chris wakes up first as your still asleep on his chest. he slips out from under you and walks into the bathroom pulling a pair of loose shorts on. he grabs the plan b you had on the counter opening the box and holds the pill in his palm walking back out of the bathroom. he sits next to you on the bed. “hey baby…” he whispers holding your cheek. “hm..” you mumble not opening your eyes. he uses his hand to open your mouth and slips the pill in as he grabs the water bottle you had on the night stand tilting it so water went in your mouth. “swallow it..” he mumbles and you do turning you head away moments after. he smiles and walks back over to the bathroom grabbing a wash cloth and wetting it with warm water. when he returns you layed on your back. he pulls the sheet off of your still naked body gently dabbing the washcloth against you. you whine quietly your leg kicking his thigh weakly. “i know baby..” he chuckles holding your foot. you finally open your eyes and sigh softly looking down at him. “sleep well..?” he asks which you nod in response. he smiles as he tosses the wash cloth away into the laundry bin. he holds your hips turning you side to side checking your body slightly for any bruises and also admiring you. after a moment you sit up smiling as he looks back at you.
jj blurb bc im missing dada but he's the type to dap you up after sex . . .
the first time it happened, you were utterly confused. like this man just put you thru the mattress moments ago, and he was already playing once again. well to be fair, he was playful during sex too, but still!
he'd hold out his hand expectantly, talking about some "c'mon dap me up, ma," and he wouldn't rest until you did.
according to jj, and in his most posh voice, it was a way to 'formally conclude your sexual escapades for the night'.
eventually, you got used to it. didn't matter if your face was pressed into your drool-stained pillow; once you felt the warmth of jj's hand, you instantly dapped him up before succumbing to sleep.
the slap of skin against skin is loud in the room, a wet, rhythmic clap that echoes off the walls and drowns out the noise in your head. you are riding chris with a ferocity that borders on violence, your hips snapping down hard, taking his cock deep inside you with a force that makes your head spin. it’s not about pleasure. it’s about exorcism. every time you slam your hips down, you are trying to punish yourself for hoping, for being stupid enough to think that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.
you stare down at chris, but you don’t really see him. your vision is blurred by the sweat dripping into your eyes and the mental image of him. the guy who drifted away without ever knowing you existed as anything more than a friend in the group. the guy who made you feel something real for the first time in two years, only to pull back for whatever god damn reason. you noticed when the texts stopped coming and the jokes lost their edge. the friend group politics, the history with someone else. it was all a wall you couldn’t climb, and you broke your own heart trying.
chris’s hands are on your waist, but he’s not guiding you, he’s just holding on for the ride. his chest heaves, his abs contracting every time you drop your weight onto him. he feels amazing, thick and hard, filling you up perfectly, but you are chasing a numbness that won’t come. the burn in your thighs is grounding, a sharp physical pain to counteract the dull, hollow ache in your chest. you grind down ruthlessly, circling your hips, trying to erase the memory of that last conversation where the vibe was just… off.
suddenly, chris’s grip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. he plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up to meet you, stilling your frantic movements. you gasp, forced to stop, your body trembling with the sudden lack of motion.
"fucks goin’ on with you?" he pants, his voice rough and breathless. he frowns up at you, his eyes searching your face for something he can’t quite find. he straightens his back, sitting up slightly so you are face to face, the connection between you still deep and intimate.
"nothin’s goin’ on.” you snap immediately. your voice is cold, distant, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between your naked bodies. you try to pull away, to resume the rhythm that was drowning out your thoughts, but his hands are like iron clamps on your hips.
chris chuckles dryly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. he shakes his head, his wet hair sticking to his forehead. "you’ve been slamming your hips down like you’re tryna break your bones or some shit, dude. like, what the fuck." he looks at you with a mix of concern and confusion. "y’know you can just talk to me, right?"
the offer hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. you want to scream. you want to tell him about the disappointment, about the future you stupidly imagined in your head, about how much it hurts to be just another friend to someone who seemed like he would genuinely bring happiness into your life. but you can’t just spill that secret interest you’ve been having for the guy that probably never even intended to be more than friends with you. that’s not what this is. this is casual. this is just fucking.
no one in the friend group even knew about you and chris hooking up. you both decided that it was for the best after a drunken mistake led to surprisingly amazing sex. so after that one weird night, you came to an agreement of keeping this friends with benefits bullshit up without anyone knowing.
"yeah, well, i’m not here to talk, and i think we both know that.” you fire back, your voice sharp and clipped. you glare at him, daring him to push, to ruin the one thing that’s making you feel anything other than pathetic.
chris stares at you for a long moment, his jaw tight. he sees the cracks in your mask, the way your hands are shaking where they rest on his shoulders, but he doesn't call you on it. he exhales a long breath through his nose and lets it drop, for now. his hands soften on your waist, no longer restraining you but guiding you.
"alright." he mutters, his voice low. he starts to move you again, setting a pace that is slower than yours, more deliberate. "just… ease up a bit, yeah?"
you try to follow his lead, but the tension doesn’t ease. your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders. you move mechanically, up and down, the friction of his cock dragging against your inner walls sending sparks of pleasure that you can’t fully enjoy. the silence between you is heavy, loaded with the words you aren’t saying.
but eventually, the composure cracks. it’s not a dramatic sob, but a physical collapse. your arms give out, and you fall forward, your chest pressing against his. you bury your face in the crook of his neck, your breathing harsh and uneven against his skin. you aren't crying, not yet, but your expression is a mask of frustration and pain, your brow furrowed, your teeth gritted.
chris doesn’t push for answers. he just wraps his arms around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other cradling the back of your head. he holds you together while you feel like you’re falling apart. he shifts his hips, grinding into you slowly, changing the angle so that he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
"you’re too much in your head." he murmurs, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your ear. his voice is steady, a lifeline in the chaos of your mind. "i dunno what the fuck’s goin’ on, but lemme help."
you close your eyes tight, shutting out the world. you focus on the sensation of him. the heat of his body, the solid weight of him beneath you, the way he fills you up so completely. you let the rhythm take over, letting him dictate the pace. he rolls you both, pressing you into the mattress, his weight grounding you, pinning you down so you don't have to think, don't have to do anything but feel.
he thrusts into you, deep and steady, his breath hot against your neck. "just feel, yeah? let that shit go."
and you do, for a moment. you let the world narrow down to the friction, the slide of his cock in your pussy, the smell of sweat and sex, the sound of his breathing in your ear. the ache is still there, a dull throb behind your ribs, but it’s muted, buried under the overwhelming heat of his body against yours. you move with him, your bodies syncing up, searching for a release that you hope will wipe the slate clean, even if you know it won't last.
going thru it rn somebody hit me with a truck wtf (i lowk miss tumblr)
Request: A deal goes bad, and Fez is pissed, but gets all soft when he comes home to you at night
TW: mention of blood, 1 ableist word rest fluff
Word Count: 2k
Fez was stocking up some beer in his shop. Ash was in the back, counting some cash and sorting out some product. But they were just waiting. A college party was happening at some rich guy's house, and he wanted to get some product for it.
The guy was your typical Nate Jacobs, thinking the entire world is there to serve him. But Fez could not care less; he was making bank so he could deal with him for the two minutes he was there.
“Ash, you sort out the package?” Fez was standing by the cooler door, watching his brother stack some cash.
“Yeah, but we running low on Molly.”
“How much?”
“Short 20 Pills.” Fez rubbed his shaved head.
“How we running short on Molly, we just got a batch?”
Ash shrugged, unbothered, still counting cash. “Supplier was low, so we low. Playboy just gonna have to deal with it.” Ash snorted, “Yeah,” Fez was itching for a Blunt, “if he gives you trouble just hollar.”
Ash looked at him like he was crazy, as if the richie rich guy would fuck with either of them. Ash could bet the rich college guy had never even thrown a punch.
Fez sat outside smoking, relaxing, waiting. He normally enjoyed just sitting around watching the world pass in front of him, sometimes selling some drinks and cigarettes, but nothing more. Fez liked that; it gave him time to think.
A BMW raced into the parking lot, not caring about Fez sitting in a chair. Fez could tell from the way the guy carelessly stopped by Fez’s chair that the guy was pissed. Or more accurately, entitled and pissed that someone said no. It was a richie-rich guy. Fez did not bother to learn his name.
“You got my stuff?”
Fez already wanted to punch that guy.
“Ain’t your stuff yet, playboy.” Fez walked past him into the shop, towards the backroom.
Ash knew that when Fez showed up with the guy, the guy would be difficult. Normally, Fez just pointed towards the backroom and let Ash deal with shit, while he kept an eye out.
Fez stood to the side, watching the guy- Sandy brown hair, all-American smile, probably a football player, or some shit, Fez thought.
“We got...” Fez tuned out Ash, just waiting for this deal to be over.
“I said, 50 Mollies.”
“Yeah, well, we got 30.” Ash said, in his usual ‘I don’t give a fuck’ way.
“I don’t care,” the guy glared at Ash, “When I say I want 50, I want 50.”
Ash just leaned forward, rage already building. “Yeah, shit outta luck, playboy,” Fez added.
The guy turned to Fez. “I know you two are retards, but I thought you guys could at least count to 50.”
Fez just stared back, “We ain’t doing this today. I am telling you we got 30; either take it or get the fuck outta here and find a new supplier.”
“Wow, you are such a tough guy.” The dude stepped up to Fez, trying to intimidate him like he was some schoolyard bully, in his letterman jacket and khaki pants.
Fez just stared at him. “I am telling you, take it or leave it.”
The guy had gotten redder in the face the more Fez told him no.
Then he made the mistake of pulling his hand out of his letterman jacket too quickly. Before the guy knew what happened, Fez grabbed his arm and headbutted him, and Ash jumped over the desk.
“The fuck you think you doing?” Fez said, pushing the guy against the wall, holding him there, while Ash patted the guy down.
“Fuck,” the guy groaned, his nose bleeding from Fez’s forehead. “What the fuck, dude.”
Ash pulled out some cash and a phone. No gun.
Fez gave the guy a final push. “You lucky as hell you don’t got a gun on you or I’d beat you with it.”
Ash threw the phone back at the guy's feet and started counting the cash. He pushed the package towards the guy.
“Take it and get the fuck out of here,” Ash said.
The guy was still holding his nose, hesitating about whether to say something.
But before he could, Ash pocketed all of the money. “Look at it as a dumbass tax.”
It was clear the guy wasn't running the show here, so he took the package and raced out of the parking lot.
Fez, forehead hurt from that prick's nose, and was ready just to go home and chill. Tired of dealing with ‘them rich entitled” people, walking up into his shop as if they were someone better than him just because he is a drug dealer, and yet still buying his products. But he had to make money. So he went outside to his chair again and lit up a blunt, in the hope of easing the headache already forming.
Two hours later, they closed up the shop tight, ready to get out of here. Ash and he were driving in silence, listening to Tupac.
Ash glanced at Fez, who had a slightly pained expression on his face. He was not sure what had happened to Fez- something about a hit to the head when he was younger, but he got headaches sometimes, and it seemed he was struggling right now. Ash might not care a lot about things or people, but he did care about his brother. So he begrudgingly texted you.
Ash: Bad delivery.
You: *thumps up*
Fez breathed a sigh of relief when they pulled up at their house.
“I ain’t gonna get up from the couch anytime soon,” Fez commented.
“Criminal Minds marathon tonight on TV, so why wouldya,” Ash commented, unlocking the door.
The smell of freshly cooked bolognese sauce hit them simultaneously. The house was quiet, except for a soft hum from the kitchen.
Fez involuntarily smiled, and Ash rolled his eyes at the love-struck look that overcame Fez’s face.
Fez made his way up the hall towards the kitchen. You were wearing one of his long shorts, and shorts underneath your apperion you discovered some time ago. It was beige with dots and frills at the seam. You had looked at him in question, trying to picture Fez wearing it. Fez had blushed and mumbled it belonged to his grandma.
Arms wrapped themselves around you, making you jump. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” You smiled over your shoulder at Fez.
Fez pressed his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling something you could not quite catch.
You decided it was not important and just leaned back into him, your left arm coming up, cradling his head, scratching your nails against his scalp.
Ash was watching from the door; he would find it annoying, but he saw the way the tension left Fez’s shoulders, and suddenly he was glad you were here.
“Hun, you gotta loosen the grip a bit; I need to check the Spaghetti.” Instead of letting go, he just shuffled you with him, still attached to the stove.
That just made you chuckle; turning in his embrace, you took his face in your hands. “Sweetheart,” you only used that pet name when you were about to be bossy. “Go take a shower, change into your PJs, and then get your butt out here. Dinner will be done by then.” You gave him a peck on the lips. Not giving him a chance to deepen it, but instead turning around to check on the food.
Fez sighed, but followed your instructions. As usual, you were right; the cold water of the shower and the fresh PJs helped him rid himself of the annoyance of the day.
He came out with a simple grey shirt and his M&Ms PJ pants, which you found adorable on him.
Ash was sitting there like a grumpy child, also in PJs and freshly showered. Fez guessed you had forced him to take a shower too.
The table was set: two pots, one with sauce, one with spaghetti, and a bowl of salad. On the table, the light was dim, and Fez was thankful for it, since his head still hurt a bit. Faye was sitting there happily waiting for the food.
“Before we start,” you held Fez's hand and reached out to Faye, who was on your right. “We all say something we are grateful for today.” It was a tradition you had enforced. At first, Ash resisted and ignored you, but you kept smiling and saying the same thing before dinner. Eventually, you wore Ash down.
“I’ll start,” you volunteered, “I am grateful for the walk I took today, since I met a cat that was super sweet and let me pet her.”
Fez snorted; it was so like you. He still held your hand; his left was in Ash, and he squeezed it in warning to play nice with you. “Well, ma, I am grateful for this food right now.” “Second that,” came the voice of Faye, slightly out of it. “You can’t just take my answer,” Ash protested. It made you giggle. “Well then, let’s not wait any longer.” You said, getting up to start serving.
At first, you were appalled by the way both Fez and Ash ate, more like inhaled their food. Slumping over the table, stretching their neck towards the spoon instead of the other way around, but you had gotten used to it. Smiling at the brothers. Dinner was silent, aside from the boys' moans of appreciation.
You kept your hand on Fez’s back, occasionally running your hand up and down. You were grateful for the heads up Ash gave you. You hated the risk and stress that came with Fez’s line of work, and even though he always seemed mellow, you learned to read when he had tension in his body.
“So good, ma.” Fez leaned back in his seat, rubbing your thigh in appreciation. Giggling, you kissed him on the forehead, grabbing the dirty plates. Fez wanted to follow you, but you directed him to the couch. “Just gonna clean the table real quick. The dishes can wait until tomorrow.”
Ash grabbed his plate, and Fayes brought them into the kitchen before making his way into his room. Before closing the door, he gave you a quick nod in thanks.
Smiling to yourself, you made your way back to the couch. Faye announced she wanted a bath and made her way down the hall.
Taking your place next to Fez, you snuggled up right to his side. Some show was playing in the background, and he had a blunt in his hand. You breathed him in, the scent of tabakko and cologne on his sweater. You played with his gold chain around his neck, smiling that he always wore it. For some reason, you found it incredibly sexy.
Fez pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I appreciate you, ma,” he whispered.
You leaned closer into Fez. “I got you, and you got me, okay?” Instead of answering, Fez leaned down, slowly kissing you. His left arm around you and the other on your cheek, holding the blunt in his fingertips away from you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, “You got me,” to your nose, “and I got you,” he whispered in between before kissing you once more.
Pulling back, he looked at you with his baby blue eyes, “If ya are here, and cooking like this, when I come home, I finna never let you leave.”
“Hm, maybe that was my plan all along.” You kissed him again, deeper, slower, “Come on,” you dragged him back, lying on the couch; he nestled between your legs, lying on your chest. You stole his blunt, resting on the lean of the couch, pressing a small kiss to Fez's forehead. You stayed like this for a while, smoking, watching TV, and laughing at whatever dumb shit they did, your nails scratching on his scalp. You felt him slowly getting heavier on you, and shortly after, you heard him snore slightly. Smiling to yourself, you whispered: “I love you, sweet dreams, my love,” and turned down the TV volume.
Taglist: @tez0
Note: I continue publishing my work only when I see people engaging; otherwise, I'll stop since I'll assume no one likes it.
Blurb Contains ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ angst, toxicity, arguing, mentions of breaking up, sub!reader, possible manipulation, implied established relationship
Word Count ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 0.3k
Relationships would never be perfect—you learned that from Chris. Smashed vases, tears, and yelling were all a part of loving someone. He taught you that. Maybe you believed him, maybe you were too scared to find someone new, but you stayed. Because even when his hate stung you, his comfort soothed your wound every time.
Your face was pressed against Chris's chest as you stood, your sobs soaking his t-shirt. "I can't do this with you anymore, Chris!" Your words muffled into the fabric.
"Shhh, I know baby, I know." His voice was steady, and nursed your shaking body. With arms around you, he held you like a prison you never wanted to break free from.
Pushing yourself from him, you created distance between the two of you. He grasped at nothing as you stumbled backwards, your bare feet struggling to stay balanced. Craving the warmth of him immediately, you fought against your compel to run back into his arms.
He reflected your mind—dishevelled and tousled. Sadness congregated in his eyes the way it did in yours. It was as if you were looking at a reflection of yourself—a broken mirror that revealed your innermost sorrow.
"This is over. We're over, forever this time." The words scraped like thorns as they left your throat.
Chris stepped towards you, brows upturned in remorse. "You don't mean that."
His words were hypnotizing, convincing you that they were true. Keeping the space, you backed up against the chilled wall of the apartment. The coolness hit your back, contrasting with the heat that was pooling at your core.
Continuing to advance forward, he let his fingertips lift your shirt, grazing the exposed skin of your waist. "Tell me you don't mean that."
"I-" you started, choking out the syllable. "I don't mean it."
"I know you don't, baby.”
a/n: please ignore that this is not what I’ve been promising I’ll write the past week
random little mannerisms or quirks the triplets have that i'm fond of
nick being a matt girl, even though we know these two argue quite often
all of them frequently using hand gestures while talking
matt chewing certain syllables or words
chris having unexpected moments of insight about people, life, and his brothers that are usually hidden behind his more humorous nature
nick disliking physical affection quite a bit more than his brothers but often patting their arms or shoulders, or touching their hands briefly, especially when feeling strong emotions (positive or negative)
the way matt rubs his eyes when he's laughing
the moments when they're all laughing at the same time and leaning
nick's delivery on certain words or sentences, which is a huge reason why he's so comedic. great timing and mannerisms in that
matt and chris giggling in sync
nick and matt sharing a look when chris says something they find confusing, weird, or unexpected
the fact that they keep running notes on moments in their lives that they find amusing, heartwarming, etc. for car videos but in general is such a nice way of remembering life
chris and matt often being on the same wavelength, and most commonly the ones who say things in sync
their wit! we often talk about nick's comebacks but they all have sharp tongues and quick reactions, just in different ways! nick is more blunt and can carry it longer, matt has attitude and usually keeps his more witty comments for specific moments (distinct timing), and chris largely depends on his mood because he's least likely to speak so harshly but CAN
matt's little voice acting moments
also matt's facial expressions when something insane is happening; he always gets so wide eyed
they all make for great reaction images/gifs though
nick apparently being a peaceful sleeper and his brother's being so fond of that
nick and chris often having different interests but breaking out into song together, even after they were just bickering
weird little thing, but how harsh their features can be when they aren't smiling
chris being a bit obnoxious when competitive but honest about it vs. matt being competitive but pretending not to be until he's either winning or thinks he shouldn't be losing...and then there's nick trying but not really caring if he loses or not
them being horny for no reason but especially when the others get weirded out by it, i just think it's funny
matt's honesty and awareness of anxiety and mental health struggles
matt's love for animals and especially how gentle and patient he is with them
chris being so expressive but also keeping certain parts of his heart close to the chest, and the fact that he admits he does this
i love how curious and introspective they all are, especially chris with out of the box thinking or matt with some deviousness
nick being so open about his sexuality and how his brother's support, accept, and embrace that wholeheartedly
matt and chris still being kinda up each other's asses even after saying they were trying to do less triplet related things
unexpected dark humor related to violence or suicide (commonly from nick or matt)
speaking of, nick responding to weird facts or a minor comment with something along the lines of 'that's how he wants to die', which is both funny and slightly concerning because it happens on multiple occasions (ex. the hippo, the molasses flood, 'so should i kms?')
matt being a safe driver but also somehow having road rage
chris ability to be amused by everything, how easily he laughs, how loudly and unrepentantly he does
them bringing up triplet references
matt genuinely being a little bit of a shapeshifter (ex. looking a bit more like nick or chris at different points in their lives, beard vs no beard, 'tuff' vs soft matt)
nick responding to mentions of food he loves with something along the lines of 'i want to rub that all over my body' OR the exact opposite, with 'there are so many things i'd hate to be covered in'
matt being a deeply nostalgic person
chris' love for 'classic' designs, all of them enjoying vintage elements in their personal aesthetics
nick being openly appreciative of female musicians. i feel like this isn't super common among male youtubers. they often listen to men to near exclusivity
i love that they all accessorize!
when they have the sillies or start playing up some zesty mannerisms
how often they make references to other media. sometimes it's pop culture moments, niche things from their childhood or specifically boston, or things they watch and listen to
chris making gay jokes to nick, and nick calling him gay back over stupid shit like bros what are you doing
them arguing or yelling at each other in one minute and then talking normally or laughing the next
when they call cluster together into one space without realizing (it's so adorable)
when they busta move
THERE'S PROBABLY SO MANY MORE. these are just the ones i'm thinking of at the moment.
·.✿ THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MAGPIES AND MEN — THERAPIST!RAFE CAMERON x STRIPPER!READER
·.· SUMMARY ·.·
exhausted and hollowed out after a devastating day at his practice, rafe seeks escape in a strip club for the very first time, only to find unexpected comfort in the company of a dancer who sees through every wall he tries to put up. what begins as teasing banter and late-night escapism slowly turns into something far more intimate, until a single confession unravels the true weight of what he’s been carrying.
·.· CONTENT INFO ·.·
this fic circles around topics that may be triggering for some, and even if it never reaches any explicit level, i feel obligated to place this warning.
reader's primarily characterized as a bratty sweetheart, age gap (reader early 20s, rafe early 30s), angst, heavy mental health themes, grief, alcohol use, childhood trauma implied through rhetorical devices (sexual abuse, domestic violence, suicide themes), suggestive themes (it’s a strip club, duh), hurt/comfort, emotional distress, reader's stripper name is "Kitty"
·.· WORD COUNT·.·
6.7k+
·.· AUTHOR'S NOTE ·.·
needed a little distraction from KMS, so i wrote this little fic. the cat theme is kinda self-indulgent but i hope you enjoy anyway, lmk what you think <3 i would love to do more parts with these two if you guys like them.
xx ᓚᘏᗢ
"That idiot over there," Ruby said with a scrunch of her nose, motioning with her head toward a lonely man at the bar. "He's been sitting there for an hour already. Bought two drinks and turned down Lacey and Dove."
She shook her head as she crossed her arms, the crimson light above making her dark skin shimmer beautifully. "Didn't even look at them. Just told them to go empty another guy's wallet."
The guy in question sat on a high stool in one of the darker corners of the bar, his broad back turned to you. His hair was slightly tousled, and he stared into his amber drink—whiskey, by the looks of it.
Curiously, your eyes tracked the way his shoulders were hunched and how the fabric of his shirt stretched over his tense back, revealing the muscles underneath. His sleeves were rolled up, but not in the careful, polished way of some corporate guy. No, with him it looked more rushed, like they'd been shoved up in frustration.
Overall, his presence didn't exactly radiate welcoming energy. More like he was withdrawn, bitter, or simply exhausted.
You immediately felt bad for him.
"He looks sad," you said, tilting your head slightly.
Ruby scoffed. "A five-figure salary lands in his account every month. And that's not even counting Daddy's trust fund. Trust me, he's everything but sad."
"Do you know him?" you asked, shifting your gaze toward Ruby's judgmental eyes.
She always formed opinions about people before actually getting to know them. So maybe she was just guessing and making assumptions again. Though he did look upper-class. A CEO, maybe.
She raised a brow, disbelief tugging at her smile. "Honey, do you live in the last corner of the swamp? That's—"
"Ladies, tea time is over."
You and Ruby turned at the sound of Silas' voice, spotting the manager in his all-black suit, silver hair slicked back today.
He raised his brows expectantly, gesturing toward the main lounge with his thumb, several golden rings gleaming across his knuckles. "Ruby, the gentlemen at Table Five asked for a table dance. If you need to freshen up, do it now." He grimaced. "And if Mr. Doublechin gets handsy again without paying first, tell him Larry will kindly escort him out."
Ruby chuckled, adjusting her spiked bra. "I've come prepared, but I'll let him know."
After she disappeared behind the velvet curtains leading to the dressing rooms, Silas turned to you with a sigh. "Kitty, I have a special request for you."
"Oh?" You blinked curiously. "Did Mr. Hemingway ask for the Playroom again?"
Hemingway was a funny-looking man with an odd personality who only ever requested services tied to the darker pleasures inside the After Midnight. Ruby usually handled those, except one time when he specifically requested you.
Surprisingly enough, he was one of the most respectful guests.
Silas adjusted his rings, shaking his head. "He's out of town for the next two weeks. I wouldn't want your intellect wasted on him anyway." His lips twitched, caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. "No, I believe you're suited for a more difficult customer. Though right now, the only service he's making use of is the bar."
Your gaze followed his toward the sad-looking loner at the counter.
Him?
An intrigued, almost excited smile tugged at your lips. "We do offer great drinks."
Even if he was still drinking bitter whiskey, a taste you never quite managed to enjoy.
"We also offer a great number of beautiful women, but it seems he has no thirst for that at the moment," Silas said, glaring at the back of the man's head before looking back at you. "Which is why you'll make sure to offer him a flavor he can't resist."
You crossed your arms, brows furrowing thoughtfully. "Ruby said he already turned Lacey and Dove down. Maybe he's just not interested in female company."
That made Silas bark out a laugh. "My dear, trust me, he'd sue the entire club and me personally if I sent a male suitor his way. And I'd rather collect his money than have him use it against me."
Once again, there was talk of ridiculous amounts of money surrounding the mysterious loner.
But before you could ask who exactly he was, Silas placed a gentle hand against your upper back and nudged you toward the bar. "Which is why you'll make Mr. Cameron's first time here worth his while." He leaned closer, voice dropping into a low murmur against your ear. "Maybe you'll even charm him into becoming a returning customer. We'd both profit from that."
Straightening again, he offered you a kind but insistent smile. "And he definitely looks like he could use a sweet kitty purring on his lap."
You blinked, remaining rooted to the spot. "Cameron? As in Cameron Estates?"
Of course, you knew that name. It was plastered across countless ads on the streets. But he looked a little young to be the CEO of such a massive company.
"Oh, no. Not the father." Silas scoffed, adjusting his dark mustache. "Cameron as in Cameron & Carrera Counseling. And technically it's Doctor, but let's not use that in here. He'd probably take it as a jab."
Counseling.
He was a therapist?
Didn't exactly look the part with that grim aura radiating off him. But somehow that only made him more interesting, a strange pull beginning to form inside your chest.
Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you crossed the lounge, passing the main stage where Lacey currently performed on the pole while hungry eyes followed every movement she made. Two men tried to pull you into conversation, a couple hundred-dollar bills already clutched in their fingers, but you politely declined, claiming your slot had already been taken.
In your head, you tried to figure out what kind of man Mr. Loner Cameron was. Most men who entered this place could usually be divided into three categories, though all of them belonged somewhere between upper-middle and upper class.
The shameless type—men who didn't hold back their lust, loud men desperate to be noticed, never particularly restrained when it came to money or physical contact. They usually sat in open VIP lounges with their little friend groups, women draped across their laps and shoulders. That didn't always make them disrespectful or disgusting, but they were still the group you tended to avoid.
Then there were the quiet guys. They usually came alone or with a friend, booked a table to talk while some woman entertained them, or reserved private sessions in advance. Most of them were single because work consumed too much of their lives to leave room for a relationship, so instead they filled that emptiness through the services offered here.
And of course, there were the men interested in an entirely different side of the club—the Playroom. The part of After Midnight meant for guests whose needs—Silas had taught you never to call them fetishes, because some men found the term insulting—could only be satisfied by a very specific kind of service allowed under the club's rules.
It was for men who liked submitting to women in non-sexual ways. Spanking, roleplay, things like that. For safety reasons, any dynamic involving the man taking control was strictly forbidden.
So which category did the mysterious loner belong to?
Not-the-father Cameron was currently pulling fifty dollars from his thick wallet, your eyes catching on the dozens of bills practically suffocating inside it. A massive fish for a cat who usually chased older mice.
He was already on his feet, frowning at something Larry behind the counter had said, and nearly bumped straight into you with how quickly he turned to leave, like he'd suddenly remembered an important appointment.
"Watch it," he muttered, irritation sharp in his tired voice, blue eyes first dropping to your pushed-up cleavage and the metallic heart dangling from your collar before slowly traveling up to your face.
What a pretty face, you thought as you met his irritated expression with a playful smile. And God, he smelled good.
Not drowned in some overly sharp cologne that ruined your senses, no, he smelled simple. Fresh and soft, something aquatic mixed with green tea.
Expensive, but effortless.
You glanced at his half-empty glass with a soft chuckle. "Whiskey not your kind of drink?"
"Sure is," he answered, almost sounding offended.
And before he could continue—possibly explaining why he hadn't finished it—you cut in teasingly. "You look more like a cocktail guy, though."
You mirrored his earlier gaze, letting your eyes wander over his face, down his broad shoulders hidden beneath the cream-colored button-up, the golden ring on his left hand, all the way to his dark pants and matte dress shoes.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips as you did so, the weary set of his shoulders loosening slightly into something more playful, more willing to indulge you. "Do I now?"
"Mhm," you hummed teasingly, subtly adjusting your posture so your cleavage was presented more directly to him. "I bet a Pretty Little Disaster would suit your taste. It's No. 16 on the menu."
Still-nameless Cameron raised a brow, his smirk widening into a lazy grin as he stared shamelessly at your chest. "You offering to be mine?"
The soft giggle leaving your lips came naturally. "Depends."
"On what?" His eyes drifted slowly over your body, taking in your skirted panties, garter straps, and heart-adorned lace stockings. "Whether I can afford you?"
Careful now.
A strip club revolved around money—spending it on women and services—but no man liked being reminded of exactly how much he was paying, or that everything here was ultimately transactional.
And Dr. Cameron right here seemed like someone who didn't even want to be inside a place like this in the first place, let alone leave bills tucked into a stripper's panties.
No, it felt more like he was here for a reason he didn't fully understand himself.
He looked out of place. Lost. Like he was searching for an escape or distraction from whatever problem haunted him outside the A.M.
And part of you wanted to understand him, make him feel better, let him forget the real world for just an hour.
"No," you said softly, resting your hand near his against the back of the bar stool. "You look like you could afford to book the entire club if you wanted to."
Your thumb gently brushed over his as you looked at him with playful eyes. "What I meant is whether you're ready for another disaster cause it looks like you've already experienced one today."
That made his expression loosen, the arrogant mask slipping for just a second, revealing something raw and hollowed out in his eyes before he recovered quickly.
He let out a condescending chuckle, gaze dropping briefly to your fingers before he pulled away from your touch. "I have no interest in owning a pit hole like this for lonely losers throwing cash at fake Barbies."
The easy smile on your face faltered at his crude words, and before you could stop yourself, you smoothly withdrew your hand to fiddle with the heart charm on your collar.
He's got kind eyes, but knows exactly how to bite where it'll hurt.
And still, you felt a strange sense of empathy for him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes tracking your fidgeting, the sharp edge gone from his voice, leaving behind only exhausted roughness. “That was... It was a fucking shitty thing to say.” He grimaced, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile. “I'm not an asshole, okay? I’m just…”
A shaky sigh left his lips, a hollow expression flickering across his features once more as he met your eyes. There was a turmoil of intense emotions in them, all marked by the same silent plea for understanding.
Ironic, coming from a therapist.
“Exhausted?” you asked gently, finishing the sentence for him.
His eyes widened a fraction, as if surprised by your understanding. Then he nodded, the defiant demeanor slowly crumbling beneath whatever weight rested on his shoulders. “Roughest day I've had in months.”
Maybe something happened at his practice?
So what he needed wasn't a lap dance or a strip tease, but simple company. Someone he could share his burden with.
Your fingers stopped their playful movement around your collar. Instead, you placed them back onto the wooden barstool, rebuilding that small point of connection between you.
"Sounds like you need to unwind a little," you said softly, understanding replacing your teasing tone. Your hand on your thigh toyed with one of your garter straps. You really wanted to initiate physical contact, but his earlier reaction made you cautious.
The guarded expression returned immediately, and he lifted his chin slightly as his eyes traveled over you again, assessing you more carefully this time. "I'm not here to have some girl grind on me."
What a funny guy he was, walking into a strip club like he'd accidentally taken a wrong turn.
"I wasn't talking about humping your knee, Silly," you replied with a sweet chuckle that turned his cheeks the faintest shade of pink.
Your playful smile returned as you leaned forward again, presenting your chest to him more directly. "And I'm a woman, not a girl."
It was cute how he fell for the move every single time, his gaze dropping again automatically. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, brows pulling together in a failed attempt to regain composure. "I can see that."
Then he looked back up, something serious, almost paternal, flickering in his eyes. "Still, you look way too young to be running around in underwear in a room full of predators. How old are you exactly?"
In other words: Are you even legal? Will I get into trouble if I decide to engage with you?
"Old enough to make my own decisions," you replied with a girlish smile, tilting your head to challenge him. "And you? Five more years until retirement?"
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, genuine amusement finally gleaming in his eyes. Though it looked like you'd awakened something else too.
The same look every other man in this place eventually wore, some simply better at hiding it than others.
Hunger.
"You're an insolent brat," he said, though there was no real bite behind the words. He straightened his posture slightly, sliding his hand across the barstool to bring it closer to yours. "Unfortunately, I'm nowhere near ready to sit my ass in a rocking chair and ogle the tits of grandmas."
You laughed at his choice of words and caught his own smile widening in response. "'Unfortunately'? I mean, if older women are your thing, Pandora might be more your taste. Great build." You made a cupping gesture around your own boobs. "She even offers a service related to that. Unless you're lactose intolerant?"
"Jesus Christ, what the fuck." Not-into-cougars Cameron twisted his face into a grimace, laughing despite his best efforts. "Nah, I'd rather keep her box closed."
Sweet. A pun.
You mirrored his grin, soaking in the way he visibly loosened up around you. "Then I guess you'll just have to settle for what I have to offer."
"Princess, you're too young," he argued, the heat in his gaze fading back into something more restrained. "And I already told you I'm not interested in that kind of service."
"It's Kitty," you corrected him, fully aware he was only using a term of endearment. One hand settled on your hip while the other slid from the barstool to lightly tap against his chest. "And I told you that's not what I'm offering."
His eyes dropped to your finger before lifting back to your face. "Fine. What exactly could stripper Kitty possibly offer me to brighten this absolute trainwreck of a day besides swaying her hips in front of my face?"
Silly man. All grim expressions and dry remarks.
"How about another drink and the pleasure of my simple company?" you offered easily, stepping closer to invade his personal space while batting your lashes at him with a smile too sweet to refuse. "Cats are great listeners. Everybody knows that. And their purring has healing effects."
"Is that so?" he chuckled, making no move to step away. "Then what's stopping me from going home to my own kitty and letting her sit on my lap? At least she isn't trying to rob me blind."
A cat owner.
You'd taken him for a dog person.
You flashed him a grin that showed off your canines. “I don’t shed, and my breath doesn’t smell like tuna. And I bet I cost only half as much as your diva does in a week.”
“Then let me hear how much you're planning to drain from my wallet,” he chuckled, his demeanor opening more and more with every passing second. “And we can compare maintenance costs.”
In that moment, you decided to take a risk.
There was a chance you'd walk away from this with no profit at all—not a single bill tucked into your bra—and possibly even a warning from Silas, followed by less pay that month to compensate for the loss.
But you knew naming a concrete price right now would instantly turn the little game between you into an obvious transaction. And if he disliked the amount—or felt provoked by it—you'd lose a potential customer entirely.
And this one, you definitely wanted to keep on the hook.
Not just because his wallet alone carried more cash than you made in a month.
No, part of you genuinely wanted to know what had ruined his day badly enough for a man like him to end up lost inside a strip club he clearly never intended to visit.
“Let’s not talk numbers yet,” you said, offering him a kind smile. “How about I help take some of today's weight off your shoulders first, and we handle the formalities afterward? What do you say, Mr...?”
He seemed surprised you didn't know his name. Or maybe he simply hadn't expected you not to insist on payment immediately.
Either way, the corners of his mouth tugged downward into an amused smile. "Rafe. None of that Mister shit. Makes me feel old."
A pretty name for a pretty face.
Though you couldn't help but wonder how old he actually was. He didn't look a day over his mid-twenties.
"Rafe, then. I like it." You nodded, absentmindedly tracing a tiny heart against his chest with your index finger. "So, should I take that as a yes?"
For a moment, he only watched you, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, probably weighing whether you were worth the unspoken price or if he should just go home and curl up with his alleged kitten instead.
Then his eyes fluttered shut, brows knitting together as a tired breath slipped from his lips.
Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Yes. Lead the way."
You nearly let out an excited giggle. Instead, your fingers slid down his chest before grabbing his hand, holding onto it as he instinctively flinched at the contact.
"Don't be shy. I won't bite," you teased, already starting to walk and dragging him behind you without looking back, aside from one quick glance over your shoulder that caught the sheepish look crossing his face. "Unless you want me to."
A low chuckle left him as he followed you across the opposite side of the club, weaving through tables and past semi-secluded lounge areas toward the private solo rooms. Each elegant black door was decorated with golden numbering, a red or green light glowing above it, depending on availability.
Suite No. 3 was usually yours.
You greeted Dana with a small wave, the broad-shouldered woman standing nearby to intervene if any guest inside the rooms forgot how to follow the rules.
She nodded back at you before throwing Rafe a dark, assessing glance from head to toe. His hand tightened around yours as she did.
Men tended to dislike Dana, while every woman in the club felt safer just from her presence alone.
The door to Suite 3 slid open after you pressed a button. It closed automatically once you hit another switch inside, shutting out the laughter, music, and voices from the main hall.
Now it was just the two of you, and the glamour of the room around you.
Dim lighting drenched the space in soft crimson intimacy, reflecting off the silver pole in the center and the mirrored walls surrounding it. From the sound system streamed a slow, sensual beat, your nerves already itching for a performance.
You took a few more steps with him toward the middle of the room before letting go of his hand to gesture toward the curved velvet couch facing the pole. "Go on, please. Take a seat."
But Rafe stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the pole, some unreadable emotion flickering across his face before he finally moved. He sank stiffly into the leather couch, legs spread, hands resting awkwardly in his lap, looking anywhere but at you.
"Thirsty?" you asked gently, walking over to the stocked liquor cabinet with its built-in cooler system. Your gel nails drummed patiently against the wooden surface as you leaned against it, deliberately presenting your ass toward him.
Rafe stared for a second too long before clearing his throat and nodding. "Whiskey."
"Again?" You already pulled out a glass and bottle. "We also have champagne, tequila, soda, or water."
That made him scoff. "Who the fuck drinks water in here?"
"Me, Silly," you replied with a chuckle, pouring a generous amount of amber liquid into the glass. "Hydration is important. We even have a small juice selection."
"Yeah, I bet," he snorted, throwing a suspicious glance at the leather cushions.
With a soft thud, you placed the glass and bottle onto the side table, smiling sweetly when his eyes immediately landed on your cleavage. "You have a naughty brain. Sexual activities are strictly forbidden throughout the entire club."
"And you believe that?"
You blinked, caught off guard by the conviction in his voice. "Yes, of course. Those are the rules."
"Hm," he hummed, eyeing you in a way that almost made you feel pitied. "And who makes sure people actually follow them?"
"Our manager and security, of course."
Rafe glanced around before shrugging. "Don't see either of them in here."
"Don't be silly," you replied, straightening again, amused by his questioning. "That would be very awkward for you."
But he didn't smile. "Then what's stopping you or your coworkers from making a few extra bucks through a quick fling?"
That made you pause. "Why would we do that?"
"Because there are bastards who take advantage of nice girls like you, Kitty," he said, every trace of playfulness gone now. "Manipulative fucking predators who know exactly how to talk. They make you think they're only asking when really they're pushing for it through sweet compliments, making you believe you actually want it."
Your own demeanor faltered, though you forced out a light giggle as you turned toward the pole, feeling his gaze drift to your ass once more. "You think I'm nice?"
You peeked back over your shoulder before turning fully, one hand wrapping around the cold metal pole. Slowly, you started swaying your hips to the rhythm of the music.
Rafe let out a frustrated breath, his eyes following your face rather than the movement of your body. "You seem like a very nice girl, yes. But that's not what I was trying to say. Men are—"
"Talkers," you cut in with a smile as you moved into a slow, sensual dance around the pole. "I know. They chatter and chatter like a flock of magpies and never know when to shut their beaks."
You slid down onto your knees, holding his gaze while rolling your body against the pole. "They like shiny things. The way a woman's body gleams under neon lights. How it curves." You arched your back slightly.
"How it feels." One hand slid over your throat, down your chest, over the bare skin of your stomach.
"How it sounds." You rose in one fluid motion, a soft moan slipping from your lips as you pressed yourself against the pole.
Rafe adjusted his position on the couch, spreading his legs a little farther apart as his eyes briefly flicked to where your body met the metal pole. When he spoke again, his voice came out rougher than before. "Magpies are intelligent. Men are not."
A startled laugh escaped you as you threw your head back, twirling around the pole with one knee hooked around it.
"It's not funny," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze dropped to a point somewhere in front of him, blank and hollow as he reached for the drink beside him. "One is a cruel animal chasing after precious, innocent things they can stain and ruin. The other is just an annoying bird. You can't compare these two."
He took a large swig from the glass and emptied it in one go, a bitter sigh leaving his lips afterward. His hands trembled faintly, eyes still fixed on the rug. "Magpies kill because it's biologically necessary."
He swallowed hard, his voice reduced to a broken rasp. "Men do it just because they can."
The smile disappeared from your face entirely, your movements coming to a stop as your fingers tightened around the pole.
The air in the room shifted from teasing playfulness into something heavier, gloomier. Like a dark cloud had settled over the space, thick with pressure, waiting to empty itself onto everything beneath it.
He slowly raised his head again.
The look on his face when he met your eyes was so hollow, so consumed by grief and some deep-writhing emotion you couldn't even begin to name.
"They take something good and kind and use it like a toy," he said quietly. "They twist it and break it and throw it around, abuse the innocence and devour what's supposed to be sacred until there's nothing left."
A faint shimmer had appeared in his eyes now, his voice stripped raw.
"And the worst kind of men are the ones staining the goodness under their own roof." He pressed his lips together, his neck and ears flushing red from holding back whatever rot was eating him alive from the inside out. "A magpie would never touch its own kin."
His jaw tightened. "A man would."
That was the cloud finally breaking loose. His words were a heavy black rain, drenched in pain and hurt, threatening to poison your senses. Shared grief now pressed down onto the atmosphere inside the room, daring to suffocate you with it.
And the worst part?
It reeked familiar.
Your knuckles hurt from how tightly you gripped the pole; your gaze locked onto him. And when you finally spoke, your voice came out quiet, all earlier confidence gone. "Is that what brought you here today?"
A single nod answered you.
Such a small movement carrying so much pain and grief, so many unspoken words. He didn't need to explain further for you to understand the weight he'd been dragging on his shoulders when he walked into the club.
Rafe swallowed hard, his lips trembling as he reached for the bottle again. A tremor ran through his hand while he filled the glass too far, whiskey spilling over the rim and onto the wooden table.
But he didn't react.
He simply set the bottle back down with a hard thud and stared into the drink in his hands.
"One session was enough for me to understand the kind of life she came from." His voice sounded rough and pained, his free hand curling into a tight fist against his knee. "A little girl whose worried teacher drove her to my practice and paid for the appointment herself.”
"I'm a therapist," he clarified with a broken smile tugging at his lips, and you didn't interrupt him to say you already knew. "I don't specialize in pre-adolescent patients which is why she was supposed to be assigned to my colleague, but her schedule was full. So, I took her anyway for the initial consultation."
A hollow chuckle escaped him.
"She reminded me of my youngest sister. Energetic, smart, impressively articulate for her age. Creative too. Could've filled entire books with stories better than the garbage kids are forced to read nowadays."
The sentence gutted you from the inside out.
"'Could have'...?" you asked quietly, though you already dreaded the answer.
Rafe looked up again, his expression twisting into rage and helpless fury before crumbling apart completely, tears now visibly warring in his eyes. "She never showed up to her second session. It was scheduled today."
He stared back down into his drink. “And I’m sitting in a fucking jerk-off club while she’s…”
He swallowed hard. “Fuck.”
Then he downed the entire glass in one large gulp, not even flinching this time, and slammed it back onto the table hard enough to make you jump.
In one fluid motion, Rafe rose to his feet, slightly unsteady, and pulled out his thick wallet. He fished out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills without even counting them before tossing it onto the table. “Should be enough to cover your rent and bills for this month.”
He moved so fast you could barely follow, your eyes frozen on the thick stack of cash.
But when he tried to move past you, something inside you reacted instinctively, and before you could think twice, your body stepped into motion.
“Be a good kitty and step aside,” he said quietly, glassy eyes fixed on yours as you blocked the door. The exhaustion in his voice scratched at the part of you that simply couldn't let him leave yet.
His soul was hurting, and something deep inside you wanted to fix that.
So you stood your ground, shaking your head, too startled by your own audacity to speak.
His weary expression hardened into something grim. "I paid you. We're done here."
"We're not," you replied softly, placing your hands against his chest when he tried to brush past you. "You can't leave like this."
Rafe’s brows twitched—irritation, confusion, probably both—and he stayed still for the moment. “Like what?”
Like you're in no state to go home. Or drive. Like you're one second away from breaking down completely, from hurting yourself or someone else with all this grief and anger rotting inside you.
But instead, you whispered: “Like you’re blaming yourself for what happened to her.”
Your words landed like a blow.
Rafe's entire face twisted with agony and sorrow, self-inflicted guilt written across every feature. His lips trembled like a child trying desperately not to cry.
"Because that's exactly how it is," he replied, his voice shaking, another wave of self-hatred washing over his face—something far older and deeper than this single tragedy alone. "I could've prevented it. One fucking call and she would've been dragged out of that shithole she called home the very same day, and she never would've taken that leap."
A choked sob finally broke free. “But I didn’t.”
Rafe took a step back, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes before shaking his head violently, gesturing toward his chest with rough frustration while angry tears filled his gaze. “Because I listened to my fucking supervisor instead of trusting my gut.”
A resentful smile pulled at his lips. "No reportable evidence, he said. Just concern based on instincts. Told me to document everything, keep seeing her, and avoid impulsive decisions that could cost me my license."
He gestured sharply toward the door, voice suddenly rising. “Now I still have my fucking license and she’s dead.”
The words came out ugly and brutal.
The ache inside him carved a deep abyss between the two of you, one threatening to swallow you whole if you stepped too close.
And it was hard not to let it.
The pain he carried for this faceless little girl without a name reached your soul in a way nothing else had in a very long time.
Part of you wanted to retreat, let him leave, let him storm out of the club and disappear back into the night while you returned to your shift. Let another customer book the room, and let wandering hands roam over your body for less than the money currently sitting on the table.
And yet Rafe's words had touched you more tonight than anyone's hands ever had.
He had opened himself up to you. Bared a part of himself he probably rarely let anyone see. Men like him hated crying; the world taught them to. More than that, they hated being witnessed while doing it.
Vulnerability was a luxury most men believed they couldn’t afford.
But to you, it was something precious. A gift.
A man letting his guard down enough to reveal the layers beneath himself—that was worth more than all the money in the world.
Which was exactly why you decided to expand the safety of Suite Number 3.
Carefully, you moved toward him, the sound of your heels softened by the thick carpet beneath your feet as you crossed the abyss between the two of you.
“It’s not your fault,” you said quietly, trying to catch his gaze with gentle understanding.
His eyes looked glazed and hollow, alcohol and grief leaving him utterly wrecked. Every ounce of energy seemed drained from him.
You reached for his upper arm, rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of his sleeve. “You did what you believed was right in that moment. You consulted your supervisor and followed his instructions. You couldn’t have known what would happen after a single session.”
“Yes, I could have.” Rafe nodded immediately, face twisting into a bitter grimace as he looked away from you toward the floor. “There were signs—I know there were—and I chose to ignore them. I failed my responsibility.”
His lips trembled again, dangerously close to another sob.
“She needed help and I…” His voice cracked. “I fucking failed her.”
And finally, the dam broke.
The tears he'd been desperately fighting spilled freely at last.
You didn’t hesitate.
Instinctively, you closed the final step between you, your hand sliding from his arm up to his shoulder while the other moved behind his neck.
Rafe’s body tensed instantly beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight from the sudden embrace.
But the moment your fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, and your head rested against the frantic beating of his heart beneath his chest, his resistance shattered completely.
In one fluid motion, his arms wrapped beneath your shoulders and around your torso, pulling you flush against him while his forehead dropped into the crook of your neck.
Raw, messy sobs shook through him, dampening your bare shoulder.
But you didn’t care.
Because in that moment he wasn’t a stranger.
Just another wounded soul trying to share his burden with another.
“The people around her failed her,” you whispered soothingly, though keeping your own tears under control was becoming difficult. “The ones who deliberately ignored her pain. The ones who pushed her to that point in the first place.”
Your fingers cupped the back of his head gently, holding him there. "You took her in even though she wasn't part of your specialization. You gave her a safe space, even if it was only for an hour, and you listened to her."
Your thumb brushed softly through his hair. "And what happened afterward wasn't you ignoring her. It was you reaching out in an attempt to get her help, but in the end, you settled on sticking to the rules of your profession. You worked within the circumstances you were allowed to."
You tightened your embrace slightly. “So, it wasn’t you who failed her. It was the system.”
He responded with an equally tight squeeze, sobbing into your shoulder like a boy clinging to his mother. You wondered if this was the first time in a long while that he'd allowed himself to be held like that.
Grown men either had a wife they could turn to, or they didn't.
And the men who wandered into strip clubs were usually the loneliest kind. Or cheating assholes. There was rarely anything in between.
Rafe wore a golden ring around his index finger, though it looked more like a family heirloom than a wedding band. And he didn’t strike you as the disloyal type.
“You’re smarter than half the bastards in my profession,” he murmured, barely audible against your skin. “And just as decent as my own kitty.”
A soft chuckle escaped your lips at that. “I bet you take great care of her.”
"I do." He inhaled your scent, sending goosebumps prickling across your skin. "And you don't smell like spoiled attitude the way she does."
“Oh, I definitely have attitude too.”
He let out a weak scoff. “A stubborn brat. That much hasn't escaped me.”
Another minute passed in the intimacy of your embrace. The sensual music surrounding you and the soft red glow overhead made Suite No. 3 feel like far more than just another room inside a strip club.
Rafe wasn’t the first stranger you’d held in your arms here. Many men came looking for simple company, someone willing to listen.
But he was the first one who had touched more than just your body.
Which was ironic, considering there had been no physical intimacy beyond this embrace.
Eventually, he pulled away.
The movement was slow, making your hands slide down from around his neck to rest against his chest while his own lingered on your upper arms.
Warmth spread through your chest at the sight of the harsh edges in his face softening into something quieter. Some reluctant form of acceptance.
Maybe acceptance of the situation. Maybe of himself.
Or maybe the strong whiskey had simply done its job and numbed some of the pain weighing him down. Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow morning with the same heavy cloud pressing against his shoulders all over again.
But perhaps you’d helped some of that weight spill over tonight, enough to let him breathe just a little easier, even if only for a moment.
It looked like he wanted to say something, lips parting slightly before he stopped himself. Instead, he slowly let go of you, the weary softness in his face hardening back into a defensive mask.
He gestured toward the bundle of cash on the table. “I expect you to keep all of it. No handing over whatever cut your manager demands.”
Your hands slipped from his chest, lips already parting to argue, but he cut you off with a firm shake of his head. “Silas, right?”
You nodded.
"He'll get his share," Rafe said, authority slipping back into his voice. "I'll make sure he receives it personally." He pointed toward you. "So don't you dare hand any of that over. It's yours, Kitty. Understood?"
“But—”
“No.” His brows furrowed, somehow looking completely sober despite the wrecked exhaustion written across his features. “I insist.”
Your mouth snapped shut.
Arguing with him felt pointless. You’d already figured that much out from the little back-and-forth you'd shared tonight.
“That fucker will be generously compensated, I promise you,” Rafe continued, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at the mess his tears had left against your shoulder. “And if he still demands a cut, let me know and I’ll have a nice little conversation with him.”
What would Silas say about being insulted like that?
A startled laugh escaped your lips. “You’re a silly guy. How exactly am I supposed to let you know? Telepathy?”
Rafe smiled faintly, shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket before taking a small step backward.
“You’re a smart kitty,” he said. “I’m sure you’d find a way.” A knowing glint flickered in his eyes. “That is, of course, if we continue pretending you don’t actually know who I am.”
What a sly man.
“An arrogant customer,” you replied teasingly, matching his playfulness.
He scoffed softly and started walking toward the door alongside you. “I trust you'll keep your little snout shut about exactly which customer visited you tonight, correct?”
You gifted him your sweetest smile, clasping your hands together in front of your stomach and, intentionally or not, presented your cleavage to him one last time.
And of course, he looked.
“Don’t worry,” you said, flashing your canines again. “No one will ever know Dr. Cameron set foot inside this club.”
Matt “c’mere baby, what’s the matter hm?” as he pulls you closer, pressing a few kisses to your tear streaked face before wiping away the remaining wetness with his thumbs Sturniolo
like i should definitely be put off by the fact that he’s got severe commitment issues, and literally hasn’t had a gf at his grown age, but i’m just not…
it honestly only makes me want him more…like i genuinely want to be in the most toxic situationship of my life with him…
Can we get a fic with matt or chris or chratt thats like this vibe? (Reader is super shy btw) not smut just something cutesy and sweet please !! (˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵)
masterlist , smut / fluff , drabble , 378 wc , inexperienced!reader x experienced!matt , primarily focused on the aftercare , use of nicknames (baby , doll , darling) , praise
♱
"yeah, baby... just like that," matt groaned, hips bucking against her hands. his girl was on her knees, trying her absolute best to please him.
matt's girlfriend wasn't very experienced when it came to sexual acts, but she was more than happy to learn for him. she enjoyed pleasing him and the view of him riding a high of ecstasy.
"tighten those hands a little, yeah?" he requested, eye shutting in pleasure. she obliged, pumping him slowly.
matt panted as her movements increased in intensity, his blue eyes hazy from need. he was obsessed with her lingering purity, watching the innocence flee from her the more she touched him.
"is this okay? is there anything else i can do?" she mumbled, looking up at him from the ground.
he shook her head, "no, doll, you'e doing so good for me... is it too much for you?"
"nuh uh, just wanna make you feel good," she responded, focusing her gaze on his thick cock in front of her. she was practically salivating at the sight, she had never imagined anything this big. she was thoroughly ruined for any other man, just like matt liked it.
"fuck, fuck! ahh, i'm gonna... i'm gonna cum, okay?" he looked down at her, making sure she was okay. her expression showed no change, so he didn't hold back.
soon enough, pearly ropes coated her hands and part of her face. matt's moans reverberated around the room, his body jerking closer to the source of pleasure. she didn't want to ruin his moment, but she was slightly grossed out by the liquid coating her skin.
he came down from his high, his eyes opening and facing towards his girlfriend. he could see the slight disgust in her expression, feeling guilty now.
"oh, darling, i'm sorry i made a mess," he frowned. matt slipped off the black t-shirt from his chest, wiping her face and hands of his seed. "you wanna take a shower? it might make you feel better," he offered.
"yeah... sorry, i don't want you to feel bad. i'm just not used to it yet," she shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed.
"i'm not upset at all, i just want to make sure you're okay," he replied sweetly, rubbing her cheek.
synopsis: The first thing you notice about Vigilante is his hands. It's just a professional curiosity. Until it isn't.
gif by @/fangirl48
pairing: adrian chase/vigilante x reader
tags: gender neutral reader, black ops reader, reader is deeply not normal (blame Amanda Waller), mutually obsessive behavior, blood, murder, violence, gore, neither of these people know how to process emotions (but in a cute way), fluff
word count: 5.1k
notes: requested by @bunch-of-bens! title from the billie eilish song "copycat". took me a hot second to crack this one, but had a blast once I did, hope you all enjoy!
For a long time the only thing you knew of the man inside the Vigilante suit was his hands.
A flash of pale skin glimpsed just before he finished tugging his gloves on as you climbed into the back of the truck. A crescent of flesh exposed by the slight bend of his wrist as his gun recoiled. The meat of his palm revealed by the glancing blow of a blade.
His identity was need-to-know, and you simply didn’t. And that was okay with you. You didn’t need much other than to know he was good at his work and you could trust him.
Working in pairs was new to you – at A.R.G.U.S, Waller had always kept you on a tight (and decidedly solo) leash.
But you worked well with Vigilante, becoming a silent and deadly shadow that stalked the night alongside him on missions. Studying his fighting style, learning his patterns, developing a keen awareness of his strengths and weaknesses – it was essential to the job. Studying his hands was just another part of that professional curiosity.
At first, anyway.
It was how you found yourself watching him like he was some mathematical equation to be solved as his gloved hands wrapped around the throat of a target. Your eyes traced the uneven slant of Vigilante’s shoulders as he pressed down. Enough study and you could probably find the slope.
There was something calm and self-assured about the firm grip of his hands at work. A tactical grace. You wondered what it might be like to feel those hands wrap around your own neck. You supposed that was probably a strange thought to be having while those hands were busy pressing the life out of someone. You never had really known what normal was anyway, and being around Vigilante had you having a lot of new thoughts.
When the man was dead, Vigilante stood slowly and dusted his gloves off. He turned around and jumped, letting out a yelp at the sight of you half hidden in the shadows. You pushed away from where you had been leaning against the wall and crossed your arms over your chest.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Observing.”
“Okay, weirdo,” he said, but you could see the way the skin around his eyes crinkled, even through his visor. “By the way, I totally, definitely knew you were there the whole time.”
Over time you found that being called up to work with the Checkmate team started to feel something like relief. The team as a whole was competent, if a little too emotional for your taste. But they paid well, treated you with respect, and…you got to see Vigilante in action.
You tried to piece a picture of him together based on the small things you’d noticed. The way he’d tap a pencil between his index finger and thumb during briefings, the way he always pulled his gloves off with his teeth (through the mask, lest you get any ideas about seeing his face), how he’d sometimes forget to take off his Pokémon watch and you’d get to see him unclasp it with nimble fingers and force Economos to hold onto it for him during missions.
Once, on a particularly lucky evening, you got to see both his hands completely bare as he rushed to sloppily stitch the wound across your thigh. He’d ripped the fabric of your pants open for better access and you’d felt, for just a fleeting moment, that your whole world had tilted on its axis. The carefully built understanding of the world was torn open as if by Vigilante’s hands themselves. You were fairly certain he’d mumbled something about not being able to grip the needle right with his gloves on – you couldn’t be entirely sure, you were busy watching your blood coat his strong fingers and committing the sight to memory. For strictly professional reasons, of course.
“You’re such a copycat,” he muttered.
“A what?”
“Last mission I got slashed in the thigh and now here you are, totally copying me,” he said with a huff. You couldn’t be certain if he was joking or not. His physicality was never hard to parse but his tone was another matter entirely. “Like a…”
“Copycat,” you finished for him.
“Exactly!” He was quiet for a long time. You found yourself wishing he would say anything to distract you from the way the calloused pad of his thumb brushed against your bare knee.
“You know, normally I hate the feeling of human skin,” he said quietly, his eyes still profoundly focused on his stitches. You watched him carefully, wondering if he’d say you were different. That he liked touching you the way you were discovering you liked it when he did. It was a foreign feeling for you – one you found made your body feeling surprisingly warm. The first time you’d felt that warmth while looking at him you’d thought you were coming down with a fever. You were starting to suspect it was something worse.
He sat back on his heels and dropped the needle into a small metal dish. His eyes flicked up to meet yours finally and you wondered what color they were beyond the blood red veneer of his visor. For the first time your brain was desperate for detail – to fill in the sketch of him beyond the skills and the suit.
“But, when it’s covered in dried blood it barely feels like human skin at all!”
The night you finally saw his face was on track to be one of the best of your life. Every mission you two had fallen more and more into sync. It was like there was a tangible thrum in the air between you – a taut, invisible rope connecting you.
Vigilante swung the target around by the arm and both your blades sunk into his flesh simultaneously. Your knife plunged with careful and studied precision through the narrow planes of his ribs and into his heart as Vigilante’s blade cleaved cleanly through his spine at the back. Your gaze lifted to Vigilante’s over the target’s shoulder. The heat of his gaze was palpable, even through the mask.
“Dude, that was sick!” Vigilante cheered. Blades pulled from the target’s body which crumpled in a heap at your feet. Vigilante raised his hand, palm towards you and you stared, confounded. You arched an eyebrow and he sighed, grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand up to meet his.
“Have you never high-fived someone before?” he asked, sounding genuinely wounded at the idea.
You shrugged, brain caught like a thread on wondering if he could feel the hammering of your pulse through his firm grip. “Guess not.”
“Well, it’s an honor to take your virginity,” he said as he slapped your hands together. Then he cocked his head slightly. “I mean, uh, your high-five virginity. Obviously.”
“Right,” you agreed slowly. Suddenly, he gasped. “What?”
“What is that?” he asked, bouncing on his toes. You realized suddenly your hands were still pressed together and you yanked your hand back, waiting for the inevitable knife of derision.
“What’s what?” you snapped.
“You were smiling,” he giggled. Giggled. You felt uncertainty rock through your whole being. Instability. Smiling? Your face did feel strange. Tired. Strained. You had thought it was from the punch you’d taken to the jaw earlier.
“You never smile, so, honestly this feels like a badge of honor,” he said, clapping a hand over his chest plate. “First your high-five virginity and now your smile virginity? What’s next!”
You sighed, trying to shake loose the unusual heat in your cheeks. You tightened the muscles in your cheeks and Vigilante reached out one gloved hand and traced the entire curve of your smile like he was carving it into your flesh.
“There it is.”
You could hear the smile in his own voice and suddenly found that your gravitational pull was skewed entirely towards him. Your chest brushed against his while his hand hung in the air near your face. For once you had no plan. You were entirely unused to the distinct feeling of being off-kilter. There were no studied schematics for feeling.
For a moment, you thought you might press your lips to the mask.
Instead, a sudden explosion tossed you both back across the room. The pain of broken ribs was immediately recognizable as you slid down the concrete wall, but there was something much sharper than any other time before mixed in. Vigilante was on top of you before you could even attempt to get your feet under you.
“Fuck, are you okay?” he asked, hands dancing across the front of your suit. They came away glistening. “Shit. Shit. Um, okay, hold on.”
The sound of footsteps had both your heads snapping in the direction of the stairs. You grabbed hold of his forearm, squeezed tightly, and narrowed your eyes at him. “Go. Finish it. I’ll be okay.”
Vigilante reluctantly left you bleeding out after you reassured him multiple times, your arm strategically draped over the shrapnel piercing deep into your side. When he was finally out of sight, you peeled back your obliterated suit to survey the damage. Blood was leaking out around the jagged piece of metal at an alarming rate, but you did what you could to pack the area around the wound, ripping tangled shreds of kevlar and fabric to use in a pinch, holding the whole area together with one firmly pressed hand.
You managed to press your back against the wall and use the resistance to push yourself to your feet, swallowing the urge to scream out against the pain. You fumbled for one of the pockets on your pants, knowing you had hemostatic powder in there somewhere. The wound was probably beyond that but anything would help. You ripped the little packet with your teeth but your trembling fingers dropped it and the powder spilled across the concrete floor.
“Fuck,” you cursed, the word slurred, like fingers swiped through wet paint. You weren’t sure how long Vigilante had been gone but beyond the ringing in your ears you heard no signs of him or anyone else. You had to move.
Shoulder scraping along the concrete until you reached the doorway, you managed to get to the staircase. You stumbled into the railing, bracing yourself, but not fast enough to stop the shrapnel from getting forced deeper into your abdomen.
Pain is a distraction, you could hear Waller’s voice clearer in your head than your own.
You punched your hand into your thigh repeatedly, desperate for the sensation of controlled pain. You just needed to stay on your feet long enough to find Vigilante. The fact that he hadn’t returned had unraveled something in you. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought it was fear.
It wasn’t until you finished dragging yourself down the staircase that you heard a wheezing breath and the sound of your name weakly being called. You followed the sound into a room off the staircase and found Vigilante in a pool of blood. Other bodies littered the room because Vigilante had completed the mission – of course he had.
Except Vigilante’s mask was nowhere to be found and you were staring at a man you didn’t know. Still, you found yourself kneeling at his side, blood soaking through the knees of your pants. You made note of matted curls and green eyes but also the blood that was running from his nose and pooling in the hollow of his neck. Oh, and the blade that had skewered him straight through the middle.
“Oh shit, that looks like it hurts,” he gasped, sitting up slightly, fingers clawing idly at the air near your own wound. You braced him against your knees, trying to keep him from sitting up any further, wincing at the effort. He looked from your wound to his and back again.
“Wait, oh my god, twinsies,” he wheezed, trying to sit up again.
You smiled at him and you could taste the blood on your teeth. “Copycat.”
“You know, you’re pretty through the visor but the real thing is even better,” Vigilante managed through gritted teeth. Then he slumped over, completely unconscious. Your vision blurred at the edges and you reached up to find your face wet before everything went dark.
When you first awoke under the bright, fluorescent lights you reminded yourself not to fight against your restraints. Waller didn’t like it when you returned to her with bruised wrists. But then you looked down at the hospital bed and found you weren’t restrained at all. That was…new. And this, of course, wasn’t A.R.G.U.S..
“You’re awake!”
Tired eyes tracked from his firm grip on your hand up his strong arm, taking in the sight of a strong bicep emerging from beneath the sleeve of a hospital gown. A peek of light blue boxer shorts beneath the hem of the gown dragged your gaze to a pair of strong thighs. He leaned forward, yanking the chair he was in somehow even closer to the edge of your bed and he propped his chin on his arm, folded alongside the edge of your bed. You combed over the sharp line of his jaw, up to his tousled curly hair and settled finally on a verdant pair of eyes. He nudged a pair of wire frames up the bridge of nose by ducking his face into the crook of his elbow.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, brows drawn together. You lifted a hand to smooth it away but gave up halfway through. His grip on your hand flexed and pulled your attention back to where the two of you were firmly joined.
“You don’t like the touch of human skin,” you said, as if he needed the reminder. Your voice cracked, throat traitorously dry for more than one reason.
“Oh!” he said, seeming surprised. He, too, turned his gaze to your intertwined hands. “Firm touch is good.”
“Firm touch is good,” you repeated.
“Okay, copycat!” he cackled. You couldn’t help but look at him again. He was attractive, even you could identify that. You had thought so, back in the warehouse, but the brain was known to imagine a lot of things when low on blood. There was something inexplicably soft about him that you could never have anticipated. Something that you liked. You were glad he wasn’t all hard edges and furrowed brows and dark, soulless eyes. You’d known plenty of killers like that. Killers with hard mouths and grasping hands. Vigilante was different.
“I don’t know your name,” you said suddenly. You scooted up slightly in the bed. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s Adrian!” he exclaimed, like it was a secret physically fighting its way out of him.
“Adrian,” you repeated, weighing the name in your mouth.
“But you can totally call me Vigilante still if you want. Unless we’re in public together, then you should probably call me Adrian. Because of the whole secret identity thing,” he rambled.
“When would we be in public together?” you asked, genuinely curious. You were defenseless against the sudden idea of the two of you together in public, holding hands. What kind of civilian clothes did this Adrian wear? It would be helpful intel to complete the image. Purely tactical input.
“Oh. Good point.” You couldn’t help but notice he seemed disappointed.
You gave his hand a squeeze. “I like Adrian.”
“You do?” he asked, perking up, leaning closer towards you. His chin was now propped on your arm instead of his own.
“Yeah.”
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he reached for the water on the tray beside your table and extended it towards you. “You should really hydrate, by the way.”
You nodded and sipped at the water slowly as he picked at the blanket with his free hand.
“I’m really glad you didn’t die, you know,” he said after a long moment.
“It would have been inconvenient, I’m sure. Having to train someone to replace me. It can take a long time to find someone you’re compatible with,” you replied. He cocked his head slightly.
“Well, yeah, I guess. But I meant more like I’m glad you didn’t die. Not just because we’re compatible in the field, you know?” You weren’t sure you did know. He squirmed slightly in his seat. “Because I think we may be compatible out of the field, too.”
Uncertainty coursed through you, as you tried to reason what he might be saying. The strange, taut feeling in your stomach was back.
“You healed fast,” you said, eyes assessing him for injury as was habit. Something that felt safe and normal and practiced. In fact, he looked completely unscathed. Kind of unfair, actually.
He shrugged, a silly grin on his face that you might have chalked up to a kind of sheepishness. “Harcourt thinks I might be metahuman.”
“Increased healing ability is often an indication of metahuman characteristics,” you agreed. Adrian dragged his lower lip against his thumb.
“God, it’s so hot when you talk like that,” he gushed.
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Like you. Kind of science-y and distant. I like it,” Adrian said quietly.
“You do?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding emphatically. You felt yourself leaning towards him, but the movement pulled at your stitches. You must have winced because concern flickered over Adrian’s face and he launched himself from his chair onto the side of your bed, making space for himself against your hip. His hand pressed gently to your abdomen.
“Oh, good, you’re awake!” Adebayo cheered with a smile from the doorway. You moved to pull your hand away from Adrian but his grip did not relent. That made you inexplicably warm again, heat high in your face.
Economos cleared his throat. “There was a significant spike in your heart rate on the monitors. We just wanted to make sure everything was okay and that Adrian wasn’t like smothering you with a pillow or something.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” Adrian asked, sounding genuinely wounded.
Economos shrugged. “Only like a month ago you were saying you were worried we’d want to replace you and that you were willing to do a duel to the death.”
“You’re flushed,” Adebayo said, crossing to the bedside to touch her hand to your cheek. “Temp reading is normal, though.”
You didn’t have an explanation. Adebayo and Economos exchanged a look.
“Adrian’s not bothering you, is he?” Adebayo asked gently.
“Hey!” Adrian protested.
You released a pent up breath. “No. It’s…nice.”
“Well, now that you’re awake why don’t you go get some rest, Adrian?” Adebayo suggested. Adrian rolled his eyes.
“No thanks,” he huffed. “Last time we were apart we both ended up here!” Then he looked up at you with big eyes, sitting upright. “Unless? You want me to go?”
“I don’t,” you said quietly. “Unless you are planning to duel me to the death the second they leave this room.”
Adrian’s eyes widened somehow further and you resisted the urge to stick your finger into the crook of his dimple. “Was that a joke?”
You felt the corner of your lips twitch. “I think so.”
“Ohmygod,” he gushed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of your clasped hands. It didn’t really much matter to you that he accidentally kissed the back of his own hand instead. “Another one for the virginity checklist!”
“The what now?” Adebayo asked, then she shook her head violently. “You know what, I don’t actually want to know.”
It was that easy. You and Adrian just simply wouldn’t be apart anymore. Once you were a little more healed (you’d probably gotten off bed rest a little too soon, but it was at your own insistence) Checkmate agreed to take you on full time, and Adrian took it upon himself to make sure he was the one who showed you around. And brought you coffee. And got you up to speed on missed meetings. And made sure you were always assigned to missions together. And sometimes held your hand firmly under the conference room table.
Adrian also made it his mission to find and introduce you to simple things, too. Simple joys of existence that you had never had the chance to know, all those years kept up in labs and secure facilities, broken out of the box only when Waller wanted to play.
“Dude, you’ve never played Wii Sports?” he gasped, practically launching himself off of the couch. You found it endearing that he still called you dude even after you two had begun fucking (Adrian kept calling it “making love” – you weren’t sure about all that, but whatever it was? You liked it). You found a lot of things about him endearing, an emotion you had heretofore been unfamiliar with.
Adrian was repeating holdonholdonholdon as he raced about the living room, setting up some sort of gaming console beneath the TV.
“What is this?” you asked when he curled your fingers around a slender piece of plastic with buttons down the front. His fingers lingered and that warm feeling came back again with a vengeance.
“A Wiimote.” You only blinked back at him. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned back to the TV and then back to you again, and you watched with a tightness in your throat as he curled his hands into fists and then braced them against his hips. “I lied, it does matter. It’s a Wii remote. A remote for the Wii. But they combined it into one word and hence – ”
“Wiimote,” you replied, nodding in understanding. You were too afraid to ask for clarification on what a Wii was exactly, but Adrian hauled you to your feet and pecked a kiss to your cheek.
“Can I say something?” he asked. You nodded. Rarely did he ask for permission to speak. “Thank you.”
“For what?” you asked, genuinely puzzled.
“For not thinking I’m weird. For letting me do silly stuff like teach you about Wii Sports, but, like, also totally serious stuff like letting me have sex with you.” You watched as his hand gripped the controller tighter, the tendons of his hand straining beneath the skin. Your mouth filled with saliva suddenly. Another new sensation to make sense of later.
Your eyes flickered back to Adrian’s green ones and you realized he wasn’t done quite yet. “You’re like the coolest person I know.”
“Temperature-wise?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. Adrian bent over and laughed, his hands pressed between his knees.
“Definitely not temperature-wise, because metaphorical-temperature-wise you’re so fucking hot,” he said. You nodded like you understood.
“Well, metaphorical-temperature-wise you’re also hot, Chase,” you countered. It was true – he was an objectively attractive man. “Also, I really take umbrage with the idea that I’m letting you have sex with me.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “How would you describe it, then?”
“I would describe it as I look forward to and like having sex with you,” you replied with a shrug. Adrian’s eyes darted back and forth between yours and you couldn’t quite parse what emotion he was experiencing. He surged forward, dropping the Wii remote so he could take your head in both his hands and kiss you deeply.
He pulled away panting, his forehead pressed to yours. “Can I say something else?”
His thumb dragged along your cheekbone and you found yourself only capable of nodding.
“I feel kind of insane when I’m around you. And I’m not totally sure, but I think it might be love. It’s like my heart is the gun and your finger is on the trigger and you could pull it and kill me at any second but I like that,” he said, deadly serious. Was that what love felt like? You didn’t have enough time to properly consider it because he kissed you on the nose and then let you go.
“Okay, so your remote should be in pristine condition because I’ve never actually played Wii Sports with anyone else before. But! I think you’ll be really good at Wii Tennis, because I’m really good at Wii Tennis and we’re good at a lot of the same things, just like how we’re both good at murder and sex!”
He smiled as he turned to boot up whatever a Wii was and you felt those muscles draw taut in your cheeks again, a little less sore this time. Adrian gasped suddenly, eyes wide as he turned back to you. “Let’s check that Wii Sports virginity!”
You two shouldn’t have worked. But you’d leave quiet gaps in conversation for him to fill, and he treated you like you hung the moon and all the stars and not like someone who was raised in a lab to kill. In fact, he always laughed when someone else on the team had any sort of comments about your strange behavior, or your blank responses. Because to him the strangeness wasn’t absurd – it was just you.
“Why do you look at him like that?” Peacemaker asked once, while he was standing beside you in the Checkmate communal kitchen. Adrian was wedged between Adebayo and Economos, showing them something on his phone.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to dissect him.”
You dragged your eyes to Peacemaker, who flinched slightly. You were used to it. “I don’t want to dissect him. I want to do the opposite of that. Whatever that is.”
“You love him?”
“Is that the opposite of dissection?”
Peacemaker seemed to contemplate the question. “You know, I’m not sure it is.”
The two of you were running late to Friday night work drinks. Partly because every time you had tried to put on an item of clothing while getting ready, Adrian was determined to take it off again. And partly because Adrian had spotted a flock of ducks on the way and wanted to feed them and tell you that a group of ducks was called a waddling, actually.
Around the corner from the bar, Adrian came to a sudden stop, causing you to nearly collide with him.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, when he turned to you with a panic-stricken expression, his hand letting go of yours. You found you did not like that sensation at all, but kept it squarely to yourself.
“I don’t want you to feel like we have to let everyone know about us,” he said, words tumbling out of his mouth. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you suspected they already knew. At least Peacemaker did, and you had observed very early on if Peacemaker knew something, so did everyone else. But the thought of Adrian being kind enough to be concerned tugged at your heart. That old thing had been working overtime lately.
“Okay,” you agreed. “We can ‘play it cool’.”
And it was totally playing it cool to reach up and adjust the collar of his rugby shirt.
“Why are you saying it like that?” Adrian laughed, bumping your shoulder.
“I feel like I’m saying it totally normally,” you continued to argue as you two made your way into the bar.
“You don’t do anything normally,” he replied with a smile. “That’s what I love about you.”
You knew you were still figuring it all out: what it meant to be a part of a team, what it meant to have a life in the civilian world and not just one in the shadows, what it was like to have friends – people who cared if you lived or died. And most importantly, what it was like to have Adrian.
Adrian stayed by your side all night. Close, but not touching. Occasionally you’d reach for your drinks at the same time and your hands would brush. Adrian’s fingers gripped one leg of the stool you were perched on, slowly dragging it closer towards him as the group got more drinks in and he was feeling bolder. His sneaker was wound around the bottom rung of your stool and his thigh, warm and strong, was pressed against yours before long. You could feel his stolen glances lingering longer and you knew he was searching for you to put up the red light. You knew he would pull back the moment you did. But you didn’t want him to.
You watched him idly fold straw wrappers into delicate little structures that now lined the sticky tabletop, gifting them to his friends around the table as the conversation and the night stretched on. He placed a slightly lopsided heart in front of you.
Economos was in the middle of a story about Rick Flag Sr. when you turned to look at Adrian and found him already looking at you, eyes sparkling in the dive bar light. How were you supposed to resist a face like that?
“Adrian,” you breathed his name but he was already moving, answering your call. You leaned forward and he met you halfway, arms circling your waist as you pressed your lips against his. The two of you nearly knocked the high top and your stools over in your eagerness to kiss. Faintly, you heard Economos complaining but it didn’t matter because Adrian was biting down on your lower lip, his hand fisted in your hair.
“John, you owe me twenty bucks!” Adebayo declared. “I still can’t believe you took that bet after seeing them in the med bay together.”
“I don’t know! I thought it was some weird psycho bonding thing!” John exclaimed, tossing his hands up and nearly upending his beer in the process.
“Alright you two, cut the PDA,” Harcourt groaned.
“Aw, I think it’s kind of sweet,” Chris chimed in, elbowing Harcourt. “Creepy, but sweet.”
Adrian pulled back from you, grinning wide. “PDA virginity?”
“Check,” you agreed. You raised your hand and Adrian gave you a high five before slotting his fingers through yours and letting your entangled hands fall back into the space between you. A small commotion broke out at the table between everyone all at once. You found it almost made you smile, though, you suspected those were reserved just for Adrian. For now.
There was a small pulse, pulse, pulse of his hand, squeezing firmly, rhythmically, as if he wanted to assure you he was still there. As if you could forget.
sitting on steve's lap just sucking on his fingers for fun and he has to keep pulling them away because she won't stop legit gagging herself with his fingers, he's just like you're gonna hurt yourself:(( but his gentleness is just soo attractive she's just all over him
yummy
`
finger sucking ? (18+)
you’re curled up on steve’s lap on his couch, the soft glow of the lamp in the corner barely cutting through the dim living room. his thighs are warm and solid beneath you, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist while the other hand rests lazily on your hip. you’ve been like this for a while now, just sucking on his fingers for fun, slow and lazy, your tongue swirling around them like they’re the only thing that matters.
you take them deeper, letting them slide past your lips until they hit the back of your throat. a wet gag slips out, your eyes watering just a little, but you don’t pull back. instead you push forward, sucking harder, the soft sounds filling the quiet space between you.
“hey… hey, sweetheart,” steve murmurs, voice low and gentle, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. he tugs his fingers back slowly, the wet pop when they leave your mouth making your cheeks heat. “you’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep doing that.”
you whine softly, chasing his hand, lips already parted again. “but i like it,” you mumble, voice a little slurred from how worked up you are. you grab his wrist gently and guide his fingers back between your lips, sucking them in with a quiet hum.
steve lets out a soft laugh, but there’s no real scolding in it, just that warm fondness that makes your stomach flip. he watches you with those big brown eyes, half-lidded and soft, as you hollow your cheeks and take them deeper again. another gag, wetter this time, and he’s immediately pulling them back, thumb brushing your bottom lip.
“easy, baby. you’re gagging yourself pretty bad,” he says, so gentle it makes your head spin. his voice is all husky and careful, like he’s worried but also completely wrapped around your finger. “i don’t want you choking on me like that.”
you shake your head a little, pressing closer on his lap, your body molding against his chest. “don’t care… feels good,” you slur slightly, the words messy around the edge of a moan. you lean in and suck his fingers right back in, tongue pressing flat against them, eyes fluttering shut as you bob your head just a little, letting them slide in and out with wet, obscene sounds.
steve groans quietly, his hips shifting under you. you can feel him getting hard beneath your thigh, but he doesn’t push it, doesn’t try to take control. he just lets you have your fun, even as he keeps gently tugging his fingers away every time you push too deep and gag again.
“jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he breathes, but his hand stays soft on your face, thumb stroking your cheek while his fingers rest against your tongue. “look at you… all over me just from sucking my fingers. so pretty like this.”
you hum around him, the vibration making his breath hitch. you take them a little deeper again, eyes watering, a soft choked sound escaping, and he’s right there pulling them back with that same careful touch.
“c’mon, sweetheart, not so deep. you’re gonna make yourself sore,” he coos, voice dripping with that gentle worry that only makes you want him more. you’re practically melting into him, thighs squeezing together on his lap, your hands clutching at his shirt as you chase his fingers again.
he lets you suck them back in, slower this time, watching your lips stretch around his long fingers with dark eyes. every time you gag, even a little, he’s there, pulling away just enough, murmuring soft little “easy, baby” and “not too much, okay?” that make your whole body feel warm and fuzzy.
you love how gentle he is. the way he could so easily take over but chooses to let you play, only stepping in when you’re being a little too reckless with yourself. it makes you dizzy, makes you press closer, sucking harder, letting the wet sounds and your soft whines fill the couch.
steve’s breathing is heavier now, his free hand sliding up your back under your shirt, palm warm against your skin. “you’re so good for me,” he whispers, voice rough but still so tender. “even when you’re trying to swallow my fingers whole.”
you pull off just long enough to catch your breath, lips shiny and swollen, a thin string of spit connecting you to his fingers. “steve…” you mumble, voice all slurred and needy, before leaning in to take them again, slower this time, savoring the weight on your tongue.
he chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “yeah, i’ve got you. just… be careful, okay? don’t wanna hurt that pretty mouth.”
you nod around his fingers, eyes half-closed, completely lost in the feeling of him being so sweet while you’re making such a mess. the couch feels smaller, the air thicker, and you’re just content to stay right here, sucking on steve’s fingers while he keeps you safe with that gentle touch that drives you crazy.
hiii i’m not sure if you still write for jake martin but if you do could you do a him X reader fic where she work with him and one day she starts having a panic attack and he just calms her down and maybe beth or kevin walk in and are surprised on how good he was at calming her down
Himbo Help
Story Summary -> Jake is unexpectedly good at calming down the newbies' panic attack.
Tags -> Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Overworking
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There were a lot of things Jake didn't know. He was the type of guy to hold his hand up and admit that the only topic he was knowledgeable on was NASCAR, and even then, he didn't know the technical side of it and very often, it went over his head.
But he knew - with 100% certainty - that Y/N was a good assistant. Catherine had hired her at the beginning of the year and she had proven herself time and again to be a competent employee. So much so that the entire team took advantage of her competency and often added some of their minor tasks to her list, which was absolutely fine because they were mundane things that required nothing more than basic attention and a bit of brainpower, and, well, Y/N seemed to have a talent for figuring them all out.
But there's a difference between the preparation months and when the racing season actually began. It was like a totally different job: the time frames were smaller, the tasks more important, and one screw-up could mean the difference between winning and losing. And the stakes... Well, the stakes would certainly be higher than ever.
It was a lot of pressure.
The racing season began, and Y/N felt as if she was having her first day all over again, if not a hundred times over. Catherine had already given her a list of tasks to do that day, but as soon as she walked down into the lobby of Bobby Spencer Racing, Kevin called her over.
Her original list grew from:
To-Do :)
Finalise and update Catherine’s calendar for the week
Confirm sponsor meeting times and locations
AND Confirm dinner reservation for sponsor night
Print briefing documents for morning meeting
Rearrange travel plans after schedule change
Answer emails and flag anything urgent
Coordinate Jake's PR appearances and media slots'
To:
Finalise and update Catherine’s calendar for the week
Confirm sponsor meeting times and locations
AND Confirm dinner reservation for sponsor night
Print briefing documents for morning meeting
Rearrange travel plans after schedule change
Answer emails and flag anything urgent
Coordinate Jake's PR appearances and media slots'
For Kevin
Print revised strategy sheets last minute
Run updated notes to engineering
Sit in on call with NASCAR.com and take notes for him
Chase PR for confirmation on timing
Double-check tyre allocation sheet
Y/N smiled and wrote it down just as she usually would before she took another step and was being called over by Chuck and Amir, who had even more jobs for her.
Chuck
Pick up parts from supplier across town
Drop off fire suit for repairs
Grab tools he 'forgot' to order
Stock up on energy drinks and snacks for the crew
Help organise equipment in the garage
Amir
Print data sheets before briefing and bring updated reports to Kevin
Email the revised numbers to PR
Cross-check figures for post-race report
Well, it was a lot but if she kept her head down and got into the zone, she could get half done today. And with some luck, maybe she wouldn't have to work through her lunch break.
It was doable. Barely. But, if she tried hard enough, she thought, surely she could manage to pull it off.
Then, she took another step.
"Ah, Y/N, there you are!" Beth greeted in that skittish way she had. "I was wondering..."
Great.
Beth
Organise and file expense reports
Collect receipts from everyone
Print and prepare contracts for signing
Chase finance about missing invoice
Update internal schedules and send round
Although her brain could barely comprehend it, more jobs were placed on her ever-growing to-do list. More projects, more meetings, more people, more responsibility and more paperwork to fill out. She'd never experienced this kind of workload before, and now that she was starting, it made her feel like her mind wanted to explode.
Or implode.
Or just shut down.
What if she couldn't handle it? What if she slipped up and let someone down? What if they fired her? What if -
"Hey, Y/N?" A voice cut through her thoughts. "You good?"
Jake, beautiful dumb Jake, stood there looking concerned with his hands on her shoulder blades as if he was worried she might fall back or maybe even faint. Maybe she had. Y/N had no idea what had happened in the two seconds she'd taken to blink, but everyone around the garage was eyeing her with furrowed brows and confused expressions.
"Yeah," she replied. "Yeah, I'm okay."
Even to her own ears, it sounded unconvincing.
"You've just been standing in the same spot for a while," Beth said carefully, looking at Y/N as if she was afraid she might pass out at any moment.
Of course, Beth was right. Y/N had been completely zoned out for a good minute or two. But now that she was back in the room, the rapid rise and fall of her chest was far more obvious.
Beth wasn't helping one bit. Her voice got all high and fast. "Oh, sweetheart, are you ok? Do you need to go home early? You can leave if you want-"
If anything, that made Y/N worse. There was no way she was going home. That was not an option. If she did, nothing would get done today, and then tomorrow would be a failure too, and the next day and the next and the next. She'd constantly be playing catch-up until they hired someone better, more reliable, and less incompetent.
Fuck! The new assistant would probably be prettier than her too. Maybe with bigger boobs. A richer family. Better clothes. Smarter. Kinder. Someone who could use Excel without having to Google what functions to use.
"Do you smell that?" Jake suddenly asked in a low voice and Y/N sniffed the air experimentally.
"Smell what?"
"I smell something."
Once again, she breathed in. The smells were familiar: gasoline fumes, rubber, grease, metal and leather. There was nothing odd about it, though; every car garage stank of fuel fumes.
"I don’t smell anything!"
"Try again." He exaggerated his breathing in order for her to copy him and sure enough, she caught on to what he'd done and laughed. "Take a big, deep breath."
That doofus had effectively got her to calm her breathing, and in doing so, had dampened her panic. It was a miracle.
Beth watched on with amazement but didn't say anything. In fact, she looked quite smug that Jake was smart enough to think of doing that - Kevin wasn't going to believe her when she ultimately gossiped about this moment.
"Good job," he grinned as she seemed to come back into her body for a moment, then Y/N noticed how many eyes were on them and it began to get more uneven again. "I've been meaning to show you the simulator - let's go see it, yeah?"
In any other situation, Beth would've suggested that Jake didn't go into a private room with a pretty girl. Yet, in this one, it seemed like the best option they had available.
Before Y/N could agree, Jake tugged her arm and led her into the gym, away from the other employees and to where nobody wanted anything from her. It was a little warm and sweaty inside, but so was Y/N so that didn't matter too much.
"I lied about the simulator, bt-dubz." He rummaged through his bag to find a water bottle and handed it to her. "It's quiet in here."
She swallowed down half of it in one great big gulp.
"Do you want a hug?" He offered with a smile. "Because you look like you could use one."
Y/N stared blankly at him until she understood what he was trying to say. Then, slowly, she nodded her head yes and he opened his arms like this was something they did all the time. It wasn't, of course, as they barely knew each other. Other than the occasional surface-level coworker-type conversation, they hadn't had much contact during the past year. Sure, he was nice and pretty and charming and all sorts of wonderful things whenever they spoke, but they weren't exactly friends.
"C'mere," he said as he pulled her towards him. "Let yourself relax a little."
She complied immediately, allowing herself to slump slightly against his strong, sturdy body. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and waist as he held her close and pressed his chin against the top of her head. It was strange. In a good way. Never in a million years would Y/N have expected this. That his arms were the most comforting feeling in the world. That her entire body felt relaxed, grounded and protected at the mere touch of his. That she could stay here forever and enjoy it without worrying about any other problem she might face.
Logically, she knew that last one wasn't true and yet...
"Thank you," she whispered softly into his shirt.
"Anytime." He squeezed her gently. "You know, I used to think you'd suck at hugs because you're all prim and proper and perfect and stuff, but this is nice."
Pulling back a little, Y/N met his eyes with confusion. "I'm not prim and proper, and I'm certainly not perfect," she argued.
"Nah, I'm pretty sure you're, like, the best. At everything."
He'd said it so sincerely and with such conviction that she almost believed him.
"I'm really not," Y/N insisted. "I can barely do my own job, let alone everyone else's."
Her eyes widened as the words left her mouth. "I didn't mean... I'm an assistant! It's my job to do someone else's - Catherine’s, specifically - and do the proofreading and filing and picking up Kevin's dry cleaning and all that, and the emails and the planning and the meetings and-"
"Slow down," Jake said, interrupting her. "Like you said, you're Catherine’s assistant, not Kevin's or Amir's or Beth's or Chuck's or Jessie's or mine or anybody else's."
Y/N nodded slowly, still not fully comprehending what he was telling her. She knew what her role was. That was why she was here. To assist Catherine.
Oh. Catherine.
Only Catherine.
"I mean, if you were my assistant, I'd have you posting shirtless photos of me to Instagram every hour."
That got a laugh from her (even though he was being 100% serious), and he smiled back so dopily that it encouraged her to laugh even more. It was a blessing for him to not only hear but also be the reason she could release all her stress and anxiety in this way.
"Seriously though, the only person who you need to help is Catherine. You've gotta start saying no, okay?"
"Even to Chuck?" she added, a smirk appearing on her lips.
"Hmmm... maybe keep on his good side for the meantime," he suggested, only half joking and chuckling when she nudged him.
All too soon, it was time to get back to work, and Y/N reluctantly pulled away. She thanked him once again and took a few steps towards the door before hurrying back to give him a kiss on the cheek.
"Thank you. Really."
It didn't matter that he replied with some dumb shit like, "No prob, Bob"; he was too flustered to care. He smiled so wide that his dimples made their appearance and she couldn't resist returning his smile, then darted away before he could stop her.
Throughout the rest of the day, she had to admit, she felt much better. Mostly because her coworkers rescinded their duties from her to-do list, as if they finally realised that they weren't the only ones who were taking advantage of her in such a way.
Everyone kept giving her these looks, guilty looks that made her both relieved and uncomfortable. Like, yes, thank you for finally realising that I'm not paid for doing your job, but also, hey, I'm not some kid that you manipulated into doing your evil bidding or whatever. She chose to say yes, and now she was choosing to say no.
When Kevin asked about her taking notes for him, she handed him a notepad and a pen.
When Beth asked for the updated reports to be printed out, she said, "Don't you know how to use a printer?"
When Amir asked her to cross-check the figures, she had joked, "Can you not read?"
Chuck's tools were ordered once all of Y/N's other jobs had been done, and she left him a note that read 'you scare me so here's your tools.' That was enough to quell him for now.
By the time the end of the day came, most, if not everything, was done to the best of her ability. That was all she could ever hope to do.
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pairing: adrian chase x coworker!reader—vigilante x reader
summary: adrian chase is just your sweet, semi-awkward, dorky coworker who you happened to fall for... without realizing he’s the masked vigilante who loves you too loudly. what starts as a workplace crush becomes your nightmare and your heartbreak, and healing means deciding whether love can survive after terror.
word count: 5.8k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. based on this ask. i got a little carried away... oopsies!
main masterlist
you learn early on that having a crush on adrian chase is like trying to keep a secret in a room full of fluorescent lights.
everything about him makes it hard to be normal.
he laughs too loud at jokes that weren’t meant to be funny. he stands a little too close in break rooms. he treats paperwork like it personally offended him. he calls you “buddy” and “pal” and “champ” with the same sincerity someone might reserve for a priest or a therapist.
and he works closing shifts with you at fennel fields, a restaurant that sounds fake even when you say it out loud.
you try to keep your feelings contained. you do. you keep them tucked neatly behind hostess stands, behind polite smiles, behind the mental list of reasons this is a bad idea.
reason number one: adrian is… adrian.
reason number two: you work together.
reason number three: you suspect he might actually be insane.
still, your stomach flips every time he says your name.
“hey, you,” he says one night, during a slow period where only two tables were busy and you were overstaffed, leaning against the hostess stand like he’s been rehearsing the pose in a mirror. “you busy?”
you glance at your tablet. “always.”
he nods like that confirms a theory. “coolcoolcool. same.”
he does not elaborate. he never elaborates. he just stands there, rocking on his heels, eyes bright with a sort of contained excitement, like he’s waiting for fireworks only he can see.
you wait. he waits.
eventually he gives you a thumbs-up and walks away.
you stare after him, trying to decide whether to laugh or scream.
you choose neither. you choose longing. regrettably.
the vigilante rumors start as background noise.
you hear them in passing: on the radio, from coworkers gossiping, from strangers whispering at bars. a masked man. brutal methods. crime scenes that feel more like statements than accidents.
you don’t pay much attention at first. that’s gotham’s business. that’s the city’s endless appetite for theatrics and violence.
until it brushes too close to you.
the first incident is small.
you’re walking home from work, keys threaded between your fingers because you’re not stupid, when you notice police tape blocking off a nearby alley.
red and blue lights smear across wet pavement.
(morbid) curiosity gets the better of you. it always does.
you step closer. inside the alley, it's a mess. but nothing is splattered. nothing is random. it's careful. deliberate.
someone—vigilante, you assume, because he’s known for his creative and messy violence—has written your initials on the brick wall.
there’s a heart around them.
your stomach drops through the floor.
you stare, breath shallow, pulse in your throat. it feels like the world narrows down to those letters, that shape, that impossible implication.
an officer notices you hovering. “ma’am,” he says, gentler than he has any right to be, “you shouldn’t be here.”
you nod mutely and back away, but the image brands itself behind your eyes.
your initials. a heart. blood.
that night, you sleep with the lights on.
the second incident is worse.
you wake up to a news alert on your phone. another understood criminal dead. another theatrical scene. another moral argument splashed across headlines.
a blurry photo accompanies the article.
you zoom in.
carved into a wooden surface—maybe a crate, maybe a wall—is your name.
not initials this time. your full first name.
there’s a little heart carved at the end of it, the lines uneven like someone rushed.
you feel sick. you tell yourself it’s a coincidence. you tell yourself it’s paranoia.
you tell yourself that in a city of thousands, the odds of this being personal are microscopic.
still, you start locking your doors twice. you start jumping at footsteps behind you. you start feeling watched in ways that don’t feel like imagination.
at work, adrian is oblivious. or if he’s not, he’s doing a terrifyingly good job pretending.
“morning, sunshine,” he says one day, handing you a cup of coffee you absolutely did not ask for.
you blink at it. “did you steal this?”
he gasps. “steal is such a harsh word. i prefer reallocated.”
you almost laugh. almost. instead, the words spill out before you can stop them. “adrian… have you heard about vigilante?”
his reaction is immediate. too immediate. his posture straightens like a soldier hearing a code word. his eyes sharpen, something electric passing behind them.
“yeah,” he says lightly. “cool guy. not that i know him or anything, because i personally am nothing more than a measly bus boy… but yeah, no, totally know of him.”
your mouth opens. closes. “cool?” you echo weakly.
he nods, grinning. “total badass. real romantic type, too.”
you stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “romantic,” you repeat. “he writes people’s names in blood.”
adrian winces. “okay, when you phrase it like that, it sounds bad.”
“it is bad.”
“well…” he leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “sometimes love makes people do big gestures.”
you recoil before you can stop yourself. “big gestures,” you say flatly, “should not involve murder.”
he considers that. “huh,” he says. “agree to disagree?”
you look at him with a look that screams, ‘what the fuck?’
he looks pleased with himself.
you don’t mean to tell him. it just… happens.
one afternoon, when the office feels too bright and your nerves feel like overexposed film, you let it slip.
“the vigilante thing,” you say quietly, eyes on your keyboard. “he’s been… doing stuff. surrounding me.”
adrian freezes. “what kind of stuff?” he asks, voice suddenly too careful.
you swallow.
“he wrote my initials at a crime scene,” you admit. “in blood. i mean, i think they were mine because then it was my full name. carved. i don’t know why. i don’t even know him. i don’t—”
your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. you hate that fear sounds like weakness.
adrian’s expression shifts.
guilt. panic. something almost… wounded.
“he’s probably just,” adrian says, scrambling, “uh. you know. trying to be nice. my mom always said when boys are mean, it’s because they like you—not that he’s being mean! but you know… yeah.”
you blink at him. “nice.”
“yeah,” he insists, nodding too hard. “he’s… misunderstood. he’s probably, like… really into you.”
your laugh is sharp and humorless. “if he’s into me,” you say, “i’m terrified.”
adrian hesitates.
“…he’d never hurt you,” he says, too fast.
you finally look at him. “why are you so sure?”
for a moment, he looks like he might actually tell you the truth. instead, he grins.
“because i’m a great judge of character. like a wounded puppy”
you stare. “that’s not—”
he gives you finger guns.
you consider filing a formal complaint against reality.
that night, you dream of blood turning into ink. you dream of hearts sketched in red. you dream of a voice whispering your name like it’s sacred.
and somewhere in the city, adrian chase puts on a helmet, stares at his hands, and wonders how to love you without terrifying you.
he is… not doing a great job.
after you tell adrian, you start noticing the way he looks at you.
you don’t realize it at first. you’re too busy being afraid. too busy flinching at sirens, double-checking locks, memorizing escape routes in grocery stores.
but slowly, the pattern emerges.
he watches you like he’s trying to memorize you in case you disappear.
when someone startles you, he’s instantly at your side. when your voice shakes, his softens. when your smile falters, his does too—like it physically hurts him to see.
it unsettles you.
it also makes your chest ache.
one evening, you leave work late.
the back office is quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing like insects. you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the side door, hoping to beat the weight that settles on you every night.
“hey,” adrian calls.
you turn.
he’s jogging toward you, jacket half-zipped, hair messier than usual.
“you okay walking home alone?” he asks.
you try for a joke. “are you offering to escort me like a medieval knight?”
he smiles, but it wobbles. “yeah. something like that.”
you hesitate.
you don’t want to be a burden. you also don’t want to be alone.
“…okay,” you decide after a moment of silence.
he brightens instantly, like the sun came out just for him.
outside, the city feels sharp-edged. streetlights halo puddles. somewhere far away, sirens cry like wounded animals.
you walk side by side, shoulders almost brushing. almost.
“you’ve been quieter,” adrian says gently.
you shrug. “i’m fine.”
he doesn’t accept that. he never does.
“you’ve been scared,” he says instead. “about vigilante.”
your jaw tightens.
“i don’t know why he picked me,” you whisper. “i don’t do anything special. i’m not… important. i don’t deserve that kind of attention.”
adrian stops walking. you stop too, startled.
he looks at you like you’ve just insulted something holy.
“don’t say that,” he says, voice low.
you blink. “say what?”
“that you’re not important.”
something raw flickers in his expression.
“you matter,” he says. “more than you think.”
the way he says it—like it’s personal, like it costs him something—makes your throat burn.
you look away. “…thanks,” you murmur.
the word feels too small.
later that night, vigilante strikes again.
you don’t see anything about the scene itself. you see the message.
someone uploads a photo before the police scrub it from the internet. it spreads anyway. it always does.
carved into metal this time, jagged and uneven: YOU DESERVE BETTER.
there’s a heart next to it.
you stare until your vision blurs.
you should feel flattered, maybe. you should feel protected.
instead, you feel hunted.
the next morning, you confront adrian.
you corner him in the break room, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your ribs.
“he did it again,” you say.
adrian’s jaw tightens. “what’d he do?”
“he left another message,” you say bitterly. “he keeps… centering me in his violence. i don’t want that. i never asked for it.”
adrian looks like he’s trying not to break in half.
“he probably thinks he’s helping,” he says carefully.
you laugh without humor. “by attacking people?”
“…yeah.”
you stare at him.
“why are you defending him?” you demand. “it’s disturbing. it’s scary. it’s—” your voice falters. “it makes me feel like i don’t have a choice,” you finish quietly.
adrian flinches like you slapped him.
“i don’t want to feel owned by some masked stranger,” you say. “i want to feel normal. i want to feel safe.”
he looks at you like he wants to confess to a crime. “you are safe,” he says softly.
“not like this.”
silence settles between you. thick. heavy. charged.
you realize, suddenly, how close he is. close enough to see the faint scar near his eyebrow. close enough to notice how his hands tremble when he tries not to move them. close enough to feel the heat of him.
your crush tightens into something sharper. something dangerous.
“i don’t think he’s a monster,” adrian says finally. “i think he’s just… bad at love.”
your heart stutters. “you think attacking people for someone is love?” you whisper.
he hesitates. “i think,” he says quietly, “he’s trying to say something he doesn’t know how to say.”
“…what?”
adrian’s gaze drops to your mouth. then lifts to your eyes. “i think he’s trying to say he’d die for you.”
the words land between you like a live wire.
your pulse goes wild.
“that’s not romantic,” you say weakly. “that’s terrifying.”
“i know,” he says. “but some people only know how to love in extremes.” his voice cracks on the last word.
you don’t know why, but it makes your chest ache.
over the next few weeks, your fear and your feelings twist together until you can’t separate them.
adrian starts bringing you lunch when you miraculously get scheduled in mid-morning. saving you a seat in the breakroom. walking you home whenever he can.
he never pushes. never crosses the line. never says what you suspect is sitting on the tip of his tongue.
sometimes, though, you catch him staring at you like he’s memorizing a goodbye.
it makes you want to grab him by the collar and demand answers.
it also makes you want to lean in.
one night, you almost get hurt. key word is almost.
it doesn’t last long. vigilante appears like a nightmare in motion—brutal, efficient, terrifying.
when it’s over, the man is unconscious, without a doubt down for the count (you hardly think he'll ever attempt anything even slightly criminal ever again). and you’re shaking so badly you can barely stand.
vigilante steps toward you. you flinch. he freezes.
for a moment, he looks less like a myth and more like a person who has no idea what to do with his hands.
“you’re safe,” he says. his voice is distorted, but there’s something underneath it that sounds… familiar.
you hug your arms around yourself. “stop,” you whisper. “please. just… stop doing this for me.”
he stiffens. “i can’t,” he says.
“why?”
he swallows hard. “because i love you.”
your breath punches out of you.
the confession feels like being struck by lightning.
“you don’t even know me,” you say.
“i do,” he insists. “i know more than you think.”
tears sting your eyes. “i’m scared of you,” you admit.
the words seem to physically wound him.
“…i know,” he says. then he disappears before you can say anything else.
the next day, adrian looks wrecked. dark circles under his eyes. jaw tight. smile forced.
“you okay?” you ask softly.
he nods. “always.”
you don’t believe him.
“you don’t have to protect me,” you say quietly.
his voice comes out raw. “i want to.”
the way he says it—like a confession, like a promise—makes your heart twist painfully.
you realize something terrifying: you’re falling harder. and you don’t know which version of him you’re more afraid of losing. the adrian who walks you home, the sweet boy with the wire-framed glasses who tells you (incorrect) animal facts. or the adrian who defends the man who terrifies you out of something close to love, but nearing worship.
you start dreading the sound of his voice.
not because you don’t want to hear it.
because you want to hear it too much.
every time adrian says your name, it feels like pressing on a bruise you refuse to admit exists.
he keeps hovering—careful, gentle, orbiting you like you’re something fragile he might shatter if he moves too fast.
you don’t know how to tell him that sometimes, the gentleness hurts worse than distance.
you stop sleeping.
every time you close your eyes, you see violence arranged like love. you hear vigilante’s distorted voice telling you he loves you, like it’s a vow carved into bone.
you wonder what kind of person inspires that. you wonder what kind of person deserves it. you wonder if you’re a terrible person for wishing it wasn’t happening.
at work, you snap at adrian for the first time.
he brings you coffee. you don’t take it.
he asks if you’re okay. you tell him to stop asking.
he tries to joke. you don’t laugh.
you watch the hurt flicker across his face, quick and sharp and hidden, and guilt coils in your chest.
“sorry,” you mutter later.
he shakes his head immediately. “you don’t have to apologize. you’re allowed to feel messed up.”
you look at him. “are you ever messed up?” you ask quietly.
for a second, his mask cracks.
“constantly,” he says.
it sounds like a confession. maybe it’s closer to a plea.
the messages escalate.
not just names anymore. not just hearts. now there are sentences.
NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU LIKE I DO,
I’D BURN THE WORLD IF YOU ASKED,
YOU’RE SAFE WITH ME. ALWAYS.
you read them with shaking hands.
they don’t feel like gifts.
they feel like chains.
you break down one night on your apartment floor.
your phone is face-down. your lights are off. your chest feels like it’s caving in.
the words you could never speak hurt more than anything else.
the next day, you accidentally say them out loud.
you and adrian are alone in the break room. the air smells like stale coffee and burnt toast.
“i wish,” you say bitterly, “i could just like some normal guy who doesn’t scare me, and have him like me back.” the second the words leave your mouth, you want to swallow them back.
adrian goes very still. “…yeah,” he says after a moment. “that’d be nice.”
but something in him goes quiet. you feel like you’ve just stepped on something alive.
he pulls away after that.
not dramatically. subtly.
he still smiles. still helps. still shows up.
but the warmth dims. the closeness retreats. the way he used to look at you—like you were a miracle he didn’t deserve—goes carefully blank.
you didn’t realize how much you relied on it until it’s gone.
you miss him immediately. you hate yourself for it.
one night, vigilante finds you again.
you’re on your way home, rain soaking through your jacket, when you sense him before you see him.
he steps out of the shadows like he was carved from them.
you don’t scream this time. you’re too tired.
“you need to stop,” you say flatly.
he looks like you just stabbed him. “i’m protecting you,” he insists.
“i don’t want your protection,” you snap. “i want my life back.”
his voice trembles.
“your life is my life.”
“that’s the problem,” you say, and it comes out crueler than you mean. “i don’t want to be someone’s obsession.”
the word hangs between you. obsession.
it devastates him.
“i’m not obsessed!” he says, too quickly. “i just… love you.”
“love shouldn’t feel like a cage,” you whisper.
he looks like he might fall apart right there in the street. “…i don’t know how to love quietly,” he admits.
your heart twists painfully. “i don’t know how to live loudly,” you reply.
you walk away before he can answer. you don’t look back.
the next morning, adrian looks like he hasn’t slept in a year.
you catch him staring at you like he’s bracing for impact. you finally break.
“did i hurt you?” you ask softly.
he laughs, but it’s hollow. “you could never hurt me.”
you shake your head. “that’s not true.”
you step closer, lowering your voice. “i said i wanted someone normal,” you admit. “that wasn’t fair. i wasn’t talking about you specifically. i didn’t mean—”
he cuts you off, voice tight. “you meant it.”
silence stretches between you.
“you deserve normal,” he says. “you deserve someone who doesn’t… complicate your life. not the way vigilante does.”
your chest aches. “i deserve you,” you almost say. but fear blocks the words.
later that week, vigilante disappears from your life.
no new crime scenes. no new messages. no new hearts carved in red.
you should feel relieved. instead, grief settles into you like poison.
you catch yourself staring at adrian’s busboy station, waiting for him to look at you the way he used to.
he doesn’t.
you realize something too late.
you didn’t just lose a terrifying admirer. you might have lost the one person who loved you more than he loved himself.
vigilante doesn’t come back into your world.
days pass. then weeks.
no blood-written hearts. no warped love letters carved into walls. no sense of being watched with feverish devotion.
he’s still around, still taking out bad guys. just not for you. there’s no reverence in his attacks, no veneration.
the city keeps breathing without him. you don’t.
you start to realize the terror was tangled with something warmer. something validating. something terrible and tender and overwhelming.
you were someone’s entire universe. and now you feel like an abandoned planet. you hate yourself for that.
adrian keeps his distance. he’s still kind. still helpful. still there. but there’s a careful emptiness in him now. where there used to be longing, there’s restraint. where there used to be warmth, there’s politeness. where there used to be love, there’s silence.
you miss it so much it feels like withdrawal.
you try to pretend you’re okay. you laugh at the right times. you answer calls. you make small talk. but inside, you keep replaying everything you said.
you wonder how those words sounded to someone who loved you like oxygen. you wonder if you carved them into him.
one evening, the employee door gets stuck. if the building manager actually liked the employees, you’d be allowed to leave out the main door. but the alarm goes on automatically after closing, and you don’t have the patience to turn it off.
so now it’s just you and adrian. fluorescent lights. a soft mechanical hum. nowhere to run.
you stand on opposite sides of the doorway like you’re afraid of contaminating each other.
the silence grows unbearable.
“did he stop because of me?” you finally whisper. “you don’t have to act like you don’t know him, adrian. it’s obvious.”
adrian doesn’t pretend not to understand. “…yes,” he says.
the word lands like a punch to the gut.
your chest tightens. “is he… okay?”
for a moment, adrian looks like he might lie. then he exhales. “he’s barely holding it together.”
your throat burns. “i didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“i know,” adrian says softly. “i mean, he knows. i just know that you’d never hurt anyone…” the sadness in his voice ruins you. “but you managed hurt him anyway.”
you close your eyes. “i was scared,” you whisper.
he nods. “he knew that.”
“then why does it feel like i abandoned him?”
adrian’s jaw tightens. “because,” he says quietly, “to him, your fear mattered less than your comfort. and he would’ve destroyed himself to give you peace.”
tears gather whether you want them to or not. “that’s not healthy,” you murmur.
“no,” adrian agrees. “but it was real.”
the door finally gets unjammed, your manager standing on the other side giving the both of you an expectant look.
neither of you moves at first.
then adrian steps out like he’s walking away from something he’s already lost.
that night, you dream of vigilante sitting on a rooftop alone, helmet in his lap, hands shaking as he tries to convince himself he deserves the pain.
you wake up crying.
the next week, you finally snap.
you find adrian in the parking lot after work, staring at the skyline while sitting on the hood of his car. he looks like he’s considering vanishing into the atmosphere.
“tell me the truth,” you say breathlessly.
he turns. there’s a guardedness in him now that wasn’t there before. “what truth?”
“you are him,” you say.
silence. the city hums around you. wind tugs at his jacket.
finally, he nods. “…yeah,” adrian admits. “i am.”
your heart cracks straight down the middle.
everything reframes at once: the coffee, the concern, the hovering, the hearts, the messages. the way he looked at you like you were sacred.
you stagger back a step. “you—” your voice breaks. “you were writing my name in blood!”
he flinches like he deserves it. “in my defense, i thought it was romantic,” he whispers miserably. “i thought if i went big enough, you’d feel how much i cared.”
“i thought i was being hunted.”
his voice trembles. “i would’ve died before letting anyone hurt you.”
“that’s not love,” you breathe, voice low and eyebrows furrowed.
“i know,” he says. “now.”
you drag a hand over your face. “i liked you,” you admit, voice shaking. “at work. adrian. the real you.”
he laughs bitterly. “he’s the real me too.”
“i still want you,” you admit helplessly. “whoever—whatever—you are.”
the confession tastes metallic, like iron in your mouth. he looks at you like that’s the cruelest thing you could possibly say.
“you don’t get to say that now,” he murmurs. “not after i taught myself how to stop reaching for you.”
your heart splits open.
“i don’t want you to stop,” you whisper.
he steps back.
“i have to,” he says, voice breaking. “because loving you like i do isn’t fair to you.”
tears spill freely now.
“so i just lose you?” you ask. “because you loved me wrong?”
he looks wrecked. “you lose me,” he says softly, “because i loved you too much.”
for a moment, it feels like you might collapse.
“please,” you whisper. “don’t disappear.”
he almost breaks. “i won’t,” he promises. “but i can’t be what you want.”
you don’t fix anything. you don’t even try.
he walks away.
and now you have to live with the version of him who learned how to love you from a distance.
you don’t talk for a while after the truth.
not because you don’t want to.
because you don’t know how to exist near each other without reopening something raw.
at work, you become careful. polite. measured. gentle in a way that feels like handling glass.
he doesn’t hover anymore. doesn’t bring coffee. doesn’t look at you like you’re oxygen.
and you learn, quietly, how much that absence hurts.
you start therapy.
you don’t call it because of him, but it is.
you talk about fear. about intensity. about how love can feel like drowning if it doesn’t come with air. you talk about guilt, too. because you never stopped caring. you just didn’t know how to survive the way he cared.
adrian starts trying—awkwardly, sincerely—to become someone safer. not smaller. not less. just gentler.
he cracks fewer crazed jokes. he reins in the impulsiveness. he listens more than he speaks.
sometimes you catch him pausing before acting, like he’s asking himself: will this scare her? will this hurt her? will this be too much?
it softens something in you.
one day, you stay late again.
he’s there too.
the back office is quiet, rain ticking against the windows like a second clock.
he clears his throat, “i’ve been trying to… get better,” he says.
you look up. “better how?”
he shrugs, embarrassed. “less intense. less… me at my worst.”
you smile faintly. “i don’t want you to erase yourself,” you say. “i just want to feel safe standing next to you.”
he nods. “that’s fair.” there’s a pause. “…do you feel safer now?” he asks.
you consider it honestly. “a little,” you admit. “yeah.”
the relief on his face is small but real. like a win.
outside, he offers to walk you home again. not like a knight. not like a guardian. just like someone who cares.
you say yes.
your hands brush once on the sidewalk. you both freeze. neither of you pulls away immediately.
the contact is brief, but it lingers—warm, careful, almost sacred.
later that week, vigilante returns to your life.
not with an overwhelming presence. not with hearts. not with messages carved into walls.
he stops a robbery quietly. leaves no signature. no theatrics. no trace of you. but you know it’s him, and you know it’s for you.
when you see it on the news, your chest tightens—but not with fear this time.
with pride. with relief. with something soft and aching.
you run into adrian the next morning.
“you’re acting different,” you say gently.
he smiles, a little shy. “i’m trying to love you in a way that doesn’t hurt you.”
your heart twists.
“that means more than you think,” you whisper.
he hesitates.
“…does it mean there’s still a chance?” the question is quiet. vulnerable. unarmed. you don’t answer immediately.
“i don’t know,” you say honestly. “but i want to find out.”
the hope in his eyes is cautious. earned. earnest.
“slow,” he says. “we can go slow.”
you smile. “i’d like that.”
over time, you relearn each other. as two flawed people trying to build something healthier than what came before.
he asks before stepping closer. you speak when something scares you. you both apologize more than you used to.
sometimes it still hurts.
sometimes you still flinch. sometimes he still worries he’s too much. sometimes you still worry you’re not enough.
but now, the pain feels like a healing cut.
the healing isn’t dramatic.
it doesn’t arrive with speeches or sudden certainty. it happens in small, almost invisible ways.
in adrian asking, “is this okay?” before sitting closer. in you saying, “that scared me,” instead of swallowing it. in both of you choosing honesty even when it feels uncomfortable.
you don’t fall back into each other. you walk. step by step.
you start doing normal things together. coffee after work. late-night movies. sitting on opposite ends of the couch until one of you drifts closer without realizing.
there’s still history in the air.
sometimes you catch a flicker of the old intensity in his eyes—and your chest tightens. sometimes he catches the old fear in your posture—and he backs up without being asked.
you’re learning each other’s edges. you’re learning how not to cut.
late one night after a particularly brutal shift, you find yourself on the rooftop of his apartment, the city spread out below like a living heartbeat, the two of you sitting side by side.
your knee brushes his. this time, neither of you flinches.
“i used to think love had to hurt to be real,” he says softly. “that’s what my friends said. what my parents showed.”
you tilt your head. “and now?”
“i think love should feel like safety,” he murmurs. “even when it’s intense.”
your chest warms. he looks at you like that whatever look you’re giving him has rewrote his entire life.
“…can i try something?” he asks.
your pulse picks up.
“what?”
he swallows.
“can i hold your hand?”
the request is simple. the meaning is not.
you hesitate only a second before nodding.
“yes.”
his fingers brush yours first—tentative, almost reverent—before threading through them.
his hand trembles. so does yours.
but neither of you lets go.
you sit like that for a while. breathing. listening. existing together without fear.
finally, he whispers, “can i kiss you?”
not like a demand. not like an impulse. like a promise he won’t break.
your heart beats slow and full.
“yes,” you whisper back.
he leans in carefully.
not rushed. not desperate. not overwhelming.
his lips meet yours like he’s afraid to bruise you.
the kiss is soft.trembling.a little unsure.
but it doesn’t hurt.
it feels like a wound closing. it feels like forgiveness. it feels like choosing each other, again.
when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
something akin to hope ignites itself in your chest.
love won’t erase what happened. it can’t. but what it can do is grow around it.
like ivy climbing a cracked wall. like skin knitting over an old wound. like a heartbeat that learned a new rhythm.
you and adrian can’t ever pretend the past didn’t exist. but you can refuse to let it own the future.
mornings become a quiet ritual.
you wake to sunlight pooling across tangled sheets. adrian is usually half-awake already, blinking blearily at his phone, hair a mess, face relaxed in a way that once felt impossible.
“morning,” he murmurs.
“morning,” you reply.
sometimes he kisses your forehead. sometimes he’ll be overly talkative, spewing off random animal facts that you’re fairly certain can’t be true (octopuses definitely don’t have eight hearts, but he’s adamant they do). sometimes he bumps his shoulder into yours. sometimes he just watches you like he’s still amazed he gets to be here.
you like all of it.
he still goes out at night sometimes. but vigilante is different now. no fear-inducing messages. no theatrics. no obsession carved into crime scenes.
he moves quietly. protects without spectacle. leaves no trace of you behind.
when he comes home, he doesn’t look haunted anymore. he looks tired. looks human. looks like someone trying.
and you meet him at the door with warm light and steady arms.
one evening, you sit on the couch together, legs tangled, a movie playing neither of you is watching.
he absentmindedly traces circles over your knuckles. “do you ever regret it?” he asks quietly.
“…regret what?”
“giving me another chance.”
you consider him.
the man who loved too loudly. the man who learned to love gently. the man who chose to change instead of clinging to being right.
you smile.
“no,” you say. “i regret that we hurt each other. but i don’t regret choosing you.”
his eyes shine.
“good,” he murmurs. “because choosing you is like, my favorite thing.”
at work, you’re known as the calm one. the grounded one. the one who smiles more than she used to.
and adrian—still weird, still awkward, still unmistakably himself—walks beside you without hovering.
when coworkers tease, he laughs. when things get hard, he steadies himself before reacting. when he looks at you, it’s no longer like you’re a miracle he’s terrified of breaking. it’s like you’re a partner.
sometimes you talk about the old days.
not with shame. not with fear.
with honesty.
“i was scared,” you admit once.
“i was too much,” he replies. “like, way too much. in my defense though, chris told me chicks dig violence, and they like men to be protective, so i totally thought that—”
you squeeze his hand. “we grew,” you say.
he nods. “together.”
one night, back on the rooftop where everything once shattered, he laces his fingers through yours.
“you’re not afraid of me anymore,” he says softly.
you lean into his shoulder.
“no,” you answer. “i’m not.”
he exhales, like a prayer finally answered. “and i’m not afraid of loving you wrong,” he adds. “because now i know how to love you right.”
you tilt your head up and kiss him—easy, warm, certain.
the city glows beneath you.
the past stays where it belongs.
and the future feels wide open.
years from now, love won’t look like panic or obsession.
it will look like grocery lists. inside jokes. hands brushing in the kitchen. quiet kisses before bed.
it will look like scars that don’t ache anymore. it will look like a man who learned how to hold without hurting. it will look like you.
