your brassiere makes my story plausible. You ain't walking around Stratford like a streetwalker. Not while you're under my protection." She raised an eyebrow. She hoped she'd be brought in on his "story" soon. 

"So many things I want to correct in your sentences but I'll start small because my brain feels like it's screaming. This…" She gestured to her tiny white satin top." It is called a bralette. It's acceptable clubwear in my time. Second, coffee before you tell me about your ill intentions towards my magical ass. I can't listen to a villain monologue before my brain is awake." She smiled at his jaw set. He looked her up and down. 

"Villian eh? Already made up your mind because I need your services." He slammed his palm down on the desk. I stilled but watched him carefully. He was most likely a highly stressed man not used to being questioned in his position as a Boss let alone a man in 1925. I was going to have to walk a thin line to survive. On one side I had his doberman-like energy and  the other side of the white picket fence I probably faced junkyard dogs, both of which would tear me to pieces in an instant. "Brassier, bra…whatever" He said, trailing off to roll his hand elegantly again. " Tomato or tomato principessa." His accent shifted to show that the difference in sound didn't change the difference of the fruit. Got it. 

"Coffee first Signore." I smirked, showing off the tiny bit of Italian I knew. If he thought I'd learn then I might actually get more out of this if he thought we were bonding. Emotionally manipulative, maybe but, this wasn't the first time I had to survive an unwanted living situation. 

"I'll call room service for an English breakfast. When you're done we'll get you some decent clothes. Maybe get an espresso." He acted like kidnapping me was the most natural part of this whole situation. Like going out shopping and grabbing a coffee was what most bad men did to women they kidnapped. Maybe it was. If he brought me to a book store I might actually consider the beauty and the beast like arrangement. 

"You had me at coffee." I tossed the blanket by myself and adjusted my maxi skirt. I definitely wouldn't blend it. I glanced at him. Probably have to borrow his shirt. 

"Espresso, it's stronger, it's Italian." He reiterated. I tried so hard not to roll my eyes. A slow smirk tugged on the corner or my lips. He removed a toothpick, his lips and eyed me with suspicion. 

"Tomato,tamato." I said cheeky. He gave me a hearty laugh. 

They were sipping on coffee inside the coffee itaniano, she had a new coat, dress,shoes and a bag full of goods. He'd taken good care of her. 

"You look better with short hair, shaven and clean cut." She complimented him as she nursed her black espresso. He'd gone to the barbers while his men watched her purchase items. She had enjoyed watching them squirm as she purchased undergarments. Lucas' cousin had claimed he was married, yet he squirmed when everything had been folded up nicely and placed into boxes. 

" You look better without all the makeup. You're  a naturally beautiful woman. Makeup it too much." He watched her face, which she could already tell wasn't impressed by his commentary. She didn't paint her face for him or anyone really. 

"I know you mean that as a compliment." She started but he placed his hand over her cup instantly stopping her train of thought from continuing our her mouth. 

"Take it as one, I promise it was a kindness."   He looks her up and down.  "You look like a renaissance painting. " Her eyes widened at his compliment. 

"You a man of art and culture?" She smiled, enjoying the banter.

"I'm a lover of theater personally." He sat back getting more comfortable. She chuckled.

"So you're dramatic." They both chuckled at her observation. 

"I'm Italian."  He opened his arms and shrugged. When he wasn't being controlling he was actually quite charming and easy to talk to. 

'"What do you like? Theatre, books, knitting, kids?" He seemed genuinely interested in her. Hobbies, he was going to try to entertain me or keep me out of his hair. Either way I could appreciate the thought. "You need things to hold your attention while I take my meetings. It ain't appropriate for a woman to be involved in such…..dark conversations." He meant it. He has leaned forward studying her now. 

"What meetings?" He was mafia. She didn't want to open her mouth and either say something unintelligent that she learned from television nor did she want him to know that several years ago she'd gone through a six month binge with documentaries about the Mafia from the 1920s thru the 60s. 

"Just business Eden. An exchange of information." He didn't seem impressed with  her questions. 

"On what?" She was unfazed. She still didn't have answers to why he was keeping her around. He still wanted her for something. 

" Where." He corrected as he bit into a scone. He chewed and looked around. He wasn't used to questioning.

"What?" she shook her head. He was intentionally trying to shake her off. 

"Where, in the beginning when the betrayals started." He smirked. " I'm gonna need your particular skill set to help me win. " He brushed a dark strand of hair away from her face.

" I can't time travel again." She stated flatly. She honestly couldn't.

" Nah, your witchcraft in general Cara Mia. We ain't done yet." He smiled as her frown deepened confirming what she already knew. 

[saladmix]

HII I LOVE YOUR FIC SO MUCH!! IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME!! SERIOUSLY THE BEST THING I'VE READ THIS WHOLE YEAR!!

this might have already been answered but I'd like to ask what was your inspiration for writing a tmnt horror story? and what are some of your favorite horror books/movies/etc. ?

again "The Day the World Broke" is so amazing I don't even know how to properly articulate how good it is

AHH THANK YOU this fills my cold dead heart to the brim with joy <3 I'm so glad you're enjoying it I'm truly so warmed by the fact that it has gotten any pick up at all given the wild genre!

And thank you for sending questions omg please don't mind me as a ramble for forever because I could talk about this kind of stuff all day (and I have, much to friend and family despair).

The impetus for TDTWB was actually me driving back late at night from a friend's place. It was REAL foggy, the kind of fog where you can't see in front of you and have to rely on the small road markers right as they come into sight. The mist in the story is almost its own character, I love how alive it feels (and how it sometimes very much IS alive, SOS). But that's where I kind of originally built the idea out on that drive home.

But I consume a huge amount of horror/suspense media so there are so many elements of different things that have kind of come together and coalesced into this story. You see a lot of elements of Silent Hill, Resident Evil, and Evil Within baked into it, especially with the monster element. I really wanted to go big or go home with some of those creatures. I myself love a good creature flick but there was nothing more fun for my friends and I screaming in front of a game when a new horrifying monster came on for us to fight. It just reminds me of those times, where it's scary, sure, but mostly the feeling of 'Oh my goooooood what the hell!' that I really enjoy.

There are also a ton of other movie influences and some of them are more subtle and based on singular scenes that get kind of expanded upon. For instance, there's a scene in the First Omen (skip over if you don't want to be spoiled for the scene, but it is in the trailer!) where our girl is sitting in a dark room, saying it isn't real, and a voice answers back "what's not real?". That stuck with me for a while I really loved that so a lot of Leo's Demon Shredder experience is kind of build on that singular feeling of sudden dread.

But as with some of the good horror movies, it's not just about the scares and the monsters. A real desire for me when writing horror is digging into that humanity piece, a concept you can see across a lot of horror series and books. I wanted each of these boys to have their own arc to contend with and some are more subtle and others are more, how you say, extremely obvious. But they were all very purposefully built in. It was important for me to make these characters vibrant and dimensional and it was not hard, because it's TMNT and we love these turtle boys! But I was hyper-aware that I'm doing an AU version that is pretty atypical, with what is essentially a regular family of teenagers having to navigate the end of the world. So I'm so touched that people love them as much as I do!

I don't even know if I'm answering the question at this point! My goodness. But I WILL wrap it up with some of my favorite recent media that I've consumed, otherwise this list would grow beyond anyone's desire to read <3

Books:

Hex by Thomas Oldeheuvelt (This felt like a really unique premise that really speaks to the whole humanity is the monster theme)

Sister, Maiden, Monster by Lucy A. Snyder (Not for the faint of heart! But boy was it a wild trip that I thought about for weeks after I finished it)

Movies:

Heretic (just came out, super eerie for me I loved the build up)

Smile 2 (I love me a movie that trips into Uncanny Valley, I found the scares unique and fun, but for me I loved the character, drew me right in!)

Oddity (SOOOO eerie, super obsessed with it)

TV Shows:

The Haunting of Hill House (I highly recommend this one for the family drama behind the horror, it's such a fun, beautiful time)

Thanks for the ask!! I really loved it, and I love talking about this story and horror so please ask away any time. Thank you so very much for reading the story too!

[tanjamikaelson]

STRANGE LOVE - CHAPTER 26

MASTERLIST CHAPTER 26: | I DID THIS FOR US |

In the days that followed Allison's overdose, the weight of everything that had transpired pressed down on her like a heavy fog. She moved through each day in a daze, barely able to process the events that had led her to the sterile white walls of a hospital room, to the realization that she was losing herself. Her mother, who had rushed from New York the moment she got the call, stayed by her side, their strained relationship easing into something softer, more forgiving.

Allison knew deep down that something had to change, that she couldn’t keep numbing herself with drugs and avoiding the pain that seemed to claw at her from every direction. After long, tearful conversations with her mother, they made the difficult decision together—Allison would go to rehab, a private and structured environment where she could begin the slow process of healing.

・ • ・ • ・

One evening, as Allison stood in her new room, the scent of fresh linen mingling with the faint smell of chlorine from the pool outside, she felt the weight of the past few months pressing down on her chest. Her mother had rented a beautiful one-story house, trying to provide a safe haven for Allison’s recovery, a place where she could feel supported and loved as she worked through the darkness that had consumed her.

The room was light and airy, with double doors that opened directly into a yard. As she packed her suitcase with the clothes she wanted to take with her to rehab, each piece she folded seemed to carry the weight of a memory. Some memories brought a small smile to her face—nights spent laughing with friends, moments of simple joy. But others were tainted with regret and pain, reminders of the choices that had led her here.

As she reached for a T-shirt that had somehow ended up in her suitcase, she realized with a start that it wasn’t hers—it was Rafe’s. She must have accidentally taken it when she was hurriedly packing her things at Tannyhill. The fabric was soft, worn in from countless washes, and it still smelled faintly of him. Allison held it close for a moment, feeling a pang of sadness and longing for the boy she had thought she loved, the boy who had spiraled so far out of control.

Suddenly, a soft knock on the door broke her reverie, and her heart skipped a beat as she recognized Rafe’s silhouette standing just outside the glass. She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat before she opened the door. Rafe stepped inside, his eyes wide and desperate, searching hers for something—anything—that might reassure him.

“I heard you’re leaving tomorrow,” he began, his voice tight with the effort to keep his emotions in check.

Allison nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I have to, Rafe. I need to get my life together.”

Rafe’s eyes filled with sadness, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world had finally caught up with him. “I’m sorry, Allison,” he said, his voice breaking. “I know you overdosed because of me.”

Allison didn’t know what to say, her heart aching at the sight of him. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him that it wasn’t entirely his fault, that she had made her own choices, too. But the words stuck in her throat, and all she could do was nod.

A heavy silence hung between them, the kind of silence that only comes when two people know that something irrevocable has changed. Finally, Rafe spoke again, his voice quiet but filled with a desperate need to be honest. “I tried to kill Sarah.”

Allison’s eyes widened in shock, her breath catching in her throat. “What? Why would you tell me that?”

“Because you asked for honesty,” Rafe replied, his voice trembling. “I’m not keeping anything from you anymore.”

Allison nodded slowly, understanding what he was trying to do, but the knowledge that he had tried to kill his own sister was almost too much to bear. She felt a deep sadness for the boy she had once known, the boy who had been consumed by darkness and anger.

Rafe took a step closer, his eyes pleading. “And I got the gold cross, Allison. We can leave together. We don’t need anyone else.”

Allison felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she looked at him, her heart breaking for both of them. “I can’t leave with you Rafe,” she said, her voice shaking. “I almost died.”

Rafe’s expression twisted with a mix of anger and despair, his fists clenching at his sides. “We can figure things out together, Allison. I just need you to come with me.”

“No, Rafe,” she said firmly, even though her voice trembled with the effort. “Don’t you understand? I need to do this for myself. I can’t keep going around in circles.”

Rafe looked at her, his eyes desperate, as if he was searching for something to hold onto. “Just tell me you don’t hate me, that you’re not scared of me. We can figure out the rest.”

Allison’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, but she knew she had to be honest with him. “I don’t hate you,” she said softly. “But things aren’t as easy to forget as you think.”

“You don’t need to forget, just forgive me,” Rafe pleaded, his voice breaking.

“I can’t. Not yet,” she whispered, her words cutting through the tension between them like a knife.

Rafe’s face crumpled with despair. “But I did this for us, Allison! I found the cross so we could leave and not depend on anyone.”

“I know, Rafe,” she replied, her voice gentle but firm. “But I can’t leave… not right now.”

Rafe’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He looked at her, his eyes filled with a sadness that seemed to echo in the very air around them. “I love you, Allison,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Allison’s heart broke at his words. “You don’t know what love is, Rafe. If you did, you wouldn’t have pushed me away.”

“What are you saying?” Rafe asked, his voice trembling with confusion and hurt.

Allison shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Just go…”

Rafe stared at her for a moment, his face a mixture of pain and anger. “You know what? I get it,” he said, backing towards the door. “You don’t need me anymore.”

Before Allison could respond, he turned and slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the quiet house. She sank to her knees, her body shaking with sobs. The weight of her decisions pressed heavily on her, but deep down, she knew she had made the right choice.

As the house settled into silence, Allison’s mother appeared in the doorway of her room. Without a word, she crossed the room and knelt beside her daughter, pulling her into a comforting embrace.

“You did the right thing,” she whispered, stroking Allison’s hair.

Allison nodded, clinging to her mother like a lifeline. “I hope so.”

“You’ll get through this,” her mother assured her, holding her tightly. “One step at a time.”

As they sat together, the past hurts and misunderstandings between them seemed to fade into the background. They were united in their hope for a better future, one where Allison could find her way back to herself, where she could learn to live and love without fear, and where the wounds of the past could finally begin to heal.

After Allison’s overdose, something fundamental shifted inside Rafe. In that moment, he’d realized just how close he came to losing her forever, not just to circumstance but to his own reckless choices. And now she had refused to run away with him after everything that happened, refused to be part of the chaos that had spiraled out of control.

The high he’d once craved, the cocaine that had fueled his anger and impulsive decisions, now felt like a poison—a poison that had tainted every part of his life. But the wake-up call had come too late, and now all he had was the bitter taste of regret and the faint hope that he could somehow get her back one day.

・ • ・ • ・

RAFE’S P.OV:

Rafe had always wanted to be in control, to prove himself to his father. When Ward had been injured during the fight on a ship, Rafe had sworn to him that he would take over, that he would handle everything while his father recovered. But it wasn’t just about that promise anymore. As they arrived in Guadeloupe with the cross finally secured, Rafe made a decision—one that felt more vital than any he’d made before. He would get clean. He would fight the demons that had plagued him for so long. Not for himself, not even for his father, but for Allison. For the future he hoped he could still have with her.

The withdrawal was brutal. His body craved the familiar escape, the numbing high that cocaine offered. There were nights when the temptation felt unbearable, when his hands trembled with the need to feel the powder rush through his system. But every time he reached the brink, he would see Allison’s face—pale, lifeless, so close to slipping away. The fear of losing her had gripped him tighter than any addiction ever could.

In Guadeloupe, far from the chaos of the Outer Banks, Rafe threw himself into the role his father had entrusted to him. He oversaw the security around the cross, handled the shady deals that needed attention, and kept a watchful eye on every operation Ward had left behind. But beneath the surface of his business dealings, Rafe was fighting a war within himself. Every day without cocaine was a battle—a battle to stay clearheaded, to not let his impulses dictate his actions.

For once, Rafe wasn’t just the reckless son chasing his approval; he was the one holding things together. He was the one Ward had to depend on. And though the weight of that responsibility was heavy, it was also grounding. It gave him something to focus on besides his own internal struggles.

But the truth was, as much as Rafe wanted to prove himself to his father, the real driving force behind his change was Allison. He couldn’t shake the thought of her, couldn’t forget the way she had looked at him with disappointment and fear, the way she had refused to follow him. She had walked away from him for a reason, and if he wanted any chance of getting her back, he knew he had to change—really change.

It wasn’t just about getting clean; it was about becoming the kind of person who could stand by her, who could offer her something more than chaos and destruction. He couldn’t be the reckless, drug-fueled version of himself anymore. He had to become someone better, someone worthy of her.

As the weeks passed in Guadeloupe, Rafe found a strange sense of clarity. The noise in his head, the constant drive for more—more power, more approval, more drugs—began to fade. He started seeing the world differently, the haze of addiction lifting. He still had his anger, his unresolved pain, but it didn’t control him the way it once had. He could think clearer, and make decisions without the haze of cocaine clouding his judgment.

But the thought of Allison never left him. Every night, as he lay awake in the quiet of their secluded estate, he wondered where she was, what she was doing, and if she was okay. If she missed him. He had no idea if she would ever forgive him, if she would ever want him back, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t go back to who he had been. Not if there was even the smallest chance that she would come back into his life.

For the first time in his life, Rafe was trying to be better—not just for his father, not just for the power and control he had craved for so long, but for love. For the girl who had seen the real him, the one buried beneath all the rage and ambition. The girl who had nearly died because of his recklessness.

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