𝕽𝖆𝖋𝖊𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑

you're fifteen minutes early. you're never early.

the waiting room is empty, which is good because you don't think you could sit here making small talk with another patient right now. the white noise machine hums from somewhere behind the reception desk, a constant static that's supposed to be soothing but just makes you more aware of every sound your body makes. your breathing. the rustle of your clothes. the tap of your shoe against the floor that you can't seem to stop.

you left your hair down even though you always tie it back for sessions because it feels too vulnerable otherwise. but today you want to feel vulnerable. you want him to notice.

you check your phone. 6:47pm. his last appointment of the day is always at seven. you know this because you've been coming here every thursday at seven for six months and you've never seen anyone leave after you.

six months.

you remember the first session. how you sat on that couch and couldn't look at him while you explained why you were there. "i have a problem with sex," you'd said, and the words felt stupid coming out of your mouth. so clinical and detached.

"tell me about it," he'd said, and his voice was so calm that you actually looked up at him. he was leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, pen in hand but not writing anything yet.

so you told him about the compulsion. about the way you'd fuck someone and feel nothing and then do it again the next night hoping it would be different. the way you fixated on people... strangers, mostly, and built entire fantasies around them until the reality of actually being with them shattered everything. how you were chasing something you couldn't understand or begin to grasp.

he'd listened to all of it. didn't flinch, didn't judge, didn't try to fix it right away. just asked questions. "what do you think you're looking for?" and "how do you feel in the moment, right before?" and "what happens after?"

you'd left that first session feeling raw.

the second session, you noticed his hands. the way he held the pen, the way his fingers moved when he gestured while talking. you told yourself it didn't mean anything.

by the fourth session, you were thinking about his voice at night.

by the eighth session, you realized you were dressing differently on thursdays.

and then one night, session eleven, maybe twelve, you were fucking some guy you'd met at a party and you weren't thinking about him at all. you were thinking about dr. cameron. about what his hands would feel like instead. about whether he'd be gentle or rough, whether he'd talk to you the way he does in sessions, that calm steady voice asking you questions while he—

you'd came so hard you scared yourself. that was a rarity. you never came.

after that, it was over. every hookup became a placeholder for him. every confession in therapy became a way to see if he'd react, if you could make him break that professional mask even for a second. you started telling him more explicit details. not because you needed to for therapy, but because you wanted to see what he'd do with the information. if he'd really look at you.

you're pretty sure he does. you've caught him sometimes, when you're in the middle of a story, and there's something in his eyes that doesn't really feel like clinical interest.

or maybe you're delusional and maybe this whole thing is just another fixation.

but today feels different.

last weekend you fucked someone in a bar bathroom and the entire time you were imagining it was dr. cameron. you’d said his name so quietly, barely a whisper, but the guy heard it. asked "who's rafe?" and you'd lied, said it was your ex, but the truth sat in your chest like a bag of heavy rocks.

you can't keep doing this. you can't keep coming here every thursday and confessing everything except the one thing that actually matters.

the door to the inner office opens.

dr. cameron steps out, holding a file. he's wearing a light colored button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and you hate that you notice. the way his forearms flex, and how his long fingers grip the file. he sees you and something flickers across his face. surprise, maybe, but it's gone so fast you might have imagined it.

"hey," he says. "you're early."

"yeah." your voice sounds normal. "is that okay?"

"of course. come on in."

you follow him into the office and the familiar space feels different today, even though its all the same. the couch where you always sit with his chair angled toward it. the desk in the corner with his laptop and stacks of files. the lamp that casts everything in warm light. the door closes behind you, and you hear the lock click into place like he always does, for privacy, but today the sound makes your stomach turn.

"how was your week?" he asks, settling into his chair.

you sit on the couch, your usual spot. nothing feels normal. your skin is too tight.

"it was fine," you say. "i mean, not fine. i don't know."

he waits. he's good at that. letting silence stretch until you fill it.

"i hooked up with someone last weekend," you say, and you watch his face for a reaction, but there's nothing. just that calm, attentive expression. "met him at a bar."

"okay," he says. "tell me about it."

so you do. you tell him about meeting the guy, about how easy it was to fall into that classic pattern—drinks, flirting, the bathroom with its flickering fluorescent light and the smell of cheap soap. you tell him about fucking the guy against the sink, your jeans around your ankles, his hands on your hips, and how the entire time you were somewhere else. you were here. in this office. with dr. cameron's hands on you instead.

he's leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and he's listening the way he always does, but there's something else underneath it. the lamp casts shadows across his face and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers are pressed together.

"and after?" he asks. his voice is steady but there's something underneath it now, something that wasn't there before. "how did you feel after?"

"empty," you say. the word sits between you like a stone. "like always."

"but you did it anyway."

"yeah."

"why?"

you shrug, but the gesture feels wrong, too casual for what you're about to say. "because... because i wanted to feel something? i guess? anything." the words come out uncertain, like you're testing them as you speak.

there's a pause that stretches way too long. it makes you aware of the distant sound of traffic outside muffled by the closed window, the fact that you're alone in this room with him and the door is locked. you can hear your own breathing. his too, if you listen closely enough.

and then you say it.

"i've been thinking about you," your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "since session six. maybe earlier. i don't know."

session six is definitely a lie. you’d been thinking about him since session two. but there’s no way you could admit something like that. telling him at all was more than enough.

his face changes. it's subtle, just a flash of something raw crossing his features before he can stop it. he looks away, down at his hands where they're pressed together between his knees, and for a moment he's just a man sitting in a chair. not a therapist. not someone in control. just a man who's been caught.

when he looks back at you, his jaw is tight, and whatever argument he'd been having with himself is over. you can see it in his eyes.

"session six," he repeats, and his voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. "that's... that's a long time."

"yeah."

he's quiet for another moment. you watch him process it, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. his fingers unclasp and he runs one hand through his hair, messing it up in a way you've never seen before.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

"because i thought it would go away," you reply. the confession feels like peeling off skin. "i thought if i just... maybe if i kept coming here, kept talking about it, it would stop. but it didn't. it got worse."

he nods slowly. you can see the conflict playing out on his face, the way his mouth tightens, the way he looks at you and then away and then back again like he can't help himself.

he stands up. the movement is sudden enough that you flinch, and for a second you think he's going to ask you to leave, going to tell you this was a mistake and that you need to find another therapist. but he doesn't. he walks away from you, toward the window, and stands there with his back to you, one hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way they're drawn up tight. the way they rise and fall with his breathing. the office feels smaller suddenly, the walls much closer.

he's pacing now. not frantically or anything, just a few steps back and forth in front of the window, looking at the floor like he's trying to work something out. his hand falls from his neck and he shoves both hands in his pockets, then pulls them out again. you watch him, and you realize this is it. this is the moment where he decides whether to cross the line or send you away.

he stops so abruptly it almost looks like something catches him. his hand falls away from the back of his neck again and when he turns, he doesn't say anything right away. he just looks at you, and there's something in his eyes you've never seen before. something hungry and raw and completely unprofessional.

the way he looks at you... it's not the way a therapist looks at a patient.

"stand up," he says.

you do. your legs feel shaky, unsteady, but you stand anyway. your hands are trembling at your sides.

"come here."

he sits back down in his chair, and the distance between the couch and where he's sitting is barely a few steps, but it feels way longer now. each one gives you another chance to turn around, another chance to pretend none of this happened, to walk out and find a new therapist and never come back. you don't take it.

your shoes are silent on the carpet. you're standing in front of him now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. close enough to see the way his pupils are dilated, the way his chest is rising and falling faster than normal. there's no trace of the careful distance he'd kept for six months. it's gone completely.

"sit," he says, patting his lap.

"dr. cameron—"

"sit."

you do. you lower yourself onto his lap slowly, your back settling against his chest. his thighs are thick and solid and warm beneath you, the muscle firm under the fabric of his pants. you can feel his cock, already hard, pressing against your ass through the denim of your jeans. the knowledge of it sends heat flooding through you. you want to shift, to grind back against him, but you force yourself to stay still because part of you still can't even believe this is happening.

his hands settle on your thighs. warm and heavy, the weight of them grounding you.

"keep talking," he says, his voice low in your ear. you can feel his breath against your neck, warm and slightly uneven. "tell me about the compulsion."

"i—i don't know what you want me to say."

his hands slide higher, fingers tracing the inside of your thighs through your jeans. the touch is light, almost teasing. "tell me what it feels like. when you're with someone. what are you chasing?"

you can barely think. his fingers are moving in slow circles on your inner thighs and it's making it hard to form words. "i don't know... validation, maybe? proof that i'm wanted."

"and do you get it?"

"no. never."

his fingers pop the button on your jeans. the sound is loud in the quiet office, the snap of metal against fabric. you lift your hips slightly so he can pull the zipper down. the rasp of metal teeth separating sounds almost deafening in the silence.

"why not?" he murmurs, sliding his hand inside your jeans, over your underwear. you're already wet, soaked through the fabric, and you know he can feel it. his fingers press against you through the damp cotton and you gasp, your hips jerking forward involuntarily.

"because... because it's never enough," you whisper. "it's never—fuck—"

he presses against your clit through the fabric and your hips jerk forward again. his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek and throat, holding your head back against his shoulder. the grip is firm and feels like a gentle anchor.

"keep talking," he says. "you're doing so good."

"dr. cameron, please—"

"please what?" his thumb catches the edge of your underwear, easing it aside. his fingers find you almost absently, like he's waiting for your answer more than your reaction, but you can hear the wet sound of it when he slides through your folds. "use your words."

you can't answer. your eyes are squeezing shut and it feels like you're hardly breathing. he circles your clit once, twice, and you're already shaking. the jeans are tight around your hips, constricting, and his hand is trapped inside them, the denim pressing his knuckles against you in a way that's almost uncomfortable but also perfect.

his fingers stop circling. they just rest there, warm and still against your clit. the sudden absence of movement makes you whimper, a sound you didn't mean to make.

"the guy from last weekend," he says. not a question. his breath is against your ear, warm and steady. "tell me what he did."

"he—" your voice cracks. you can't think. his fingers are right there but not moving and it's worse than if he'd pulled away completely. the stillness is torture. "i don't—"

"you don't remember?" his fingers slide lower, just barely, teasing your entrance. you can feel the tip of one finger pressing against you, not pushing in, just resting there. "or you don't want to tell me?"

"no, i—he fucked me. in the—" you're breathing too fast. the words won't come out right. your brain can't form complete thoughts with his hand between your legs. "backseat. i was—"

his fingers push inside you. just the tips, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the intrusion. you gasp and lose the sentence completely, your mouth falling open.

"you were what?"

"on top," you manage. "i was on top."

he pushes deeper. not all the way, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the promise of more. his fingers are thick and you can feel every ridge, every knuckle as they slide into you. then he stops again and holds still inside you, buried to the second knuckle.

"did you cum?"

"no."

his fingers don't move and he’s silent for a moment. you can feel your pulse around them, can feel yourself clenching involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper. the stillness is maddening.

"why not?" he asks, and his voice is so calm, so steady, like he's asking about the weather while his fingers are inside you and you're falling apart in his lap.

"because i—" you're shaking. "i never—with them, i can't—"

"can't or don't?"

"both? neither. i don't know." the words come out frustrated, desperate.

his thumb brushes your clit. once. the lightest touch. you jerk against him and he pulls it away immediately, denying you.

"but you want to," he says.

"yes—fuck—yes."

"what do you think about?" his fingers curl inside you slightly, pressing against that spot. not enough pressure. just enough to make you aware of it. "when you're with them. when they're inside you... what's in your head?"

you don't answer. you can't. your breath is coming in short gasps and his hand is still gripping your jaw, holding you in place, and you can feel the heat of him against your back, the solid weight of his chest. the hardness of his cock pressing into you through your jeans, and you wonder if he's as desperate as you are, if this is killing him too.

"answer me," he says, and his fingers push deeper, all the way now, buried inside you to the knuckle. you cry out, the sound echoing in the small office.

"i can't—"

"yes you can." he starts moving them. slow, methodical thrusts that make you see stars. his thumb finds your clit again and circles it once, twice. the dual sensation is overwhelming. "tell me what you think about."

"i—" you're climbing already, way too fast. the pressure building low in your belly, spreading through your thighs. "i think about—"

he stops. completely stops. his fingers buried inside you but motionless, his thumb lifting off your clit.

this broken and desperate sound falls from your mouth, something you'd never even heard before.

"say it," he says.

"you," you gasp. "i... i think about—fuck—i think about you."

"me." his voice is rough now, the professional veneer cracking. "you think about me while some stranger fucks you in a parking lot."

"yes."

"what am i doing?" his fingers move again, just slightly, just enough to remind you they're there. "in your head. what am I doing to you?"

"this," you whisper. "you're—you're doing this."

"yeah?" he pushes deeper, curling his fingers inside you. you can feel every ridge, every knuckle, the stretch of it. his thumb finds your clit and he starts moving in a rhythm that has you climbing fast. too fast. your hips start to move, grinding back against his cock, and you can feel how hard he is, can hear the way his breath catches. his other hand tightens on your jaw, fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

"stay still," he says.

you try. you're shaking so fucking badly, your thighs trembling. you're right there, right on the edge, the pressure building and building and—

he stops. his fingers stay inside you but they don't move. his thumb lifts off your clit.

"no—please—"

"tell me more," he says. his voice is steady but you can hear the strain in it now. "you think about me. what do i do? in your head?"

you're gasping. you can feel tears starting to form, burning in your eyes. "i can't—"

"yes you can." his fingers move slightly, just a tiny curl, pressing against that spot inside you. "tell me what i do to you. in your fantasies."

"you—you touch me like this," you say, your voice breaking. "you make me—you don't stop. you let me cum."

"do i?" his fingers curl inside you again, harder this time, and you cry out. "what else?"

"you fuck me," you whisper. "you fuck me and you—and you tell me i'm good."

"you are doing good," he says, and his thumb presses against your clit again. you're climbing again, faster this time, the pressure building impossibly fast. "you're being so good for me right now."

"dr. ca—"

"tell me why you chase validation," he continues. meanwhile his fingers are moving inside you, pumping in and out, and you can hear the wet sound of it, obscene in the quiet office. you can feel yourself dripping, soaking his hand, soaking through your jeans. "what are you trying to prove?"

"i don't—i can't think—"

"try."

you have actual tears on your face now, hot and wet and streaming. "that i'm worth something. that someone wants me."

"and do you feel that? with the men you fuck?"

"no—never—please—"

you're right there again. your whole body is tense and shaking and his fingers are moving faster and his thumb is circling your clit and you're so close, so fucking close, the pressure building to an unbearable peak and—

he stops again.

you actually sob, the sound wrenching out of you.

"not yet," he says. "we're not done talking."

"please," you beg. "pleaseplease let me cum. i can't—"

"you can." his voice is firm. "breathe."

you try. the jeans are soaked now, the denim dark with wetness. you can smell it, the smell of sex starting to fill the office, mixing with the scent of his cologne and the faint smell of coffee from earlier.

"why do you think you fixate on people who can't give you what you need?" he asks.

"i don't know."

"yes you do."

"because—because it's safe," you gasp. "because if they can't give it to me then i can't be disappointed."

"and me?" his thumb brushes your clit, so light it's almost nothing. "am i safe?"

"no."

"why not?"

"because you could actually—fuck—you could actually hurt me."

"how?"

you're crying. "because i actually want you. not just—not just the sex. you."

his fingers start moving again. slow, and you're climbing again, faster now. you grind back against his cock and he doesn't stop you this time. you can feel him hard and thick against your ass, can hear the way his breathing has changed, rougher now.

"say it again," he says.

"i want you."

"louder."

"i want you," you say, your voice breaking. "i want you so fucking bad. please- please let me cum. i'm so close. please."

he's building you up again. his thumb on your clit, his fingers inside you, and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. his other hand is still on your jaw, holding you in place. you can feel his breath against your ear, the slight hitch in it, and you realize he's as affected as you are.

"that's it—" he whispers quietly. "take what you need."

you're right there. right fucking there. the pressure is unbearable and—

his fingers go still.

but this time he doesn't pull away. just... stops. his fingers stay buried inside you, his thumb resting against your clit. completely motionless. completely silent.

the silence is worse. you're right there, right on the edge, and he's not moving and he's not saying anything. you can feel your pulse in your clit, can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body begging for more. the stillness is psychological torture. you need it so bad you could honestly cum right then and there without him touching you anymore. your pussy is clenching around nothing, beggining for it. but god, what a waste that would be.

so you wait. five seconds. ten. fifteen. your breath coming in short gasps.

finally, he speaks.

"why do you think you're here?" he asks, and his voice is quiet. "really here. not the answer you gave me in session one. the real answer."

"i don't—"

"yes you do." his fingers curl slightly inside you, just enough to make you gasp, but then he goes still again. "why are you here?"

"because..." you whisper. "because i don't know how to want something without destroying it. because i'm afraid if i let myself actually have something real, i'll ruin it."

"and me?" his thumb presses against your clit, just barely. "what am i?"

"real," you say. you're crying again. "you're real. and i'm terrified."

"good," he says, and his fingers start moving again. slow at first, then faster, harder, and his thumb is circling your clit and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. "you should be terrified. because i'm not going to let you run from this. i'm not going to let you turn me into another fantasy you can chase and never catch. this is real."

"yes—fuck—yes—"

"knowing you go home and touch yourself and imagine it's me?" his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot, and he doesn't stop this time. his thumb is relentless, circling and pressing and you're climbing higher and higher. "knowing you're so desperate for it you'll fuck anyone just to feel something?"

"oh my... god, please—"

"you don't need them," he says. his fingers are relentless now, pumping in and out of you, the wet sounds loud and sloppy and obscene. "you need someone who knows what you need. someone who's been listening. someone who's been paying attention for six fucking months."

"i—i'm—i'm gonna—"

"then do it," he says. "cum on my fingers. right here in my office. show me what you look like when you finally get what you need."

and you do. you cum so hard you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. it hits you like a wave, starting deep in your core and radiating outward. your body convulses in his lap, every muscle tensing and releasing. your hips grinding back against his cock, and his fingers don't stop moving, drawing it out, prolonging it. the orgasm tears through you in waves, each one crashing over you harder than the last. you can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, rhythmic pulses that seem to go on forever. the wetness gushing out of you, soaking his hand, soaking your jeans, probably soaking through to his pants.

you're aware of everything and nothing—the way your thighs are shaking uncontrollably, the way your breath is coming in broken gasps, the way you can hear yourself making sounds you've never made before, desperate and raw. his fingers keep moving, keep curling, keep hitting that spot inside you, and just when you think it's over another wave hits and you're crying out again, your back arching, your head thrown back against his shoulder. it goes on and on, longer than ever before, until you're begging him to stop, until it's too much, until you can't take anymore.

when you finally come down, you're crying. actual tears streaming down your face, your breath coming in gasps. he pulls his fingers out slowly and you whimper at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. your jeans are soaked, the denim dark and wet, clinging to your thighs.

"shh," he says, wrapping his arms around you. "you're okay. you did so good."

you're trembling. you can still feel his cock hard against your ass and you want to turn around, want to touch him, want to make him feel what you just felt, but you can't move. your body won't cooperate.

"that's what you needed," he says quietly. "someone who knows you. someone who listens."

you nod, still trying to catch your breath.

"next session," he says, and his voice is back to that calm, professional tone, like he didn't just make you come apart in his lap, "we're going to talk about why you keep choosing people who can't give you what you need. i think we made some progress today on identifying the root of the compulsion."

you almost laugh. the absurdity of it.

"okay," you whisper.

"good," he says. "now go clean yourself up. there's a bathroom down the hall."

you stand on shaky legs. your jeans are dark with wetness and you have to button them with trembling fingers. when you look back at him, he's watching you, his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. the sight of it sends another jolt of heat through you.

"same time next week?" he asks.

"yeah," you say. "same time."

you walk out of his office on legs that barely work. in the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. your face is flushed, your eyes red and glassy, your lips swollen. there's a mark on your neck from where his hand gripped your jaw, dark and obvious. you reach up to touch it. the skin is tender, slightly raised. you stare at it for a long moment, and then you notice something else in the mirror's reflection: your therapy appointment card, sticking out of your back pocket. the next date is already written on it in his handwriting. thursday. same time. you pull it out and look at it.

he wrote it before today's session.

you tuck the card back into your pocket. look at yourself in the mirror one more time. the mark on your neck. your flushed face.

you two walked through the foyer. house massive and quiet. your dad is away on a business trip in new york. your mom? god knows what. probably asleep already.

“sweetheart? is that you?” you stop in your tracks, looking back at rafe with widened eyes. but rafe doesnt look panicked a bit, if even so, he slightly smirked. what is wrong with this guy?

you were about to walk upstairs. shit. you didnt even notice a faint light of the kitchen burning in the distance, piercing the house’s darkness.

your mom appears out from the kitchen. holding a glass of wine in her hand. you watch her expression going from worried into a disgusted one.

confused, you raise an eyebrow.

“honey, its past one. why is he here…?” her voice dripping with venom. eyes glaring right to rafe. she doesnt even want to say his name.

uh.. right. you forgot both of your parents despised rafe.

you bit your lower lip nervously, turning around to see rafe behind you. he doesnt seem scared. with bold confidence, he walks right up to your mom.

“evening, ma’am.” he smiles with fake politeness. tilting his head slightly. “dad’s throwing a fit at the house tonight. i just needed a place to crash.” he turns, about to go back to you. but he looks back at your mom with cocky expression. “ill be outta your hair first thing in the morning. promise.”

as rafe walks back to you and left you downstairs, your mom glares more with bitterness. clearly not buying his innocent act.

“the guest room is made up. and your bedroom door stays open.” she averted her gaze to you. nodding quickly as a reply, you just want to escape the tension. you walk upstairs.

as youre about to enter your bedroom, rafe was already there, blocking the path by leaning in the doorframe. you flinch slightly. “you scared me.” and playfully slapping his thick bicep.

his gaze kept watching you. a small smirk appearing out of his face. he pushed off the doorframe, giving you a way to pass.

you stepped inside your bedroom, grabbing the worn out tees on the bed. but you heard a loud click! behind you.

“rafe!” you snapped your neck. “my mom said to leave it open, shes gonna come up here!” hissing with immediate panic. but he just scoffs.

rafe was completely unbothered. kicking his expensive sneakers off onto your rug. “let her check. besides, im not fuckin’ sleeping in some dusty ass guest room when your bed’s right there.” stubborn as always, typical rafe.

closing your eyes, you sigh in exhaustion. “whatever. shes probably too busy with her work, anyway.” as you throw the worn out tees onto a beanbag next to your bed.

you lay on the bed. stretching your body. not even noticing that the movement slightly pushed your tits out even more, well, maybe hes the only one who noticed..?

“tired?” he walks closer, slightly laying on the bed frame. you nod along, staring at the ceiling and zoning out. recalling moments at kelce’s party. the corner of your mouth lifts up. “can you believe that a hot touron asked for my number?”

a silence remains for seconds almost too long. you didnt exactly know why it took him so long to answer.

rafe clenched his jaw hard. tongue tastes bitter. piercing blue eyes going dark. chest heaving with extreme jealousy. you swear you almost see a vein on his neck.

and then he forces lets out a smile to cover it up. huft, you thought something was going on in his mind. unexpectedly, he lets out a mocking laugh and gets closer to you.

“a touron, seriously?” his voice drops in arrogance. raising an eyebrow at you. “y’know those guys are here just for a week. theyre just looking for easy hookups before they go back.” hes so.. blunt. your heart slightly drops at the comment. its not like youre sad or what but.. did he just call you easy?

you thought he would be happy that finally another guy is interested in you after your shitty ex whom he despise so fucking much, rafe said death threats to him alot, you never knew about that :(

rafe watched your expression and immediately shifts even closer that your shoulders are touching. “look, i dont want you pick the wrong guy.” he gestures with his fingers. “im the only one who actually looks out for you. did you actually give it to him or did you blow him off?”

you paused, swallowing your saliva felt tight. “i.. gave it to him. sorry.” you didnt mean to actually say the last word cause, what the fuck are you sorry for? maybe its that he doesnt react as what you expected and youre always a people pleaser.

you create a scenario where he yells at your face and throws things after you admitted that.

instead, he doesnt say anything. but looking from his expression, he doesnt look angry. he just sighs in exhaustion. the heavy ring finger brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “dont text him back, yeah? you know those random guys dont care about you.” he paused, “i dont want you hurt. promise me you wont talk to him.”

you stare up at him. “ray..” your lips forming into a pout. not a sad one, more in a heartwarmed way. your arms hugging him from the side. “sometimes i dont deserve you. youre always soo kind to me.” you melt into him. “and no, i wont text him back. promise! after all, i have you.” i have you. those words repeated on his brain. yeah, he always knew youre his.

he hugs you back, running his hand through your hair and kissing the top of your head. his gaze lazily tracks your face down. “you not changing?” eyes dropping to your body mini dress he picked out for you to the party hours ago.

you snuzzle into his heavy arms. feeling his body warmth. “no.. too tired.” your voice muffled against him. you really like clinging to him.

he gently pats the back of your head. “what ‘bout your night skincare? or bodycare shit?” oh, right. you forgot. he always remember the smallest details from you.. reminding you of things you forgot.

“hm.. maybe not tonight. im so tired, ray. my feet hurts.” you sigh in exhaustion, already feeling sleepy. you were about to sleep next to rafe, until he moved. youre feeling empty.

“ill give you a massage, baby.” the petname just slipped like that. he doesnt mean it in a romantic way. he just loves you!

you giggle and looked down at him, moving his body to near the end of the bed. thick fingers with a heavy gold ring slowly tracing your feet.

his thumbs press deeply into the high arches of your soles. he cups your heels in his palms, fingers slid slowly up to the curves of your feet. he feels how warm your skin is.

you let out a soft sigh of relief from the sensation, completely relaxed. unaware of his dark eyes fixating on your delicate feet, tracing his thumb over your instep. thick fingers of his rubbing your toe.

“youre so pretty..” he mutters, not even realizing it—he brings your feet closer to his face. lips brushing over your ankle, and then pressing a direct slow kiss to the high arch of your foot. he didnt mean to accidentally leave a string of saliva there too.

you gasp, pulling your legs back. laughing and scrunching nose up in disgust. “ray! thats gross! what is wrong with you?” rafe’s been dramatic again.

you completely think hes playing an exaggerated joke. you missed the real truth.

rafe didnt realize hes at it again. he let the mask slip. but thank god youre slow, so he spins it to the same ‘joke’. “thats the thanks i get?” smirking through his words. he puts your legs to his shoulders. as if in a sex position.

and due to you wearing a mini dress, the hem rides up to your inner thigh. he could easily see a glimpse of your white underwear. the fabric clung perfectly to your puffy folds.

you just giggle, unaware of the underlying sexual tension. “really, though, you could make a great masseur. just, dont kiss your client’s feet.”

rafe runs his fingers from your shin slow in a sensual way, down to the plush thighs of yours. “mhm?” he hummed lazily, tilting his head to the side—fully focusing on you.

his thumb press into the soft skin of your inner thighs, pushing the hem of the mini dress up slightly. but the more he starts doing it, the hem completely pushed up until your panties are shown to his eyes.

you get extremely flustered and embarrassed, fingers trying desperately to pull the dress down to cover yourself.

“relax, im just fixing your muscles. why you being so weird ‘bout it?”

you look away, the eye contact with him feels too much. hes just massaging you, maybe youre the weird one..

he continues pressing his thumbs and fingers to your flesh. further up to your crotch. you wanted to protest but also dont wanna be that person who oversexualize everything.

and you swore you felt his thick fingers brushing against your clothed clit. thumb grinds harder, pressing the fabric of your underwear into the slick heat.

a gasp left your mouth. hes not massaging your thighs anymore! “raf—”

“didnt know you got this wet from a massage.” his finger drags up, tracing the dark wet spot through your panties.

your thighs tremble when his middle finger finds your clit. he steadily press it down. the fabric is rough against your sensitive nub, wet and sticky.

“uh.. rafe? i-i want to sleep.” you gained the courage to speak up. thank goodness he gets the code and stopped his movements, turning your bedroom lights off. you might not have heard the annoyed sigh coming out of him.

when the lights turned off, you try to stay perfectly still on the edge of the bed. keeping a huge gap between you.

but rafe doesnt respect boundaries.

the room’s dead quiet. you can hear him breathing closer. a heavy arm of his wraps around your waist, yanking you backward.

“hey!” your back collides against his broad chest.

“youre too far away.” he buries his face into the crook of your neck. his leg thrown over your thighs to pin you in place.

you cant help but to giggle at how clingy he is. “youre heavy.”

“and im cold. go to sleep now.” rafe whispers lazily into your collarbone. his arm tightening around your waist.

youre frozen. feeling the rise and fall of his chest, and his half hard cock inside his pants—pressing against your ass. but sleepiness takes over, so nothing came out of your mouth.

you let out a soft sigh, eyelids dropping from the exhaustion of the night finally caught up. behind you, rafe’s breathing comes in a steady rhythm, slowly. within minutes, sleep pulled you under entirely.

but if you had stayed awake just a few minutes longer or facing him, you would know the steady breathing was a lie.

rafe wasnt asleep.

he was lying still. eyes wide open, staring at the back of your head. he forced his own chest to fall in that rhythm.

he waited. ten minutes. twenty. thirty. listening with focus until your breathing shifted and shoulders went entirely slack.

just to be sure, he slowly slid his arm across your waist. dragging your limp body flush against his chest. you didnt stiffen nor wake up. just let out an unconscious sigh and melted backward.

a feral satisfied smirk ghosted across his lips.

moving with silence, rafe reached his long arm over your hip and grabbed your phone off the nightstand. the screen lit up dimly.

he didnt even hesitate, unlocking the passcode. he memorized it pretty well. he once casually looked over to you unlocking your phone next to him.

he grips your phone tight. heart beating faster. clicking on the green messages icon. his eyes instantly lock onto the very top thread.

an unsaved number. with an out of state area code.

the touron. he hadnt text anything yet. just a pathetic, ‘hey, its carl from the party.’

rafe’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ached. his fingers smashing against the screen,

“this is her boyfriend. if you ever look at her again or text her, i know people on this island who will make sure you dont make it back to the mainland. lose the number now.”

he pressed send. rafe doesnt just block carl’s number.

he reports his number as spam, blocks it, and deletes the entire text thread so theres zero trace that the guy ever existed on her phone.

and if tomorrow youll pout about how the touron guy didnt text you? he’d comfort you, talking shit about touron guys are all talk and they didnt deserve you.

after all, hes the only one who cares about you.

ⓘ do not copy/repost my work or use my idea to ai. likes nd reblogs are appreciated! dividers by @/cursed-camine.

Every Breath You Take

Muffled, The Police’s new hit quietly played on Blaise’s old, almost busted radio. He slept peacefully next to me. His steady breath was matched with soft whispers of something inaudible. I like to imagine sweet nothings, like what he’d say to me when he was awake. But he always did sort of mumble in his sleep. I found it very endearing, honestly. Maybe it had to do with what he was dreaming of. Was it about me? I suppose I could ask him when he was up. But that takes the rush of happiness you get out of it.

‘How my poor heart aches…’

The slow song continued. It all felt quite romantic. The smell of pine and cedar from the harsh winters we faced at Hogwarts. The low light of a small candle in the corner of his bedside table. And, of course, the quiet tunes of his radio. I believe Blaise once admitted that it used to be his father’s. He must’ve found it in the attic of that mansion. Or manor. I (unfortunately) am not familiar with the terms wealthy people choose to speak about their comically large houses with.

‘With every step you take…’

Then, I placed a soft, warm kiss on his cheek. As I placed my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me. Either he was just faking being really asleep, or he did it subconsciously. Whichever one, it was really sweet. Our breaths matched. In unison, we exhaled, and I smelt the peppermint of his toothpaste he just used, and chamomile and honey from my tea I also just finished.

Slowly, I whispered along to the lyrics, thinking of Blaise, and him only. Maybe I imagined it, but I felt his cool gaze on me. Or perhaps it was just the sweet warmth I felt when he was near me.

‘Every move…’

‘And every vow…’

‘Every smile…’

‘Every claim…’