Summary: Between stolen chocolate, teasing banter, and playful challenges, the heaviness of the day fades, replaced by laughter, sunlight, and the electric pull of someone impossible to ignore.
a/n: sorry for the wait, my computer has been broken and I just got it fixed. I will be getting through all your requests as soon as possible. Thank you so much and enjoy reading!
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words: 2108
Amy picks at the edge of her tray, barely eating. The plastic fork bends under her thumb as she stabs at her pasta. The cafeteria hums around you, but at your table, it’s quiet, too quiet even. The sound of chatter muted by the silent tension between you.
“You’ve been off today,” she says finally, eyes fixed on her food.
You glance up. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb.” She shrugs one shoulder, still not meeting your eyes. “You’ve barely said a word, you slept in your car and you look like one of the zombies from night of the living dead.”
“Ouch. Words hurt Amy.”
“Yeah, well, maybe the truth stings for a reason.” She nudges a piece of pasta around her tray. “What’s going on with you?”
You sigh, pretending to focus on your drink instead of her. “Nothing. I just didn’t sleep much.”
She looks up at you, eyebrows raised. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with him, would it?”
“Who?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “Come on. Finney. Who else?”
You hesitate a second too long, and she notices. Her fork clatters onto her tray, the sharp sound in between the two of you.
“God, you’re kidding me.” She leans forward, her voice dropping dangerously low, almost to a whisper. “Did you sleep with him?”
“What- no! Amy what the hell?”
She doesn’t even flinch, skepticism filling her face. “Then why does it look like you haven’t gone home? You’ve got circles under your eyes, your hair’s a mess—”
“I did go home last night,” you snapped. “We talked, okay? He was having a bad night.”
Amy folds her arms, leaning back. “You talked. All night. Until what two in the morning?”
You shake your head, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “It wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be alone.”
“And what about you?” she fires back. “You ever think maybe you shouldn’t be alone with him?”
You blink, thrown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Amy glances around the cafeteria, lowering her voice again. “I’m saying you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t know him.”
Her words hang between you, heavy and cold. The noise of the cafeteria fades, replaced by the rush of your pulse in your ears. For a second, you think she might say more, but she just shakes her head, not meeting your eyes. Almost as if she’s afraid that looking at you might make him appear.
Her fingers twist the edge of her napkin, tearing it into shreds. “You don’t get it,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “Just... be careful, okay?”
You open your mouth, but no words come. The cafeteria noise feels distant now, muffled under the weight of what she’s just said. You want to defend him but the look in Amy’s eyes stops you cold.
“He’s not that bad,” you managed to muster. “Listen, some shit happened and I couldn’t just stand there and not help.”
Amy lets out a bitter laugh, its sharpness enough to sting. “You think you’re helping him, but you’re just setting yourself up to get hurt.”
“You don’t even know him.”
Her gaze hardens. “Oh, I know enough. I know him and his psycho sister couldn’t save my brother. And I know everyone acts like I’m the bad guy for saying it out loud.”
You flinch, guilt prickling your skin. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” She sneers, a small, mean twist of her lips. “Everyone here feels sorry for her, and for him, like they were the only ones who ever lost someone.” Her voice cracks on the last word, but she looks away before you can see the flicker of emotion that slips through.
You open your mouth, unsure what to say.
The sharp clang of the bell cuts through the air, making both of you flinch. All around, chairs scrape and voices rise as the cafeteria erupts into motion.
Amy grabs her tray, movements quick and jerky. “Just... don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she mutters, eyes flicking briefly toward Gwen’s table as she passes.
You watch her go, your pulse still thrumming in your ears. When you glance across the room, Gwen’s watching you too, her expression unreadable, and her shoulders stiff.
In that moment, you can’t tell whose look was more dangerous. Finney, Amy, or the silence they both left behind.
-
The halls are quieter after lunch, sunlight spilling in through the high windows and pooling in long, golden stripes across the floor. You’d excused yourself from class with the easy excuse of “feminine issues,” taking your time wandering the hallways as you tried to shake off the tight, uneasy feeling Amy had left sitting in your chest. Her voice still clung to you, sharp around the edges. You don’t know what he’s capable of.
The air smells faintly of floor cleaner and pencil shavings, the kind of familiar nothingness that usually helps you breathe easier. But today, it doesn’t quite work.
“You planning on skipping the rest of the day, Sunny, or just taking the scenic route?”
You turn to see Finney a few feet behind you. He’s got that half-smile again. The one that looks like he’s not sure if he should be smiling at all.
“Depends,” you say, matching his tone. “Are you stalking me?”
His half-smile softens into a real one, the kind you couldn’t stay away from, no matter how hard you tried. “Please. If I were stalking you, you wouldn’t catch me this easily.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “Charming.”
He walks beside you, now joining you on your laps around the school. The sunlight hitting his hair made it turn the colour of gold. “You look like you’ve been overthinking something,” he says softly. “Want to tell me, or should I guess?”
You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Guess you could say lunch wasn’t exactly relaxing.”
He studies you for a second, not prying, just observing. Then he bumps your shoulder with his. “Come on, let’s ditch the rest of class. I’ll buy you a soda.”
You laugh. “You don’t even have money, Finney. You paid using pennies yesterday night.”
You shake your head, but follow him down the hall. The uneasy weight Amy left behind softening with each step, its weight was not gone, but quieter now. “If I’m buying, you’re picking.”
He rolls his eyes but continues to follow you. Your conversation with Amy in the cafeteria feels far away now, the noise in your head replaced by sunlight and the faint hum of the vending machines.
“So, what’s the verdict?” You ask Finney as he leans casually against the wall. “Chocolate, chips, or something healthy so we can pretend we have our lives together?”
“Chocolate,” he says without hesitation. “Obviously chocolate.”
This earns him a chuckle as you push the buttons. A chocolate bar rattles down, landing at your feet. You bend to pick it up, and your fingers brush his.
Finney freezes, caught off guard, and you can’t resist. “Relax, Finney. Scaring me isn’t part of the deal.”
“Shut up,” he murmured, but there’s no heat in his voice, just a little laughter hiding in his chest. “You’re impossible.”
His low, soft laughter makes your chest flutter despite Amy’s warning. “Oh, please,” you tease, stealing a piece of the chocolate bar. “I’m just keeping you on your toes.”
He smirks, leaning against the wall again, eating his piece of the chocolate bar, almost as if he’s plotting something against you. “Yeah, well, I’d say it’s working. I can’t decide if you’re interested or if I should be worried.”
“And I shouldn’t? I wasn’t the one trying to destroy a payphone last night.” You shoot back with a grin.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Touché, Sunny. Touché.”
For a moment, the world narrows down to the hum of the vending machines, the sunlight warming the tile beneath your feet, and him. The teasing, ridiculous, infuriatingly charming Finney Blake. The cafeteria argument, Amy’s warnings, even Gwen’s unreadable stare began to fade just a little, replaced by the easy rhythm of your banter.
“Alright,” he says suddenly, squinting at the vending machine as if it holds the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. “You really think chocolate is the responsible choice?”
“Responsible? No. Delicious? Absolutely.” You grin, stealing another piece of his chocolate bar.
He laughs again. “I don’t know why I even try to act serious around you.”
“Because you secretly like it.”
“Maybe,” he admits, voice low, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Or maybe I just like being around you.”
You freeze, a little stunned at how casual he says it. Naturally, your mouth twists into a teasing smirk. “Careful, Finney. Keep talking like that and you’ll owe me a soda every day for the next week.”
He laughs, that easy, infectious sound, and for a few minutes, the weight in your chest is gone. Its heaviness is replaced by sunlight, laughter, and the strange, fluttering feeling he always seems to bring with him.
The afternoon drags on, the janitor starting to clean the cafeteria as you realize you can’t just wander forever, whether you like it or not.
“I guess I should probably… go back.”
Finney quirks an eyebrow, clearly pretending to be disappointed. “Already? Leaving so soon? But I thought we were in the middle of a very important debate about chocolate superiority.”
“You can continue without me,” you tease. “Try not to miss me too much.”
He laughs, that easy, low laugh that makes your chest warm. “Oh, I’ll survive. Somehow.”
You wave, expecting him to watch you walk back toward the school, but instead, he shakes his head. “Actually…” He tilts his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ll walk with you for safety. You know, in case anyone tries to mug you for my stolen chocolate.”
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Sure, safety. That’s very responsible of you.”
-
By the time you finally drag yourself back to class, the remainder of the period passes in a haze. Notes blur together on the page, and the teacher’s voice becomes a distant hum. Your thoughts keep drifting back to Amy’s warning, the weight of her words, and Finney’s teasing grin lingering like sunlight in the back of your mind.
Before you know it, the bell rings, signaling the end of class, and you’re practically jolted out of your daydreams. You gather your things almost mechanically, the hallway outside already buzzing with students spilling toward lockers and exits.
By the time you reach your car, the sunlight is softer, slanting across the asphalt in warm, golden streaks. You unlock the door, set your bag inside, and slump into the driver’s seat, exhaling slowly. The chaos of the day with Amy’s confrontation, the cafeteria tension, and the endless blur of the afternoon melts into a quiet background hum.
And then you notice him, that familiar grin already in place, as if he’d been waiting the whole time.
“Uh… hey,” Finney says, leaning casually against the hood of your car, arms crossed, that grin you can’t resist lighting up his face.
You look at him up and down, caught off guard. “What are you doing here?”
You blink, caught off guard. “What… what are you doing here?”
“Same reason anyone would be here,” he says, voice teasing, eyes sparkling. “Making sure you get home safely… and maybe checking if you have more chocolate.”
You laugh, shaking your head, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “What a gentleman.”
He shrugs, that infuriatingly casual grin still in place. “Maybe. Or maybe I like catching you off guard.”
You gesture to your passenger seat, pretending to be nonchalant, though your pulse is betraying you. “Well… consider me thoroughly surprised.”
“Good,” he says softly, stepping into the car. “I’m here for…quality control.”
“Quality control?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. “Is that your job now?”
“Part of it,” he admits, eyes glinting with mischief. “But I’d say it’s the most important part.”
The late afternoon sunlight catches the edges of his hair, warm and golden, and for a moment, the tension from Amy, the cafeteria, and even the blurred-out class period all fades. It’s just you, him, the soft hum of the empty parking lot, and the easy, playful rhythm of your banter.
You glance down at your bag, then back at him, trying to act casual. “Well… I guess I can let you stick. But only because it’s safer than letting you roam free.”
“Safety first, Sunny,” he says, grinning.
And just like that, the day’s heaviness lifts slightly, replaced by sunlight, laughter, and the strange, warm pull he always seems to bring.
hi! may i request finney and his girlfriend who can see ghosts? how do you think her power would work with his ability to hear ghosts
The Dead Don't Go
a/n: Hello my dear readers I have returned. Sorry for the unexpected hiatus I live in Canada meaning the weather can be unpredictable and I lost access to wifi for a bit. I have worked on many of your requests and am trying to get them finished asap. This fic is fluffier than my usual angsty fics so I hope you all enjoy!
Words: 3313
People said you were crazy long before they ever said you were lying.
They said it was schizophrenia, doctors said it was an overactive imagination.
It began on a late afternoon in 1975, the house was quiet in that heavy way that comes right before evening. Homework half-finished on the kitchen table, the TV murmuring in the next room. You were walking down the hallway toward your bedroom, thinking about nothing important, when you noticed someone standing near the closed door at the end.
At first, you thought it was a trick of the light.
Then you realized the hallway light didn’t reach him properly.
He stood where the shadows should’ve been thin, but instead they clung to him, dulling his outline. His clothes looked wrong in a way you couldn’t explain yet, his posture was stiff, like he’d been frozen mid step and never allowed to finish.
You stopped walking.
Your heart didn’t race right away. Instead, everything went quiet inside you, the way it does when your body knows something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
He turned his head slowly.
His face was intact but frozen in fear. His eyes were devoid of life and focused entirely on you, wide with something like relief. Not hunger. Not anger.
Recognition.
The boy with the bloody clothes looked about your age, maybe a few years older. His forever terrified expression was enough to make your skin crawl. You could feel yourself take a small step back as your brain tried to decipher if the boy in front of you was a real or a figment of your imagination.
The boy opened his mouth. His lips moved like he was trying to speak through water, but no sound came out. He lifted a hand, hesitant and uncertain, before stepping closer.
You couldn’t scream.
A voice called your name from the kitchen.
When you turned back toward the hallway, the space was empty.
Not empty in a normal sense, but empty the way a room feels after someone leaves without saying goodbye.
You stood there longer than you meant to, staring at the spot where he’d been, heart finally catching up and pounding hard enough to make your ears ring.
That night, you told your parents you saw a man in the hall.
They exchanged a look before answering.
Your mother said it was probably a shadow.
Your father changed the locks, “just in case.”
A doctor later said it was imagination.
But you knew the truth, even at ten, shadows don’t look at you like that. Whatever you saw that day wasn’t trying to scare you.
It was trying to be seen.
-
The first time one of the boys up close, you threw up in the school bathroom.
You didn’t know his name yet. All you knew was that he was standing by the sinks, dripping blood. His shirt was torn open at the chest, dark and sticky, his skin grayish beneath it. One eye wouldn’t focus. The other was locked on you.
You didn’t scream.
You covered your mouth and ran.
By the time you came back with a hall monitor, the bathroom was empty. No blood. No boy. Just you shaking so badly you couldn’t explain what you’d seen without sounding cruel or insane.
Word spread anyway.
People noticed when you flinched at nothing. When you stared past teachers’ shoulders. When you muttered “please stop looking at me” under your breath during math.
They thought you were doing it for attention.
How could you explain that the boys didn’t look peaceful? That death hadn’t cleaned them up the way movies promised? That some of them still looked hurt?
When another kid went missing, you stopped sleeping.
You saw them everywhere after that, by the fence near what you would learn to be the Grabber’s house, across the street from the school, standing too close in grocery store aisles. Their injuries were different every time. Broken bones. Bruises. Marks that made your chest tighten because you knew, instinctively, that someone had done that to them.
Once, in public, you whispered, “I’m sorry,” without realizing it.
Someone laughed.
Someone else told you that was messed up.
A girl called you sick.
A teacher pulled you aside and said, carefully, that joking about murdered children wasn’t appropriate.
You started crying, not loudly or dramatically. Just silent tears you couldn’t stop. That was when they called your parents.
The doctor’s office smelled like disinfectant and old magazines.
You sat behind a paper covered table, hands clenched in your lap, answering questions you’d heard your whole life.
Do you hear voices no one else hears?
“No.”
Do you believe people are controlling your thoughts?
“No.”
Do you see things that aren’t there?
You hesitated.
“I see things,” you said quietly. “But they don’t talk. They don’t tell me to do anything. They’re just… there.”
The doctor watched you closely. Not skeptically. Clinically.
After tests. After evaluations. After hours of questions that left you exhausted and raw, he leaned back in his chair.
“There are no indicators of schizophrenia,” he said plainly.
Your mother blinked. “But she sees—”
“Hallucinations tied to schizophrenia are typically accompanied by disorganized thinking, paranoia, auditory commands, identity disturbance,” he continued. “She shows none of that. Her cognition is intact. Her emotional responses are appropriate to stress.”
You stared at the floor.
“What she’s experiencing,” he said carefully, “is something I can’t explain medically. But it is not psychosis.”
Silence filled the room.
“So she’s not crazy?” your mother asked, blunt and scared.
The doctor shook his head. “No.”
When you got home, your mom didn’t lower her voice once. She accused you of lying for attention, of being cruel and sick for making up stories about dead boys. She demanded apologies you didn’t understand, threatened stricter doctors, harsher rules, more discipline. By the end, you were crying, warned that one more lie would have real consequences.
-
Later that year Finney Blake was rescued from the basement of your neighbor, Albert Shaw. You thought the death of the Grabber would finally put the boys to rest, that once justice had been done, they’d be allowed to leave.
They didn’t.
If anything, they lingered closer.
They no longer wandered aimlessly or flickered in and out of sight. Now they stood still, watching. Waiting. Their injuries hadn’t healed. Some looked worse, as if time hadn’t stopped and their bodies had begun to rot.
A few of them followed Finney.
You noticed it before anyone else, the way his shoulders tensed for no reason, the way he’d pause mid step like he was listening. Sometimes his gaze would drift, that’s when you understood.
The Grabber’s death hadn’t freed any of them, in life or death. They weren’t trapped by him anymore. They were waiting for something else.
-
1979 was the year Finney hurt you because he thought you were lying.
He heard it first, whispers in the halls, kids snickering about how you were “claiming” to see the dead boys. Saying their names. Describing things no one should joke about. To him, it sounded cruel, as if you were using their deaths for attention.
He cornered you after school, fists clenched, voice shaking with anger. Accused you of making it up. Of disrespecting them.
You tried to explain. You couldn’t. The words came out wrong, panicked.
He punched you once, hard enough to scare you both.
Teachers broke it up. Rumors stuck.
Finney didn’t realize you were different because of something dramatic.
He realized it because you were consistent.
Everyone else talked about the boys like a story, names whispered wrong, timelines blurred, details changing depending on who wanted sympathy or shock. Grief warped memory. Trauma twisted facts.
You never did.
You never guessed.
You never embellished.
When kids dared each other to ask you questions, you answered flatly or not at all. When teachers listened in, you stopped speaking entirely. But when you did say something, it was always precise.
Too precise.
Finney noticed it the first time you corrected someone.
“They say Finney made a knife and stabbed the Grabber in the neck,” a boy said in the cafeteria.
You didn’t look up from your tray.
“No,” you said quietly. “He strangled him with a telephone cord.”
The table went silent.
Someone laughed nervously. “How would you know that?”
You shrugged. “I just do.”
Finney’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.
Because that detail, about the phone cord, had never been released.
The police had kept it quiet. Finney had never told anyone. Only Gwen, who he knew would never tell.
He watched you after that.
Not in a cruel way. In a careful one.
You reacted before things happened. You stiffened at empty corners. You avoided doorways that looked perfectly harmless. Once, walking home, you stepped off the sidewalk abruptly, nearly into traffic, just to give space to nothing.
Finney felt sick watching it.
Because it looked familiar.
The same way he’d learned to angle his body away from the basement walls. The same instinctive flinch when the phone rang, even before it made a sound.
One afternoon, he found you sitting on the school steps, staring at the bike rack.
You weren’t crying.
You weren’t shaking.
You just looked worn thin.
“You keep doing that,” Finney said before he could stop himself.
You glanced at him. “Doing what?”
“Looking at places like they’re crowded.”
You hesitated.
That was new.
Most people mocked you. You were used to that. Finney wasn’t mocking. He looked unsettled. As if he was trying not to scare himself.
“They stand where it makes sense to them,” you said finally. “Not where it makes sense to us.”
Finney’s breath caught.
“Who does?”
You closed your eyes.
“Don’t,” you said. “Please don’t make me say it.”
Finney sat beside you anyway.
“The phone,” he said quietly.
Your eyes snapped open.
He swallowed. “In the basement. They talked to me. Not all the time. Not clearly. But enough.”
You stared at him like you were afraid to blink.
“They don’t talk to me,” you said. “I just see them.”
Finney nodded slowly. “That… actually makes sense.”
It shouldn’t have. But it did.
The way you watched their mouths move without reacting. The way you never answered when people accused you of hearing voices. The way you never repeated words, only actions, injuries, expressions.
“You knew things,” Finney said. “Things I only knew because of them.”
Your hands clenched in your sleeves. “I don’t want to know these things.”
“I know.”
Silence settled between you.
Then you said, barely audible, “Do you ever stop being scared?”
Finney closed his eyes.
“No,” he said. “Not really.”
Your shoulders sagged like you’d been holding yourself upright by force alone.
That was the moment Finney understood.
You weren’t inventing horrors, you were witnessing them.
You had no way to ask questions. No way to tell them it was over. No way to hear the reassurance Finney had been given through a cracked black receiver in the dark.
You only saw what death had frozen in place.
“I’m sorry,” Finney said.
You didn’t answer right away.
“You’re the first person who believed me without asking me to prove it.”
Finney thought of the phone. Of the boys who had spoken only because he could hear.
Of the ones who never got that chance.
“They still call me sometimes,” he admitted. “Not like before. Just… now they ask for help.”
You nodded. “They follow you too.”
Finney looked at you. “Why?”
You stared at the empty space beside the bike rack.
“Because you lived,” you said. “And they didn’t.”
Finney swallowed hard.
For the first time, he didn’t feel alone in that truth.
-
By sophomore year, you and Finney had built something unspoken.
It wasn’t friendship in the usual sense. No shared gossip, no inside jokes, no messy high school drama. It was a recognition that you were both connected in ways no one else could understand.
You gravitated toward each other in the halls without thinking about it, same tables at lunch, same library corners, same shaded side of the quad. He didn’t ask questions when you froze at empty corners. You didn’t push when he went quiet, staring at some distant memory only he could hear.
It was in that silence, over months of avoiding the world together, that the first cracks opened.
One afternoon, you were sitting behind the school near the empty bike racks, knees drawn up, watching the shadows stretch along the asphalt. Finney came up beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the empty stretch of field.
“They’re restless today,” you murmured.
Finney exhaled. “Yeah. I know.”
There was a pause, then he asked quietly, “You ever… see him?”
Your stomach clenched. The Grabber. You hadn’t told anyone. Not even him, not until now.
You swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Finney froze, like he hadn’t expected that to be the answer. “What… what do you mean?”
“He’s… different,” you said carefully. “The boys wander, and watch up close. He doesn’t move. He only watches from far away.”
Finney’s jaw tightened. He glanced at the empty field. “Not like the others.”
“No,” you said. “He doesn’t follow you. He just waits for you to pass by. The others avoid him. They won’t even look at him.”
For a moment, you thought he’d pull away. But instead, he just nodded.
“Good,” he muttered. “They shouldn’t have to.”
Something shifted that day. Sharing that secret wasn’t about fear, it was about trust. From that point on, you weren’t alone in seeing the things most people would call impossible. And he wasn’t alone in hearing them.
From then on, your friendship deepened in quiet, almost imperceptible ways.
You learned each other’s triggers without talking. He would instinctively block you from empty hallways or doorways, knowing the shadows made your chest tighten. You’d nudge him back to the present when he was stuck in a memory he couldn’t forget.
You were careful not to speak too much. He was careful not to force answers from the dead. But you existed for each other in a way that made the world’s impossibilities feel just a little smaller.
Slowly, that trust grew into something else.
It started in small ways.
He would bring you coffee on mornings you’d stayed up too late, silently passing it across the library table while your eyes stayed locked on the empty space where the boys flickered in and out of sight. You would doodle on his notebook margins, offering small distractions from the memories that clung to him.
One night after a particularly bad dream, he called. You could hear the fear in his voice, restrained but raw. You didn’t panic. You just stayed on the line, grounding him with silence when words failed, letting him know he wasn’t alone.
Then came the afternoon he found you crouched on the bleachers, shaking from a ghostly sight, your eyes fixed on a shadow at the edge of the field. Without a word, he sat beside you, shoulders touching. His presence was steady, like an anchor. You leaned into it, letting yourself cry quietly against the tension you’d been holding for months.
Moments like that became routine. Moments where neither of you had to explain the trauma, the ghosts, the memories. Moments where neither of you had to be “normal.”
Eventually, it changed.
It started with accidental touches, fingers brushing as you handed each other books or papers. Hands lingering just a second longer than necessary. Then, one cold afternoon, he tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear while you watched the shadows flicker. Neither of you said anything, but neither of you pulled away.
By late sophomore year, the trust and care you’d built had softened into something undeniable. He kissed you quietly behind the school library, where no one could see, where only the wind and the long shadows bore witness. Your first kiss wasn’t dramatic or explosive, it was a shared acknowledgment that you were no longer carrying your trauma alone.
After that, being together became a way of surviving. You helped him process what he’d been through, and the calls from the dead. He helped you cope with what you saw. You walked hallways side by side, braced each other through nightmares, and learned to breathe again in the spaces haunted by the things most people would rather forget.
By the end of sophomore year, you weren’t just friends. You were partners in survival, in witnessing, and in love.
-
1982 didn’t come quietly.
The spirits had been restless for weeks now, more visible to you, louder for Finney. Not dangerous. Just insistent. As if something in the world was shifting and they could feel it before the living.
You and Finney handled it the same way you handled everything else.
Together.
It was late afternoon when you found him in his room, sitting cross legged on the floor with the window open, autumn air drifting in. The phone rested beside him, torn from the wall. He looked tired but calm, the way he always did when he’d already processed whatever they’d said.
You leaned in the doorway. “Busy day?”
He glanced up and smiled instantly, the tension leaving his shoulders like it always did when he saw you. “You could say that.”
You crossed the room and sat beside him, back against the bed. You didn’t ask what they’d said. You didn’t need to. If it mattered, he’d tell you when he was ready.
You rested your head against his shoulder instead.
“They’re pacing,” you murmured. “Like they’re waiting for a bus that never comes.”
Finney huffed softly.
You smiled. “You okay?”
He turned his head just enough to rest his temple against yours. “Yeah. Better now.”
That was one of the things you loved about him, how honest he was. No pretending. No burying things to spare you. Just quiet truth, offered gently.
You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. His thumb traced slow circles against your skin, grounding, familiar.
“They’re not scared,” you said after a moment. “Just… impatient.”
“Feels like they’re calling every half hour. Wish they knew how to explain it without freaking me out.”
You laughed quietly. “We’re way past that.”
He squeezed your hand. “We really are.”
A shadow shifted near the corner of the room. One of the boys, face decayed beyond recognition, watching but not intruding. You glanced at him briefly, then back to Finney.
“They don’t mind us,” you said. “Not like before.”
Finney smiled faintly. “They never did.”
You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there. He turned his head just in time for it to land at the corner of his mouth instead.
You pulled back, amused. “Unintentional.”
“Not complaining,” he said, lips tugging upward.
You kissed him properly then slowly and unhurried. Not desperate. Not afraid. Just two people choosing each other in the quiet.
When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. “You still see him?” he asked quietly.
You knew who he meant.
“Less,” you answered honestly. “When I do, he looks… weaker.”
Finney nodded. “Good.”
You shifted closer, tucking yourself under his arm. “If things get worse—”
“They won’t,” he said gently. “And if they do, we’ll handle it. Like we always do.”
You smiled, eyes drifting half-closed. “You’re annoyingly stable, you know that?”
He chuckled. “You keep me that way.”
Outside, the light began to fade, shadows stretching long across the walls. The spirits lingered, restless but calm, watching two of the living exist without fear.
Finney kissed the top of your head.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for staying.”
You tilted your head up to look at him, heart full in that quiet, steady way that only came from safety.
Summary: Camp is cancelled, your stuck in a blizzard and the cherry on top, you have an interaction with the paranormal
a/n: Hey guys sorry this took so long! I must have re-written this at least 15 times lmao. Sorry for the wait, I hope you enjoy this chapter and as always thank you for reading and interacting with my work!
Previous -> here
warnings: vivid descriptions of gore and vomit
words: 3756
If you had to name one thing you were grateful for upon arriving at Camp Alpine, it would be the bunk beds tucked beside the old, rattling heaters.
The drive had been a nightmare, the ice covered winding roads that were barely visible through the heavy snowfall. You could still feel the faint ache in your knuckles from how hard you had gripped your steering wheel. The blizzard hadn’t let up once, swallowing you whole as you tried to keep your eyes locked on Ernesto’s taillights.
To tie it altogether, camp was cancelled and you were all stuck here for who knows how long.
Great.Just great.
The cold had long since settled into your bones, creeping in through the seams of your coat, burrowing itself into your skin. By the time Mustang had dropped you and Gwen off at your assigned cabin, the exhaustion had fully caught up to you. Your limbs felt heavy, fingers stiff as you rubbed your hands together.
The cabin smelled faintly of old wood and dust, with the occasional groan from heaters struggling to do their job. Dropping your bags onto the wooden floor with a small thud as you sat on the lower bunk mattress, springs creaking under your weight. The heat from the radiator was by no means strong, but compared to the freezing air outside it felt like heaven.
For a moment, you allowed your eyes to slip shut.
God you were tired.
Gwen’s bag hit the floor a second later.
“…Well,” she muttered.
You let out a quiet, tired laugh, dragging your hands over your face. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
Gwen sat on the bunk across from you with a tired groan. “It could be worse.”
You glanced around the dim cabin, raising a brow. “How?”
“We could’ve gotten stuck on the road?”
“Don’t jinx it. We still have to get back down eventually.”
“Fair.”
As you began to unpack your thoughts began to drift. The blizzard howled faintly outside, wind rattling against the cabin walls. You didn’t want to be awake any longer than you had to be. Crawling into your bunk you thought about the car ride, to Finney. To the way things had almost felt normal again.
Almost.
-
Sleep had consumed you before you could even register it. One moment you were curled up in your blanket that smelled like home, the weak hum of the heaters and wind howling against the window filling the silence. The next you were slowly blinking awake, eyes adjusting to the dark. For a second, you didn’t move. Just laying on your back, staring at the wooden bed frame of the bunk above you, trying to piece together where you were.
Much to your dismay it was still dark, save for the orange glow from the heaters. The storm hadn’t let up either, the wind still howled faintly against the walls. The sound of snow hitting against the window filled the cabin with an uneven, rhythmic clatter.
Your head felt heavy. Disoriented.
A small creak from Gwen’s bunk caught your attention, gaze snapping toward Gwen’s bunk.
At first, it didn’t register properly.
She was hanging off the side of the bed. Her upper body leaned so far over the edge it looked uncomfortable, one arm dangling toward the floor like she’d dropped something and was trying to grab it.
“Gwen?” you called, your voice thick with sleep. “Everything alright?”
No answer.
A small knot formed in your stomach.
Her body straightened to look at you, but her eyes remained shut. Before you could fully process it, Gwen slid off her bunk and started walking toward you. The wooden floorboards creaked with each step she took.
“Hey—” You leaned forward, reaching out instinctively. “Gwen, wake up—”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she dropped to her knees beside your bunk, bending down like she was searching for something underneath it. Your stomach twisted.
“What are you doing…?”
You reached down, fingers just brushing her shoulder—
And then Gwen violently lurched backward.
Your heart slammed against your ribs as you stumbled back a step. “Jesus—what the fuck—”
Gwen scrambled onto her feet in one jerking motion and bolted back toward her bunk, climbing onto it with frantic, disjointed movements.
You swung your legs over the side of your bunk, the wood creaking quietly as you moved towards her. “Gwen,” you said, more urgently now as you outstretched your arms. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
You smelt it before you could hear it. A nauseating smell began to fill the cabin. The pungent smell was followed by a faint, sickening sizzle. At first, your brain refused to understand it. Then you could almost feel your throat begin to clog as the burning smell hit you. It felt as if you had inhaled thick amounts of smoke, your breath caught in your throat.
“Gwen?” You managed to rasp.
She let out a strangled yelp as she fell forward. You barely caught her, your arms wrapping around her instinctively as her full weight slammed into your chest. Her body trembled violently, her breathing uneven, broken. But still Gwen’s eyes never opened.
“Gwen—Gwen, wake up!” Panic surged through you now. You shook her lightly, then harder. “Come on, wake up, you’re okay—”
Another strangled sound tore from her throat before she wrenched herself away. Gwen stumbled back onto her feet, her movements erratic and unstable as she began backing away from you. Your hands hovering in the air where she’d been.
That’s when you noticed it. The sharp metallic smell that had mixed into the smog. It smelt of decay and rot. It smelt of death. The smell hit the back of your throat and travelled its way into your gut. Slowly you looked down onto your trembling hands. Your stomach dropped and everything inside you went cold.
Blood.
Dark. Wet. Blood.
It coated your palm, dripping down between your fingers. Mixed in with it were burnt pieces of Gwen’s charred flesh, now stuck onto your palms. Your stomach twisted violently.
“No—no—”
The bile rose instantly, your body rejecting what your eyes were seeing. Gwen’s scream shattered through the cabin. The unrelenting high pitch snapped you out of your trance. You surged forward again, grabbing her before she could fall, your arms wrapping tightly around her shaking frame as she thrashed weakly in your grip.
“I’ve got you—I’ve got you,” you said, your voice coming out rushed, uneven, desperate. “You’re okay—you’re okay, it’s just a dream, Gwen, you’re safe—”
Her body was limp against yours. Your body wanted to scream, to cry but you just couldn’t. Not with the intense burning you felt in your throat, not with the smell nulling your senses.
“It’s just a dream,” you repeated, the words tumbling over themselves now, barely coherent. “You’re safe, nothing’s going to hurt you—I won’t let anything hurt you—”
Salty tears had begun to well in your eyes, daring to escape. The sting was becoming unbearable. At some point, you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince anymore. Gwen’s screams only grew louder, more terror filled and frantic.
Then you made the horrible decision to look up. You shouldn’t have. You knew that somewhere deep down that you shouldn’t have tore your eyes from the floor, but you did.
On the other side of the window there was someone standing outside. You could just barely see their silhouette as your eyes tried to adjust to the darkness outside. Squinting you could make out the figure. It was a boy, no older than the age of twelve.
At first, he was just a shape. A dark silhouette barely visible through the frost covering the glass. Then your eyes adjusted, the sigh knocking the remaining air out of your lungs. His face wasn’t whole.
It looked like it had been split. Blood steadily poured down his remaining features, dripping down his chin, soaking into his shirt. The split in his face wasn’t right down the middle, it was jagged and uneven. It looked as if something had clawed the right side of his face off.
His left eye darted wildly, almost searching for something. His unfocused and frantic gaze disappeared the second it locked on you. In what was left of his expression you couldn’t see anger. His expression was filled with pain and fear, deep unrelenting fear. Your heart dropped so fast it felt as if you were falling with it.
His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. His mouth closed and opened again, like a fish that had been pulled onto land gasping desperately for air. Your grip on Gwen tightened instinctively, your entire body trembling now.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible over her screams. “I won’t let anything hurt you. You’re safe. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.”
The words that slipped from your mouth felt wrong and hollow, because this didn’t feel like a dream. This felt real. The smell, the blood still slick onto your hands, this is real. The meaningless words were the only remaining part of the false hope that you would wake up in a cold sweat.
Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning everything out. Screwing your eyes shut, your grip tightened around Gwen. A nihilistic optimism had begun to consume your thoughts as you braced for the inevitable.
At least I won’t be alone in the end.
Your eyes snapped open at the sound of the cabin door being slammed open so hard it caused the walls to rattle. Through Gwen’s screams and the disorientating ring in your ears you could make out a voice. Maybe it wasn’t real, a figment of your imagination accepting that you’re now dead-
“Sunny! Gwen!” The voice yelled.
Finney.
His voice was raw and filled with panic. You snapped your head towards him, watching him rush into the cabin. As his gaze landed onto you and Gwen, you could see the fear in his wide eyes.
“What the hell is going on—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Didn’t need to.
Gwen screamed again, her body jerking violently in your arms.
Finney crossed the space between you in seconds, grabbing her shoulders, his hands firm but careful as he tried to steady her.
“Gwen—hey—look at me, wake up, you’re okay—”
The moment his hands replaced yours, something in you broke.
The tension filling your body snapped. The adrenaline acting as the very fragile thread holding you together had loosened. In the background you could hear Finney trying to calm down a now very awake Gwen, but your gaze remained where the boy had once stood..
The ringing in your ears surged, drowning everything else out completely now. Your vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting slightly as heat rushed up your throat.
You stumbled back. One step, then another. Your stomach had begun to churn violently. Everything had happened so fast, it was too much. You barely made it past your bunk before it hit.
You doubled over as bile forced its way up your throat making you gag harshly. You could feel your esophagus and mouth burn while the acidic taste overwhelmed your senses. It splattered onto the wooden floor beneath you, your body convulsing as you struggled to breathe through it.
Your hands shook.
Your whole body shook.
Behind you, Gwen’s screams began to fade, weakening into uneven sobs. Finney’s voice followed, softer but still frantic as he tried to keep her steady.
But you couldn’t focus on that.
Couldn’t focus on anything.
Your vision swam as you wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.
Your gaze dropped.
Your hands were still stained red. Your stomach twisted again, another wave threatening to come up as your mind replayed it all in flashes. Closing your eyes, you could see it all. The blood, the boy in the window. Even the smell of burning was still vivid in your memory.
Your heart pounded violently against your ribs. This wasn’t just Gwen’s dream. It couldn’t be. Because you had seen it too.
-
The silence was deafening in the girls cabin. It almost felt wrong, as if the walls were holding their breath still braced for impact.
Gwen had gone with Finney not long after everything had settled. She hadn’t argued. Hadn’t even really looked at you either as Finney guided her out, hand on her shoulder. She was still half out of it, eyes glassy and distant as if he hadn’t fully come back yet.
Finney had looked at you though. His eyes bore into yours as he guided Gwen out of the cabin. His dark eyes were soft and filled with desperation, practically begging you to come. You told him you’d join them soon, then you were alone in the cold empty cabin.
The bathroom light flickered faintly overhead as you stood at the sink, gripping the edge hard enough that your knuckles had gone pale. The mirror in front of you was slightly warped, the glass old and uneven, bending your reflection just enough to make it feel unfamiliar.
You looked off. Some of the colour had returned to your face, but your eyes were too bloodshot and wide. It was as if your body hadn’t completely caught up with your mind yet. Swallowing, you forced your gaze away as you shakily reached for your toothbrush. The moment the minty toothpaste scent hit your nostrils you could feel some of the remaining tension lift from your body.
It was stupid, comical even how such a small thing could help. The toothpaste cut through the lingering smell, just as stubborn as it was pungent. It refused to leave no matter how many times you scrubbed your hands raw under the scalding water. The smell of burnt, rotting flesh.
You brushed harder and longer than necessary, like you could scrub the memory out of your mouth the same way you tried to scrub it out of your skin. It didn’t work. It wasn’t working. Your hands paused mid-motion, you could still smell it.
God.
You spat quickly, rinsing your mouth again and again until your gums ached, then shut the tap off harder than needed. The empty silence rushed back in immediately. You wiped your hands on your pants, before forcing yourself to move, to do something.
The floor.
Right.
You needed to clean the floor.
Your gaze drifted to the small mess you’d barely managed to wipe up earlier. Your stomach twisted again, but this time nothing came up.There wasn’t anything left. You’d emptied everything out already, still the memory lingered.
You moved on autopilot, opening cabinets, rummaging through drawers until you finally found a spray bottle filled with some questionable green liquid.
Good enough.
You sprayed it across the wood, watching it pool and spread unevenly. Your mind didn’t stay focused for long. It couldn’t. It slipped. Back to everything.
Were you in too deep?
The thought came quietly..
Has this happened before?
Your hands slowed.
What the fuck just happened?
You exhaled shakily, dragging a rag across the floor in slow, uncoordinated motions. Your body felt heavy now, like the adrenaline had drained out all at once and left you hollow in its wake.
Your pulse still thudded in your ears. Not as loud as before. But too fast, still wrong. When you were done or when you couldn’t force yourself to keep going, you let the rag fall from your hand.
Then you sank down with it. The wood was cold beneath you, seeping through your clothes, but you didn’t care. You just laid there. Staring up at the ceiling. Your body didn’t feel like yours. Your thoughts didn’t feel like yours.
Everything felt distant. Muted. As if you were underwater and everything else was happening somewhere above you. You turned your head slowly toward the window. It was still dark, still snowing.
You could probably get a few hours of sleep if you tried. If you could even make it back to your bunk. Honestly, you weren’t sure you could. You’d probably just stay here on the floor.
Creak.
Your entire body tensed instantly. Every muscle locked. Your heart slammed back to life like it had been waiting for this exact moment.
The cabin door had been opened.
Your hand shot out, grabbing the spray bottle before your brain could catch up. You scrambled to your feet, breath shallow, grip tightening around the plastic like it was actually going to do something.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, voice shaky. “Okay, not doing that again—”
“Cleaning spray? Seriously?”
You froze. You knew that voice.
Finney.
Your head snapped toward the door and there he was. Walking towards you, hair messier than usual. You could see the exhaustion in his eyes. Finney was here, he’s real. He’s not whatever the hell you’d seen earlier.
Your body moved before you could think. Before you could stop yourself. You crossed the room in two quick steps and crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you buried your face into the crook of it like you’d done a hundred times before.
Warm.
He was warm. Your grip tightened and for a second, Finney went completely still. Caught off guard. Then his arms came up around you automatically, one hand pressing gently against your back like he was grounding you.
“Whoa—hey—” he murmured, voice softer now. “Easy…”
You didn’t let go.
You couldn’t.
Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt. He smelled like smoke and cold air and something so familiar underneath it all that made your chest ache.
“I thought—” your voice broke, muffled against his skin. “I thought it was happening again.”
Finney’s hand stilled slightly against your back. That made you pull back just enough to look at him. His expression had changed. The faint amusement from before was gone. His eyes flicked over your face, taking in everything. The tear tracks you hadn’t noticed, the way your hands were still shaking.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. Totally. That’s why I almost maced you with bathroom cleaner.”
That got the faintest hint of a smile out of him.
“Good to know I almost died like that.”
You dropped your gaze first. “…Gwen okay?”
Finney nodded slightly. “Yeah. She woke up. Doesn’t want to talk about it.” He hesitated. “She said she saw something, though.”
Your stomach tightened.
“…Me too.”
His eyes snapped back to yours.
“You—what?”
“There was a boy,” you said quietly, the words feeling wrong the second they left your mouth. “Outside the window. He—” you swallowed hard. “He was… messed up. Like really messed up.”
Finney stared at you, like he was trying to figure out if you were joking. You weren’t.
“I didn’t say anything before,” you continued, voice unsteady. “Because I thought maybe it was just… part of whatever Gwen was seeing. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt—real.”
Finney ran a hand through his hair, pacing once into the room before stopping again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s kind of the problem.”
You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold again.
“Finney…”
He didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he let out a slow breath and tightly wrapped you into his arms. “I’m so sorry Sunny. I’m so fucking sorry.”
The words hit you harder than you expected.
“What?”
He glanced at you now, jaw tightening slightly.
“For before. The fight. For what just happened. For everything.”
Your chest ached as you rubbed small circles onto his back. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he cut in quietly. “I was an asshole.”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “You weren’t the only one.”
“Yeah, but I meant what I said.” He hesitated. “At least… some of it.”
Your throat tightened.
“Which part?”
He looked down at the floor for a second before answering.
“The part where it felt like you betrayed me.”
That stung.
“I didn’t,” you said, your voice quieter this time. “I swear I didn’t, Finney.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know that now. I just—” he exhaled sharply. “It felt like everyone was deciding what I needed without actually asking me.”
You nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
“And then you—” he stopped, shaking his head. “When you said maybe that’s why nothing gets better…”
You flinched.
“Yeah. I know. That was—”
“That hurt,” he said bluntly.
“I know,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
Your eyes burned.
“I meant…” you struggled for the words. “I meant I hate seeing you like this. Like you’re carrying everything by yourself and won’t let anyone help you. Not because you’re broken or anything—but because you don’t have to do it alone.”
Your voice cracked slightly.
“I just didn’t say it right.”
Finney was quiet.
When you looked up at him again, his expression had softened. Just a little.
“…I don’t know how to let people help,” he finally admitted.
The honesty in his voice hit you harder than anything else.
“I know,” you said gently.
“I shouldn’t have said I didn’t need you,” he added, voice quieter now. “That was bullshit.”
Your chest tightened.
“…That one really sucked, yeah.”
He let out a weak huff of air, almost a laugh.
“Yeah. I figured.”
Your eyes stung again, vision blurring slightly.
“I thought I lost you,” you admitted softly.
Finney’s expression shifted immediately.
“You didn’t.”
“It felt like it.”
Something in his face cracked at that.
“Yeah,” he said. “It kind of felt like that for me too.”
That was it.
That was the breaking point.
The tears you’d been holding back all night finally spilled over, your shoulders shaking as everything caught up with you at once. The fear, the fight, the exhaustion.
“Hey—hey—” Finney stepped closer instantly, pulling you back into him.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
You buried your face into his chest, gripping his shirt tightly as the sobs finally came.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I didn’t mean any of it—I was just mad and scared and—”
“I know,” he murmured, holding you tighter. “I know. I’m sorry too.”
His voice wasn’t steady either. You felt it. The way his breathing hitched slightly. The way his grip tightened just a little too much. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sat there, holding onto each other like if you let go something would fall apart.
summary: After a weekend of blurred lines and half-spoken feelings, the truth hangs between them, fragile and trembling.
a/n: We all love male yearning! Also because I'm going into the plot of TBP 2 this will probably be a 15 part series. Thank you so much and enjoy reading!
Previous -> here Next -> here
words: 6434
The first thing you feel is warmth.
Not the blanket, not the pillow — Finney.
His arm is draped over your waist like he fell asleep guarding you, not holding you. His breath is soft against the back of your neck, slow, steady, safe in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in a long time. Morning light slips through the curtains in thin gold lines, painting the room in the kind of quiet that shouldn’t feel this peaceful.
You blink slowly. Right. You’re in his bed, because last night happened. Because last night you kissed him until you forgot how to breathe, and then you crept into his house with him like a bad idea wrapped in soft footsteps and adrenaline.
You should leave. Or say something. Or breathe normally.
Instead you lie there, listening to the tiny sleepy noises Finney makes. The faintest sigh, the brush of his knee against the back of yours, the way his fingers twitch like he’s dreaming about reaching for something he’s scared to lose.
You.
Your chest tightens. He murmurs your name in his sleep, soft, almost questioning and something under your ribs threatens to break open entirely.
You turn just enough to see him. He looks softer in the morning light. His hair is a disaster, his lips still faintly swollen from the kiss, his face relaxed in a way you rarely get to see.
The thought sends a warm, aching shock through you. You reach up and brush a strand of hair from his forehead and his eyes flutter open. They’re filled with sleep and confusion, then softness.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice so quiet it barely exists.
You swallow. “Hey.”
He blinks at you for a second, like he’s making sure you’re real. His hand loosens around your waist, not pulling away, just offering you the choice. You lean into his touch.
“Are you… okay?” he asks, morning-rough, gentle, careful in the way only Finney is.
The dream still lingers, the grief, the phone, the drive, but it feels far away now, muted by his warmth, his presence, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something he’s terrified to wake up from.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “I think so.”
“Good,” he exhales like he’s been holding that breath all night.
Your faces are still close, closer than friendly, closer than safe and for a second you both just stare, suspended in something fragile and new.
Then he leans in, hesitating on instinct, giving you a chance to pull back.
You don’t.
Your lips brush, light, tentative and he sighs against your mouth, the softest sound of relief. You kiss him again, slower this time, more gentle and so full of unspoken things that your hands tremble where they rest on his chest.
You could stay like this forever.
Which is why fate chooses that exact moment to ruin everything. A floorboard creaks outside the door. You freeze and Finney goes absolutely still.
Then—
Three sharp knocks.
The knock isn’t gentle. It’s purposeful. Annoyed. The exact rhythm of someone who already knows they’re right. Finney jolts awake beside you, groggy confusion crumpling his face.
“Finney Blake,” Gwen calls through the door, voice cutting as a scalpel,
“your chauffeur’s here. Wake up.”
Your stomach drops.
Finney’s eyes snap open, fully awake now. “Oh—oh my god.”
Gwen knocks again, louder. “You want me to tell her you’ll be late?”
You and Finney freeze like two raccoons caught in a kitchen.
He whispers, horrified, “She saw your car.”
You whisper back, “No shit, Finney.”
Another knock, sharper. “Open the door before I kick it in.”
Finney runs a hand through his hair, panicked. “Stay here. Hide. I’ll, I don’t know, I’ll handle it.”
He stumbles out of bed, almost trips on the blanket, then yanks the door open just enough to block her view.
Gwen’s standing there in mismatched slippers and a sweatshirt, hair tangled, looking like she’s been awake for exactly three minutes and is already done with both of you.
She doesn’t say hello.
She squints at Finney. “…You smell of cigarettes.”
Finney dies internally. You want the floor to swallow you.
Gwen pushes past him with one finger to his shoulder. Not even a shove, just a “move, idiot.”
“Morning,” she says dryly, spotting you immediately sitting on the edge of his bed with your hair a mess and his shirt halfway sliding off your shoulder.
“Well. This explains the car.”
You open your mouth to speak, she holds up a hand. “Nope. Don’t care. Not asking. I’m just here to tell Finney he’s late.”
Finney blinks. “For what?”
She rolls her eyes.
“For school, genius.”
You want to implode. She smirks at your expression, then jerks her thumb toward the hallway.
“Chop chop, lovebirds. Dad gets off in an hour.” With that, she turns, walks away, and calls over her shoulder. “Oh, and use the side door next time. The hinges squeak on the front door.”
-
School feels wrong the second you step onto campus.
Not dangerously wrong, just tilted. Like someone picked up your world and shook it as if it were a snow globe, before setting it back down slightly off center.
You walk through the front doors pretending your heart isn’t still somewhere in Finney’s bed, warm and messy and half dreaming. Pretending Gwen didn’t catch you like a raccoon in a dumpster. Pretending nothing happened.
Except everything did.
The hallway hums with the usual mid week chaos, lockers slamming, someone laughing too loud, somebody else arguing with a vending machine like it personally betrayed them. You’ve walked this hall every day for years, but today it feels different. Or maybe you feel different.
Your brain keeps replaying the morning in loops you can’t outrun. Finney’s sleepy voice, the way his hand hesitated at your waist, the soft panic when Gwen knocked, the kiss that still lingers like an echo on your lips.
-
You’re just trying to wash your hands. Truly. That’s all.
That’s a lie.
You’re going because your brain has been short-circuiting since sunrise and you desperately need thirty seconds where no one is looking at you like you forgot how to blink.
The bathroom is mercifully empty. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as you lean over the sink, splash cold water on your face, and stare at your reflection like it personally owes you an explanation. You look normal.
Totally normal, absolutely don’t look like someone who woke up in Finney Blake’s bed.
You’re drying your hands when the door swings open. Gwen walks in.
You freeze.
She freezes.
Her eyes narrow instantly, like a bloodhound catching the scent of emotional chaos.
“Oh good,” she says flatly. “I was looking for you.”
You consider launching yourself out the tiny bathroom window. “Please don’t.”
She ignores that, locking the door behind her. Very reassuring.
You blink. “…Did you just lock us in?”
“Yes,” she says cheerfully, crossing her arms. “Talk.”
You attempt the world’s worst poker face. “About what?”
Her expression shifts into something slow and evil, like a cat who just caught you eating from the tuna can. You feel as if your soul is about to leave your body.
“Gwen… please.”
She waves her hand. “Shh. Let me have this. I’ve been waiting all day.”
You blink. “…Did you just lock us in?”
“Yes,” she says cheerfully. “This is a safe space. For bullying.”
You groan. “Gwen.”
She stares at you. Gwen Blake has always been frighteningly observant, but today she looks like she’s trying to read your soul. “So how’s your morning been?” She asks, tilting her head. “Sleep okay?”
You glare. “You know damn well how my morning was.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, leaning against the sink, grinning. “I saw your car. I saw you in his shirt. I saw Finney stumbling around the house like he’d just discovered feelings for the first time and didn’t know what to do with them.”
You bury your face in your hands. “I hate this.”
“No you don’t,” she says. “Now.” She clasps her hands together dramatically. “Let’s talk.”
You groan. “Can we not do this in the bathroom-” She cuts you off by lifting a finger like a teacher.
“Now.” She sits cross legged on the counter, staring at you like she’s about to diagnose your sins. “I don’t need the details. Actually, no, that’s a lie—I want the details, but I’m morally opposed to hearing them because ew, my brother.”
“Thank you?”
“Listen, I don’t care about the… grotesque details. What I care about is why Finney looked like he was about to throw up for ten straight minutes when he was making you both breakfast.”
Your heart stutters. “He— what?” You grip the sink. Hard.
She softens just a fraction, in the way only Gwen can without losing even an ounce of her chaos. “Look… Finney’s weird. You’re weird. But he likes you. A lot. And you like him. A lot. And I don’t have the patience to watch you two pine like idiots.”
“I’m not— we’re not—” You groan. “Gwen, it’s complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated,” she says, hopping down from the sink’s counter. “But Finney is not.” Gwen begins to pace like a lawyer giving an argument to a jury. “He is quiet. He is soft. He gets scared. And he cares about people so intensely that it eats him alive. So if you’re going to jump into his bed, metaphorically or literally you need to stop looking like you’re about to bolt every five minutes.”
Your stomach flips. “I’m not bolting. I just… don’t want to screw this up.”
Gwen goes quiet for a long moment. Then, surprisingly gently, she says, “I know. Just don’t hurt him and don’t make him think last night was a mistake.”
Your chest tightens. “It wasn’t.”
Gwen’s expression shifts into approval mixed with something smug. “Good. Great. Fantastic. Then maybe tell him that. Preferably before he convinces himself you’re secretly repulsed by his entire existence.”
You blink. “He thinks that?”
She raises both brows. “Have you met my brother?”
You sigh, defeated.
“So here’s my question, so do you or do you not have feelings for my brother?” She’s directly in your personal space now. You hesitate, which is enough. “You do,” she gasps
You sputter as your face grows warmer. “I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to! Your face says it all, very loudly, I might add. Like a full Broadway performance.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why are you like this?”
“Because,” she says, spinning dramatically on her heel, “Finney really likes you. Like he stares at the ceiling thinking about you while whispering to himself like a Victorian ghost.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out except a noise that can only be described as emotional buffering.
Gwen watches you like she’s observing some rare, awkward species. “Oh my god,” she breathes, delighted. “You’re malfunctioning. This is incredible.”
“Gwen,” you groan, tugging at your hair. “Please. I’m already dying.”
She pats your shoulder with the sympathy of someone comforting a drowning person while holding the life jacket just out of reach. “Anyways, Finney. Feelings. Your turn.”
You swallow. “I… do. Okay? I do have feelings for him.”
Gwen gasps loudly, like she’s in a soap opera, “I knew it! Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m a genius. I’m a prophet. I should start charging for my emotional detective work.”
“Please stop talking,” you beg.
She absolutely does not. “This is amazing. This is better than TV. I’ve been suffering through your mutual pining forever.
Your brain blanks. “What—”
She waves that off. “Not the point. The point is, he likes you. You like him. And I swear on every crayon I’ve ever snapped in anger, if you two don’t talk to each other like functioning humans, I will lock you in a closet until you do.”
The bell rings before you can answer.
“Listen. I’m happy for you both. But if you break his heart, I’m legally obligated to punch you.” She unlocks the door and pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.
“And,” she adds, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, “I like you. Don’t make me regret that.”
Then she’s gone, leaving you standing in the bathroom with your pulse hammering and a very stupid, very unstoppable warmth blooming in your chest.
-
The hallway noise hits you all at once, lockers slamming, chatter, shoes squeaking but it all feels like you’re hearing it from underwater. Your head is spinning. Your stomach is doing something medically concerning. Your face must look like pure emotional damage.
You’re in the library, turning the corner and nearly colliding with Amy. She stops dead. Her eyes widening.
“Oh my god what happened? Are you okay?” She reaches out like she’s ready to catch you if you crumble. “You look…” She squints. “Um. Not great.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out besides a fragile noise.
Amy’s concern spikes. “Oh my god, what happened? Did someone say something to you? Did someone do something to you?” She steps closer, voice softer. “Talk to me.”
“It’s… nothing.”
“That is the least convincing thing I’ve heard today,” she says gently. “Sit.”
You blink. “What?”
She puts a hand on your arm. “Sit. Before you fall over.”
You sit on the nearest chair you can find, because your legs don’t argue.
Amy sits in a chair across from you, studying your face like she’s assessing for emotional damage.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Your face is doing that thing where it looks like you’re either about to cry, or confess to tax evasion.”
You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “Amy.”
“No, seriously,” she says, her voice softening even more. “You look shaken. Like… actually shaken. Did something happen? Did someone say something? Because you look like you just got hit by a truck full of feelings.”
You exhale shakily. “Gwen talked to me.”
Amy tilts her head. “She talked to you like, ‘hey, how are you,’ or talked to you like ‘creating a new type of trauma level’?”
You don’t answer. Your silence is enough.
Amy sits beside you, not touching you, just close enough to be grounding. She waits a moment, then speaks calmly. “Okay. Then… was it something bad? Or just a lot?”
Your shoulders sag. “A lot.”
She nods, understanding flickering across her face. “Okay. Okay. Not bad. Just overwhelming.”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Amy gives you a small, warm look. “Do you… want to talk about it? Or should I pretend I didn’t see you looking like your soul is hanging off you like a wet coat?”
You hide your face in your hands again.
She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not gonna pry. But I am worried. And also curious. But I'm mostly worried.”
You lift your head.
Amy studies your expression, carefully, kindly and something clicks.
“Oh,” she says softly. “This is… feelings. Like, actual feelings.”
Your throat tightens.
Amy’s eyes widen just a little, but her voice stays gentle. “Okay. That’s fine. Totally fine. Feelings don’t kill you. They just make you look like that apparently.”
You groan again.
She smiles a little, nudging you with her knee. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll listen. No pressure. Just… breathe. You’re okay.”
You take a shaky breath. Amy waits, patient but hovering, like she’s afraid you’ll collapse between sentences.
“…Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll tell you. Just, don’t freak out.”
Amy’s eyes widened. “You’re saying that to me? Oh god.”
You swallow hard and force the words out. “So… the weekend happened.”
Amy’s head snaps up. “The weekend as in the ‘you looked like you’d been hit by an emotional semi-truck on Monday’ weekend?”
You nod.
“And?” she prompts gently.
You stare at the table, voice barely above a whisper. “Finney… may or may not have confessed to me.”
Amy’s mouth drops open. “Confessed as in confessed? As in an actual feelings confession?”
“He was drunk.”
“Oh my god,” she whispers, grabbing the arm of your chair like she needs physical stability. “And what did you do?!”
“I took care of him.”
Amy blinks. “Of course you did,” she mutters to herself.
You inhale shakily. “And then… we ended up staying at that motel outside of town.”
Amy’s eyebrows shoot up so fast you hear the wind resistance. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “What happened?”
“That’s a later story,” you say quickly.
Amy presses her hand to her heart. “I’m going to cry. Continue.”
You continue before you lose the nerve. “And then… last night happened.”
“Oh my god,” She whispers, sitting up straighter. “Last night meaning—?”
You stare at the table again. “I kissed him.”
She silently screams with her whole body.
“And then we—uh—we kind of ended up in his house. And his room. And—”
Amy’s jaw drops. “And?”
“We fell asleep,” you say quickly. “Just slept. Like… all tangled up. And it was nice. Too nice. And then this morning Gwen caught us.”
Amy chokes. On air. “What?”
You wince. “She saw my car. And then she did this thing where she looks into your soul and takes notes.”
Amy covers her mouth. “What did she say?” Amy asks softly.
You take another shaky breath. “She said he likes me and that I like him. And that she’ll lock us in a closet until we confess properly.”
Amy snorts, then immediately sobers when she sees your face.
“And she said… not to hurt him. Don't make him think the last few nights were a mistake.”
Amy’s expression softens, something warm and sad and knowing sharpening in her eyes.
“And?” she prompts quietly.
“She told me Finney was making breakfast like he was going to throw up,” you whisper. “Also that he thinks I’m repulsed by him.”
Amy sits back, breathing out a slow, heavy sigh. “Oh… sweetheart.”
You blink hard. Amy reaches out, taking your hand gently. “This isn’t a disaster. This is two idiots who love each other so much it short-circuits their brains.”
Tears sting behind your eyes.
“But you need to talk to him,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Because you’re both torturing yourselves.”
You swallow around the tightness in your throat. “Amy… I’m scared.”
She squeezes tighter. “I know. But he’s more scared and he still chose you.”
You look up at her.
“So choose him back,” she says softly. “Before he convinces himself you don’t want him.”
You let out a trembling breath. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”
Amy gives you a proud smile. “Good. Because if you don’t, Gwen and I will kidnap you both and make you talk.”
You huff out a tiny, pathetic laugh.She bumps your knee with hers. “See? You’re not alone. You’ve got this.”
You huff out a tiny, pathetic laugh.
Amy’s smile softens even more, warm and proud. “There it is,” she murmurs. “I knew you were still in there somewhere.”
“I don’t know what to say to him,” you admit, voice small.
“You don’t need a speech,” Amy says simply. “Just be honest. Tell him what you told me. Tell him you care.”
You stare at her. “That sounds horrifying.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But also necessary. And he deserves to hear it from you.”
Your stomach flips so violently you think it might revolt.
Amy leans forward, nudging your shoulder with hers. “Hey. Seriously. You’ve survived worse than confessing to a boy who is very, very in love with you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It wasn’t supposed to,” she says dryly. “It was supposed to make you stand up.”
You blink. “What?”
She gestures at the door. “Go. Find him. Before his anxiety eats him alive, he decides to join a monastery.”
A startled noise escapes you, half laughing, half a choked breath.
Amy stands, pulling you up with her. “You’re okay,” she says firmly. “You’re allowed to be scared. But you’re not allowed to hide.”
You breathe in. Deep. Shaky. But real.
Amy squeezes your arms once, grounding. “Go get him.”
You nod. The feeling of fear still weighed in your chest, but now joined by something steadier.
Hope.
Behind you, Amy calls out softly, “If you chicken out, I will find Gwen and we will lock both of you in a closet.”
You lift a hand in a weak wave without turning around as you walk out of the library, heart pounding, ready or almost ready to find Finney.
-
You don’t even make it home.
Right after leaving the library, heart still thudding determined to tell Finney everything, your dumb luck kicks in.
Babette’s voice carries across the school parking lot, sharp and panicked. “Hey! You! Yeah, you! Can you cover the rest of Linda’s shift? She went home sick! Please, I’m desperate!”
You freeze mid-step, staring at the familiar figure waving frantically by the lot, your backpack still slung over your shoulder. Your stomach twists. You had plans, important, heart thudding plans. But apparently, your boss had other ideas.
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Of course,” you mutter under your breath, dragging your feet toward your car. You regret it instantly. Finney would have to wait.
Inside, the fluorescent lights are buzzing like hellfire. The radio behind the counter plays Toto’s Africa for the fourth time in an hour, emotional torment was not part of the job description.
Your brain is going insane as you keep replaying how Gwen grabbed your arm, Amy’s voice whispering “go get him,” Finney looking at you like he wasn’t sure if you’d break or kiss him.
You keep staring at the rotary phone on the wall. But you can’t call him now.
God, you want to, but you can’t.
At 5:42 PM the bell over the door jingles and your whole body jolts.You think, for one ridiculous second, it's him. It’s a tired mom with two screaming kids. You want to scream with them.
At 6:15 PM you’re sweeping chip crumbs off the floor and thinking about how his forehead felt against yours when he whispered stay with me. You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he’s home pacing. If he thinks you’re avoiding him.
You want to put your head through the wall.
At 7:50 PM, you’re restocking candy when the bell rings again. Your heart leaps.You turn. Not him. You’re starting to feel stupid, like you made up the whole hopelessly soft night in your head. Perhaps Gwen misread him.
Maybe you misread everything.
By 8:45 PM your chest is tight and your hands won’t stop shaking.
The dream, the confession, the way he pulled you into him like he’d been waiting years it’s all sitting under your ribs with nowhere to go. The clock ticks louder than it ever has. You swear the whole night is mocking you.
At 8:59 PM the doorbell jingles again. You look up.
Finney Blake is standing there. Hood up, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He looks nervous, like he almost turned around twice before making it inside. He scans the store once.
His eyes land on you and he softens in a way that almost makes your knees go out.
He walks up slowly, like he’s afraid to spook you. “Hey,” he says, quiet, rough, a little out of breath. “I, uh… I was waiting for you at your apartment. Thought you might be here.”
Your throat tightens. “I got stuck covering a shift,” you murmur.
He nods once, swallowing hard. “Oh. Okay. I wanted to see you.”
You grip the counter.
His voice dips, softer than the hum of the refrigerators behind you. “Can I wait for you?” he asks. “Til you get off?”
Your breath catches.
He shifts on his feet, nervous. “Only if you want. I can stay outside. Or sit over there, I just…”
He looks away, cheeks a little pink. “I just don’t wanna go home yet. Not without talking to you.”
Your chest cracks open.
You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper, tossing him your keys. “You can wait.”
His shoulders drop in relief, hands uncurling from fists he didn’t realize he’d made.
He gives a small, shy smile, the one he’s reserved only for you.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I'll be waiting in your car.”
He slides into the driver’s seat, doors clicking shut behind him, and rests his hands lightly on the steering wheel. You catch a glimpse of him through the window, leaning back, head tilted slightly, staring out at the street with a quiet intensity.
Waiting. Just like he said
-
Finally, 9:30 rolled around. Your shift ends, and it feels like your legs haven’t moved on their own in hours. You grab your thing despite your hands still shaking slightly from the day’s chaos, and step out into the crisp evening air.
There he is. The car glints faintly under the streetlights, Finney sitting behind the wheel, elbows resting on the steering wheel, head tilted back like he’s been waiting forever. He looks up as you approach, giving a small, almost sheepish smile that makes your chest tighten.
You slide into the passenger seat without a word. The familiar scent of him hits you, and for a second, everything else falls away.
“Hi,” he murmurs, voice quiet but warm.
“Hi,” you reply, trying not to sound like your heart is about to explode.
The engine hums to life, and you feel the small, shared tension in the car. The world outside is fading into a blur of streetlights and asphalt, leaving only the two of you and the unspoken words that have been building for days, weeks, what feels like a lifetime.
He glances at you once, nervously, before focusing back on the road, and you realize: this car, this moment, is exactly where it’s supposed to be.
-
The drive is quiet at first. Finney’s hands rest on his lap, fingers drumming nervously against the fabric of his jeans. You keep your eyes on the road, jaw tight, occasional glancing at him causes your chest to skip. Neither of you says anything, but the tension hums like the car itself is holding its breath.
By the time you pull into the familiar driveway, the sky is a deep shade of indigo, and the house is warmly lit from inside. Mr. Blake’s old sedan is parked in the garage. You and Finney exchange a glance, both knowing the unspoken question.
As soon as you step out of the car, the front door opens. Mr. Blake is standing there, hair slightly mussed, a cup of coffee in hand.
“Evening,” he says, giving you a brief, assessing glance. “Finney, everything okay?”
Finney stiffens, but Mr. Blake waves him off. “Don’t worry about him. He can breathe. You,” he nods at you, “you’re fine staying here. Go on, get comfortable.”
Your stomach flips, half relief and half nerves. Finney mutters something low, but it’s drowned out by the soft click of the door shutting behind you.
You follow Finney into his room, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality. He stands there, hands on his hips, breathing like he just ran all the way home. You open your mouth to say something, anything but he suddenly turns around, eyes shining in a way that makes your stomach drop.
He sits on the edge of his bed like he’s been dropped there, hands hanging uselessly between his knees, chest rising too fast.
He doesn’t look at you at first.
“I’ve been trying not to say this but I need to,” he begins, voice unsteady, almost breaking. He swallows hard, runs a hand through his hair, then finally meets your eyes. “I’ve been feeling this for a long time. About you, about us. I’ve been trying not to say this, for weeks
Your chest tightens. You can feel the words hanging between you like fragile glass.
“This weekend… the concert…” He laughs once, weakly, like it hurts. “God Sunny, I keep going back to it. Every damn day.” He looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he says. “I didn’t want to ruin us.” He stops, searching for a word. “You were so alive that weekend. Happier than I’d ever seen you, and I was terrified that if I said anything, I’d mess it all up.”
You step forward without meaning to, the memory slipping into the room with you. The loud music, the lights, the way he kept looking at you out of the corner of his eye like you were something he wasn’t allowed to stare at.
“And I was drunk,” he whispers.
The room tilts. That’s the part that hits him hardest, you can hear it in his voice.
“I wasn’t supposed to be,” he goes on. “I told myself I’d stay in control, that I wouldn't… y’know.” He lets out a miserable laugh. “But then I kept thinking, ‘It’s fine, she’s right here, she won’t let anything happen.’ And then suddenly I wasn’t fine.”
His fingers dig into his knees.
“You were the only thing keeping me from spiraling,” he says, voice shaking. “Every time I reached for you, you were already there. You kept me upright, kept me safe, and I remember all of it, every second. You putting your hand on my back, brushing my hair out of my face, and telling me I was okay.”
Your chest tightens. He’s not looking at you anymore, he’s staring at the floor like the memory is a weight around his neck.
“I remember what I said,” he admits, voice trembling. “All of it. I remember telling you I liked you. I remember leaning on your shoulder on the bus, telling you are the best thing that ever happened to me. I remember—” His face twists, ashamed. “I remember telling you I wished I could kiss you.”
Your breath catches. He notices, he always notices but he keeps going, the words tumbling out now like he’s been holding them back for too long.
“I drive myself crazy thinking about it,” he admits. “I replay every second from that weekend. The way you danced at the concert, the way you held my hand on the way home.” His voice drops, soft and ruined. “I keep trying to be normal around you, but every time you grab my hand or smile at me, it feels like my chest is going to crack open.”
Your knees nearly give out.
Finney drags a shaky hand over his mouth.
“And the next morning,” he whispers, “you looked at me like you didn’t know what to do with any of it. And I thought—I thought I ruined everything. I thought you hated me for saying it like that. Slurred. Messy. Not… not the way you deserved to hear it.”
His voice cracks. “I wasn’t using you, and I wasn’t saying it because I was drunk.” His eyes lift finally, shining. “I said it because I’d been holding it in for months. Being drunk just made it slip out.”
He curls his fingers in the blanket beside him, knuckles white. “ I’ve been scared to death you think it didn’t mean anything.”
He finally lifts his head. His eyes are red filled with honesty, and a glint of terrified.
“This weekend,” he whispers, “you took care of me in a way no one ever has, and after that night, when you held my face and told me to breathe I realized I couldn’t hide it anymore.”
Your breath catches.
He swallows hard. “I like you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Sober. Always sober. I need you to know that Sunny. I need you to know it wasn’t because I was drunk, it was just the first time I was too tired to pretend anymore.”
He looks at you like he’s standing in the ruins of himself, waiting for whatever you decide to do next.
You stare at him, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. Your lips part, but no sound comes out at first. Your throat feels too tight, like his words are still echoing inside you, ricocheting around your chest.
“Finney,” you murmur, and he flinches like he’s bracing for rejection, but you shake your head.
“No. No, look at me.”
He does.
“Finney…” you whisper, stepping closer without realizing it. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Your voice softens, but the truth pushes out of you like it’s been waiting there for too long. “I was scared. Not of you, never of you. I just… I didn’t want to assume you meant it. I didn’t want to take advantage of you when you weren’t sober.”
You swallow hard, your voice lowering. “But I wanted to.”
His head snaps up.
You force out a shaky, almost embarrassed laugh. “You have no idea how badly I wanted you to mean it. I kept replaying it too. Every moment on that bus, every time you held onto me, everything you said.” Your voice wavers. “I didn’t know if you’d even remember.”
His eyes go wide, breath catching. You step closer, the air between you charged.
“I didn’t pull away because I didn’t want you. I pulled away because I wanted you too much. I wanted to kiss you that night too.”
His breath stutters.
A trembling laugh escapes you. “Watching you act as if everything has been normal is driving me insane.” You reach out, fingers barely brushing his wrist.
Finney goes completely still. Not out of fear, out of shock. His eyes go wide, searching your face, over and over, like he’s trying to memorize every expression you might make.
“You…” he whispers, stepping toward you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “You actually— you really—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. His hand lifts hesitantly, then cups your jaw, thumb trembling against your skin. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes, voice wrecked, “and I will.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Because the next inhale he takes sounds like it breaks him open, and then he’s kissing you. This kiss is not harsh or messy, but filled with every ounce of feeling he’s swallowed.
A kiss that feels like someone letting go of every fear they’ve ever had.
He makes a soft sound in his throat, fingers curling into the back of your shirt like he’s terrified this is a dream.
When he pulls away, just barely, he whispers, “tell me this means something.”
“It means everything.”
Before Finney can inhale the next trembling breath, before his forehead can fall against yours, the bedroom door slams open with zero warning. Finney closes his eyes like he already knows.
Gwen stands in the doorway, arms crossed, expression stretched between triumph and absolute disgust.
“Finally, I thought you two were never gonna get there.”
Finney makes a noise you’ve never heard a human produce. It’s somewhere between a gasp, a choke, and a plea for divine intervention.
“Gwen,” he hisses, face flaming red. “Were you—you weren’t—”
“Do you know how long I’ve had to listen to this slow-burn nightmare?” She cuts him off, pointing between the two of you.
You cover your face with both hands. “Oh my god—”
“No, no,” Gwen says, walking into the room like she owns it. “You don’t get to ‘oh my god’ me. I deserve to celebrate. I’ve had to sit through all this pining, and dramatic sighing every single day.”
Finney looks like he wants to crawl under the bed. “Gwen. Please leave.”
She ignores him entirely.
“And by the way,” she continues, pointing at him with all the sass in the world, “other people live here and the walls in this house are thin. So wrap it up Romeo and Juliet because I don’t want to be traumatized for a lifetime. Gwen says, raising a hand like she’s warding off a demon.
“Gwen!”
She throws up her hands. “What!? I’m happy for you!” Then she squints at the two of you. “But if I hear anything I’m leaving this house and never returning.”
She spins around dramatically, heading for the door. “Oh, and Dad said he’s going to bed, so if you two sneak out or whatever, don’t wake me up. I want plausible deniability.”
The door slams behind her.
Finney groans into his hands. “I’m going to bury myself in the backyard.”
You laugh helplessly until you’re breathless, and when you look at him again, he’s laughing too, face still pink but eyes warm and soft and full of everything he didn’t know how to say before.
He’s still red, still mortified, but when his eyes meet yours again, something warm sparks back to life.
“Gwen has terrible timing,” he murmurs.
You smile. “Yeah. But she’s not wrong.”
He leans in again, quieter this time, more sure. “Can we pick up where we left off?”
When you nod, he kisses you slowly and deeply, like Gwen’s interruption didn’t stop a thing, then pulls back with a breathless laugh.
“Okay,” he says. “Before Gwen breaks down the door again, I need to ask you something.”
“Go for it.”
He cups your jaw, thumbs soft, eyes stupidly earnest, his fingers brushing the back of your hand like he’s memorizing it.
His voice drops to something quiet and trembling, intimate in a way that steals your breath.
“I… I want this. Not just tonight. Not just almost.” He swallows hard, searching your face like he’s terrified he’ll misread you. His thumb traces your cheek like he’s grounding himself, like if he stops touching you he might lose the courage he built up in the last thirty seconds. “I want you. I want us.”
Your heart stutters.
He lets out a shaky breath, forehead almost touching yours.
“Will you be officially mine?” He asks, voice so soft it almost breaks. “ I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not already yours.”
For a second you can’t speak. You can only feel your pulse in your throat, the warmth of his palms, the crackling electric closeness you’ve both been circling for months.
Then it hits you all at once.
“Yes,” you breathe, nodding before the word even fully leaves your mouth. “Finney, yes.”
His exhale comes out almost like a laugh, full of an overwhelming relief. His hands slip to your waist and he pulls you in without hesitation, kissing you again, this time with a joy that wasn’t there before.
When he breaks the kiss, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering through a smile you can feel more than see.
“Good. Because I think I’ve been yours for a long time.”
... IN WHICH finney blake has a lazy morning with his lover after a night of erotic endeavors.
--- ( a continuation of Whiskey and Winter. ) ---
[!!] content contains: smut & fluff. vaginal fingering. oral sex. use of marijuana. foul language.
wc: 1509
request: ✅
not proofread
When she arose the next morning, she couldn't tell if the throbbing against her temple was a headache, or simply the beating of Finney's heart thundering from where she lay on his chest.
Nimble fingers combed through her hair, languid and practiced, a pair of supple lips kissing the crown of her head. Just the way he did last night. (Y/N) hummed and bucked her head into the palm of his hand, and she heard Finney rumble an affectionate chuckle.
"G'morning." He said, his voice quiet with love and hoarse with sleep.
"Hi." Said (Y/N).
"How'd you sleep."
"Mm."
Finney laughed.
"Did I wear you out that much?"
"Mm."
Finney paused the tender brushing of his fingers through her hair to gently brush some loose tendrils from her face, lifting her chin with two fingers and planting a haste kiss onto her lips. "Sorry."
Her response was immediate. She lifted her face with his, keeping her lips interlocked with his when he tried to pull apart. He chuckled into her mouth, and she smiled. "Don't be sorry. It was good." Finn felt his chest swell with both pride and affection at her words. "Oh yeah?"
A gentle nod.
Finney couldn't wipe the lovesick smile off of his face even if he tried.
-
The couple didn't emerge from their shared bedsheets until Mando personally came to retrieve them. He scolded them about breaking camp rules, muttering something under his breath about "newfound desperation in young teens". Whatever that means.
Breakfast was simple. Scrambled eggs, maple-glazed bacon, and a fruit cup. Individuals' choice between hot chocolate and black coffee for a side beverage. Finn, full of angst and a lingering need to feel cool, ordered the coffee. He took one singular sip. (Y/N) made a note to make fun of him for it later.
As the four of them munched on their breakfast, Mando rambled on about old campers and interrogated them on why they're here. Gwen insisted that it was simply for CIT training and service hours. Although Mando didn't believe her, he let up.
Once the four of them were alone, Gwen and Ernie sitting on one side with Finney and (Y/N) on the other, Finn slid a large hand onto her thigh. He send her a sideways smile as he gnawed on a piece of bacon, which she reciprocated, a surge of electricity running through her.
"So..." Ernesto began. Finn quirked an eyebrow. Ernie's soft features twisted into something teasing, something sinister, and my smile dropped.
"What? Why are you looking at us like that?" Finney said, almost directly after (Y/N)'s "Wh-?"
Ernesto shrugged. "Just... it makes sense, is all." Gwen rolled her eyes.
Finn shot him a glare. "What makes sense." Not a question. A demand.
"You guys. Together. I like it."
Finney softened almost immediately. "Oh. Thanks... man." The term of friendly endearment felt foreign out of Finney's mouth. He didn't say that in general, let alone about Ernie Arellano.
"You finally fucked, then?" Gwen said crudely, scraping her fork with her teeth as she took a generous mouthful of egg. (Y/N) choked on her coco.
"I-I mean-" She spluttered. "Gwen!" Finn exclaimed. Gwen shrugged, looking at the two with expectant eyes.
"I- Yeah. Yeah, we did." Finn admitted. His ears felt weirdly hot all of a sudden, so he removed his beanie. He regretted it the second he heard Gwen's snicker – he didn't know if she was laughing at him for having hat hair, or if she was laughing at him for the redness in his cheeks. Either way, annoyance bubbled in his chest.
"Atta boy!" Ernesto encouraged. He lifted a hand to reach over and clap him on the back, but in seeing Finney's glare, he let it slowly sink back into his lap.
"Don't go yabbering about it. If Dad finds out, she'll never be able to stay over again." Finn spoke in a hushed voice, as if his father wasn't ten miles away from them in Denver. Gwen rolled her eyes. "I'm not gonna tell dad, cuntsucker."
(Y/N) laughed. Finney looked at her. Not quite a glare, but definitely not a look of satisfaction. She shut up.
-
They lingered after breakfast ended. (Y/N) had always been more humanitarian than Finney. Hence, she helped Mando and Mustang clean dishes, while Finney smoked a joint in the main hall. Mando yelled at him to stub it out. He pretended not to hear.
He watched her as she scrubbed a plate. His eyes trailed over the practiced movements of her arms, the look of delight that spread across her face as Mustang cracked a joke, the focus in her eyes that remained regardless of any outside distraction. He almost dropped his joint. A sweet, cartoonish grin spread cross his face, his eyes crinkling in the corners. If he hadn't been already, Finn was falling in love. Desperately, hopelessly in love.
He didn't even get to watch Mando and Mustang leave. He was too caught up in the fact that (Y/N) was approaching him. He straightened up, putting the joint in between his lips and pulling his sweater down, as if he still had to Be Cool and Impress The Girl. As if he hadn't won her over already.
"You're watchin' me now?" She slid her arms over his shoulders. He laughed and cupped her hips with his hands. He used one of them to first stub out the joint and toss it in the trash bit ajar from the table he was leaning against.
"I'm always watching you." Finn commented lightly. He cringed at how it sounded aloud.
"Stalker." She jested, mouthing at his jaw. He tilted his head up. "Cuntsucker."
Finney scoffed as she burst into a fit of giggles, walking backwards slowly and dragging him with her. The pair rocked on their heels, backing (Y/N) up into a wall by the window. Finney chuckled. "You dirty dog." He teased. She cupped his face.
"Your cheeks are cold." A touch of concern could be heard in her voice.
"Wanna warm 'em between your legs?"
She gasped. She was shocked; not by the proposition, but by the smoothness at which it was delivered. The noise dissolved into a quiet, secretive giggle.
"Finnigan Blake." She scolded tenderly. He kissed her nose.
"You called me a cuntsucker. So how about you let me live up to my title?" He slid two cold fingers between her legs, feeling the warmth of her pussy through her leggings. She smiled, leaning further into him, slinging her elbows over his neck to drag him in closer. He stumbled into her and pressed his index into her clothed clit. She sighed pleasurably.
Finn nipped at her jaw as his fingers dipped beyond the waistband of her pants. They found her heat quickly, slipping between her folds. He laughed aloud – he hadn't expected her to be this wet already.
He rubbed her clit vertically, teasing her throbbing nub by flicking it up and down. She exuded a breathy moan, her head lolling back and resting against the wall behind her. Finney quickened his movements, coaxing a grunt to fall from her lips. "More," She pleaded.
He laughed, slipping his middle inside of her aching hole, ramming it in as far as it could go. She moaned heartily as he added his ring, then his pointer, curling them decliciously.
"Oh my god, Finn..." She whispered. He began to pump, calculated and meaningful. He wasn't rough, but hard, and extremely passionate. He moved his fingers in a come here motion, His thumb flickering over her clit every once in a while. It made her see stars.
He felt her pussy clench around his fingers, and he hastened. She called out, fingers scratching at his back through his sweater, and he smirked and dropped to his knees. He pulled his fingers out, sucking them clean as he tugged down her pants with his free hand. His lips instantly connected to her thigh as he rid her of her shoes, then her leggings and panties. He hooked a thigh over his shoulder and immediately got to work.
He lapped at her sweet folds, gathering her slick in his mouth before shoving her tongue deep into her hole. She whined, and he withdrew, only to take the wetness from his mouth and swirl it around her clit expertly. He groaned at the taste. "I-I'm so close..." she whimpered, clawing at his hair. He held her thighs in his arms, tugging her impossibly closer.
He shook his head "no" quickly and repeatedly, all while suckling on her clit, and it sent her flying over the edge.
She sprayed, and his mouth dipped down to cup her hole. He gathered her cum in his mouth, using it to work her through the aftershocks. He let it dribble from his lips and soak his chin.
When he stood, he let her fall into him, grabbing a fistful of her ass and laughing a kiss into her hair.
hii! this is part two for Not helping, bud! enjoy <3
warnings: making out, p in v sex, skinny dipping, do not read if ur under 18.
The forest looked completely different at night, tall trees bent over, leaving only small fragments of moonlight to slip through and fall onto the ground in silver patches. You had climbed out the window of your room so you could meet Hiccup, since he had said he wanted to show you something.
— You’re planning to kidnap me? — you protested behind him, but he stayed silent.
Hiccup walked beside you, holding a small lantern whose flame trembled with the gentle wind, illuminating just enough to reveal the narrow path between the roots. Toothless followed close behind, fully awake, his green eyes glowing in the darkness like two living emeralds. There was something almost magical about being there, so far from the houses of Berk, far from any curious gaze.
When you reached the clearing, the soft sound of water was the first thing that filled the air. The lake seemed larger at night, deeper, like a black mirror surrounded by the gentle glow of fireflies dancing above the surface.
The full moon reflected on it so perfectly it looked like a second sky. You took a step forward, fascinated, feeling the cold air brush against your skin. Hiccup watched in silence, he set the lantern on a stone and approached slowly, his brown eyes glinting faintly with the moonlight.
— I come here when i can’t sleep. — he said in a low voice, almost like sharing a secret. — But i’ve never brought anyone… not even Toothless.
The dragon grumbled indignantly, thumping his tail against the ground, which drew a soft smile from Hiccup. He spread a blanket near the smooth stone and, with quick movements, gathered some dry branches. In seconds, a small campfire came to life when Toothless shot a bluish spark toward it, lighting everything with a warm, dancing glow.
— It’s beautiful… — you murmured, enchanted, sitting on the thin cloth. The flame cast trembling shadows around you, like the forest were breathing slowly. Hiccup settled beside you, so close you could feel the warmth of his body.
— Just like you… — he said with a shy, almost embarrassed smile.
His arm rested over your shoulders before gently pulling you closer, like the gesture were already natural between you. You smiled to yourself as you let your head fall onto his shoulder, breathing in his faint scent.
— Hey! I almost forgot… — you pulled away for a moment, straightening up. Your hand dove into your bag until you found what you were searching for. — I stole this from my dad.
You lifted a bottle of liquor, shaking it in front of him with a mischievous grin.
— Mead? — Hiccup raised an eyebrow, surprised.
— Yeah, he won’t even notice it’s gone, and… i thought it’d be fun. — you said, looking at him with a playful spark.
He nodded, curious, you opened the bottle and took a generous sip, feeling the alcohol burn your throat. He took the bottle from you, emboldened by your courage, and took a sip too, only to end up coughing hard at the end, his face turning red, and your laugh echoed through the clearing.
— You’re literally the first Viking who doesn’t like alcohol, you know that? — you teased, taking the bottle back.
— I’m the first Viking for a lot of things, i guess… — he muttered, laughing at himself.
His smile faded a little as he lowered his gaze, thoughtful, fiddling with a piece of bark within reach. Then he slowly lifted his face, watching Toothless leaning against the root of a huge tree, the dragon’s chest rising and falling softly in the rhythm of peaceful breathing.
The fire crackled in the silence that formed between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. You took a deep breath, gathered all your courage, and decided to break the silence somehow.
— So… want to get in? — you asked.
— Where? oh… the lake? — his gestures grew nervous, he took a breath and rested his hands on his lap. — We can… only if you want to… we don’t have to if you don’t want to…
When he turned to look at you, you had already stood up and begin taking off your boots.
— What are you doing? — he asked, and you kept removing your clothes.
— Do you have any extra clothes? Because… i don’t! — you laughed.
Your belt hit the ground, followed shortly by the rest of your clothes.
Before your body was completely bare, Hiccup spun around with his back to you, jaw clenched. Toothless was still looking your way until the boy glared at him, and the dragon tilted his head in confusion before grunting and turning around as well, mirroring Hiccup exactly.
The water was cold when you stepped in, but in a way that awakened every part of your body, as if washing away every worry, every weight of the world.
— You coming? — you called.
Hiccup hesitated for a second, staring at you, frozen. With a deep breath, he removed his boots and turned his back as he pulled off his shirt. You watched his toned back from afar, and it didn’t take long for his clothes to join yours on the ground.
He gasped softly when the water hit his chest, making you laug watching his face completely soften at the sound. The lake’s surface moved gently around you, creating small circles of light as the moon reflected on the waves. You stayed there, at the center of the lake where the water was calm and deep, leaving only your head above the surface, breathing slowly.
At one point, you dove and swam toward him, your hands touching his firm abs, climbing up his body. When you emerged, you were face to face, he leaned in, wet hair stuck to his forehead.
— I like how you’re not afraid of Toothless… or any of this… — he said, but you didn’t answer, not because you didn’t know what to say, but because there was something in the way he spoke, a deep vulnerability.
— I trust you. — that simple words stirred something in him in a way that was visible to you, his shoulders relaxed, his gaze softened, and the silence between you took on a new feeling.
He moved a little closer, and for the first time, you noticed how Hiccup was trembling slightly, not from the cold, but from the courage the moment required. His hands touched your waist under the water, hesitant. You moved closer too, letting your body float near his, your breasts pressed against him.
Hiccup lifted his hand slowly, running his wet fingers along the side of your face, down to your chin. He sighed, almost soundlessly, and your name left his lips as if it were the first time he had ever spoken it. His heart was beating so fast it seemed to echo through the lake itself, then, finally, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was slow, deep, just two people floating in a hidden lake under the full moon, discovering each other. Hiccup kissed you with desire, when you pulled apart, he kept his forehead resting against yours, breathing slowly.
— I don’t want this night to end. — he admitted softly.
— It doesn’t have to… — you replied, your arms wrapped around his neck, Hiccup smiled, that smile that made your chest burn.
Toothless, who had been lying on the shore watching everything with half-closed, sleepy eyes, let out a loud grumble, like announcing he had seen enough, you both laughed, breaking the tension.
— Maybe you should go catch some fish, bud! — Hiccup shouted in his direction and Toothless grunted and disappeared into the shadows.
When Hiccup turned his face toward you again, you couldn’t hold back, your hand grabbed his face, and you pressed your lips to his. He returned the kiss with the same intensity, his hands gripping your thighs so you could wrap them around his waist. Your back hit a nearby rock, and his lips moved down to your neck, biting your skin.
Your wet fingers tangled tightly in his hair, the pleasure building in your stomach becoming almost inevitable. He pressed your body against his with hunger, all of his shyness completely gone, there was only the overwhelming desire to have you for him. You bit your lower lip when you felt his lips kissing along your jawline, trailing down your neck and your shoulders, the most skin the water left exposed.
Your hands traveled over his shoulders, scratching his back with your fingernails, the hands descended to his chest, he groaned against your skin as your hand enveloped his cock, which was practically pressed between your thighs. The lips met again, hungrily, he kissed you like he were afraid of losing you, and you made unhurried movements, enveloping his throbbing cock.
— Are you sure? — he murmured, without breaking the kiss for a second.
You didn't answer, you didn't need to, you only used your hand to guide him inside you, he slid in with a little difficulty due to the pressure the water caused on your bodies, but that didn't stop him, he gripped your hips against his body, a long groan escaping from the back of his throat, like he had held it for a long time.
— Fuck… — you moaned softly against his ear, moving your hips slowly, without haste, just trying to enjoy that moment as much as you could, your bodies colliding in sync, fitting perfectly against each other.
You could feel your lubrication running down the length of his cock, he extended his arm so he could grip the smooth stone behind your back, allowing his movements to become more intense, stronger. With each thrust, your moans echoed through the clearing, the pleasure growing in your spine was overwhelmingly good.
— You’re mine… — he murmured, his thrusts were gentle, your legs holding him inside you, like you didn't want him to stop for even a second.
— All yours, Chief. — you moaned, smiling while looking directly into his eyes, felting a tingling sensation forming in your stomach, a cold wave ran down your spine, and your wet walls tightened around him, making him groan against your mouth.
— Don't stop… please, don't stop.
That was the only thing that came out of your lips, his hot breath hitting your bare skin. You stared into his brown eyes, which shone with pure lust, breathing became uneven, you felt the hot liquid shooting inside you, trickling out. When you pulled away, you just stared at him, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.
When the cold air met your skin the moment you stepped out of the lake, you froze. Both of you lay down on the thin blanket near the fire, the soft crackling the only sound around you. You wrapped your arms around him, hoping to warm yourself even a little, and Hiccup pulled you into a gentle embrace. Your bare bodies were lit only by the small flames of the campfire, the golden glow sliding over your skin like a quiet whisper.
— Have you thought about what you’re going to do with him? — you asked softly, your face resting against his chest, your hand brushing over his warm skin. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, grounding you both in that fragile moment.
— I don’t know… it’s not exactly with him i’m worried about. — Hiccup sighed, his fingers combing through your wet hair with slow, thoughtful strokes.
— You know you have to… you know… kill one of them. — you whispered the last part, barely letting the words escape. — Because of the competition.
— I know…
— So… what are you going to do? — you lifted your head so you could look him in the eyes, needing to see the truth in his expression.
— Probably something stupid. — he murmured, a crooked, tired smile touching his lips.
Romance - Carl Grimes X Reader
Rating - 18+ (Making Out / Groping / Nudity / Erections)
Reading Time - 11 min 25 sec (1483)
Some of the young Alexandria residents had gathered at the Grimes house. Carl was hesitant about even letting them stay there, but as most of the parents had gone on a scouting mission, he figured having everyone in one place did make it easy to keep everyone safe. Everyone gathered in the living room, sipping stolen drinks and telling jokes. After a while, they all ended up agreeing to play 7 minutes in heaven, despite Carl’s reluctance.
When it came to his turn, he spun the bottle, and it landed on Y/n. Without another word, the two were quickly pushed into a closet, the space cramped and quite dark too. He’s silent, unsure of what to do with Y/n standing so close.
Y/n giggled, clearly very giddy, counting down the time in her mind. She bit her lip, waiting to see if Carl would initiate something with her, already getting a little impatient in the dark, cramped space.
Carl was a bit nervous; he was never good with girls. He shifted awkwardly, his eye roaming over what he could make out of her face.
"Carl? You do know how to play this game? Right?" she whispered,
He swallowed hard, "Yeah.. yeah, I know how to play."
"So? Why are you waiting?" She asked, batting the tip of his nose with her own.
"I--" He stuttered,
She playfully rolled her eyes and closed the distance herself. She kissed him on the lips, her own glossy and plump with a gentle taste of the strawberries she'd been snacking on whilst others played the game. She was forceful, but not enough that he couldn't pull back if he wanted to.
His entire body froze, his brain short-circuiting. For half a second, he was too stunned to move… but then instinct took over. His hand twitched at his side before one lifted shakily to grip her waist. He kissed back with clumsy urgency, inexperience making him awkward but undeniably eager. When they finally broke apart for air, he stared down at her in dazed silence. "…Okay, wow."
"You like that?" She asked, fluttering her lashes and pulling his other hand around her waist as well,
"Uh- yeah," he admitted, "I mean… obviously. You ughh, you got any more of those?"
"Come here." She growled her hands on the collar of his blue plaid overshirt, pulling him into a deeper kiss.
He stumbled forward, catching himself with his hands against the wall behind her, effectively pinning her in. He was breathless, his lips moving against hers a bit helplessly, like the world was suddenly spinning a hell of a lot faster than usual. "Fuck-" he panted between kisses. His hands moved down and fisted involuntarily in the fabric of her shirt, pulling her impossibly closer.
Y/n chuckled, parting her lips and sliding her tongue across his bottom lip. At the same time, she pushed one of Carl's hands up to let him grope her breast. All while never breaking the kiss.
"Mmf-” he moaned as he parted his lips for her, their tongues dancing with one another while his hand squeezed hard and possessively on her breast. He pushed his jeans against her; his desire for her was obvious through the denim jeans.
"Two minutes, love birds!" Ron called as he knocked on the closet door.
Immediately, his hands and kisses became more desperate, terrified he only had two more minutes before he'd lose her and never get to touch Y/n again."Fuck-" he rasped between ragged breaths, grinding his hips against hers shamelessly. "Don't go," he muttered against her lips, "Not yet- please-"
She giggled a little and smirked into their kiss. "It's okay… How about I come stay in your room tonight?"
"Yes," he breathed, as he leaned his forehead against hers, eye closed and breathing ragged. "Yes- please. Stay in my room tonight. Please."
Y/n nodded, giving him one more kiss before light flooded in as the door was opened. She quickly put space between them, adjusting her shirt quickly and using her body to conceal Carl’s.
He quickly tried to adjust his jeans, but it was difficult to make himself less obvious.
Thankfully, the others were all chatting and laughing amongst themselves. They both returned to the group, but this time they sat side by side, choosing to step back since they had a turn at seven minutes in heaven, and neither wanted to go in again with anyone else. So instead they sipped their soda and watched the others playing a while longer.
Carl sat close enough to Y/n that their thighs were touching, and his shoulder bumped against hers. He was quiet for a while, just sipping on his soda and watching the game unfold. His heart was still racing a bit, his mind replaying the feel of her pressed against him and her tongue in his mouth, the taste of strawberries still lingering on his tongue.
Y/n yawned, her arms stretching a little, "Ummm… I think it's time I head home…" She said loud enough that the group would hear her, but she glanced at Carl not so stumbly.
"Hold on, you don't have to go home. You could… stay here tonight. If you wanted," he offered, “since it's so dark and I don’t want you going home to an empty house, you are welcome to stay here… bunk in my room?”
"Awww Carl, that's so sweet." She cooed, "Thank you, so long as you're sure that's okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's totally fine, don't worry about it."
"Great, you guys have fun. Goodnight," she smiled, waving to the group before she got up and blew him a secret kiss before she headed upstairs towards his bedroom.
He watched her go, a mix of anticipation and disbelief coursing through him. Once she was upstairs and out of sight, he let out a ragged exhale, running a shaky hand through his hair.
The others continued playing the game, oblivious to the fact that his mind was already upstairs with her in his bedroom.
Carl was… As nuanced as he could be, aka he did anything other than just order people out of the Grimes house. He turned on the lights, locked up the pantry, started cleaning up, all the typical signs for any that the party was over and to get the fuck out of his house! In what felt like record speed, he had cleaned up and ushered the last of the group out the door, locking it behind them with a satisfying 'click.' For a moment, he simply stood there with his back to the door, heart slamming in his chest.
She was upstairs. Waiting for him. In his bed.
He took a few shuddering breaths to steel himself, and then practically bolted up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Once he rushed inside his door, he immediately saw her. His blinds drawn, his lights turned out with only the glow of his bedside lamp, Y/n lay in his sheets, her clothes across the floor, lying there half asleep on his spare pillow with her hair completely loose, wearing nothing but one of his blue plaid button-downs, having only done up two buttons to try and fully conceal her naked body. She didn't hear him come in, her eyes closed, and her breath slow
Carl froze in the doorway, "Y/n," he whispered hoarsely, almost like a prayer. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped onto the edge of his bed beside her. He leaned over her, his gaze roaming over her body, drinking in every little bare patch of skin that the lamplight touched. Slowly, he bent down and inhaled deeply, his nose trailing along the underside of her jaw, before pressing a lingering kiss right beneath her ear. His hand came up beside her head to anchor himself as the other began to trace a slow path up her thigh. "…so damn gorgeous," he rasped against her skin, his voice thick with need.
She hummed, and she softly squirmed "ummm… There you are…" She cooed. "… I was waiting for you."
"Yeah? Waiting for me?" he murmured. His hand moved to her waist, gripping her tight as he shifted his body forward so he was practically over her, his knee gently nudging her legs apart. He pushed the shirt open and began leaving a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along her bare chest.
"Mhm… Why did you take so long?" She teased,
"Fuck- sorry," he muttered against her ribs, nipping at one just to hear her gasp. "Had to kick everyone out first. Couldn't have 'em hearing you… like this," he growled as his tongue flicked over a peaked nipple,
Y/n moaned, her hand twisting in Carl's long hair.
“Tell me… tell me we’re doing this… really doing this,” He groaned, biting at her collar, “Or I’m gonna have to go jerk off in the bathroom,”
“We’re doing it,” she gasped, pushing him back enough to meet his eye and undoing his jeans, “all night long.”
“Ughh- come here, baby!” He moaned, grabbing her face, kissing her and all but falling on top of her…
