#everyone thinks you’re lying to get out of it

[bucketgetter535]

This is not a cry for help (but it might be) PART SIX

WC: 3k CW: Drinking ish? Notes: LOL what is up everyone. Plz send live reacts cause they're always so funny for this fic. Anywayssss enjoy. progress but slow. P is me.

Paige didn’t even mean to wake up early.

Actually, she was planning to sleep in. Like, full on cocoon in the blankets, hide-from-life, pretend-last-night-wasn’t-real kind of sleep. That was the dream. That was the move.

But of course her body was like nope! You’re a fun little ball of stress so enjoy waking up at 7:12 AM on a summer morning like a psychopath.

So now she’s awake.

And Azzi’s still asleep, which is probably a sign that the universe hates her. Because Paige is lying there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about how close Azzi’s face is and how her hand is still sort of half on Paige’s waist like it lives there now.

She carefully (very carefully) gets out of bed.

Azzi shifts a little, but doesn’t wake up, which honestly feels unfair. Paige’s heart is still going dumb in her chest. Like she didn’t just wake up from the most ridiculous, intense fever dream ever. Like she didn’t fall asleep feeling… whatever that was.

Anyway.

Downstairs.

Katie is already there. Already dressed, already moving around the kitchen like a sitcom mom, flipping bacon and humming something that sounds suspiciously like one of those country songs Paife doesn’t really like.

“Morning,” she says, all bright-eyed and unbothered. Like it’s normal to have this much energy before 8 a.m.

“Morning,” Paige croaks, voice hoarse and slightly guilty sounding.

Katie smiles. “Hungry?”

Paige scratches her head. She’s still in her Azzi’s T shirt and whatever shorts she pulled on before leaving the room. Her hair’s a mess. She’s blinking like a mole seeing daylight.

“I mean… I guess,” she says. “Like… I could be?.”

Katie raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like a ‘no, but I know I should say yes so you’ll stop asking’ kind of answer.”

Paige flops into a kitchen chair. “Wow, you’re good.”

“I’m all knowing,” Katie says. “It’s a skill set.”

Paige rests her forehead against the table dramatically. “Can I get a pass for today? I had a long night.”

Katie snorts. “You’re fifteen. Your definition of ‘long night’ is probably giggling under the covers and watching TikToks.”

“Yup,” Paige says, because absolutely not. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”

Katie plates eggs and bacon like she’s feeding an army. Or a teen athlete. Which… yeah, okay.

She sets it in front of Paige and pours a glass of orange juice like the food police.

Paige stares at the plate. It smells good. It’s too good. “I usually skip breakfast,” she says, almost apologetic.

Katie’s already flipping the next round of eggs. “Not in this house.”

“That’s aggressive.”

Katie points a spatula at her without even turning. “So is hypoglycemia.”

Paige raises her hands. “Okay, okay. Geez. It’s like I’m in detention.”

“You’re in a kitchen.”

“Same thing,” Paige mutters, stabbing at an egg. “One just has better lighting.”

Katie smiles at her over her shoulder. “Eat, Paige.”

So she eats.

She eats because saying no would feel rude, and because it actually tastes kind of amazing, and because even though she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s starving.

They sit in this quiet kitchen rhythm for a while. The house is still. The sun’s barely up. There’s birds outside and whatever else people say when they’re in the woods and pretending life’s not complicated.

Paige kind of likes it.

Which is annoying.

Katie glances over at her as she refills the coffee pot. “You sleep okay?”

Paige shrugs, chewing bacon. “Define okay.”

Katie doesn’t push it. She just hums and hands her another slice of toast like Paige is a project she’s already committed to finishing.

Paige eats that too. Because whatever. She’s here now.

“You’re wild,” Paige says eventually, gesturing with her fork.

Katie gives her a look. “Because I fed you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess that’s ok.”

Paige hides her smirk behind her juice glass.

She doesn’t say thanks.

But she eats every bite.

–

Okay. Here’s the thing.

Paige Bueckers has a long-standing, private, and very justified vendetta against swimming.

It’s not that she can’t swim. She can. She learned when she was five, thank you very much, in a chlorinated YMCA pool that reeked of bleach and childhood trauma. But she just doesn’t like it. Never has.

Maybe it’s the way her hair sticks to her neck. Maybe it’s the stupid way swimsuits always feel too tight or too loose, but never actually right. Maybe it’s the water. Or the sun. Or the entire concept of recreational wetness.

Point is—Paige is not a swimmer. She’s a hooper. She belongs on the court, not floating around like a dumb leaf in a lake full of fish poop.

But here she is.

In a lake.

With Azzi.

And Azzi’s brothers, who have been cannonballing off the dock for the last twenty minutes like they’re trying to flood the whole state.

And Azzi. Let’s talk about Azzi for a second.

Because Azzi is in a bikini. A purple one.

And it should be illegal.

Like genuinely, someone should call the authorities. Because Paige is trying her best to survive this absolutely blinding amount of hotness while treading water and pretending she’s not seconds away from drowning in feelings.

Azzi’s laughing and splashing her brothers and then wiping water off her face like she’s in a slow-mo summer movie scene, and Paige has never felt more like a soggy rat in comparison.

Her sunblock is already failing. Her legs are too pale. Her hair feels gross. And she’s fairly certain there’s a piece of seaweed stuck to her ankle.

“Why are you standing like that?” Azzi calls, chest-deep in the water, grinning like a demon.

“Standing like what?” Paige shouts back.

“Like you hate this!”

“I do hate this!”

Azzi just laughs. Tosses her hair back and floats on her back like the most graceful human to ever exist.

“Come here,” she says.

“No.”

“Come here,” Azzi says again, voice playful but threatening.

Paige swims over like a loser.

They float near each other, and Azzi bumps her foot against Paige’s under the water, which is so casual and also not casual at all.

Azzi’s brothers are still yelling about something. Probably who cheated in their splash war or who’s banned from holding the pool noodle. Paige has tuned them out.

Azzi leans in a little. “I’m hungry.”

Paige squints. “We literally ate like two hours ago.”

“I know,” Azzi says, dead serious. “But I’m still hungry.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Come get snacks with me.”

“No,” Paige says immediately. “We’re wet."

Azzi tilts her head. “So?”

“So the inside is are dry and I’m not about to walk inside like a wet sandwich.”

Azzi raises her eyebrows. “Wow. You’re dramatic.”

“I’m realistic,” Paige says, treading water like she’s on trial. “Also this lake is cursed. My foot touched something and I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Azzi is so not listening. She’s already swimming toward the ladder. She glances over her shoulder and calls out, “Paige.”

“What.”

“Come get snacks with me.”

And Paige groans because she can’t say no. She literally cannot. Even if Azzi didn’t just do the over-the-shoulder look like she was in a Disney Channel original movie, Paige would’ve followed her anyway.

“Fine,” she says, dragging herself out of the lake like a half-drowned cat.

Her swimsuit sticks in all the wrong places. Her hair drips straight down her back. Her foot crunches on the gravel and she knows her face is red from sun or blushing or both.

Azzi waits for her with a towel and that face. The one that says I know you’re annoyed and I’m enjoying every second of it.

Paige grabs the towel. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate swimming.”

“Fair.”

“I hate wet clothes.”

“Understandable.”

“I guess the snacks are alright though.”

Azzi grins. “Mhm. THat’s what I thought.”

They walk inside dripping water everywhere. Paige leaves footprints on the hardwood. Azzi heads straight for the kitchen, opens the fridge like she lives there (she does), and tosses Paige a juice pouch.

Paige catches it. “Are we five?”

“Yes,” Azzi says. “Now drink it.”

Paige does. Because it’s cold and fruity and actually slaps. She leans against the counter in her wet swimsuit, juice in hand, and side-eyes Azzi.

“You in that bikini is actually a hate crime.”

Azzi looks over her shoulder, deadpan. “File a report.”

Paige takes another sip. She’s not even sure if her heart rate is from swimming or Azzi anymore.

Probably Azzi.

Definitely Azzi.

–

The thing about sunburns is that they don’t hit all at once.

No, they sneak up on you. They let you float around in your false sense of “maybe I actually tan now” security. Let you feel like maybe this time will be different.

And then they burn you alive.

Paige feels it first when she’s drying off after her shower. That tight, itchy stretch across her shoulders. Her arms feel like they’ve been microwaved. Her nose is pink. Her neck’s mad at her. Her face is just straight-up betrayal.

Honestly, it’s deserved. Paige vs. The Sun has been an ugly rivalry since birth.

Azzi had already passed out the second they got back from the lake, full-on snuggled into her pillow like she didn’t just look illegal in a bikini all day. Paige wanted to say something dumb to her before crashing, but it didn’t happen. Azzi was too cozy, too asleep. So Paige just showered, changed into her comfiest oversized tee, and tiptoed her way downstairs in search of cold water and peace.

She’s halfway through grabbing a glass when Katie rounds the corner like she’s been waiting.

“Oh honey,” she says.

Paige freezes. “What?”

Katie points at her shoulder. “You’re toasted.”

“I’m fine.”

Katie gives her a look that says absolutely not, try again.

Paige sighs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Paige. You’re medium-well at least. Come sit.”

Paige shifts uncomfortably. She tugs her shirt down like that’ll help.

Katie already has the aloe out. Like she was born with it in her pocket or summoned it from the mom void. Paige considers arguing again, but honestly she hurts and standing sucks and she’s tired.

So she sighs and sits.

“I’m not taking off my whole shirt,” she says quickly.

Katie sits beside her with the aloe. “You’ve got a bra on, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then it’s fine. I saw you in a swimsuit three hours ago. I just want to put some aloe on it, okay?”

That somehow doesn’t make Paige feel better, but she pulls off her shirt anyway, wincing as the fabric tugs against her shoulder blades. She keeps her arms tight to her sides. Feels very aware of everything.

Katie is gentle. Like annoyingly so.

The aloe is cold, but it’s a relief. And Katie doesn’t say anything at first—just rubs the gel in careful, slow circles over the worst spots. It stings a little, but Paige isn’t gonna whine about it. She already feels weird enough.

She stares at the kitchen tile and pretends it’s not vulnerable or whatever.

She’s mid-thought when her phone buzzes on the counter.

It’s her dad.

Of course it is.

Paige flinches without meaning to. Her whole body goes still.

Katie pauses. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Paige says automatically, grabbing her phone. “I’ll—uh—I’m just gonna take this outside.”

Katie nods once, already back to capping the aloe. Paige pulls her shirt back on, not meeting her eyes, and practically escapes to the porch like the house is gonna explode.

The swing creaks when she sits.

“Hey,” she says into the phone.

“Paigeeeyyy,” her dad says.

And that’s… not great.

He’s slurring a little. Talking fast and slow at the same time. His words loop, like maybe he’s trying to sound casual but forgot what sentence he started three words ago.

She knows this version of him.

It’s not even the worst one. Just the one that makes her stomach twist.

“You home yet?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, looking at the trees. “Been home. Then came up here. Remember?”

“I miss you.”

That makes her blink. “Okay.”

“Tell Drew I love him,” he adds suddenly, like it popped into his brain mid-rant.

“You could tell him yourself,” Paige says. “He’s with you.”

But her dad’s already moved on. He’s rambling about the lake cabin they used to rent when she was little. About her mom, randomly. About how this whole thing with “her”, which means his wife, or ex-wife, or enemy number one, or whatever, “isn’t fair.”

Paige goes quiet.

She just sits there, half-listening, half-fading out, watching the trees move in the breeze. They’re green and soft and kind of blurry. It should be nice.

It’s not.

Eventually her dad says, “Alright. I’m gonna go, kid. Love you.”

Paige doesn’t answer right away.

“Paige?”

“Yeah. Love you too,” she says, and it sounds fake even to her.

He hangs up.

She sits still for a while. The porch swing creaks again. Her chest feels too full. Her throat feels too tight. She doesn’t cry, but it’s close.

Then the door creaks open and Katie steps out.

She’s got a glass of water and that look. The one that says I’m not gonna make you talk, but I’m here if you want to.

Paige wipes at her nose even though it didn’t run. Just to feel something.

Katie hands her the glass.

“Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Paige snaps.

Katie just sits next to her. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lecture.

They sit in silence for a bit. Paige sips her water. The woods are still moving.

She says it before she even decides to say it.

“My dad’s not doing great.”

Katie glances over.

“And I mean like, not great. Like spiraling and weird phone calls and barely holding it together and I think maybe drinking again but I’m not sure and I don’t wanna accuse him of stuff but also I’m not a little kid.”

Katie doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react.

“And it’s been loud at home. Like… bad loud. And I know I’m lucky to not be there but my little brother is there, and I don’t know how to help. And I feel bad being here. But also I don’t want to be there. Like, at all. So I feel double bad. And also I think I might like girls. Which is… not related but still a problem. I guess. I don’t know.”

She laughs, short and sharp and hollow.

Katie just hums. “That’s a lot, kiddo.”

Paige leans back against the swing. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

Paige shrugs. “You kinda Jedi mind-tricked me into it.”

Katie smiles. “I have secret mind control powers. It’s a thing.”

Paige looks at her. “I thought Azzi made that up.”

Katie shrugs. “She did. But I like it.”

They sit there until Paige finishes her water. The sun’s going down now.

Katie stands up eventually and ruffles Paige’s hair before she heads back inside.

Paige leans back, watching the trees some more.

And for once, everything’s kind of quiet.

–

The room is quiet when she comes back upstairs.

Azzi’s still in bed, curled toward the window, blanket all bunched up under her chin like she didn’t just spend the afternoon being hot and chaotic and bikini-evil. Paige stands there for a second in the dark, watching her breathe, trying not to think about the porch swing or the phone call or how her whole body feels like it’s made of too much.

Her sunburn still stings. Her throat’s tight again, which is fantastic. She’s tired but not tired. You know?

She climbs into bed gently. Like quietly-lower-yourself-gently, blanket-tug-silent-exhale kind of gentle.

Azzi stirs the second the mattress shifts.

Like of course she does.

Paige freezes. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

But Azzi already reaches out, eyes still half closed. “You’re back,” she murmurs, and she’s already moving closer, sliding an arm around Paige like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Paige flinches. Just barely. But it’s enough.

Azzi’s hand brushes her shoulder and Paige hisses.

“Ow—sorry—”

Azzi pulls back immediately, blinking awake now. “Shit—sorry babe—”

Babe.

Babe?

And then she kisses Paige’s shoulder. The unburnt part. Soft. Just once.

And Paige’s whole brain short circuits.

Because what the hell. Who does that? Who says that? Who kisses people so gently they actually feel like crying?

It’s not like a big kiss. It’s not flirty. It’s not anything but real.

And Paige is… she doesn’t do that. She’s sarcastic and annoying and full of noise. She doesn’t just…get touched like this.

“You alright?” Azzi whispers.

And it’s a real question. Not one of the dumb ones like everyone keeps asking. It’s not like you okay? like a formality. It’s soft. It’s asking in a different way. Like Azzi can feel something on her.

Paige blinks up at the ceiling and does not cry. She doesn’t. But her eyes sting a little, and she breathes weird for a second.

“I’m fine,” she says.

Azzi doesn’t believe her. Obviously.

“Your back’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

Azzi hums. Her hands trail lightly across Paige’s back, carefully avoiding every place that might sting. She doesn’t press. Just lets her fingers move slow and steady, like she’s tracing Paige’s heartbeat through her spine.

Paige exhales into the pillow. Her whole body starts to un-tense. Not all the way. But some.

She doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t say anything at all for a while.

Azzi just holds her.

One hand on Paige’s waist. One hand moving in lazy shapes on her back. Her forehead pressed against Paige’s shoulder like she belongs there.

And Paige? Paige stays really still. Because if she moves, she might cry. Or scream. Or say something stupid like I needed this more than oxygen tonight.

And like, she knows it’s dumb. It’s just Azzi. She’s just being nice. But it feels like something more. It feels like..

Like like? 

Being in-like?

Paige’s chest doesn’t hurt as much now. And her skin still burns, but a different kind of burn, the kind that’s actually kind of okay.

[iyoonjh]

Beyond Plus Ultra! – The anatomy of falling in love

Chapter 19: Dude we're getting the band back together!

wc: 4144 words

The morning started soft.

Y/N’s nose was tucked into Soobin’s collarbone, and his fingers were lazily tracing shapes along the dip of her waist like he could memorize her skin with just touch. The sheets were tangled somewhere near their ankles. They had no idea what time it was, nor did they care. The only thing that mattered was that the light coming through their window was warm, and that they were here. Still. Together. Somehow.

"Your hair smells like peaches," he murmured, voice still sandpapered by sleep.

“That’s because I shampooed with Karina’s stuff,” she whispered back, nose brushing his jaw. “She said it has hyaluronic acid in it. I don’t know what that means but it feels expensive.”

“It’s working,” Soobin replied, dead serious.

She grinned. “You’re so soft in the mornings.”

“You’re soft all the time,” he said before he could stop himself. Then immediately buried his face into her shoulder to hide from the consequences of his own mouth.

But before she could tease him—

THUMP. CRASH.

“YOU ABSOLUTE TRAITOR.”

Y/N blinked. “What the hell was that?”

Soobin was already halfway out of bed, hair sticking up in tragic yet adorable angles. They threw on hoodies and rushed down the stairs, socks slipping on the hardwood.

What they found in the living room was something between a very violent band breakup and a middle school production of Naruto. Which, in either case, would explain why Yeonjun had the ferocious eyes of a dog with rabies. 

Yeonjun was standing on the coffee table, shirtless, pointing an accusatory drumstick at Jay, who was calmly eating toast like this happened every day.

“You seduced my bandmates,” Yeonjun shouted. “With your harmonies. With your garage aesthetic. With your twin-necked bass guitar and your stupid jawline”

Jay blinked. “Bro. I literally just said we should jam sometime.”

“Exactly,” Yeonjun hissed. “You jammed. In my turf. With my people.”

Beomgyu and Hueningkai were on the floor pretending to be dead.

Sunoo stood in the middle of it all with a spatula, seeming like the only one who was actually worried about Jay's physical integrity–Yeonjun looked like he might jump on him. “Everyone calm down before I have to flip you like a pancake.”

Sunghoon was pacing in the background, completely sunburnt, muttering to Yunjin who watched the scene unfold with a curious glint in her eye. “This is why I don’t trust musicians” while holding a beach broom.

“Jay, explain what you did to make Yeonjun spiral into the Joker.” Y/N knew Yunjin like the palm of her hand, she was certain her friend found this dishevelled and crazy eyed Yeonjun attractive.

“I made him a smoothie yesterday,” Jay said. “With oat milk.”

Yeonjun pointed again. “AND YOU BLENDED IT PERFECTLY.”

“He’s losing it,” Hueningkai whispered from the carpet.

“He was never stable,” Beomgyu added.

Soobin and Y/N stood frozen at the stairs.

“Should we go back to bed?” Soobin asked.

“I think this is a cultural event,” Y/N murmured, holding his arm in an attempt to keep him watching Yeonjun go crazy.

He then hopped off the table like he was leaping into battle, cape (a table towel he yanked from Sunoo's hands) fluttering dramatically behind him. He rounded on Beomgyu and Hueningkai with the gravitas of a betrayed emperor.

“You two—you were supposed to be loyal! Hueningkai! We were going to cosplay while performing!”

Hueningkai, still lying on the floor, held up his hands in a peace sign. “I know. And it was beautiful. But Jay promised we could do Chainsaw Man themes and—listen, I’ve always wanted to scream onstage like Denji.”

Jay, who was still quietly eating his toast, finally looked up. “Yeonjun, I didn’t mean to steal your bandmates. I just asked them if they would like to join for a jam and they never left.”

“You cast a spell on them,” Yeonjun accused. “This is how it starts. First it’s toast. Then it’s jam sessions. Then you’re in my house. Then you’re wearing matching outfits and gaslighting me.”

“I literally don’t know what gaslighting means,” Jay said.

“Convenient.”

Jay stood slowly, brushing crumbs off his shirt like this was a formal negotiation. “I actually wasn’t asking them to join.”

Beomgyu blinked. “Wait, what.”

Jay looked at Yeonjun. “I was asking you. I need a frontman. Someone with flair. Drama. A little unhinged.”

Yeonjun squinted, suspicious. “Why me?”

“Because you’re talented, obviously,” Jay said, exasperated. “And because I’m not plotting anything, for the hundredth time.”

“That’s exactly what someone who’s plotting would say,” Yeonjun replied, narrowing his eyes. “You’re trying to neutralize me. Befriend me so you can destroy me from within.”

Jay sighed. “I’m trying to start a band, not a Civil War.”

“Is it both?” Yeonjun whispered.

Beomgyu leaned over to Hueningkai. “He’s spiraling.”

“Hard.”

“Dude,” Beomgyu said louder, “you have to join.. You can't keep projecting your future in a band that has no future. You also can't keep rehearsing award speeches in front of a mirror when you think no one is listening, because we are.”

“It’s true,” Hueningkai added. “He says stuff like ‘my destiny is calling’ while applying toner.”

Yeonjun clutched his chest. “That is a sacred routine.”

“I just think,” Beomgyu said, not helping, “you were born to belt those emo bridges and spin dramatically in tight leather pants.”

“Plus,” Hueningkai added, “Jay just said he needs your falsetto for their Summer Festival medley.”

Yeonjun looked away, pretending he wasn’t crumbling.

And then—

“I’d really like you to join,” Yunjin said casually, poking her head from behind Sunoo who had finally adjusted his breath realizing no one was actually getting hurt. “We’d sound better with you.”

The entire room went silent.

Even the wind outside paused.

Yeonjun blinked.

“You want me in the band?” he asked, stunned.

Yunjin shrugged, sipping from her cold brew. “Yeah.”

“You never told me,” he croaked.

“You never asked,” she replied, unfazed.

Beomgyu turned to Hueningkai. “He’s fully short-circuiting.”

“Heart rate elevated. Brain fog. Desire to monologue intensifying,” Hueningkai whispered like a doctor diagnosing a Victorian patient.

Yeonjun stared at Yunjin like she had just handed him the moon. “Fine. I’ll join.”

Jay’s face lit up. “You will?”

“Don’t make it weird,” Yeonjun said sharply. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this in the name of music. And maybe the vibes. And definitely because Yunjin asked me and I’m not dumb.”

“Obviously,” Jay said, still grinning.

Sunoo clapped. “Aww! Rivals to bandmates!”

Sunghoon dramatically wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I love character development.”

“Do I still get to cosplay?” Yeonjun asked.

Jay nodded. “I will personally make you a faux leather cloak.”

Yeonjun sniffed, victorious. “Then it’s settled.”

“Wait a minute,” Sunoo said suddenly, mid-laugh, squinting suspiciously toward the stairs like a meerkat sensing drama.

Everyone froze, even Yeonjun, who had been mid-sulk with his arms crossed.

Sunoo slowly raised a finger toward the upper steps.

“Are you guys seeing this?” he asked, eyes widening. “We’ve got spectators.”

All heads whipped around.

There, halfway down the staircase, stood Y/N — suspiciously well-rested, hair slightly tousled in a way that only happened after a good night's sleep (or something else entirely). She leaned casually on the banister, wearing Soobin’s hoodie like it was legally hers now. And right behind her…

Soobin.

He looked like he’d seen God. And then tried to apologize to him. Twice.

His hair was a mess, his socks didn’t match, and he had that exact expression people have when someone opens the bathroom door while they're inside.

“Oh my god,” Hueningkai breathed.

Beomgyu’s jaw dropped. “No way, Boobie actually hit.”

Soobin froze. “Hi.”

“You were there the whole time?!” Jay asked, half-offended.

“We, um… we just woke up,” Y/N said brightly, entirely too at ease. She patted Soobin’s chest like a congratulatory gesture. “Did we miss a brawl?”

“Just Yeonjun trying to fistfight Jay because he asked him to join our band,” Yunjin muttered.

Beomgyu stood slowly, pointing with exaggerated slowness like he was in a detective drama. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Hoodie.”

Everyone turned to look.

Soobin looked down.

Y/N’s smug little smirk deepened.

Beomgyu gasped. “THAT’S NOT YOUR HOODIE.”

“Nice to know you're keeping tabs on your friend's wardrobe” Y/N winked.

“She was cold,” Soobin mumbled.

“It’s the hoodie hand-off,” Sunoo whispered, horrified and thrilled. “That’s like… stage three intimacy, they def banged.”

Yunjin leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “They’re glowing. I’m literally being blinded.”

Sunghoon clutched his water bottle like it was his emotional support item. “Soobin’s not even blinking. Someone check his vitals.”

“Leave him alone!” Y/N laughed, squeezing Soobin’s hand — which only made Soobin blink rapidly like he had just realized he had hands, and she was holding them. His hands. His.

Beomgyu’s eyes were wild now. “You’re telling me while Yeonjun was down here declaring war like an idiot, you were upstairs sweet talking Y/N like you're Anakin Skywalker prior insanity?”

Soobin covered his face. “I hate it here.”

Hueningkai nudged Sunoo. “Is he blushing down to his collarbone or is that a sunburn?”

“Could be both,” Sunoo whispered. “But it’s mostly blush. Classic post-whatever that was glow. Still dangerous to his skin, noneless.”

Yeonjun turned slowly toward them, narrowing his eyes. “Are you guys—”

Soobin’s soul momentarily left his body. He wasn't ready for this conversation, not yet. He couldn't. The topic of whatever the hell they were to each other was something his emotionally unprepared brain couldn't even phantom to discuss. 

Truth be told, he was terrified. Because, even with all his new acquired confidence and the recent events evolving lips, hands and everything else–which he still wasn't fully convinced happened for real– he was still insecure. 

“I plead the fifth,” Y/N said, with the world’s most unapologetic smile.

Beomgyu dropped to his knees. “I just— He was our shy baby boy! And now he’s—he’s got a hickey.”

“Respectfully,” Sunghoon said, raising a hand like he was in court, “I’m spiraling.”

Jay just clapped Soobin on the back as he passed by. “Proud of you, buddy. You were always the dark horse.”

Soobin made a noise like a boiling kettle.

Y/N grinned, tugging him gently down the last few steps. “C’mon, we’re starving. And I want to hear the full breakdown of the band war.”

“You’re just gonna pretend nothing happened?” Beomgyu gasped, trailing after them.

Y/N winked. “What would make you think anything happened?”

Soobin, somewhere behind her, tripped over his own feet and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “oh my god.”

“Suspicious,” Hueningkai whispered. “Extremely suspicious.”

They were still talking about it an hour later.

And Soobin didn’t stop blushing until dinner.

The beach was glowing.

Torches flickered in the sand, their flames swaying with the breeze that carried the scent of ocean salt, grilled corn, and someone’s aggressively over-limed margarita. A few mismatched towels and oversized hoodies had been thrown into a messy circle around a makeshift firepit. The whole group was there—drifting in and out of conversations, barefoot and sun-kissed (or, in Sunghoon’s case, moon-worshipped), basking in the glow of both firelight and the warmth of his burnt body.

Jay and Yeonjun sat shoulder to shoulder on a pair of stolen deck chairs turned stage, guitars in hand, plucking out what could generously be described as music.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jay announced with all the confidence of someone who only knew four chords, “tonight we bring you the acoustic rendition of 'The Rains of Castamere', followed by 'Gotta Catch ‘Em All’, and—if you’re lucky—a full emotional performance of the Skyrim theme.”

Heeseung wiped a tear. “I taught him that.”

Yeonjun strummed solemnly. “This is for the real ones.”

“I’m a real one!” Niki yelled, emerging from the darkness behind the torches, shirtless and holding a chunk of seaweed like it was holy scripture. “The spirits told me!”

Soobin sat cross-legged beside him, knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, trying not to panic about literally anything.

He was trying to look casual, like someone who had definitely not kissed Y/N until he couldn’t breathe the night before, who had definitely not woken up that morning harder than the rocks in the tide pools, and who was definitely not currently spiraling over the fact that she hadn’t stopped smiling at him since. Every time she laughed, Soobin felt it like a ripple across his skin. He was so far gone it wasn’t even funny.

Well. Maybe a little funny.

"Are you okay?" Niki asked, nudging his shoulder, eyes gleaming with campfire wisdom. “You look like you're being stabbed by your own emotions.”

Soobin blinked. “I—I’m fine.”

“Good,” Niki said, placing a smooth stone in Soobin’s hand like it was a rite of passage. “This has the energy of an ancient stingray. It will guide you.”

Soobin blinked at him. “–thank you”. 

“All good my brother, it's a pleasure to help those in need. It is also good to have you here, Y/N was right about you being nice”

“Did she tell you that?” Soobin swallowed, directing his gaze towards Y/N who yapped her way with the girls across the bonfire. His heart speed increased just by the sight of her, which in his defense, did nothing but bring memories of her soft hands on his body. 

“Of course she did jah!” Niki said like it was obvious and Soobin squinted his eyebrows at him. Jah? Was his pronoun jah now? “I am a young spirit but I am quite wise too, so she talked to me, yeah”. 

“Oh”

“Oh?” Niki eyed him. “Are you not gonna ask?”

“Should I?” Soobin asked once again trying to catch Y/N with his gaze. 

“You really are clueless, hm?

Across the fire, Leehan sat with Jake and Jungwon, who had clearly made the mistake of asking a genuine marine biology question.

"So you’re saying seahorses mate for life?" Jake asked, jaw slack.

Leehan nodded solemnly. "And the male gives birth. It’s beautiful. Feminism in action."

"Wait—like actually pregnant?" Jungwon squinted. "Like contractions?"

"Like contractions," Leehan confirmed.

Jake turned to Jungwon. “Okay, but imagine Captain America giving birth to a seahorse baby.”

“Why would I imagine that?” Jungwon whispered. 

“Cause it's sick?” Jake looked at him like he was dumb “Man was frozen for ages and wakes up being able to carry a baby, he is unstoppable”

Leehan tilted his head as if waiting for Jungwon to say something, which he did. “I'm not sure I'm following you there”

“Being pregnant, man! That's like nature's most powerful gift, imagine being pregnant, that's sick!” he insisted. 

“You sound like you wanted to experience pregnancy”

“Yeah, what the fuck! Wouldn't you?” Jake questioned him. 

“No, thank you?” 

Leehan, completely unbothered, pulled out a laminated chart from his hoodie pocket. “Would you like to rank ocean invertebrates by social complexity?”

Jake actually leaned forward, suddenly very invested in knowledge.

Meanwhile, not far from the fire, a cluster of beach towels had become the designated gossip lounge.

Y/N was lying on her stomach, legs kicking behind her as she passed a bag of gummy bears to Giselle, who was halfway through her third canned cocktail. Yunjin sat cross-legged, smirking into her drink, and Karina was braiding Sunoo’s hair with surprising precision.

“So how exactly does your ID business work?” Taehyun asked, voice low and devious.

“Where have you heard about it?” Giselle questioned the boy who stopped working on his cards and eyed her with a serious look. 

“People talk, and I listen”

Yunjin laughed. “Everyone knows about your business Gigi”

“It’s not a business,” Giselle said, flipping her hair with the serenity of someone who absolutely knew it was a business. “It’s a... community service.”

“You literally charged Niki fifty bucks to become ‘Jonathan Edgeworth’,” Sunoo said, sipping his drink through a curly straw.

“I gave him a full backstory!” Giselle protested. “He’s from Vermont. His dad owns a vineyard. He’s allergic to shellfish and emotionally distant. That’s worth more than fifty bucks.”

Sunoo sipped dramatically from his drink, eyes wide with amusement. “You literally laminated it.”

“For realism,” Giselle said proudly.

“He got into a 21+ UK trap club,” Karina added. “They gave him a free glass of wine. And he started explaining tax brackets to the staff.”

“See? That’s priceless,” Giselle declared, pointing her drink at them like a gavel.

Hueningkai gasped, looking up from where he was rearranging gummy bears by color on a napkin. “Wait, that’s illegal!”

Karina patted his head. “Sweet summer child.”

“No, like—like actually! That’s federal fraud!” Kai said, eyes wide. “Do you know how many years he could be imprisoned for identity falsification?!”

Sunoo raised an eyebrow. “I feel like this is coming from a personal place.”

“I mean, it happened multiple times like in Death Note! Bleach! Code Geass, probably! It’s a very serious trope!”

“Hueningkai,” Yunjin said slowly, “are you suggesting that Giselle is a criminal?”

“She already has the bangs, that's terribly suspicious,” Taehyun said.

Giselle beamed. “Thank you.”

Y/N, lying next to them and nearly crying from silent laughter, turned to Yunjin and whispered, “Didn’t Niki try to use that fake ID to rent a car?”

“He said Jonathan Edgeworth was ‘an adventurous soul,’” Yunjin wheezed. “They told him to get off the lot or they were calling security.”

“And that’s why he’s out there now, shirtless with a branch,” Karina muttered, nodding toward Niki, who was currently walking in circles around the fire and chanting something that sounded vaguely like a druidic spell.

“Nature doesn’t require a license,” Giselle said, raising her can in a mock toast.

“Or federal documentation,” Y/N added, giggling.

“Just like everyone in this circle now,” Hueningkai muttered, adding a fifth gummy bear to the 'red' category with shaking hands. “I’m complicit just by proximity.”

“You better call your lawyer,” Yunjin grinned.

Y/N laughed so hard she almost dropped her drink. She looked up across the flames and caught Soobin staring again—softly, like he was studying a rare constellation.

And he was.

She was wearing an oversized tee and a hoodie that may or may not have been his, her cheeks flushed pink from the firelight and whatever gossip was being passed around like a volleyball. The sand was stuck to her calves, and she kept tucking her hair behind her ear even though the wind kept undoing it, and God—Soobin didn’t stand a chance.

He looked away, cheeks warm.

Jay started playing a clunky version of the Naruto theme.

“Wait—wait,” Beomgyu called from the sidelines, stumbling over with a bucket of popcorn. “Do Tank! from Cowboy Bebop! It’s jazz. We’re cultured.”

“I only know two chords,” Jay yelled.

“Boo hoo!,” Yeonjun added, already halfway through a mournful verse of "Zankoku na Tenshi no Thesis."

Heeseung chimed in with backup vocals. Terrible ones.

“I think they’re summoning something,” Sunghoon muttered, now fully draped in a hoodie and three towels like a vampire at a masquerade ball. “If the sun rises before I’m in the house, I’ll combust.”

“You know that’s not medically possible,” Hueningkai said gently.

Sunghoon turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Is it though?”

Kai blinked. “Yes.”

“Is it?” Sunghoon pressed, ominous now. “I ask you again, Kai—have you seen me in daylight?”

Hueningkai sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. Twice. Yesterday for an hour while we played volleyball, and once at Jake’s birthday when you passed out in a hammock and woke up with a tan line shaped like a leaf.”

Sunghoon’s eyes darkened. “You promised never to speak of Leafgate.”

“Also, I’ve seen the videos. You were literally ice skating under a sunroof.”

“That was special effects,” Sunghoon sniffed. “My skin is photosensitive. You wouldn’t understand. You’re—” he gestured vaguely to Kai’s cheeks, which were glowing from the firelight and a bit too much canned margarita, “—thriving.”

Kai blinked. “I’m not even in direct light.”

“I can feel the UV rays crawling across the horizon like a curse,” Sunghoon muttered.

“You’re literally wrapped in three layers and it’s barely 9 p.m.,” Kai added.

“Time is fake,” Sunghoon shot back. “The sun has no mercy. It waits.”

Soobin sat cross-legged in the sand, a paper cup balanced between his hands, the firelight flickering gold against his skin, his focus had splintered entirely.

Because Y/N was laughing across the fire. Not just polite laughter, not a chuckle or the kind you offer someone to be nice — no, it was full-body laughter, the kind that bent her over a little, hand on her friend’s arm, eyes squinting shut, radiant and loud and lovely. Soobin could barely process it without short-circuiting.

He took a sip of his drink. It tasted like pineapple and panic.

He wasn’t even sure what he and Y/N were now. That thought alone kept unraveling inside him like a spool of yarn in freefall. Last night… last night had been beyond anything he’d ever imagined. They kissed before, sure. But this — whatever this was — was so far out of the realm of his lived experience that he felt like he was wearing someone else’s body.

She had touched him like she meant it.

She had looked at him like she wanted to do things to him he could only have dreamed of.

And now? Now he was terrified he would mess it up. Because somehow he always did.

He felt too big, too clumsy. His hands were still memorizing the shape of her waist, the curve of her smile when she teased him. And oh god, the things she said to him. She’d look him in the eye and flirt like she’d been born to disarm people, and he — he was a walking blush in response. He didn’t know how to be cool, not really. He was still half-convinced he had imagined half of it, especially the way she’d knelt in front of him in the dark and kissed him like he mattered.

Now, everything in his body was on high alert. Every time she laughed, he heard it like a song written just for him. Every time she got up to grab another drink or nudge Sunoo’s arm, he followed her with his gaze like a starstruck idiot. His heart had been fluttering for hours — soft but relentless, like the tide nudging at the shore.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even the physical ache that overwhelmed him, though he knew that hadn’t gone away. It was the want. The need. The crushing realization that he wanted all of it — her voice, her laugh, the way she teased and challenged him, the way she looked first and then looked again, like he wasn’t just background noise.

He wanted to impress her. Make her laugh. Make her want him back in the same way.

But what if she woke up one day and realized he wasn’t enough? That he wasn’t cool or confident or clever — just Soobin. Quiet, awkward, always second-guessing everything. What if she got bored? What if she told her friends that last night had been a fluke?

What if… what if he ruined this without meaning to?

Soobin was a master of self sabotage, and he knew too well this would be his ruin.

He stared into the fire, the warmth of it dancing across his cheeks. The air smelled like toasted sugar and saltwater. People were talking and laughing, the soft hum of friendship and chaos weaving through the night. And yet, he was still somewhere inside his head.

He felt his face grow warm.

Y/N.

He looked up and she was grinning at him, cheeks warm from laughter and a faint sheen of saltwater still caught in her hair. She looked happy. She looked his.

Soobin smiled back, crooked and small, but honest. 

Niki then reappeared at his side. “The fire told me you’re not grounded. Walk with me.”

“I—I’m okay—”

But it was too late. Niki had taken him by the arm and was leading him in slow, ceremonious circles around the fire. “You must embrace your new self. You are no longer Just Soobin. You are Kissed Soobin. Possibly Blown Soobin.”

“I’m going to walk into the ocean,” Soobin mumbled.

“You’re already swimming,” Niki whispered. “In life.”

And for now, Soobin chose to believe him.

Because that night, with the torches glowing, the guitars strumming, and the tide humming in the background like a lullaby—they weren’t just college students or nerds or crushes or rival bands.

They were something better. Unusual, and certainly not expected. But better.

A group of kids on the edge of everything, singing songs they half-knew, falling in and out of laughter, and making summer feel like magic.

And Soobin?

He was right in the middle of it. Exactly where he wanted to be.

prev | masterlist | next

profiles: d&d saturday mass group | bling bling losers

author's note: niki is the goat pls say his name.

also this chapter got me feeling so nostalgic about summer idk, a reader once commented on one of the chapters saying this story made them feel like reading old kpop fanfiction and gave them nostalgia, that kind of stuck to me!!

anyway hope you guys like it and i'm already sorry about next chapter hehe (just kidding, or not?) let me know what you guys think!! thank you so much as always <3

taglist: @heejamas @mingyustar @wintereals @mimimiloomeelomi @wonderstrucktae @delirioastral @gomdoleemyson @i03jae @irishspringing @bunniwords @kirbrary @sirenla @saladgirl @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @uvyuri @imlonelydontsendhelp @haechology @sanriwoozzz @stormy1408 @soobinieswife @ijustwannareadstuff20 @soobskz @jkeydiary @imnotsureokay @nyanzzn @lostgirlysstuff @lilbrorufr @beomgyusluver@lveegsoi@pagesoobinie @catpjimin @t-102@sh0dor1@i-am-not-dal @bbeomgyucafe @damn-u-min-yoongi@https-yeonjun@booksxandxlace @kookssecret@jellyyjn@soobinz-wife@dazeymazey11 @jellyyjn @urfavsgf @snoopyispunk

[miirily]

Everything But Ordinary

Pairing — Suguru Geto x f!reader

Synopsis — Suguru has always watched people from a distance, seeking control in quiet observation. But when it comes to you, he finds that you somehow disrupt his carefully ordered world.

Content — college!au, Suguru has the biggest crush, denial is a river in Egypt, getting together, fluff, slight smut.

Word count — 4.5k

Suguru Geto has always liked watching people.

His earliest memories reach back to kindergarten, where he’d sit on the swing set, feet dragging lazy lines in the sand, or sometimes perched at the top of the slide if it wasn’t already claimed. While the other children screamed with delight, fought over crayons, or burst into tears over toppled blocks, Suguru simply watched. He wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t shy. He just liked the way people moved through the world when they thought no one was paying attention.

There was a certain rhythm to it all. Predictable, even poetic.

Watching has always given him a sense of understanding. Of leverage. Control.

And it has never really gone away.

All through elementary school, then middle school, he remains the quiet observer. Never a wallflower, but never quite the centre of attention either. He floats just outside the limelight, close enough to participate, far enough to see clearly. His classmates never notice the way he tracks their patterns, how Yu always scratches his ear when he lies, or how Mahito only laughs when someone else has already started. It isn’t nosiness. It isn’t perverse curiosity. It’s analysis. Behavioural study, if he wants to make it sound impressive.

Satoru, of course, thinks it’s weird.

“You’re like some creepy old Psychology dude,” his best friend says, sprawled across Suguru’s bed with a lollipop sticking out the side of his mouth. “Sitting in the corner like hmm yes, watch the humans in their natural habitat.”

Suguru simply raises a brow, folding another page of his book.

“I learn more watching than you do talking over everyone.”

“Yeah, but I have fun while doing it.”

It’s true. Satoru is the fun. He barrels into rooms like a living sun flare, loud, luminous and impossible to ignore. And Suguru? He’s the gravity that keeps things from spinning too far out of orbit. Satoru lives at the centre of every moment; Suguru lingers on the edge, collecting details like sand slipping into the creases of his palms.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be part of it all.

He just likes knowing when to lean in and when to step back.

By his first year at college, Suguru would personally claim (without arrogance, just quiet certainty) that he’s become quite good at reading people.

It’s not a supernatural skill, not a sixth sense, but a culmination of years spent on the periphery, watching with keen eyes and sharper instincts. He can tell when someone’s lying, maybe not the words themselves, but the way their shoulders twitch half a second too late, or how their smile curves too far to the left, like it’s been practised. He can pick apart embellishments mid-sentence, the little hesitations between syllables, the way people tiptoe over truth like it's ice too thin to hold.

He doesn’t point it out. Not often. He files it away, categorises it, studies it like patterns in a deck of cards.

That’s why Psychology makes sense. Predictable, he knows. Satoru had grinned the moment he saw his application and said, “Knew you’d pick the major that lets you legally mind-read people.”

He hadn’t denied it.

And by the middle of his first semester, between personality theory lectures and endless papers on behavioural models, he comes to a quiet, frustrating realisation:

He likes watching you the most.

Not out of pure curiosity, and definitely not because he’s hopelessly smitten—not that he’s entirely blind either. You’re undeniably appealing. There’s a softness in your smile and a kind of unintentional magnetism in the way you carry yourself. You’re warm in a way that doesn’t announce itself. You don’t pull attention, you invite it. Suguru sees how people gravitate to you like moths to a flame, how you speak with that calm, unfussy confidence that makes others feel heard.

But that’s not what’s bothering him.

What bothers him is that he can’t read you.

Not easily, anyway.

You laugh at the right moments, your tone shifts exactly how it should depending on the context, your facial expressions are never exaggerated nor muted. You are, technically, perfectly normal. And that’s what drives him up the wall.

Because perfect normalcy is never real. Not truly.

People slip. They break character. Their real selves bleed through in the details. But you? You never show more than what you choose to. And Suguru suspects that you do it deliberately. Not maliciously, not even defensively. It’s just how you are. Carefully managed. Thoughtful. Intact.

Which means, while he’s deciphered the way his professor’s voice always gets sharp when he’s lying about grading papers, and how the guy three seats over adjusts his sleeves every time he’s nervous before speaking in class, he still can’t figure out why your eyes get glassy during lectures about childhood development. Or why your laugh tightens just a fraction too much when someone makes a joke about abandonment. Or why, when you think no one’s watching, you stare at your own hands like you’re trying to remember how they’re supposed to move.

Suguru doesn’t like not knowing.

And now he finds himself watching you, day after day, not from a place of judgment or infatuation, but with the same intensity he once reserved for puzzles he couldn’t quite solve. You’ve become his unsolvable equation.

And something about that is dangerously intriguing.

Suguru catches himself.

Not in the obvious way, not with some jolt of horror, not with heat flooding to his ears or anything embarrassingly dramatic. But it’s a quiet, sharp sting of recognition, the kind that creeps in just after the fact, when the moment’s already passed and it’s too late to pretend otherwise.

Because watching you was supposed to be clinical. Detached. An exercise in observation, like all the others before you. Just another case of controlled curiosity, his mind churning through cause and effect, stimulus and response, peeling back layers with surgical precision.

But now?

Now he realises he doesn’t just watch you. He looks out for you.

He notices the shift when your name appears on the class roster but your seat remains empty, and his gaze instinctively sweeps the lecture hall twice, first fast, then slower, methodically, just to make sure. When you finally show up, two minutes before the start of class, out of breath and with that pink flush blooming across your cheeks, your relief soft and radiant when you realise the professor isn’t there yet, Suguru catches his eyes lingering too long on the curve of your neck, on the way your shoulders fall from their tension.

It happens again. And again.

He tells himself it’s just pattern recognition. You're often late. That’s part of the profile.

Then he starts sitting next to you. Not always. Not enough to be obvious. But enough that it becomes habit, enough that he starts timing his arrival with yours, enough that he offers you one of his spare pens, blue ink, fine tip, when you pat your pockets with a mild curse and a sheepish smile.

And he notices your smile. That’s new.

He starts holding doors open for you without thinking. Starts remembering the kind of drink you like from the vending machine. Starts listening more attentively when you speak during discussion, even when what you’re saying doesn’t quite add up to any breakthrough insight, just so he can hear the cadence of your voice, measure it against the way you look when you say it.

It’s all still normal. Perfectly normal. He tells himself this often.

He’s just trying to understand you. You’re an outlier. A carefully balanced contradiction of warmth and restraint. Of light and opacity.

He wants to solve the puzzle that is you.

That’s all.

Right?

Right.

>>><<<

It doesn’t happen all at once. Suguru doesn’t wake up one morning with some grand epiphany, a bolt of lightning that shocks the truth into his bones. It happens slowly, the way snow melts in the first warmth of spring; imperceptible at first, until everything’s quietly wet beneath your feet.

He begins to understand that he no longer watches you just to decipher you. It's not a puzzle he’s trying to solve anymore. Not really. It's you he wants. Not your patterns or your logic, but your thoughts, your real laugh, the ones you bite back behind a hand when something truly amuses you. He wants to know what makes your eyes dull some days and glow on others. He wants to know your favourite music, if you sing in the shower, if you sleep with socks on or off. Mundane, gentle things.

He’s not an idiot when it comes to his own feelings. Not really. He’s just careful with them. Has always kept them wrapped in observation, tucked into silence like pressed flowers in a book no one’s meant to open. But now, with you, he’s stopped making excuses for seeing you, for seeking you.

You’re kind, in that quiet way that isn’t about performance but presence. You’re smart, always offering perspectives in class that he doesn’t expect, even when they’re wrong. And you’re lovely. Not just physically, though he’s not blind to the way your eyes crinkle when you smile or the way your fingers move when you’re animated in conversation.

So when you casually drop an invitation to some frat party, one Suguru would never have attended otherwise, he says yes.

It’s the end of a long study session, your small group spilling out of the library into the muggy embrace of a summer night. The campus is dim and drowsy, lights humming, the sky still glowing faintly purple behind the trees. You’re laughing with one of the girls from class when you glance back over your shoulder and say, “Hey, you guys should come by Sukuna’s place Friday night. It’s nothing fancy. Drinks, music, people pretending they know how to dance.”

You don’t look at Suguru when you say it. Not directly. You look just past him, like you’re afraid of meaning too much.

You’re wearing that yellow dress again. The short one that cinches at the waist and clings to your hips like it was made to. Suguru isn’t watching the fabric move with your steps. Not really.

But he is watching you.

“I’ll come,” he says, almost before he thinks it through.

Your eyes lift to his, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Later, at the diner, the one with the greasy fries and sticky counters that he and Satoru always end up at after late lectures, they’re sharing a plate of fries when Satoru kicks at Suguru’s ankle under the table. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s well past midnight, slurping a strawberry milkshake through a red straw like some caricature of a delinquent movie star.

“You,” Satoru says, pointing the straw at him like an accusation, “are so whipped.”

Suguru doesn’t rise to it. Just reaches for another fry, dipping it slowly into the pool of ketchup and mayonnaise on the side of his plate.

“I’m not whipped,” he says evenly.

Satoru snorts. “You’re going to a frat party. Voluntarily.”

“Observation,” Suguru replies dryly, glancing out the window. “Purely academic.”

“Right,” Satoru grins, leaning back with that smug, knowing tilt of his head. “Make sure you take notes. On how her dress fits.”

Suguru doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. Because this isn’t about the dress. It’s about you and he’s done pretending otherwise.

And that’s how he finds himself at said frat party only days later.

The moment he steps through the front door with Satoru, who insisted on tagging along “for emotional support”, the noise hits him like a wave: bass thudding through the floorboards, too many voices talking over each other, someone screech-laughing from the second floor. There’s a faint smell of beer, sweat, weed, and perfume that clings to the air like humidity. The house itself looks like it's on the brink of collapse from sheer energy with students dancing half-heartedly in the centre of the living room, red cups abandoned on windowsills and side tables, and a guy on the sofa pulling hard on a bong like it's the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.

Suguru’s gaze sweeps the room once, slow, measured, instinctive. It’s not paranoia. It’s just habit. Observation comes naturally. It always has.

He catalogues everything. The couple making out against the back of the staircase, the ceiling fan dangerously wobbling above the dance floor, the half-empty punch bowl in the corner. His eyes flick to the back veranda doors, open to let in the cooler night air, a few students spilling outside to smoke or just breathe.

Satoru elbows him with a smirk, all white hair and confidence in a black button-up he hasn’t bothered to button fully. “I see your antenna’s already up,” he shouts over the music. “You’re like a hawk. So romantic.”

Suguru doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s about to suggest they find a corner less likely to implode when Satoru claps his shoulder and disappears toward the kitchen, already calling someone’s name and weaving through the crowd like it’s his kingdom.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing near the open veranda doors, haloed by the golden glow spilling in from the hallway and the cooler light of the garden beyond. The breeze lifts a strand of your hair just so, your red cup dangling loosely in your hand. And you’re wearing black.

Sinfully black.

The dress hugs your frame in a way that’s entirely unfair, short but not scandalous, tasteful but toeing the line of dangerous. Suguru’s breath catches, and he hates himself just a little for it. For the way his pulse responds. For how hard it is to drag his eyes away.

But more than the dress, it’s the look on your face that holds him in place.

You’re biting your lip softly, not from nerves, but in that absentminded way that says your thoughts are elsewhere. The girl next to you, some chatty friend he vaguely recognises from your study group, is talking a mile a minute, gesturing with her own red cup like she’s explaining nuclear fusion.

But you? You’re not really there.

Your gaze flits across the crowd every few seconds, like you’re scanning the room without meaning to, your eyes searching for something or someone. Suguru watches the way your fingers twitch at your side, your posture too upright to be relaxed.

And then your eyes land on him.

For a moment, everything else dims. The lights, the noise, the chaos. Like someone’s turned the volume down just for a second.

Your face brightens, not dramatically, not in a way that screams movie-scene, but with a softness that he feels in his chest, a smile slowly blooming across your lips like you’re actually relieved to see him. You lift your hand, a casual wave, small and full of intention.

Suguru’s lips quirk into a rare, real smile.

He lifts his fingers in return, barely a wave, more of an acknowledgement, but he knows you see it. He knows you feel it. And in that moment, watching your smile, your eyes holding his across the sea of strangers and sound, Suguru thinks that maybe Satoru’s right.

Maybe he is a little whipped.

And he continues to look at you, of course he does. He always does.

But this time, it’s different. This time, you are watching him too.

From across the room, he sees the moment you gently excuse yourself from your overly talkative friend, nodding along to her final words before slipping away. You hold your red cup with both hands now, the hem of that black dress grazing mid-thigh with every step you take. Suguru's brows lift ever so slightly in surprise when he realises—you’re coming to him.

You’re weaving through the throng like you belong there, but your eyes never leave his. Not even once. It should be suffocating, maybe, the attention. But it isn’t. It feels like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then you’re there, right in front of him, the loud buzz of the party suddenly background noise to the way you tilt your head up at him with a smile that threatens to undo every thread of control he’s stitched around himself.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you say, voice light but somehow weighted, your eyes wide beneath the fan of your lashes.

Your cheeks are flushed. From the drink, maybe. From the heat of the room. Or maybe from something else entirely. Suguru isn’t sure. He doesn’t dare ask.

He shrugs, his own smile slow, deliberate. “You made the offer too tempting to decline.”

That earns him a laugh; your laugh, soft and easy and utterly beautiful, and he swears it echoes inside him louder than the bass that vibrates through the walls.

It starts there.

He tells himself it’ll just be for a moment. A quick chat, a drink, maybe a laugh. But one moment folds into the next like the warm press of dusk into night. Wherever you move, he follows, or maybe it’s the other way around, and he’s not sure when that shift happened.

You lead him to the kitchen at one point, letting him steal a sip of whatever too-sweet concoction you’re drinking from your cup. He grimaces and you laugh again, nudging him with your shoulder. He finds it hard to not smile in response.

Later, you both end up outside to escape the heat, the noise, the push of bodies inside the frat house. The garden is strung with fairy lights and half-hearted tiki torches someone thought were a good idea, but you both pass them for the darker part of the yard where a pair of mismatched sun loungers sit, abandoned.

You collapse into one with a sigh, letting your legs stretch out, toes pointed, hair fanned over the back. Suguru takes the seat next to you, more careful, more composed, but his posture softens the moment he hears you hum contentedly.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to stick around,” you say after a while, turning your head to glance at him.

“Neither did I,” he murmurs.

There’s silence after that. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that fills with night sounds and shared stillness. Somewhere, someone inside starts a new song and someone else cheers, but it all feels very far away.

Suguru doesn’t even remember where Satoru is, doesn’t care to look. Doesn’t sweep the crowd for details or observe the people stumbling past the open porch.

Not when you’re here. Not when you’re next to him, shoulders brushing, laughter still lingering in the air like perfume.

For the first time in a long time, he isn’t watching the world.

He’s just watching you.

>>><<<

Suguru leaves well past midnight.

The party has thinned by then. Only the die-hards remain, swaying drunkenly on the makeshift dance floor, and someone’s passed out face-down on the kitchen counter. Satoru gives him a two-fingered salute and a lopsided smirk from across the porch as he leaves with someone Suguru doesn’t recognise, mouthing “whipped” before disappearing into the dark.

But Suguru barely registers it.

He’s staring at the screen of his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. It’s there, your name, glowing faintly in his palm like it’s something delicate, sacred. He must have checked it five times since you typed it in with a smirk and a quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

He stands on the sidewalk outside the house for a while, the hush of early morning curling around him, street lights flickering gold overhead. He stares at your name like he used to stare at you in those early weeks when you were still a curiosity, a riddle. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Maybe it’s still just seconds, but time stretches and bends in his chest until he makes a decision.

The next day, he texts you. Dinner? Just you and me this time.

You reply with a smiley face and an I thought you’d never ask.

From then on, it changes. Or maybe it finally begins.

Because Suguru has always liked watching people. It's what he's best at, what comes naturally, without effort. Reading the flicker of emotion across a stranger’s face, noting the subtle shift in someone’s posture when they lie, when they’re unsure, when they’re pretending.

But watching you? That’s different.

He likes how you dress up for him every time you meet, even when you pretend you haven’t. How your fingers smooth down your clothes absentmindedly the moment you spot him. He likes how your eyes soften the second they land on him, like the rest of the world fades in the periphery.

He watches how you bite your lip when you're nervous, like you did on your first official date when he complimented your earrings. He notices how you laugh with your whole body, your shoulders shaking, nose crinkling, joy unfiltered when he tells you stories of Satoru’s absurdities. He watches how you blush and giggle softly when he kisses you, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like you don’t want him to go anywhere.

You’re a puzzle, still. But not the kind he wants to solve and shelve away.

No, this puzzle, you, are one he wants to explore slowly, carefully, curiously. With affection. With intention.

You begin to draw him into your past, piece by piece. Stories about your childhood. About your father who abandoned your family when you were only five years old. About your mother who was broken but still tried to pretend, for you, for your older sister. The things that make you anxious. The things that make you you.

And he lets you into his. The quiet corners. The unspoken wounds. The reason why he’s always watched and never quite let himself feel. You listen like no one ever has.

In time, the line between watcher and watched fades entirely.

Now, when you walk beside him, it’s not about observation. It’s not about reading cues or analysing behaviour. It’s about being present. About feeling. About you.

Suguru comes to the quiet, almost amused conclusion one rainy evening, as you sit curled against him on his dorm bed, reading some highlighted article out loud and laughing at your own mispronunciations, that you are anything but perfectly normal.

And he berates himself, honestly, for ever thinking you were. Because how could he have been so blind?

You’re not ordinary. You’re everything.

He watches you the way one watches a masterpiece, something to admire, something layered and alive. He sees it in the way you treat people: your kindness is not performative, not for praise or reciprocation. It’s deliberate. Intentional. You speak gently to those who need it, but you don’t hesitate to call someone out when they cross a line. Suguru’s seen you stand your ground without raising your voice. You wield your dignity like a quiet weapon, and he finds it breathtaking.

You fit into his world like you’ve always belonged there, laughing loudly at Satoru’s stupid jokes, helping Shoko reorganise her mess of a dorm room while chatting about everything and nothing. And when Suguru meets your friends for the first time, he expects to feel out of place, the way he usually does in unfamiliar crowds. But you keep reaching for him, his hand, his sleeve, the subtle brush of your knee under the table. And he fits. You make sure he does.

But it’s at night, behind closed doors, when he sees the full, unfiltered truth of you.

And he can’t look away.

You unravel so beautifully beneath him.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, your hair spills like silk over the pillow, your breath hitches when he murmurs your name against your throat. He watches your face tilt toward the ceiling, your lashes fluttering as his hips roll into yours, slow and deep. Your skin is warm under his palms, soft and alive, and your body responds to him like it knows him, like it’s always known.

And when you whisper his name, Suguru, half-gasp, half-prayer, he feels like he’s the only one who’s ever truly heard it.

He watches your moans rise and fall like music, your fingers clawing for more, and it’s not just lust that tightens in his chest, it’s reverence. He’s never wanted anything the way he wants you. All of you. Not just your pleasure, not just your body, but your tired silences, your secret fears, your morning yawns and your late-night texts.

He wants to keep watching, keep learning, keep discovering. Because you are the exception. The most intricate, extraordinary thing he’s ever let himself love.

And it’s terrifying. Not in the way he once feared it might be.

Suguru’s not afraid of the feelings, those he’s long since accepted with the calm inevitability of someone walking into a tide that was always going to pull him under. No, the real fear, the real terror, lies in what those feelings have done to him. In what you have done.

Because for as long as he can remember, Suguru has liked to watch. It gave him a sense of detachment. A measure of control. People could be predicted. Studied. They had patterns, impulses, tells. If he could understand them, he could stay one step ahead. Always calm. Always composed. A master of silent leverage.

And now?

Now he’s given all of that up for you.

It terrifies him how easy it’s been. How willingly he’s handed over the control he used to grip with white-knuckled precision. All because of the way you smile at him. Not the polite kind. Not the pretty kind. But the one you reserve only for him, the one that lights up your whole face and makes him feel like he’s somehow suspended between heaven and earth.

It terrifies him when you curl up beside him on the sofa without asking, like it’s second nature now, your legs tangled with his, your head tucked beneath his jaw, one hand slipping beneath his sweater just to feel his skin. You hum when he wraps his arm around you, and Suguru feels it in his ribs like a soft implosion.

But it’s when you take control of him, truly, completely, that he understands just how far he’s fallen.

When you kneel between his legs like you belong there, looking up at him through lowered lashes, your hands slow and sure as they run along his thighs. And he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t even think of stopping you. He leans back, legs parted, his breath coming shallow as he lets you touch him, guide him, claim him. Every inch of him surrenders. Every sharp, honed instinct to observe, to analyse, to dissect gone in the quiet press of your lips, in the way your voice goes soft when you say his name like it’s something sacred.

He lets you take him apart. Piece by piece.

And maybe that’s the most terrifying thing of all, because after years of watching people like puzzles, like patterns, like equations to be solved and sorted into neat mental files…

You are the one anomaly he never wants to solve. The one person he wants to surprise him. The only variable he doesn’t want to control.

Suguru Geto still likes watching people.

But he knows now, without hesitation, without shame, without fear: He likes watching you the most.

[vviolets444rroses]

— bf!rafe just being protective of his girl ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

night life in the obx was kind of… boring. so when rafe offered to take you, sarah, and kie to the mainland for a night out, you didn’t hesitate. his one request? bring some guy company. you knew he meant topper or kelce, but instead—

“yeah, john b and jj can come too,” you grin, fully aware he barely tolerates them.

he opens his mouth to protest but just sighs and bites his tongue.

i mean, you did give in to the request. fair trade, right?

the club you were heading to was throwing a costume party. you didn’t have much to work with, but you pulled something together: cat ears, a black corset, the tiniest matching skirt, and thigh-high boots. not a cutesy black cat—the hottest black cat. kind of like catwoman.

rafe never cared much about what you wore. you always asked if it was too much, if he even liked it. his answer never changed. “it’s all good, baby. i can fight.” followed by kisses and an endless string of compliments that made your head spin.

after a long, cramped drive...

you’re squished in the backseat of rafe’s truck between sarah and kie. sarah’s deer antlers keep bumping the roof, and kie won’t stop adjusting her mario overalls.

everyone cheers when the club finally comes into view—then groans in sync at the sight of the massive line out front.

rafe pulls into a lot across the street, parking like a man on a mission. in the passenger seat, jj straightens his green luigi hat, while john b’s camo vest is already halfway sliding off.

you lean forward between the seats, resting your chin near rafe’s shoulder. “hey, do you guys mind waiting in line while we fix our makeup and hair?”

he hands you the keys without looking. “yeah, yeah. we’ll be watchin’ ya,” he mutters.

he’s not really in costume—just his usual kook attire: dark slacks, a fitted black polo, and a sleek watch.

“i told you to be batman,” you tease, eyeing his outfit.

he shrugs. “what? i am batman. bruce wayne.”

you roll your eyes. he smirks, knowing he wins.

the boys get out first, stretching and grumbling about the cold. john b and jj are shirtless under their costumes—something about it being more the vibe. jj swings open the door for you girls to get out after. the second they leave, you all dive back into final touch-up mode.

you check your reflection in the rearview mirror, fixing your cat ears with a smirk. “can’t believe we actually pulled these together last minute…”

“jj literally had mario and luigi hats lying around his house,” kie says, blotting her lip combo.

“my deer antlers are from a costume i wore when i was thirteen. space buns just make it look a lot less tragic,” sarah adds, dusting more highlighter across her cheekbones.

you finish with your powder and everyone piles out of the truck.

as you’re heading toward the club line, a random guy with a mini mic and a cameraman stops in front of you.

“hey! can i ask you a few questions for a youtube video?” he grins, mic already up.

ooo this oughta be fun, you think. “sure,” you nod eagerly, glancing back at sarah and kie, who are already giggling.

“what’s your name?”

you tell him, and he repeats it before moving on. “what’s something you wouldn’t want your future husband to know about you?”

you smile confidently, tilting your head. “nothing, ’cause i’m perfect. beautiful. and amazing.”

kie laughs in front of you, and sarah whistles.

you don’t even notice that rafe and jj have wandered on over until rafe speaks up.

“yo, what’s this?” he asks, stepping up next to the youtuber.

“just an interview,” the guy says quickly, eyes going wide as jj joins him, arms crossed and unimpressed.

you open your mouth to say something else, but then rafe’s hand slides across your chest— landing just over your breast. not groping, just possessive. casual, almost, like it belonged there. he uses the motion to guide you away, hand lingering just long enough to make a point.

“yeah, just doing an interview…” the youtuber repeats nervously, looking at jj.

“mhm. okay.” rafe gives him a tight smile and nod. he then pats the guy’s chest twice—firm but not too aggressive. just enough.

jj claps the cameraman’s shoulder and steers sarah and kie away too. rafe slides his hand into yours as you walk toward the line.

“you were really going to flirt just for content?” he mutters, though there’s no real heat in it.

you glance up at him, grinning. “not seriously, but maybe just a little.” he squeezes your hand, shaking his head with a soft laugh.

you all rejoin john b at the end of the line. the music’s thumping from inside the club already, lights pulsing across the street, and your cat ears catch the glow from a passing car. rafe stands behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped lazily around your waist.

bruce wayne, you think to yourself, smiling. yeah, sure.

—

—

a/n: made this based off a reel i saw the other day, just gave it a little more thought. i. must. write. more. pogue. content. like or reblog if you likeyyy 🤙 and what you’d like to see!

[emthephantom]

She Needs Him- G.S

You and Geto are two peas in a pod, acting like the cutest of couples to any outsider. Gojo can't stomach the feeling of his best friend and the girl he loves being so close, so what does he do?

Warnings: None Words: 1.4K A/N: Honestly ooc but we need yearner Gojo and I'm here to deliver- hopefully. And yes, THAT mission doesn't happen and Geto never leaves.- Part 2 already in the works :p

Satoru Gojo was the strongest, everyone knew that. Nothing could faze him, so why does his heart feel so broken at the sight before him. He’s seen it many times, but it never gets any easier. It should be his shoulder you're lying on, not Geto’s. 

Deep down, Gojo was jealous of his best friend and his effortless connection with you. Sure, you and he were friends, but it was different, you didn’t drift to him in a room, you didn’t whisper and giggle with him and you certainly weren’t as touchy. Gojo wanted to ask, if there was something between you and Geto, but even he knew he couldn’t handle the truth.  

It didn’t bother him at first. Didn’t bother him that you always held onto Geto’s arm when you walked, or that you smiled so sweetly when he handed you your favourite ice cream. It totally didn't drive him crazy that it was Geto making you grin like that. Okay, he lied, it irked him from the moment he realised his feelings. After all, he saw you first, he spoke to you that first night on the stairs, the starts bringing you together. Gojo wonders if that memory is as important to you as it is to him; do you consider it special? 

Gojo couldn’t count how many nights it had been where he laid in his bed, tossing and turning, his thoughts full of you. The side he left vacant was cold, it was a habit he had developed, keeping to the left side of the bed, imagining you beside him. In his half-asleep state he’d reach out, hoping to feel the warmth of your body, but alas, you weren’t there. He’d continue the fantasy in his head, wishing to feel your hands around him as you whispered sweet nothings. On some nights he’d let himself cry, the tears staining his grey pillow. Gojo’s doubts rolled in then, voices telling him ‘She doesn’t deserve you, you’re nothing like him; why would she choose you, she needs him more.’ 

The mornings after were torture. Exhaustion filled his body, his black glasses covering the growing bags under his eyes.  

‘Satoru, are you okay? Did you sleep at all?’ a sweet voice calls to him; in his sleep deprived brain, he thinks it's an angel, but he sees you and knows you’re better than that.  

‘The strongest never sleeps Y/N, don’t you know that?’ Gojo replies, putting on his charismatic facade; being vulnerable in front of you was never an option. 

‘Toru... You can te-’ 

‘Y/N!’ Geto shouts, ‘There you are, come on we have training.’ Gojo sees your face falter but thinks nothing of it, ready to turn away. But then he feels your hand on his wrist, the warmth seeping through his sleeve, 

‘Take care of yourself.’ you smile softly. He watches you skip to his best friend, immediately hooking your arm with his, jealousy pooling in his stomach again. 

°•. ✿ .•°

It had been months, if not a year by now, and it was only getting worse. Gojo couldn’t handle the small interactions with you, he wanted needed more. He rarely slept, instead laying on top of his covers, the ceiling more interesting than the dreams that await him. The bin in the corner and his desk full of crumpled papers, words alone could never be enough to profess the adoration he held for you. He days began to blur, and repeat; wake up, look at you, watch you with Geto, stay awake wondering what was wrong with him. Just last week Gojo watched as you brushed away Geto’s bangs, smiling up at him with that toothy grin. He was losing you, and he despised it. The next day wasn’t easier.  

Geto slid into the seat next to him as he watched you spar with Haibara.  

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ Geto spoke, the softness in his voice is another punch to the gut, but Gojo bites back the envy, 

‘Yeah, she is...’ 

A singular mission changed everything. A special grade appeared, one that shouldn’t have been there. Gojo doesn't remember much except for fighting tirelessly, only seeing the curse head towards you. You were beaten and bloody when it was done, your cursed energy drained. He ran. He ran as fast as he could towards you, but he couldn’t be the hero. 

Shoko could fix his injuries but not his broken heart, Geto got to you first, cradling your weak body. 

‘She’s still breathing, I’ll take her back, can you handle this Satoru?’ Geto calls out. 

Gojo regains his composure, placing the cocky persona back on, ‘I’m the strongest, aren’t I?’  

He ignores the soft coos that fall from Geto’s mouth as he's scooping you up and taking you away. It should be him next to you instead. He casts aside the thoughts and focuses on ending this fight; for you. 

°•. ✿ .•°

A few days pass and Gojo makes his way to your dorm, wanting to check up on you, but stops short of the door when he hears muffled voices. 

‘I’m glad you’re okay Y/N/N.’ Shoko’s in your dorm, a normal occurrence, so he steps closer, about to knock. 

‘So, are you and Geto a thing?’ she asks. He wants to leave, not wanting to worsen the ache he feels, but he’s intrigued.  

‘Shoko, you know what the answer is.’ Geto. He’s in there too? Gojo turns and leaves, sweat pooling on his back. It’s over, no longer could he think of you, you weren’t his, you weren’t even anything close to that. He enters his dorm, the silence deafening, why does he have everything except the thing he really wanted? 

°•. ✿ .•°

‘Hey Satoru, wanna come get ramen with Geto and I?’ Gojo can hear your voice through his door, he wants so desperately to reach out and say yes, be close with you, but he can’t. He made himself a promise and he must stick to it. 

‘Nah, I’m good.’ 

‘Oh... well see you later.’ He hates hearing you so sad, but he can’t falter. The avoidance tactic had been working, his room becoming a sanctuary for him. The letters to you continued but remained crumpled, ready to discard. A different letter lay in front of him as he listens to your retreating footsteps, ‘Kyoto Jujutsu High Transfer Form’ 

°•. ✿ .•°

It had been two weeks since he signed the letter and two weeks since he last saw you. When Yaga asked why the sudden move, Gojo could only say one thing, love. 

As he packed away the last remaining items, his thoughts drifted, maybe in another life it was you and him, but why not this one? He clears his throat and looks around the now empty room. He glances at the clock and pushes his glasses further up his nose, deciding he can spare a few minutes. It was for the best he kept repeating, he needed to do this. Regrets started to piece together and Gojo buried his head in his hands, wishing he had just made a move. 

He leaves in the dead of the night, avoiding the goodbyes that would have kept him here. His suitcase rolls behind him and the bag on his shoulder weighs him down. Gojo stops just short of the entrance, taking everything in. The stars tonight were bright, lighting up the sky like a stage. He smiles softly, remembering that night again. He remembers wanting to give you his jacket when you said you were going back inside, wanting to stay with you longer. But he didn’t, he let you turn and head back into the school, ‘Maybe that would have changed things.’ he mutters. 

Gojo, too absorbed in his mind, failed to realise you on the steps behind him. You hug your arms around yourself and stand.  

‘Toru where are you going?’ He’s missed your voice so much, he wants to reach out and confess, but he doesn't, only tilting his head.  

He notices your shivering and decides to redeem his lost chance, ‘You’re cold, here.’ he says shrugging off his jacket and handing it to you.  

Accepting the jacket, you press further, ‘Are you leaving the school.’ 

‘You deserve him Y/N/N, you need him more than you need me, take care.’ 

[antiquarianfics]

Taken pt. 14

If Bucky Barnes could time travel, he would go back to that morning. He would hold you a little tighter in his arms, and he would kiss you a little deeper. He would pull your daughter in between the two of you, letting her giggle as loudly as she wants whilst her parents kiss her cheeks and tickle her belly. If Bucky Barnes could time travel, he would have told you not to go to the park—to go anywhere else. But Bucky Barnes can’t time travel, and his wife and daughter are gone.

a/n: You will never believe this: I finished this fic. It only took me 2 years. To everyone who has stuck with me since part 1 and still comes back to read these updates, thank you. To everyone who found it somewhere in the middle and still read it, thank you. To everyone who is just finding it now, lucky you. I hope you enjoy the ending! I'm excited to put this fic to bed.

warnings: swearing, blackmail, mention of murder, themes of conspiracy, mentions of abuse, canon typical violence.

note: I do not own the character Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters. Any and all characters are a work of fiction and any likeness to real persons is wholly unintentional.

You do not have permission to copy, translate, or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

previous part | series masterlist

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

“It’s over. I’ve got you,” Bucky whispers calmingly, his eyes fixed on the dead man in front of him whose head has been bashed in. Bucky lets his hand cradle your head, soothingly petting your hair while he coos at you, trying to calm you. He closes his eyes, still holding you, and tries to get the gruesome image of Frost’s brains painted across the floor out of his head.

—

A high pitched, constant, obnoxious beeping noise permeates through the room, grating against your nerves. Slowly, you attempt to peel your eyes open, but as you do, you realize your eyelids feel incredibly heavy. With great effort, you manage to open your eyes, only to be met with a room too bright for comfort. Letting your eyes adjust, you take in the room: A sterile, bright, white room. Around the room sits various monitors tracking vitals, a small tray table with a large hospital jug of water, and a counter full of medical supplies. As your foggy mind clears, you realize you’re lying in a hospital bed, and to your right is an empty chair. You frown. How did you get here?

Groaning, you try and sit up, but you feel a sharp pain shoot through your abdomen, and you’re slowly becoming aware of the dull, constant ache in your head. Frowning, you let your fingers trace up your arm until you find the IVs that have made a home there. You yank out the IVs with a pained grunt and let your hand move up to hold your aching head. Seriously, you think, what the fuck? After taking a moment, you find a few more cords that have been attached to you: sensors stuck at pulse points and whatnot. You rip them off and throw your legs over the side of the bed, hoping you can get out of here and find someone to give you some answers. However, once you rip the rest of the wires off of your body, the machines in the room start screaming in protest, alerting whatever nearby medical team that there is that something is wrong. You’ve just set your bare feet on the cold tile floor when a familiar doctor rushes in.

Dr. Cho is wide-eyed and winded when she runs into the room. She quickly takes in the sight before her: A formerly sleeping patient attempting to make a run for it. Dr. Cho sighs heavily before stepping into the room calmly and letting the door shut behind her. Her gentle and practiced hands find your shoulder and gently pushes, forcing you to lie back. Confused and in a startled daze, you don’t protest as she guides you to lie down.

Cho says your name gently. “You shouldn’t be rushing out of here,” she says. “You have extensive internal injuries: a lot of bruising. You experienced some serious trauma out there.” You nod distractedly, your mind racing to put the new information into its place in the puzzle that is your situation since waking up.

“What happened?” You ask, eyes lifting to meet her kind, concerned ones.

“A lot,” she informs. “You fainted after Barnes got you out of that HYDRA base, and you’ve been out like a light since. You have some pretty serious bruising on your wrists and ankles, and you experienced some serious trauma from the electric shocks–especially to the head.” She begins to assess your injuries, pressing her fingers into different places on your abdomen and observing your bruising. She finally nods to herself and picks up a tablet from the counter and types in some notes.

“Now that you’re awake, we will need to call in a psychiatrist to check out your mental health. The kind of trauma you went through certainly warrants it.” You only nod in response.

“What about Bucky? Is he okay?” You ask. Cho gives you a warm and understanding smile and nods.

“He’s fine. Had a few scrapes and bruises here and there, but it’s absolutely nothing the serum won’t fix right up.” You nod.

“And Becca?” 

“She’s fine. She’s been in with Bucky to visit you a few times, but she’s right as rain.”

You let out a relieved breath. “How long was I out?”

“About a week. Like I said, the electrocution was a severe trauma. Could have killed you, but you were lucky.”

—

You are required to sit through an extensive psych evaluation before you’re finally discharged. The psychiatrist diagnoses you with severe PTSD, explaining that the trauma from being kidnapped, the forced work for HYDRA, and the murder of Frost had deeply affected you in ways that would likely show itself for a long time. He explains that it’s likely you continue to have nightmares and lash out against people who get to close, and he assures you that depressive episodes are to be expected. He takes care suggest (demand, really) that you begin weekly therapy and prescribes a couple medications. You take all he has to say with a disengaged nod.

—

After a very long day of medical checkups (both physical and mental), you’re exhausted. All you want to do is go home, put on clothes more comfortable than what the medical ward gave you, and lie down in your bed. When you’re released, you walk out of the last room you’d been in, wearing some scrubs that someone found you, and let out a relieved sigh, thankful just to leave the medical ward. As soon as you walk through the door, you are met with the sight of your husband and daughter waiting for you. Becca is teetering back and forth on her heels, clearly full of excitement. Bucky is smiling softly at you.

“There she is! Free at last,” Bucky says. Becca squeals and runs towards you. You notice Bucky’s eyes widen a bit and he reaches out to stop her, but the little girl is too fast and slides right by him. You know he isn’t sure if you’re willing to see her yet–frankly, you weren’t sure until you saw her–but for the first time in months, you don’t feel the guilty twist of a knife when you see her. For the first time in months, you feel as if you’re worthy of seeing your daughter. For the first time in months, you feel like you might deserve the smiles, the laughter, and the crushing bear hugs that your daughter feels inclined to bestow upon you. For the first time in months, you let your daughter near you, and just seeing her run towards you fills you with a peace that you’ve been missing for a long, long time.

“MAMA!” Becca screams, barreling towards you. You drop to your knees and hold your arms out for her, catching her with a grunt as her weight comes into contact with your bruised and sore body.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you breathe, pressing a soft kiss to her head and burying your nose in her hair. You breathe in your daughter with a shaky breath. You’d missed her more than anyone could ever know, even if the reason you hadn’t seen her had everything to do with you avoiding her.

“Mama, I missed you,” she says.

“I missed you, too, baby.”

Bucky is watching the whole interaction with a relieved smile on his face. It’s been months since you’ve held your daughter, and it’s clear that you needed her more than you’d let on. Bucky takes a couple steps closer as you start to pull away, holding Becca at arms length while you get a good look at her.

“You’re so beautiful,” you tell her. “I think you’ve grown a bit!” You place your hand flat on her head as if you’re measuring her. She giggles.

“I did! Daddy says I’m 38 inches! We measured on the wall,” Becca informs you with a wide, toothy grin.

“That so?” You laugh with a smile that could rival hers. Finally, you stand, ruffling your daughter’s hair as you do. You turn to Bucky and smile a little bashfully. He returns the smile and swings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. He nuzzles his face into your hair and plants a loving kiss there.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers. “Gave me quite the scare.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, hiding your head into his chest.

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re alright. We can just work on moving on now.” His promise finds a home somewhere deep in your chest, and for the first time in a very long time, you feel okay.

—

Steve calls an emergency meeting to fill you in on what had gone down since you’d been out. The team files into the same conference room that each piece of this disaster had taken place in. The last time you’d been in this room, you had stood in the corner, arms crossed, glaring at everyone. This time, you sit in a chair at the table next to your husband with your 4 year old in your lap. Steve keeps the meeting brief, and you know everyone is just glad to see you back to your relatively normal self.

—

It has been 2 years since the last time you stepped foot in this park. The last time you’d stepped foot into this park, you and your daughter had been kidnapped by a megalomaniac Nazi obsessed with bringing HYDRA back from the dead, so you’d made a point to avoid it. However, your therapist argues that it’s good to visit traumatic places to help you move on if you have a strong support system with you, so when Bucky informed you that he was taking Becca to the park today, you inhaled a large breath before letting it out slowly and volunteering to come, too. After all, you’d thought,, I can’t avoid parks forever.

So, now you’re strolling through the park with your hand tightly held onto by Bucky’s. You let your arms swing playfully between you two as you watch Becca run ahead of you and occasionally stop to look at a bug or pick up a stick. You ramble about anything and everything with your husband, occasionally interrupting to encourage or tease your 6 year old. It’s genuinely a nice, peaceful time, and you find yourself glad that you pushed yourself to come.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you say softly as you walk, passing a bench that you remember from the day you were taken two years ago. Bucky squeezes your hand reassuringly. 

“I know, but I’m proud of you,” he says.

“Thank you. For everything.” He kisses your forehead as you keep walking.

“I’m never going to let anything happen to you or Bec ever again,” he says softly, and it’s your turn to squeeze his hand reassuringly.

“I know, baby.”

Your conversation is suddenly cut short, though, when an excited squeal cuts through the warm, afternoon air. The faint sound of footsteps follows the squeal as Becca comes sprinting towards you and Bucky. You squint your eyes to get a good look at her through the bright sunlight. She’s pumping her arms to run faster and holding an interestingly shaped stick as she does.

“Becca, honey, don’t run with sticks!” You exclaim anxiously, suddenly worried she’ll fall and stab herself with her newfound treasure. She slows to a fast walk as she finds herself right in front of you. She looks up at you with her big, beautiful eyes and grins, holding up her stick for you to see.

“Look what I found!” She exclaims, beaming.

“That’s a cool stick, sweetheart,” Bucky says with an amused smile.

“Daddy!” Becca whines. “It’s not a stick! It’s a sword!” She shares the information as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, rolling her little eyes and frowning at her father’s clear lack of intelligence on the matter. Bucky laughs and lets out a soft, “My bad.” 

“That’s an awesome sword, Bec,” you say with a grin. She smiles wide again and nods her head enthusiastically. 

“Yeah, I know! Do you think brother will like it?”

You smile at her, a gentle hand falling to your swollen stomach to hold it. “Yeah, Bec,” you affirm, “I think brother will like it once he’s big enough to hold it!” She nods introspectively, placing a little finger to her chin while she thinks.

“Maybe I should find him a flower instead. Babies can hold flowers.” You laugh and nod, letting her know that might be a better idea. She nods and runs off to drop the stick and look for an acceptable flower. You lean into Bucky then, still holding your stomach protectively, and take in a deep breath, happy, content, and ready to face whatever life has next for you and your little family.

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

@just-henny @jasminocano @browneyedgirl22-blog @barnesboo1967 @matchat3a @unkasworld @qwertyb2577 @raajali3 @yoruse @iilsenewman @alysianc @fairytalegirlofurdreams @marvelxlevram @casa-boiardi @buckybraneslover111 @hhiggs @smolracoon25 @questionableratatouille00 @heytheredemonsitsyourgirl @thearieunhinged @sebastianstansource @middaystarlight @talesofadragon @killerwendigo @ozwriterchick @kandis-mom @scatteredstardustt @babysbreathbabes @ordinarylokix @lilstarfish88 @ordelixx @shizukestar @filmsbyblair

[stellargh0ul]

Can we have some Perpetua x reader fluff? Feeling very scared of the state of the world right now

sweetheart, the only thing I can say is that there are better times ahead. to quote our darling Perpetua- nothing is ever forever. it's tempting to give in to fear, but you must keep hope alive in your heart.

-

“you press this button if you want to go faster,” you tell him, leaning over to poke the corresponding button on the controller. he squints at you, as if you’re lying to him, and experimentally taps it.

the kart on screen shoots forward and Perpetua giggles, giving it another tap.

he doesn’t move any faster this time, given his lack of another mushroom to push him forward, and you shake your head.

“it only works once you have a power-up. you can use any of your items with that button, not just the mushroom.”

“alright…”

he seems focused on the screen, turning the controller this way and that despite the fact that only the control stick does anything to move his kart onscreen. it’s your turn to laugh and you do so, watching your Papa learn how to play Mario Kart like a child with their first video game.

it probably is his first- you assume that there weren’t many people donating full game systems and games to the orphanage, and you doubt that he’d picked them up once he was a member of the clergy.

your own kart is still at the starting line, since you’d put your controller down to help him figure out his own, and you just let the game run as he practices moving the kart in jerky motions. you figure it’ll take a race or two before he’s ready to have you join in, and even longer before you can try using your actual skills against him in a match.

but it’s all in good fun. it’s a rare afternoon where he’s not hunched over his desk, working on Ministry paperwork or writing new lyrics and songs for the band, and you’ll take all the alone time with him that you can get.

Perpetua is sprawled out on the couch, robes askew, mask half hanging off his face, and it’s nice, you think, to see him relaxed. you wish these moments weren’t so rare, but you know there’s important work that needs to be done and that everyone in the ministry demanded his attention all the time.

you’re just glad that he’s chosen to spend the free time he does have with you. you rest your head on his shoulder and he spares a moment to peck your temple before he goes back to driving the kart on the track.

“dear, I think i’m ready to race you,” he says, and you scoff as you look at the screen- he’s in last place against the CPUs. but at his insistence, you pick up your controller and navigate to start a new race, intending on going easy against him so that you didn’t beat him too badly.

you aren’t prepared for him to lap you. twice.

as you look over at him in disbelief, he gives you a shit-eating grin.

“did you really think we didn’t have video games? people donate old consoles all the time. and I just needed help learning the controls of the new one, lamb, but it’s not so different from any other Mario Kart game.”

“…oh, it’s on,” you say, going to start another race, and he gives a cackle that warms your heart.

[majaloveschris]

Hey Maja,

You’re level headed, I mean that in the most respectful way. 😅

But I had to flip the situation so to speak and really ask myself hmmm what if we’re all wrong about this being PR, like what if to Chris it looks completely different. He is just a guy from Boston who happened to get famous due to talent. He’s done pr in the past yes and seemed to be authentic.

But just like life people change. Chris was never Steve Rogers, Chris is just a guy like many of people’s exes. What if he decided to do things differently and this is who he chose regardless of how it looks. Maybe he wanted to keep his fandom and image and that’s why it’s so PR looking like he’s playing the Hollywood game, but also working to help establish his wife. I just had to the look at another pov and like Lisa may indeed have accidentally liked something, it happens. Celebs are human and you don’t think they get tired of random strangers talking shit to them or stalking friends and family, you don’t think they’d see how invested online strangers are and try to play with people just to stay relevant and also just because.

Chris is simply living his life like the rest of us and Hollywood dressed him up and he’s played along, but now he’s trying to manage that plus his private life to another celebrity that doesn’t align to the image he held for so long and it’s just coming off as so badly business and fandom wise, but to him he just thought he was smarter and thought oh if I share her online people will love her, maybe he didn’t know she trolled or didn’t care if she did. Chris doesn’t know any of us to care. We assume these celebrities actually give a damn about this fandom shit, but they probably don’t.

People lie, he speaks in interviews that goes to BILLIONS of people so I don’t expect him to tell personal stuff too much more either especially these days, people are crazy. But to the fandoms limited view they see every video dissect every move to mean more that what it actually is.

I just wonder if this has spiraled and eventually we do unfortunately learn that Chris was an image while the real Chris Evans is simply human and this is real and the life he chose to live, just him and not to uphold some fake image, but he’s forced to keep playing that role as well.

If this doesn’t end by Summer or before their next anniversary, I do hope many people start really questioning reality. It’s easy to get caught up in parisocial relationships with celebs and not even know it.

Hi, thank you so much! I think it’s already crossed everyone’s mind at least once that what if this whole thing is real? And I don’t think this thought is bad; I think narrow-mindedly thinking this can’t be anything but fake is much worse, because then you will start misunderstanding everything that comes out and think everything proves something, or your point, which is not true.

Chris has never been and never will be Steve Rogers, and I don’t remember him ever stating the opposite. I never really understood why people thought in the first place that he is like him or can ever be. He is a fictional character after all, and as you said, he is just a guy, filled with flaws like all of us.

But let’s talk a bit about the theory you wrote down: what if this is real, but he is, on purpose, trying to make it look like it was PR? First of all, that would be extremely disrespectful towards his wife. If he decided to marry her, then go ahead and show her off. If he’s actually been doing that, he just made everything worse, because after a while people will realize that he was lying and playing them, and oh, that’s gonna be another shitshow. Because him playing people to make them think it’s not real and doing this just to save himself because he chose a not-so-good person as his wife is even worse than this being real. And while I don’t like Alba at all, that would be really humiliating for her as well. However, I find it highly impossible that this would be the case. I don’t think he is that bad of a human being, and you can clearly see in his body language that their relationship isn’t any more caring and loving behind closed doors as well. I mean, for example, when the NYC pap walk came out, and that random girl uploaded that video where they were seen as well, you could’ve seen how they act when they think they aren’t being recorded.

Lisa’s like, It could’ve been an accident, but considering that she didn’t really interact with her or anything like that, maybe only after this whole thing came out, says a lot, especially when you can see that she is still supportive of Minka, for example.I think these people care about what people say more than you would imagine. Half of the things that are being said and done wouldn’t have been if they didn’t care. Because of this whole whatever-ship, his career took a hit, not even a small one. People unfollowing, fans leaving after decades. His team noticed that; he noticed that. Celebs love saying that they don’t care, but they do, more than you would imagine.

Fans obviously care more than any random person who comes across an interview of his. While I agree that some things are being blown out of proportion, I do think that we can’t deny the inconsistency of their relationship. Even if it’s real, it’s clear they want to sell a love story that most likely never existed.

I do agree that after a while we need to let this story go, even if it turns out to be not real in the end. It’s funny because will we ever actually get to know what this was? Probably not. Even if this ends one day, we will never actually know the truth. But after a while everyone will get tired of this and move on with their life. They either will „accept” her presence in his life, try to forget that she exists, or leave the fandom. Either way, I hope everyone will do what’s best for their mental health because this isn’t worth yours, that’s for sure.

[neesu]

Second Place Looks Good on You

Contains: Dom!Reader x Sub!Character, light verbal teasing, mild obsession, psychological tension, heavy flirting, emotional dependency

It happens like clockwork. Grades go up, the hallway fills with whispers, and—right on cue—you spot him. Standing there. Shoulders stiff, fists clenched, staring at the board like sheer willpower might magically bump his score up.

His name sits in bold under yours.

Second place. Again.

You stroll over, slow and deliberate. Your mere presence makes him tense like his whole body registers you before his brain catches up.

“Damn,” you hum, stopping just beside him. “By point five. That’s... rough.”

He doesn’t even look at you, jaw visibly tight. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Your voice dips into mock innocence. “Celebrating my victory? Not my fault you can’t catch up.”

His hands curl tighter at his sides. “It’s one mistake. I’m not losing next time.”

A lazy grin tugs at your lips. “You’ve been saying that since... what? The second exam?” You tilt your head just enough that your shoulder brushes his. “And yet... here we are.”

Finally, he turns to glare at you. His face is flushed, biting back a retort. But the second your gaze catches his, something falters in him. His mouth opens—nothing comes out.

“Aw...” You pout, trailing a finger casually along the edge of his sleeve. “You always look so cute when you lose.”

“Shut up!” His voice spikes—loud, cracked, desperate. “I don’t care what you think.”

“Mmm...” You lean in, letting your lips ghost just close enough to his ear to make him twitch. “Liar.”

His breath hitches, his whole body locking up like you’ve completely short-circuited him.

And it doesn’t stop there. It never does.

Library? You slide into the chair next to him, smirking before he can even pretend not to notice you. Lab partner? Guess who the teacher picks. Cafeteria? Somehow, you always find the empty seat directly across from him.

It’s like the universe itself is conspiring—and he’s suffering.

Every time he thinks he’s finally got room to breathe, you show up. A hand grazing too close, a knee bumping into his under the desk, fingers dragging along the edge of his notebook like it’s yours.

And every time? He falls apart in record time.

“Struggling again?” you ask one afternoon, casually dropping into the seat beside him. You prop your chin in your palm like you’ve got nowhere else to be.

He scoffs, snapping his textbook shut. “Not with anything you can help with.”

“Ouch.” You pout, half-grinning. “You wound me. Here I was thinking you missed me.”

“I didn’t—!” His head jerks up, panicked, face going from annoyed to straight-up panicked. “Shut up... I didn’t mean—”

You hum, tapping lazily on the cover of his notebook. “Sure, sure. Keep lying to yourself, baby.”

His ears are burning. His eyes dart everywhere but at you. But his knee? Still pressed against yours under the table. He hasn’t moved it. Not even an inch.

⸻

This time, you don’t even wait for the next exam to roll around. You’ve had enough fun watching him fluster from a distance.

As soon as the bell rings, you’re there. Cutting him off before he can leave, palm pressed flat against the door just beside his head.

He freezes. Slowly, his gaze lifts to meet yours—wide-eyed, trapped... and blushing so hard you swear his ears might catch fire.

“Running off already?” you tease, voice lowering, syrup-smooth. “Didn’t even congratulate me this time.”

“G-Get out of my way...” His voice trembles. Pathetic. Nothing like the bratty attitude he pretends to hold in front of everyone else.

You click your tongue, fingers curling under his chin to tilt his face toward yours. “Mmm... no. Not yet. I like seeing you squirm.”

His breath catches. His hands twitch like he can’t decide whether to push you away or hold on.

“Why...” he rasps, voice cracking halfway, “why are you... like this?”

Your lips ghost over his cheek—not quite a kiss, but close enough to send a full-body shiver through him. “Because,” you murmur, “you make it so easy.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “...I hate you...”

“No, you don’t.” You grin, thumb brushing just under his lip, dragging slow enough to watch his breath stutter. “You just hate how much you like this.”

His knees wobble. His breath shudders. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t fight. Doesn’t even try.

And the best part? You know he won’t.

⸻

The next day, it’s the library again. Same corner. Same table. Same tense shoulders hunched over his notebook, scribbling like his life depends on it. Like writing fast enough might erase the sting of that point-five gap still haunting him.

Sliding into the seat beside him feels natural now. No warning. No asking. Just yours.

His pen falters. “...Don’t,” he mutters, voice strained. “Not today.”

“Not what?” You tilt your head, leaning in close enough that your hair brushes his shoulder. “Not reminding you you’re in second place?” You flash him that slow, playful grin. “Come on... tradition’s tradition.”

His jaw clenches. “Why are you always like this?”

“Mmm... because you’re cute when you’re mad?” Your voice dips—still teasing, but softer this time. Playful, but not cruel. “And because you make it ridiculously easy.”

He grips the pen so tight his knuckles turn white. “I swear—” His voice wavers. His breath stutters like something inside is fracturing. “You... You drive me insane...”

The pen drops. His notebook slides as he shoves it away like it suddenly offends him.

“Fine.” His fists tremble in his lap. His voice lowers, raw. “Yeah... yeah, you drive me insane. You distract me. You make me forget what I’m even doing. And I hate it...” His shoulders shake as he exhales, every word dragged from his throat. “I hate how much you get in my head...”

For a second, your teasing fades into something gentler. A smile—not mocking, not smug—but warm. Real.

“...You could’ve just said you liked me, you know.” Your knee nudges his under the table. Light. Almost affectionate. “Would’ve saved you a lot of suffering.”

His whole body jolts. “I don’t—!” His voice cracks, choking on the words. His hands fly up, burying his face.

“Oh, come on...” You chuckle, fingers gently tugging at his wrists to peel his hands away just enough to see that mess of red cheeks and trembling lips. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite.” You grin. “...Unless you ask nicely.”

“Stop teasing me...” he groans, voice muffled behind his palms.

“Aww, where’s that fire from earlier?” You tap his wrist, playful. “Look... I’ll be nice for once.” Your voice softens, genuine. “You’re smart. You wouldn’t be this close to catching me if you weren’t.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he lowers his hands. His eyes peek out, red-faced but a little less angry now. “...Stop being nice. It’s... confusing.”

You laugh, leaning back, stretching lazily. “Can’t help it. You’re fun to mess with... but also kinda fun to be around.” You wink, lighthearted. “Don’t read too much into it.”

He mutters something under his breath that you definitely catch—“too late.”

⸻

It’s been exactly one day. Twenty-four hours since that conversation in the library. You haven’t spoken since. Not a glance. Not a teasing comment. Not even passing him in the hallway.

And it’s driving him insane.

You watch from the corner of the cafeteria, pretending not to notice how his eyes keep drifting—over his shoulder, toward the door, scanning, searching. His foot taps under the table like a broken metronome. His friends are talking, but he’s not listening. Not really.

When you finally step inside, it’s instant. His head jerks up, like his body notices before his brain does. His hands grip the edge of his tray so tight his knuckles go white. His eyes—wild, desperate—lock on to you like you’re gravity itself.

You don’t go to him. Not yet. You make a show of chatting with someone near the entrance, laughing at a joke you probably didn’t even hear. His fists clench. His teeth grind. He doesn’t realize he’s staring until one of his friends nudges him.

“Dude... what are you—”

“Shut up,” he snaps—too fast, too defensive. His eyes don’t leave you for a second.

When you finally, finally start walking toward him, he straightens like a wire pulled tight. The tension radiates off him. His fork scrapes against the tray. His throat bobs when he swallows, like he’s trying to act normal, failing spectacularly.

You drop into the seat beside him without asking. “Miss me?”

His head whips to the side. “N-No. Wh—Why would I—?”

“Mmm...” You tilt your head, fingers tapping his tray like you own the space between you. “Then why were you looking at me like I hung the stars?”

His jaw works like he’s chewing through the words he wants to say but can’t. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—shut up.”

“Aw...” You pout, leaning closer. “Were you waiting for me? Poor thing...” Your knee bumps his under the table, stays there. His leg twitches, but he doesn’t move it.

“Y-You...” His voice trembles, fingers white-knuckling the fork. “You ignored me. All day. You—you knew what you were doing...”

“Of course I did.” You grin, letting your fingers trail lazily toward his hand, not touching—just close enough to make his skin buzz. “Had to see how long you could last without me.”

His breath shudders. “...Not long,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “Not... not long at all.”

And god, the way he looks at you now—like you’re oxygen, like you’re water in the middle of a desert. Like you ruin him just by existing.

His fingers twitch, fists clenching like he’s fighting something internal. His mouth opens—closes—then finally, like something snaps:

“Then... then don’t look at anyone else.” The words fall out shaky, desperate, raw. “If you’re gonna mess with me... then just—just do it. Only me. Just look at me.”

For a second, the whole world holds still.

You blink. Slowly, a grin curls at your lips—part surprise, part something darker. “Oh?” Your tone drops, playful but edged. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

He flinches, face burning, but doesn’t back down. His eyes are glossy, biting, wild. “...I hate it,” he breathes out, voice barely holding steady. “How bad I... how bad I need it.”

Your hand brushes against his under the table—subtle, deliberate. “You’re dangerously close to confessing something, sweetheart.”

“Shut up...” He squeezes his eyes shut, but his knee presses harder against yours like he needs the contact to breathe. “Just... shut up and don’t look at anyone else...”

And oh... you’ve never seen someone fall this hard.

[ayunas-tuna]

língua do desejo ━━ 2.8k ˚ smut

pairing: vacation fling!jimin x reader genre: smut with plot (kinda), vacation fling au, strangers to lovers, light angst, soft romance, language kink tags/warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), soft dom, fingering, riding, balcony sex, language kink (portuguese), body worship, dirty talk, thigh grabbing, desperate grinding, praise kink, unprotected sex (be safe irl), intense eye contact, breathy moans, emotional tension.

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꒰ঌ summary : you meet jimin at your cousin’s wedding in rio and things just spiral from there. he’s beautiful, charming, and way too observant. he doesn’t speak portuguese, but he listens to you like every word you say is meant just for him. you start teasing him on purpose. whispering things he can’t understand just to see the way his jaw tightens and his fingers twitch. it’s a slow build. soft looks, hot glances, quiet tension, like something’s about to snap but neither of you says it out loud. until one night, it finally happens. he pulls you into his lap, you say something filthy in his ear, and he breaks. it’s messy. hot. needy. a little sweet. he wants all of you even when he doesn’t know what you’re saying. and afterward, when you’re both lying there sweaty and tangled up, he’s still whispering… what did that mean? what did you call me? and you just smile. you’ll tell him later. or maybe never.

the heat in rio hits you like a kiss, slow and heavy and impossible to ignore. as soon as you step off the plane, it wraps around your skin, sticky and warm, like the city is already pulling you into its rhythm. you wipe your damp hair back from your face and wish you hadn’t worn that stupid jacket on the flight. your skin itches, craving fresh air and sun, not recycled airplane heat.

the taxi winds through the streets, windows rolled down, the noise of the city alive around you. palm trees blur past, brushing the sides of the car, their leaves rustling softly in the humid breeze. the smell of salt and some wild green something, maybe the rainforest, maybe something else fills your nostrils. you lean your head against the window and let the scenery wash over you, the colors brighter and more alive than you expected.

you’re here for your cousin’s wedding. the villa they rented is perched high above the ocean, white walls glowing in the afternoon sun, surrounded by flowering bushes and the faint sound of waves crashing somewhere far below. it smells like fresh paint and jasmine, like summer and beginnings.

you step out of the taxi, the pavement hot beneath your sandals, and immediately your eyes catch him.

he’s standing on the balcony, leaning lazily against the railing, his linen shirt open just enough to catch the light on his collarbone and that gold chain resting there. his hair is tousled like he’s just come in from the beach, sun-kissed and messy in the best way. jimin. the groom’s cousin. the one everyone’s talked about in whispers and smiles.

he’s watching you. not like you’re just another face in the crowd, but like he’s trying to memorize you already.

you catch his gaze and your lips twitch into a smile. you say something to your aunt in portuguese, the words flowing easily from your mouth without thinking, full of teasing warmth.

jimin’s eyes flicker with interest but also confusion. he steps closer, lowering his voice when he asks, “what did you just say?”

you laugh softly, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “you wouldn’t want to know.”

he tries to hide his smile but it breaks through anyway, shy and a little breathless.

you turn and walk away, your heart doing that stupid fluttery thing you hate but secretly like.

you don’t know it yet but this moment is the start of something you’ll never forget.

you barely get a chance to catch your breath before the wedding party kicks into gear. music spills out from every corner of the villa, the beat bouncing off the walls and making your skin tingle in time.

later that evening, you find yourself at the beach bonfire, the sky dark but stars sharp and scattered overhead. the air is cooler now, but the heat between people feels electric.

you spot jimin across the firelight, sitting with a few others but somehow completely apart, like he’s watching the flames but really watching you.

he catches your eye and raises his glass in a small, shy toast. you smile back and walk over, slipping into the circle.

you lean in close and whisper in portuguese, your voice low and slow, “você fala tão bem com os olhos.” you speak so well with your eyes.

he blinks, clearly not understanding the words but loving the way your voice wraps around them. “what did you say?” he asks, his eyes dark with curiosity.

you grin and don’t translate. instead, you lean closer, letting the heat of your breath tickle his ear. “something you don’t want to know.”

he laughs, that soft laugh that makes your chest squeeze tight. the way he looks at you now is different, more open, more… interested.

you can feel the tension building, like electricity waiting to spark.

he reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. your heart stumbles.

“teach me,” he says quietly, “teach me what you’re saying.”

you consider it for a moment, then whisper, “maybe later.”

he smirks, but there’s something in his eyes that says he’s not giving up anytime soon.

and just like that, the game between you starts to play out. slow, teasing, and impossible to stop.

the next few days pass in this strange, quiet rhythm.

you don’t seek jimin out, but he always seems to be where you are. by the pool. near the drinks. waiting for an uber to the beach party at the same time you are. he doesn’t hover, doesn’t push. just… appears. like the universe keeps throwing you into each other’s orbit to see what happens.

every time you speak portuguese, his head turns.

it’s not just the words. it’s your voice. soft, low, like you're saying something intimate even when you're not. sometimes you catch him staring at your mouth. like he’s trying to understand you by watching how you form your syllables.

you’re lounging on the villa steps one afternoon, sunglasses sliding down your nose, sweat curling around your neck. jimin walks by, shirt clinging to his chest, skin golden and damp from the heat.

he pauses. “you look like you’re melting.”

you glance up at him, take a slow sip of your drink. “maybe i am.”

his mouth twitches. “what do you say in portuguese when someone looks like that?”

you smile lazily, tilt your head. “when someone looks like what?”

“like… that,” he says, gesturing vaguely at you. “like they’re trying to kill me.”

you hum, pretending to think. then, slowly, you say, “você me olha como se já soubesse como eu gosto de ser tocada.”

he blinks.

you let it hang there.

he leans in a little, voice lower now. “what does that mean?”

you shrug, eyes never leaving his. “you’ll figure it out.”

he looks wrecked for a second. cheeks a little pink, mouth parted just barely.

and then someone calls his name from across the terrace. he hesitates, still looking at you, then finally backs away with a soft laugh, like he knows he’s in trouble and doesn’t mind at all.

later that night, the wedding party spills out into the city. dancing, drinks, way too much laughter echoing down the narrow streets of rio.

you don’t remember exactly how it happens, but somehow you and jimin end up in the back of the same cab, pressed too close together, the air conditioner broken and the music too loud.

you’re not drunk, not really. just floaty. warm. loose in a way that makes you lean into him a little more than you should.

his knee brushes yours. neither of you move.

“where are we going?” you ask, voice soft, eyes on the road.

“back to the villa, i think,” he says. “i lost everyone.”

you nod, barely paying attention. the city lights blur outside, golden and fast, and the heat between your legs has nothing to do with the weather.

his fingers graze yours on the seat between you. not on purpose. maybe.

you turn your head, slow.

“you keep looking at my mouth,” you say.

he swallows. “i know.”

you smile, tilt your head. “why?”

he doesn’t answer right away. then, quietly, like it costs him something: “because i want to hear you say something that’s meant for me.”

you blink, surprised.

then you lean in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you whisper, “tudo que eu digo é pra você.” everything i say is for you.

he exhales hard through his nose, eyes shut, jaw tense.

“jesus christ,” he mutters.

you kiss his neck. just once. just to see.

he turns toward you, fast. his hand finds your thigh, firm. warm. he doesn’t pull you in, just rests it there, like he’s asking.

you give the tiniest nod.

the cab stops at the villa. you don’t remember walking up to your room. you only remember the way he stood behind you in the elevator, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off of him like a second sun.

your hands shake when you unlock the door.

he steps inside like he’s crossing a line he’s been staring at all week.

you don’t say anything.

neither does he.

you just look at each other for one long, burning second.

then you kiss him.

and it’s over.

his lips are soft. a little unsure at first, like he’s still testing the edge of whatever this is. but the second you pull him closer. fingers tugging at the back of his shirt, your body pressed tight to his. he makes this sound, low and breathless, like he’s finally letting go of whatever he’s been holding in. his hands roam your waist, your hips, your back. he doesn’t settle anywhere for long. like he doesn’t know where to start, or maybe like he wants to touch all of you at once.

you drag him backwards toward the open balcony doors, kissing him between steps, stumbling a little because neither of you can stop. the night air is thick and warm as it rushes over your skin, but it doesn’t cool anything. your blood’s still boiling. the moonlight floods in, pale and heavy, painting both of you in silver. you back him into one of the balcony chairs and straddle his lap, your dress sliding up as you settle your weight onto him. he’s already hard beneath you.

he curses under his breath and grips your thighs, looking up at you like you’ve just knocked all the air out of his lungs. “say something,” he whispers, voice shaky, like he needs it.

you lean down, lips brushing his ear, and murmur, “você quer me ouvir gemer?” his breath stutters. his grip tightens. “what… what does that mean?”

you smile, press a kiss to his jaw. “you want to hear me moan?”

he groans, a real, full-body kind of sound. “fuck.”

you rock your hips against him, slow and cruel, grinding down once just to see what he does. his head drops back, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering shut. he looks so pretty like this. flushed, panting, already falling apart and you’ve barely touched him.

you kiss down his neck, soft and slow, and whisper against his skin, “você fica assim só de me ouvir?” he gasps, doesn’t understand, not really, but he nods anyway. his voice is barely a whisper. “i don’t even know what you’re saying but… fuck, keep saying it.”

you hum in approval and guide his hands up your thighs, under your dress. his fingers are warm and a little shaky, sliding over your skin like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. you let him touch, let him get bolder. when he finally reaches your underwear and pushes it to the side, he groans again, fingers slipping into the wet heat waiting for him.

your head drops to his shoulder as you roll your hips into his hand. “isso,” you murmur. “assim.” he starts to get the rhythm, fingers pumping slowly, the heel of his palm pressed against your clit. your whole body tenses with how good it feels, how perfectly desperate he is. his other hand grips your thigh like he’s holding on for balance. “you’re so fucking wet,” he whispers, almost like it hurts. “jesus, what do you do to me…”

you sit up, your breath coming quick, and look at him. he’s wrecked. cheeks flushed, eyes heavy, his cock straining under his pants. he looks like he’d let you do anything to him.

“tão obediente pra mim,” you murmur. so obedient for me.

he whines. actually whines.

“tell me what to do,” he begs. “say it in portuguese. please.”

you smile. slow, dangerous. and lean down until your forehead rests against his. your voice is a whisper. “tira a roupa.”

take off your clothes.

he moves fast, fumbling with the buttons, shrugging off his shirt, then his pants, his boxers. he’s hard and flushed and already twitching against his stomach, leaking at the tip. you don’t look away. don’t hide how much you want him.

you slide off his lap and stand up, pulling your dress over your head in one slow motion. his eyes never leave you. you take your underwear off last, slow enough to torture, and when you step out of it, he looks like he might lose his mind.

“come here,” you say, softer now. he does.

he steps into you like he can’t help it. his hands slide around your waist, holding you bare and close, like he’s still scared you might disappear. you kiss him again, slower this time, deeper. his hands wander over your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch. your stomach. your back. the curve of your hips. he moans into your mouth when your fingers wrap around his cock, slow and easy, like you’re savoring him.

he’s warm and heavy in your hand, already leaking, already pulsing. he drops his head to your shoulder and groans when you stroke him once, twice. you press soft kisses to his temple and whisper, “gosta disso?” – you like that?

he nods, desperate. “yes. fuck, yes.”

you guide him back toward the balcony chair again, but this time you keep him standing. you sink to your knees in front of him, lips brushing over his hipbone as you say, “olha pra mim.” look at me.

he does. dazed. shaky. ruined already and you haven’t even started.

you take him in your mouth slowly, letting the heat of you melt around him. he gasps, one hand flying to your hair but not forcing, just holding, grounding. his thighs tremble. every time your tongue moves he lets out this soft, broken sound like he’s losing the ability to hold back.

you pull off with a soft pop, breath warm on his skin, and say, “você quer gozar assim ou dentro de mim?”

he whimpers. “what, what does that mean?”

you stand up, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “do you want to come like that,” you whisper, “or inside me?”

his hands are on you instantly, pulling you into him, mouth crashing into yours. “inside,” he says, rough and breathless. “please. inside.”

you turn and guide him toward the bedroom without another word. the sheets are cool against your back when he lays you down, but it doesn’t last. not with the way he’s kissing you now. like he’s starving. like every second without your body against his is unbearable.

he lines up at your entrance and pauses, forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching your face. “tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.

you shake your head. “i won’t.”

then he pushes in.

slow, careful, inch by inch until you’re full, stretched around him, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. his mouth falls open like he’s never felt anything like this. like you are something unreal.

he stays still for a second, buried deep inside you, trying to breathe.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “you feel… oh my god.”

you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, legs tightening around his waist.

“move,” you whisper. “go slow.”

he does. every thrust deep and deliberate, like he wants to feel all of it. your nails scrape down his back and he moans. you say his name in portuguese, soft and breathy, and he thrusts harder without meaning to. he says your name in return, like a prayer.

his hands are everywhere. your hips, your thighs, your face. he kisses you through it, messy and open-mouthed. every time you whisper something in portuguese, he moans louder. me fode assim. isso. não para. he doesn’t know what the words mean but his body does.

you feel him start to tremble. he’s close. you are too.

“don’t stop,” you gasp, clinging to him, your voice broken now. “don’t stop, i’m right there-”

he fucks you through it, chasing your high, his name falling from your lips in pieces.

you come first. hard and fast and full-body, your legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry. jimin groans as you clench around him, and within seconds he’s coming too, deep inside you, hips stuttering, body going stiff before collapsing over you.

you stay like that. tangled up, slick with sweat, chest to chest, both of you breathing like you just survived something.

he presses his lips to your shoulder. then your neck. then your cheek. his hand strokes your side, lazy and warm.

“what did you say earlier,” he mumbles, lips barely moving, “on your knees… that one line… what was it?”

you smile, eyes still closed, voice hoarse. “you’ll have to learn portuguese if you really want to know.”

he groans and buries his face in your neck.

“you’re evil,” he says. “so fucking evil.”

[stephofromcabin12]

You think you’ve overcome your people pleaser tendencies until you have to cancel plans

[clueless1995]

self care has been so twisted into serving capitalism and the patriarchy it makes me sick actually

[smellyidiot]

lifehack: you’re 17 its okay its not the end of the world and when you hit 18 it’ll also be okay if you don’t feel like an adult because you aren’t and you aren’t going crazy you’re just filled with grief for not living out your teen years like you wanted to so badly and it’s okay to feel crazy over regret for your stupid past actions but all that matters is you’re always looking to grow and change as a person and that you know that not knowing what to think is bound to happen because you’re learning

[classyrbf]

prisoner!geto who gets sent to the infirmary after getting into a fist fight with another prisoner. His knuckles and lip are bruised and busted and he’s doing the walk of shame down the jail hall. But he doesn’t expect a pretty young woman to be running the infirmary, nearly drooling at the sight because it’s been almost 3 whole years since he last laid his eyes upon one. He’s eyeing you up and down look a piece of meat while you tend to his wounds, completely ignoring his advances because it’s unprofessional. Though, you do find him quite handsome with tattoos all over his arms, a muscular build and his long silky black hair, his smile adding the cherry on top.

“You new here? I’ve never seen you around before.” He watches you put some gloves on, grabbing a roll of small bandages. “Pretty brave of you to be working in all male prison, don’t you think?”

“You must end up in here quite a lot if you know everyone who works here,” you sigh, grabbing his hand and wiping down the dried blood from his knuckles. “I transferred from another prison. It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

He smirks, narrowing his eyes at you. “Oh, yeah? Must be used to all the flirting then.”

“Wow! How could you tell?” You say sarcastically and toss the dirty wipe into the trash beside you. You wrap his hand up with the bandage and toss your gloves into the trash. “You’re all set.”

“Did I mention my head is killing me?” He winced.

“If you’re trying to get pain killers prescribed to you, it’s a whole different process. So I suggest you stop lying and wasting both of our time.” You place your hands on your hips, staring at him.

“Fine.” He stands to his feet, tall stature shadowing over you. You step back a little the more he steps closer to you. “I’ll cut to the chase. I haven’t properly fucked someone in nearly three years, and I’m dying…dying to get a feel of your sweet, sweet pussy.” He backs you into a corner, neck craning down as he whispers in your ear. “Think you can help me with that, doctor?”

You blink at him, your throat feels dry and your heart is pounding against your ribcage. “That is very, very unprofessional.” No matter what words come out your mouth, your body is feeling the complete opposite. “I’ll call the guards right now—”

“C’mon, pretty please?” The corner of his lips tweak slightly. “I know you want to. I seen it on your pretty face since the moment I walked in.” He raises his bandaged hand and runs his thumb over your plump bottom lip.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sternly say. Oh, but he does. He’s reading you like a book right now and that smug look on his face knows it all.

“Okay,” he chuckles, stepping away from you. “Just know I’ll see you around.” He turns to walk out the infirmary and let the guard know he’s all set, but he suddenly turns back around. His eyes look at the name tag pinned to your shirt. “Such a beautiful name.” He teases. “Bye, doctor.”

[hayatheauthor]

20 Flirty Remarks to Build Romantic Tension Without Being Overbearing

Feeling stuck trying to give your characters a good flirty one-liner that doesn't sound cringe/overdone? Here are 20 ideas/dialogue prompts for you (that I may or may not have stolen from my own books): 

“I must warn you: you have a dangerous effect on my heart rate.” / "You have no idea what you're doing to my heart right now."

"If I said I wasn’t thinking about you, I’d be lying. And I’m a terrible liar."

"You know, I could get lost in those eyes, but I'd probably trip over my words trying to find my way back." (could also double as description/inner monologue).

“I can’t tell if you’re really charming or if I’m just easily charmed.”

“You have a knack for making me forget what I was going to say. It’s kind of impressive/infuriating.”

“I think you owe me a drink. When I saw you, I dropped mine.”

“I’ve been trying to find the perfect excuse to hang out, but I keep forgetting everything when I’m around you.”

“I bet you get away with a lot of trouble with that smile.”

“You must be a magician because every time you walk in, everyone else disappears.” (The right character could pull it off I swear)

"I’ve been trying to think of something clever to say, but all my brain can come up with is how much I want to (kiss) you."

"I saw that little glance—you’re not as sneaky as you think."

"How do you manage to make even the most mundane things sound exciting?"

"You do this cute thing with your hands when you’re nervous, you know?"

“One more word, and I might just have to kiss you.”

"Finally, there's that pretty smile of yours. I've been waiting for it all day."

"You keep staring—should I be flattered?" / "Keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you have a crush on me."

"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep a straight face?"

"I’m pretty sure you could charm the socks off anyone, but I’d like to keep mine on for now."

"If laughter is the best medicine, then I’m pretty sure you’re my favorite doctor."

"Is it bad that I kind of like the way you’re trying to mess with me?"

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! Instagram Tiktok

[aerialmirrorss]

𝐧 𝐨 𝐛 𝐨 𝐝 𝐲 𝐠 𝐞 𝐭 𝐬 𝐦 𝐞 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ rafe cameron

playing: 𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐞 by sza 𝜗𝜚˚｡˚ ⋆

synopsis! a kickback on the beach involving both kooks and pogues turns ugly after rafe sees jj maybank talking sweetly in your ear..

paring: rafe cameron x pogue!reader

warnings: friends? with benefits , angst , mentions of underage drinking , violence (fist fighting) , toxic!rafe , sexual content + rough unprotected car sex! , choking , fingering , mature , 18+ (minors dni!)

word count: 6.7k

notes: thinking about making this into a series but it just depends on how we all like it so lmk!

chapter two: 𝐰 𝐢 𝐥 𝐝 𝐟 𝐥 𝐨 𝐰 𝐞 𝐫 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆

chapter three: 𝐜 𝐚 𝐬 𝐮 𝐚 𝐥 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆

“you’re a fucking idiot,” kie says through a burst of laughter, watching jj attempt to shotgun two beers at once. instead of drinking, most of the beer spills straight onto the sand, leaving him grinning like it was all part of the plan.

a soft giggle slips past your lips as jj smashes the crushed cans together dramatically, then thumps his chest like he just pulled off something incredible—even though he couldn’t have failed more miserably.

you shake your head, pointing at the two crushed cans lying in the sand. “don’t give him any more if he’s gonna pull shit like that!” you say, half-serious, half-amused.

jj’s grin fades into a mock frown, his brows furrowing as he throws his hands up dramatically. “what? i was just getting started!” he protests, though the beer-soaked sand beneath him says otherwise.

you roll your eyes, ready to fire back at jj, when the vibration of your phone in your hand distracts you. the name on the screen makes your stomach flip, and you bite down on your bottom lip, fighting to keep a smile from slipping out where your friends could see.

kook devil: wya?

you: beach kickback on the cut

kook devil: omw

this time, the smile wins. you glance down at the screen, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite yourself. it wasn’t the first time rafe cameron had texted you late at night, asking where you were. but no one else knew that. and you weren’t about to admit it to anyone—especially not to your friends.

friends who hated kooks with a passion. and everything, and everyone, that came with them.

“what are you smiling at?” sarah asks, her voice light but laced with curiosity, as she and john b stroll over, his arm draped casually over her shoulders. her amused grin only makes you more nervous.

you lock your phone instantly, still smiling but scrambling for an excuse. “my package just got delivered,” you say quickly, trying to sound nonchalant.

sarah hums in response, the suspicion in her tone subtle but enough to make your stomach tighten. you don’t notice, too busy avoiding eye contact and silently thanking the chaos that erupts when jj and pope start arguing about something ridiculous, as usual.

you knew what you were doing was wrong. so wrong, especially to sarah. if she ever found out you and rafe were hooking up behind everyone’s backs, she’d lose it. they all would. and not just because he’s a kook.

it’s because he’s rafe fucking cameron.

it was kind of a blur how it all started with rafe. you remember being at a party—not sure if it was here on the beach or in figure 8—but of course, he was there, lingering in the crowd. all night, his eyes kept finding yours, holding your gaze just a little too long.

a couple of tequila shots later, you found yourself in his truck, attempting to ride him as he fucked you senseless, leaving you a trembling mess of moans and breathless curses.

ever since that night, you’d fallen into a rhythm—friends with benefits, if you could even call it that. except you weren’t friends. not even close.

you and rafe both knew the deal—just sex, no strings attached. it was made clear the second time you hooked up. after somehow getting your number, rafe texted you at 1 a.m. asking to meet. if it had been anyone else, you would’ve said no without a second thought. but rafe cameron always gets what he wants.

afterward, it was rafe who spelled it out: just sex, nothing more. and you agreed, even though the words stung more than you cared to admit. you told yourself you were fine with it, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if you played along long enough, he’d change his mind.

except he hasn’t.

and what really reeled you in was just the other day, you spotted him on the golf course with stacy thornton, topper’s cousin of all people. and of course he knew you’d see him—you work the country club as a bev girl. how could you not?

still, you swallowed the lump in your throat, pretending not to care even as your chest tightened. you quietly asked a coworker to handle his table, murmuring something about being swamped, and then buried yourself in busywork to avoid the sting of watching him laugh with her.

since that day, he hasn’t called or texted. not a word. until tonight.

because surely, stacy was busy.

“yo, y/n! come shotgun a beer with us!” kie and sarah call out, snapping you out of your thoughts. you force a small smile, pushing everything about rafe to the back of your mind as you stand up from the driftwood branch you’d been perched on. joining your girls, you grab a beer and do your best to play along.

as the night rolls on, the beach fills up with more people—kooks, pogues, and everyone in between. the music gets louder, and the air becomes a chaotic mix of laughter, shouting, and waves crashing in the background. drunk teenagers stagger through the sand, passing bottles and shots around, but so far, there haven’t been any issues. yet.

but you know how these nights go. when kooks and pogues show up to the same party, trouble is inevitable. it’s only a matter of time before someone says or does something to spark it. like clockwork.

bright headlights pierce through the darkness, momentarily blinding you as a familiar truck pulls onto the beach. your stomach tightens at the sight, but you force yourself to stay calm, laughing along with your friends as if you hadn’t noticed. even as the kooks around you start murmuring and shouting, announcing rafe’s arrival, you keep your eyes anywhere but on him.

your gaze flicks to sarah, catching the way her jaw tightens when she sees her older brother greeting her old friends with effortless charm. the tension is palpable. it’s no secret that sarah and rafe are far from good terms, and the thought of what she’d do if she ever found out about you and him is enough to make your chest ache. she’d hate you��no question about it.

and you didn’t want that. not now, not ever. so tonight, with enough liquid courage coursing through your veins, you’d finally do it. you’d end whatever this thing was with rafe. it was time. it had to be.

“hey, sweetheart,” jj slurs, suddenly draping an arm over your shoulders, his familiar, lopsided grin plastered across his face. the smell of alcohol lingers on his breath, and you can’t help but laugh. drunk jj was always clingy and affectionate, a far cry from his usual chaotic self.

“how are you? you good?” he asks, his voice softer than usual, his blue eyes lazily scanning your face for any hint of something wrong.

you nod, patting his knee where it rests against yours. “i’m fine, jay. what about you? having fun?”

he grins wider, squeezing your shoulder as if to reassure you. “always. especially now that you’re here.” his words are lighthearted, but his presence, warm and grounding, makes the knot in your stomach ease just a little.

“don’t start something you can’t finish, maybank,” you tease, your tone playful, something that’s always been a part of your dynamic with jj. it was harmless, never anything more than friendly banter. jj was like a brother to you, and you both knew it.

his smirk widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “oh, i always finish what i start,” he shoots back, his voice dripping with mock confidence. the comment makes heat rise to your cheeks despite yourself, and you nudge his side with a laugh.

“relax, jj,” you say, still grinning, but he just laughs along with you, clearly enjoying your reaction.

then his tone drops, more conspiratorial now, as he leans in closer. “can i tell you a secret?” he slurs, his voice low and exaggeratedly serious.

you play along, tilting your head toward him as he cups a hand over his mouth like he’s sharing classified information. “i’m so drunk right now,” he whispers dramatically.

a laugh bursts out of you, louder than you intended, as you push him off of you. “no shit, jay,” you say through your giggles, watching him sway slightly before laughing along with you. moments like these made everything feel lighter, even with the weight of everything else hanging in the air.

suddenly, the laughter dies in your throat as a familiar voice cuts through the noise, instantly tightening the tension in your shoulders. “i wanna laugh too,” rafe drawls, his tone sharp and laced with something dangerous.

your head snaps up, and sure enough, there he is, standing a few feet away with his hands casually stuffed into his pockets. but his stare is locked on you, unwavering, intense. your stomach churns as you quickly look away, pretending not to notice.

“what are you doing here, rafe?” sarah asks, her voice cold as ice, glaring at her brother like she wanted him gone before he could stir up trouble.

he shrugs nonchalantly, though the slight clench in his jaw betrays his calm demeanor. “well, last time i checked, you don’t own the beach, sarah,” he retorts, his tone sharp enough to cut. the sunset casts a fiery glow on his face, highlighting the tension in his features. he’s angry—at what, you don’t know, but it’s obvious.

sarah opens her mouth to snap back, but before she can, jj suddenly stands to his feet, his drunken bravado kicking in full force. “what’s your problem, man?” he slurs, his voice rising as he steps forward, shoulders squared like he’s ready to fight.

your heart pounds in your chest as the energy shifts sharply, the tension coiling tighter with every second. it’s like the whole beach can feel it, the calm before the inevitable storm. you glance around nervously, noticing the kooks starting to make their way over, drawn by the brewing conflict like moths to a flame.

what had been your comfortable little corner with your friends now feels suffocating as more and more people gather, the divide between kooks and pogues growing thicker with every step they take. rafe doesn’t move, his stance unbothered but his eyes flickering with something unreadable as they dart between jj and you.

you can hear your friends muttering behind you, tension spreading like wildfire. this wasn’t going to end well—you could feel it in your bones.

john b, ever the peacekeeper, steps in with a steady hand on jj’s shoulder, giving it a calming squeeze. “hey, bro, take a walk,” he says softly, his tone measured, trying to de-escalate before things spiral further.

but jj shakes his head, his expression twisting with frustration. “nah, nah, nah,” he says, shrugging john b’s hand off. his voice is louder now, sharp and angry, fueled by alcohol and pent-up resentment. “i’m so tired of these fuck-ass kooks ruining our fun. everything was fine before they got here.”

he turns to rafe, his eyes blazing with defiance. “so answer the damn question, rafe. what the fuck is your problem?”

the words hang in the air, cutting through the murmur of onlookers as more kooks and pogues close in around you, their postures rigid and ready for whatever’s about to unfold. the tension is suffocating, thick enough to choke on. your stomach twists as you glance between jj, who’s practically vibrating with anger, and rafe, whose jaw is locked, his eyes dark and unreadable.

rafe suddenly lets out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. he swipes a finger under his nose, his signature tell that trouble is coming. before anyone can react, he steps forward and throws a punch, his fist connecting squarely with jj’s jaw.

the sound of the hit echoes over the beach, silencing the chatter and gasps from the growing crowd. jj stumbles back, catching himself before falling, his hand flying up to his face as he spits blood into the sand.

“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” john b mutters, stepping between them instinctively, trying to keep jj from lunging forward. but jj’s already shaking with rage, shoving john b aside as the crowd erupts around you.

the once calm beach party turns chaotic, the tension finally snapping into chaos, and you’re frozen in the middle of it all, unsure of what to do as your heart pounds in your chest.

mayhem erupts around you as everyone starts shouting, the noise almost deafening. jj and rafe are swinging at each other, fists flying with raw anger. john b and topper try to break it up, but their own simmering tensions (sarah cameron) boil over, and soon enough, they’re throwing punches at each other too.

“alright! alright!” you, sarah, and kie yell, your voices cutting through the chaos as you rush in, desperately trying to pull the four boys apart. it’s a mess of flailing arms, insults, and drunken fury, but with the help of the other pogues and even a few kooks who seem equally tired of the drama, you finally manage to separate them.

jj stands a few feet away now, chest heaving as he wipes blood from his lip, glaring daggers at rafe. rafe, meanwhile, is being restrained by two kooks, his jaw tight and his eyes locked on jj like he’s ready to go again at any second. john b and topper aren’t much better, breathing heavily and throwing venomous insults back and forth as they’re held apart.

you step back, your heart still racing as the crowd buzzes with murmurs and tension, the air thick and electric. this was far from over, and you could feel it.

“yeah, stay the fuck off our side of the island!” jj yells, his voice sharp and unwavering as the kooks start retreating. rafe lingers, of course, making direct eye contact with you. his gaze burns, but you glare right back, your frustration simmering beneath the surface. whatever you needed to say to him was definitely happening tonight after the shit he just pulled.

“take jj to the chateau. i think there’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,” john b instructs kie and pope, his tone calm but firm. they nod, each grabbing one of jj’s arms to help guide him away. jj, still riled up, mutters under his breath about how much of a pussy rafe is, his words slurring slightly from the drinks and adrenaline.

sarah walks over to you, concern etched across her face. “hey, you okay?” she asks gently. her voice is soft, but the sincerity in her eyes almost undoes you. you nod quickly, blinking back the tears threatening to spill over.

“yeah, i’m fine. just anxious,” you respond, your voice steady enough to sound convincing. it’s not entirely a lie, but it’s far from the whole truth. sarah offers you a small, understanding smile, her hand rubbing your arm soothingly.

“coming?” she asks, gesturing toward john b, who’s waiting for her a few feet away.

“i think i’m just gonna head home,” you say, your voice a little rushed. “my mom texted—she got off work early, so…” you let the excuse hang in the air, hoping it’s enough.

sarah nods slowly, her eyes flickering with a mix of understanding and suspicion. “john b and i can walk you,” she offers.

“no, it’s okay. i kinda need a moment,” you reply quickly, your voice firmer this time. you hold your breath as her gaze lingers on you, studying you for a beat too long. but thankfully, she doesn’t press it.

“okay, babe,” she says finally, her concern softening into a warm smile. “let me know when you get home, yeah?”

you nod, watching as she walks back toward john b, the two of them eventually disappearing into the growing shadows. only when they’re far enough away do you exhale, the weight of the night pressing heavy on your chest.

with one last glance at the party starting to settle back down, you turn and walk in the opposite direction, knowing exactly where you’re going—and who you’re going to face.

you make your way over to the truck, its headlights dim now but still parked exactly where he left it. crossing your arms over your chest, you lean against the back door of the truck, waiting. it’s quiet here, tucked away from the rest of the beach where no one can see you.

the sound of approaching footsteps pulls your attention, and there he is. rafe cameron, calm and collected as ever, despite the chaos he caused. he’s holding a red solo cup against his cheekbone, the faintest shadow of a bruise forming. but even so, you have to admit—he doesn’t look nearly as bad as jj does. of course he doesn’t.

his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. the tension between you is thicker than ever, the air heavy with unspoken words. you take a deep breath, preparing yourself for what you came here to do.

“i can’t see you anymore, rafe,” you say, finally breaking the silence. your voice is firm, but you can feel the ache behind the words, threatening to betray you.

rafe doesn’t move. instead, a small, almost smug smile quirks at the corner of his lips. “get in the truck,” he says, his tone low and even, like it’s not up for debate.

your brows knit together, your frustration bubbling up. did he not hear you? or worse, did he just not care? “no, rafe,” you snap, shaking your head. “what you did today—” you pause, letting out a sharp sigh as the memories replay in your mind. your gaze shifts over his shoulder to the road, watching cars pass by, their headlights a welcome distraction. “you hurt my friends,” you continue, your voice quieter now but still steady. “i care a lot about my friends. and that shit you pulled back there?” you point toward the spot on the beach where the chaos unfolded, the tension still lingering in the air. “wasn’t cool.”

rafe follows your gesture with a glance, his expression unreadable. but when his eyes flick back to you, there’s something in them—something dangerous, something unshaken. he doesn’t respond, just waits, like he knows you’re not finished yet.

“why would you do that?” your voice cracks despite your best effort to keep it steady. the words hang heavy in the air, and you curse softly under your breath, furious with yourself for letting your emotions bubble over. you promised you wouldn’t let him see you like this—wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. but now, the tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill.

rafe’s face doesn’t change, his jaw tight but his expression otherwise calm, almost detached. it’s like he’s weighing his words, deciding what to say—or if he’ll even bother answering at all. the silence feels suffocating, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on your chest.

“are you fucking him?” rafe finally speaks, his voice low and steady, but the accusation behind the words hits you like a slap. you stare at him, wide-eyed, like he’s just grown three heads.

a laugh of disbelief escapes you as you shake your head, running a hand through your hair to keep yourself from losing it. “are you serious right now?” you ask, your voice teetering between anger and shock.

“are you?” he presses, his tone sharper this time, his eyes locked on yours, unrelenting.

“oh my god,” you mutter, another laugh bubbling out, this one laced with frustration. “is that why you did that? you think i’ve been fucking one of my best friends? are you shitting me, rafe?” you shake your head again, the absurdity of the accusation almost too much to handle.

he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, his gaze still burning into yours like he’s waiting for you to crack. but you don’t—at least, not yet.

“well, since we’re just accusing each other of shit now,” you say, your voice sharp as a knife, “how’s stacy doing?” your eyes flicker between his, and just like you predicted, his confidence falters. there’s a moment—a flicker—where his gaze drops, and you pounce. “i assume she was busy tonight, right? that why you texted me?”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” rafe snaps, his chest rising and falling heavily as he steps closer, his frustration spilling over.

“oh, don’t give me that shit, rafe,” you fire back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. your eyes dart away from his, landing anywhere but on him. “i saw you at the country club,” you continue, your voice cold, the memory still fresh.

his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything, and the silence only fuels your anger. “and even then,” you add, spinning back to face him, your words cutting like glass, “what if i am fucking jj? what is it to you? you’re the one who said no strings attached, right?”

you see the way his nostrils flare, his jaw clenching so tightly you think it might snap. his eyes darken, and you know exactly what he’s thinking—the thought of jj seeing you the way rafe has, touching you, hearing the sounds you make. it’s killing him. but he won’t say it. not out loud.

“you’re mad, rafe,” you say, your voice quieter now but still firm. “but you don’t get to be. not after the rules you set.”

you push past him, deciding you were done—done with the accusations, the games, all of it. but, of course, you don’t get far. rafe’s hand closes firmly around your wrist, yanking you back toward him with enough force that you stumble. before you can steady yourself, you collide with his chest, the hard press of muscle against you taking your breath away.

his lips crash against yours without warning, rough and demanding, pulling a shocked gasp from your lips. the intensity of it sends a jolt through you, but it’s not enough to freeze you in place. your fists fly up, pushing hard against his chest, trying to shove him off.

“rafe,” you manage, your voice muffled against his lips, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear you. instead, your resistance only seems to fuel him, his free hand sliding up to wrap around your neck, not too tight, but firm enough to hold you there.

his lips move hungrily against yours, his breath hot, his grip unwavering. you can feel the frustration, the anger, and something else tangled in the way he kisses you—something you can’t name, something overwhelming. your heart races, torn between wanting to fight and the way your body reacts instinctively to his touch.

you hated it. hated how easily your body betrayed you, handing itself over to him without a second thought. and the worst part? rafe knew it too. he always did.

he used it to his advantage every time, just like now. the second your resistance began to falter, the tension in your fists loosening as your body instinctively softened against his, that familiar smug smile tugged at the corners of his lips. he could feel it—the way your resolve was slipping, the way the pull between you was overtaking every logical thought in your mind.

the familiarity of him started to seep through, clouding the anger that had burned so brightly just moments ago. rafe’s grip on your neck relaxed slightly, his fingers brushing your skin like he had all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t the reason you’d wanted to end this in the first place.

and god, you hated him for it. but you hated yourself even more. no matter how much you told yourself to walk away, to end it, your body always seemed to betray you the moment his hands were on you.

before you even realized what was happening, you were in the back seat of rafe’s truck, straddling his lap. his hands gripped your hips with bruising force, guiding your movements as you instinctively rolled against him. the friction of his hardened, clothed cock pressing against you sent shivers up your spine, a traitorous whimper slipping past your lips.

his breath was hot against your neck, his lips brushing your skin as he let out a low groan of satisfaction. you hated how easily he got to you, how the anger you felt just moments ago melted into something entirely different. but no matter how much you wanted to stop, your body moved on its own, craving the familiarity of him, the intensity only he could give you.

his hands move from gripping your hips to trailing up your back, his fingers deftly finding the string of your bikini top. with a quick tug, the knot unravels, and the fabric falls between you, exposing your chest to the cool night air. the intimate sound of your breathing mixes with the muffled noise of the distant beach party, but all you can focus on is him.

rafe wastes no time, leaning in to pepper kisses across your chest. each press of his lips ignites a trail of goosebumps on your skin, the sensation making you arch closer to him. his mouth finds one of your hardened nipples, pulling it into his mouth as his hand cups the other, his fingers teasing and rolling with practiced precision.

a moan slips from your lips, filling the still air around you. rafe hums in satisfaction, his hot breath fanning against your sensitive skin. his grip on you tightens as he continues, clearly intent on drawing every reaction out of you that he can.

“fuck, i missed you,” he breathes, his voice low and ragged as he pulls back just enough to let the words slip past his lips. before you can even process them, his mouth is back on you, his lips and tongue working their way across your skin, pulling a broken whimper from your throat.

you shake your head weakly, your fingers gripping his shoulders, trying to ground yourself. “no, you didn’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling, the words more of a desperate plea than an accusation.

rafe pauses, his lips hovering over your collarbone. his hands tighten their hold on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he meets your gaze, his blue eyes blown out. “yes, i did,” he mutters, his tone firm, almost defensive, before dipping his head back down to kiss you again, as if he could erase the doubt you so clearly feel.

with one hand, he makes quick work of the button on your shorts, pulling them down just enough to give himself better access. his hand slips past the waistband of your bikini bottoms, his fingers brushing against your heated skin. the low groan that escapes his lips when he feels how soaked you are sends a jolt of heat straight through you.

“not surprising,” he mutters against your lips, his voice thick with smug satisfaction.

you gasp, your head falling back slightly as his fingers glide through your folds, gathering your arousal before starting slow, deliberate circles against your clit. the sensation sparks through you, making your hips instinctively rock against his hand, chasing the friction.

rafe’s smirk deepens as he watches you, his free hand gripping your waist tighter to keep you steady. “that’s it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, dripping with control. “just like that.”

a moan escapes your lips when his fingers pick up their pace, his breathing becoming heavier against your neck. “think that pogue could get you to cum like i can, huh?” he taunts, his words cutting through the haze of pleasure. before you can respond, his fingers dip into your entrance, filling you to where you feel the cold metal ring wrapped around his finger, while his thumb presses firmly against your clit. the double stimulation sends a shockwave through you, your hands fisting his shirt as you struggle to stifle the moans threatening to spill out.

you bite down hard on your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction he craves, but it’s so hard—he knows your body too well.

“i know he can,” you finally manage to retort, your voice breathless but defiant. the second the words leave your mouth, you see it—the flicker of rage that darkens his eyes. his movements grow rougher, more deliberate, as if he’s determined to make you eat your words.

you sob out a moan, your body trembling as his pace remains relentless, refusing to give you even a second to catch your breath. “the fuck he can,” he growls, his voice low and feral, watching with a smug satisfaction as you struggle to keep yourself upright. his smirk deepens as he leans in, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and desperation, swallowing your broken cries.

your hands cling to his shoulders as waves of pleasure crash through you, your body arching into his touch. his fingers work you expertly, his movements precise and unyielding as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, your breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

“c’mon, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and dripping with desperation. “let me hear you.” his words send a shiver down your spine, and you feel yourself teetering on the brink, unable to hold back any longer.

you feel yourself start to convulse around his fingers, your body trembling as a broken cry tears from your lips. the waves of your orgasm crash over you, leaving you breathless and weak. rafe keeps going, his fingers guiding you through every pulse of pleasure, not stopping until your body begins to twitch with hints of overstimulation. but there’s no tenderness in it—not that you deserved any, not after what you said.

your earlier comment still burned in his mind, fueling a fire in his chest, the thought of you with jj maybank making him see red. it wasn’t about trust—it was about possession, and rafe couldn’t stand the idea of someone else touching what he considered his.

without warning, he grabs your waist and flips you around, pressing your head against the leather seat, your ass in the air. your shorts and bikini bottoms are gone in one swift motion, leaving you completely exposed. you barely have time to react before you hear the sound of his zipper, his own clothes hitting the floor of the truck in a mess.

“you wanna talk about jj?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with frustration as he positions himself at your entrance, the heat of him pressing against you. “let’s see if you’re still thinking about him when I’m done with you.”

before you can process his words, he thrusts into you without warning, burying himself to the hilt in one swift, punishing motion. the stretch is overwhelming, a cry slipping from your lips, quickly muffled as you press your face into the seat.

rafe doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, setting a relentless, eye-rolling pace that has your body jolting with every thrust. his hands grip your waist tightly, pulling you back to meet each snap of his hips, his frustration evident in the way he moves.

“you feel that?” he mutters, his voice rough and breathless as he leans over you, his chest grazing your back. “that’s all me. no one else, you hear me?” his words mix with the sound of skin against skin, every syllable driving him deeper, leaving you a trembling mess beneath him.

you nod dumbly, unable to form words as your body reacts to his every movement. a gasp tears from your lips when his arm snakes around your neck, pulling you upright slightly and holding you firmly in place. the pressure makes your head spin, amplifying every sensation coursing through your body.

the truck fills with the obscene sounds of wet slaps and desperate moans, each one louder than the last. your cries mix with rafe’s rough groans, the intensity between you reaching a fever pitch. you briefly thank your lucky stars that his truck has fully blacked-out windows, shielding this mess of tangled limbs and raw need from prying eyes.

rafe moans in your ear, his voice thick with possession, his breath hot against your skin. “all mine. no one else gets to have you like this.” his pace never falters, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge again, leaving you gasping and trembling under his control.

just when you think the pleasure is close to consuming you whole, rafe’s fingers snake down between your thighs, finding your clit with infuriating precision. he rubs quick, tight circles, the added sensation pulling a choked cry from your lips as your body jerks in response.

your arm flings back instinctively, your hand finding the back of his neck, clutching onto him desperately as if he’s the only thing keeping you upright. his breath is hot against your ear, ragged and uneven, matching the force of his thrusts.

“fuck, baby,” he groans softly, his voice laced with satisfaction as he feels you trembling against him. “you’re gonna cum, aren’t you?”

“rafe—“ you moan, your grip on his neck tightening as the overwhelming mix of sensations sends you spiraling, your body teetering on the brink. every snap of his hips, every movement of his fingers, pushes you closer, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as you fight to keep from collapsing back into the seat.

your body trembles uncontrollably as the wave of pleasure crashes over you, your walls tightening around him with a vice-like grip. rafe grunts, his breath ragged and uneven as he feels you squeezing him, the sensation tipping him over the edge.

“shit,” he moans, his voice low and strained, giving one last stuttered thrust before he stills, his release spilling into you. the warmth of him floods your core, the weight of his body pressing against yours as he rides out his high, panting heavily into the crook of your neck.

the air in the truck is thick, the only sounds now the mingling of your heavy breathing and the faint hum of the world outside—so distant it feels like it doesn’t even exist. rafe’s hand loosens its hold on your hip along with the arm around your neck, his thumb lazily brushing your skin as he finally starts to come down.

rafe’s forehead, damp with sweat, rests against your shoulder for a moment as he catches his breath. Slowly, he pulls out of you, leaving you trembling and weak-kneed. Sensing it, he carefully guides you to sit on the seat, his touch surprisingly gentle now, as if trying not to shatter the fragile silence between you.

but it doesn’t last long. the haze starts to lift, post-sex clarity hitting you like a wave. your heart pounds—not from pleasure anymore, but from the weight of everything that just happened. you don’t look at him, don’t say a word. instead, you scramble off the seat, your eyes scanning the floor of the truck as you rush to gather your clothes. the humid air clings to your skin, suffocating you, making it feel like the walls of the truck are closing in.

“y/n,” rafe starts, his voice softer now, but you don’t respond, just shake your head. You tug your shorts on with shaky hands, your bikini top still tangled in your grasp as you turn your back to him, your only thought being how fast you can get out of this damn truck.

as soon as you adjust your bikini top, you’re scrambling for the door handle, slipping out of the truck as quickly as you can. the door slams shut behind you with a loud thud, cutting off the heavy silence inside. rafe’s voice calls after you, his tone somewhere between frustration and confusion, but you don’t look back. you don’t even slow down.

his words echo faintly in the humid night air as you trudge across the sand, but you block them out, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

you hated yourself in this moment—really hated yourself. how could you be so weak? jj was probably back at the chateau right now, an ice pack pressed to his bruised face, joking it off like he always did. meanwhile, you were here, tangled up with the very person responsible for putting him there.

it made your stomach twist. you felt pathetic.

the guilt gnawed at you, making every step away from that truck feel heavier, like you were sinking further into something you didn’t know how to escape. you wrap your arms around yourself, the night air cold against your skin, and silently vow—never again.

as you step into your home, the soft glow of the television catches your eye. your mom is asleep on the couch, the faint sound of some late-night show playing in the background. you pause, the sight of her peaceful face tugging at something inside you. quietly, you grab the nearest blanket and drape it over her, tucking it gently around her frame before turning off the TV.

you make your way to your room, your body heavy with exhaustion. pulling out your phone, the screen lights up with countless missed calls and texts—all from him. rafe’s name stares back at you, the words call me back and where did you go? flashing among the messages. with a sigh, you open the contact and quickly silence his notifications. blocking him would feel too final, too harsh, and you know it wouldn’t stop him anyway. rafe knew where to find you—where you lived, where you spent your time, even your favorite food spot. blocking him would only provoke him further.

you drop your phone on the bed and head straight for the bathroom, turning the shower dial as cold as it would go. the icy water hits your skin like needles, but you welcome it, hoping it’ll wash away everything—his touch, his words, the feeling of his hands on your body.

but no matter how long you stand there, no matter how hard you scrub, the memories resurface, unrelenting. the way he looked at you. the sound of his voice. the pull he always had on you. you press your forehead against the cool tile, biting back the emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

how did it get this far?

the muffled vibration of your phone stirs you from sleep, the name sarah 🐚 lighting up the screen. groaning, you fumble for the phone and press it to your ear, voice still thick with sleep. “hell—”

“is it true?” sarah’s voice crackles through the static, sharp and tense, jolting you fully awake. your eyes shoot open, the confusion and dread hitting you all at once.

“sarah, what—” you begin, but she doesn’t let you finish.

“got it,” she says curtly, and before you can protest, the line goes dead.

you pull the phone away from your ear, staring at the dark screen as if it could offer you answers. confusion twists in your chest, but then you see it—a new message notification from her.

your hands tremble slightly as you unlock your phone and click the message. the screen shifts to a video file, sent from an anonymous number. you hesitate, the dread creeping up your spine like ice, but you press play.

the blood drains from your face as the video begins. it’s you—you and rafe. the footage is grainy, but it’s unmistakable. you see yourself pressed against the back door of his truck, his hands gripping you as you melt into the heated kiss. the angle shifts slightly, shaky and invasive, capturing the moment he pushes you inside the truck. and then—cut.

the video ends abruptly, leaving you staring at the black screen, your heart racing so hard you can feel it in your throat. you drop the phone onto your bed, your blood running cold as the weight of it crashes over you.

someone had seen. someone knew. and now sarah did too.

© aerialmirrorss