i was feeling epic

You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.

The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple that’s going to turn black soon. There’s a split in your bottom lip you don’t remember getting.

You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.

You look like a victim.

The thought makes you want to throw up.

There’s a knock on the door — soft, hesitant.

“Y/N?” Garrett’s voice. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.

“Can I come in?”

You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware you’re still in yesterday’s clothes. “Sure.”

The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. He’s showered and changed — different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.

“I brought breakfast,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. He’s weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.”

He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasn’t kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. There’s even a glass of orange juice.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say.

“I know.” Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

“Yeah. You look-” He stops himself. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“I know what I look like.”

There’s a long pause. Garrett’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. You’re not sure which is worse.

“I think you should go to the police,” he says finally.

Your stomach drops. “Garrett-”

“I know you’re scared. I know you think he’ll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.” He gestures toward the mirror. “You have evidence. Documented injuries. That’s assault. That’s attempted murder.”

“His parents are lawyers-”

“I don’t give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “What he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.”

“And if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?”

“Then at least you tried. At least there’s a record. At least the next time he does this — because there will be a next time, to you or someone else — there’s a paper trail.”

You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this won’t work, why it’s pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.

But Garrett’s looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.

“Will you come with me?” You ask quietly.

“Every step of the way.”

***

The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.

Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. You’re about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.

“Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Officer Murphy. Come on back.”

She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. It’s exactly like the ones on TV — gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. There’s a camera mounted in the corner.

“For documentation purposes,” Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. “Everything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?”

You nod.

“I’m going to need verbal consent.”

“Yes. That’s okay.”

Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.

“So,” Officer Murphy begins. “You’re here to file a report about an assault?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.”

You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.

“My boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.”

“What time was this?”

“Around eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.”

Officer Murphy is writing everything down. “And what precipitated the attack?”

“He found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.”

“Were you?”

The question catches you off guard. “No. It was just—someone gave me their number and I kept it. That’s all.”

“Okay. So he found this number and then what?”

“He got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-” Your voice catches. “He put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldn’t breathe.”

Officer Murphy’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“Almost. I thought I was going to die.”

“What happened next?”

“He let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.” You point to your cheek. “Then he started choking me again.”

“How did you get away?”

“I kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.”

“Where did you run to?”

“Just … ran. Down the street. I called for help.” You glance at Garrett. “He came and got me.”

Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. “And you are?”

“Garrett Graham. I’m-” He hesitates. “A friend. She called me and I picked her up.”

“You’re a student at BU as well?”

“No. Briar University.”

Something shifts in Officer Murphy’s expression. Recognition, maybe. “You play hockey.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he plays for BU?”

“Yes.”

Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You can’t see what.

“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?”

Your stomach churns. “Do you have to?”

“It’s important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.”

You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. “I’ll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.”

With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.

Officer Murphy’s jaw tightens. “How long has he been hurting you?”

“I don’t know. A while.”

“Months? Years?”

“About a year. It started small. Then got worse.”

“And you never reported it before?”

The judgment in the question makes you flinch. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.” Your voice rises. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters,” Officer Murphy says firmly. “It always matters.”

She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.

Which, you suppose, you are.

Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

“Alright,” Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. “You can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.”

She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that you’d just tripped.

Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.

Then she asks: “Did he ever sexually assault you?”

The room goes very quiet.

You can’t look at Garrett. Can’t bear to see his reaction.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Can you describe what happened?”

“He would-” Your throat closes up. “He would force me. When I didn’t want to. When I said no.”

“How many times did this happen?”

“I don’t know. A lot. Too many to count.”

“Most recently?”

You close your eyes. “Yesterday morning. I woke up and he was already—he didn’t ask. He just-”

You can’t finish the sentence.

Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. There’s something wet on his palms.

Blood.

His nails have cut into his skin.

“Garrett,” you whisper.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.

Officer Murphy notices too. “Mr. Graham, do you need to step outside?”

“I’m fine.” His voice is rough.

“You’re bleeding.”

Garrett looks down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.

“I’m fine,” he says again.

Officer Murphy doesn’t look convinced, but she continues. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.”

You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until you’re just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.

Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.

When you’re finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.

“Okay. This is what’s going to happen next. We’re going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beck’s arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.”

“Will he go to jail?” You ask.

“That depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. You’ll have to testify.”

Your heart sinks. “I have to see him again?”

“In court, yes. But we’re also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he can’t contact you, can’t come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.”

“His parents are going to fight this,” you say. “They have money. Lawyers.”

“Let them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what you’ve described, this isn’t going to be a hard case to make.”

You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way it’s supposed to.

But you’ve been disappointed so many times before.

“What do I do now?” You ask.

“Go home. Rest. We’ll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.”

“Okay.”

Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. “You did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re incredibly brave.”

You shake her hand, but you don’t feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.

Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.

“Mr. Graham, you should get those looked at.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re not fine. There’s a first aid kit at the front desk.”

Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.

You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.

“Resources,” she explains. “Domestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.”

“Thank you.”

You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You don’t have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.

Everything except your phone and your life.

Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesn’t quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. It’s such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.

Once you’re both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. “Where do you want me to take you?”

You hesitate. “My dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where you’ll be alone.”

“Garrett, I can’t just hide forever-”

“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying until we know he’s been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.” He starts the car. “You’re coming back to the house.”

“I can’t impose like that-”

“You’re not imposing. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified he’ll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what he’ll do when he finds out you went to the police.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.

“You’re still bleeding,” you say.

“I know.”

“You should clean that.”

“I will.”

But he doesn’t sound like he cares. He sounds like he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.

When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.

“My roommates are home. They know you’re here — I told them last night. They’re cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, that’s fine too.”

“It’s their house. I should at least say hi.”

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“Still.”

You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight — messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.

“G, that you?” A voice calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah. And Y/N.”

Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockey’s most recent post on Instagram — Logan, Garrett’s best friend. The other two you don’t know.

They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries — shock, anger, pity.

“Jesus,” one of them breathes. He’s auburn-haired, built like a tank. “He did that to you?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“I’m Tucker,” he says. “And when I see that motherfucker, I’m going to break every bone in his body.”

“Get in line,” Garrett mutters.

The third guy — tall, blond hair, kind eyes — steps forward. “I’m Dean. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.”

“I don’t want to be a burden-”

“You’re not.” Logan’s voice is firm. “Any friend of Garrett’s is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.”

You’re overwhelmed suddenly. These boys — these strangers — are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.

“Thank you,” you manage.

“You hungry?” Tucker asks. “I made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.”

“I could eat,” you say.

“Good. Sit. I’ll heat it up.”

Garrett leads you to the dining table — a beat-up wooden thing that’s seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.

Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me see your hands.”

“I’m fine,” Garrett says.

“You’re bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.”

Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.

“What the hell did you do?” Dean asks.

“Nothing.”

Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesn’t even flinch.

“We went to the police this morning,” Garrett says. “She filed a report. They’re issuing a warrant for Beck’s arrest.”

The room goes quiet.

“Good,” Tucker says finally from the kitchen. “Fucking good.”

“Did they believe you?” Dean asks you.

“I think so. There’s evidence. Photos. My statement.”

“And if he tries to come near you?”

“Restraining order. But it takes time.”

“Until then, you stay here,” Logan says. It’s not a question. “We’ll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you don’t go anywhere alone.”

“I can’t ask you guys to do that-”

“You’re not asking. We’re offering.” Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.

It’s delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.

“This is really good,” you say.

“Told you.” Tucker grins. “Hockey and cooking. My only two skills.”

Despite everything, you almost smile.

Garrett’s still watching you with that intense expression. Like he’s memorizing every detail. Like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.

“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re scared. But we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

You look around the table at these four boys — these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.

“Why?” You ask. “Why are you all doing this?”

The boys exchange glances.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Logan says simply.

“Because that asshole deserves to rot,” Tucker adds.

“Because you deserve better,” Dean says.

Garrett doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like you’re something precious.

You squeeze back.

And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be okay.

***

Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.

Garrett’s been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date he’s been waiting for.

The date he’s going to make Cameron Beck pay.

He’s in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Logan’s taping his stick. Tucker’s blasting music through his headphones. Dean’s doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.

Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.

You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars — pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about “false accusations,” and went right back to his life.

Including hockey.

Boston University’s administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasn’t been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.

Innocent until proven guilty, they said.

Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.

None of that matters to BU’s athletic department as much as their winning record.

Garrett’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.

Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Listen up.”

The room quiets.

“We all know what tonight is,” Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. “We all know who we’re playing. And I’m going to say this once: I don’t care about your personal feelings. I don’t care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?”

There’s a murmur of agreement.

Coach’s eyes land on Garrett. “Graham. My office. Now.”

Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.

“Sit.”

Garrett sits.

Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

“You’re thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.”

Garrett doesn’t confirm or deny.

“I get it,” Coach continues. “I do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, you’re the captain of this team. You’re a junior. You’re probably going to the NHL in a year. You can’t throw that away because you want revenge.”

“I’m not throwing anything away.”

“If you go after him tonight, you will be. You’ll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?”

Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “Yes.”

Coach sighs. “I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to think about your team. About your future.”

“I have thought about it.” Garrett stands. “And I’ve made my decision.”

He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.

“Well?” Logan asks.

“Same as always. Play clean, win the game.”

“And are you going to play clean?” Tucker asks with a knowing smile.

Garrett doesn’t answer. Just pulls on his jersey — number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.

When it’s time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensen’s eye one more time.

“Coach?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Coach’s brow furrows. “For what?”

“For the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.”

Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrett’s already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words don’t register. There’s only one thing on Garrett’s mind now.

The ice.

***

You’re sitting on Garrett’s bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldn’t watch. Your therapist — the one the victim services advocate connected you with — said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.

But you can’t help it.

You need to see this.

The arena is packed — a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling “one of the most anticipated matchups of the season.” Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.

They have no idea what else this game means.

The camera pans across the Briar bench. There’s Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. You’ve never seen him look like that before — like violence contained in a hockey uniform.

Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.

Cameron.

He’s there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didn’t assault you. Like he didn’t rape you. Like he didn’t leave you so broken you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.

The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that he’s facing “personal legal issues” but don’t elaborate. Wouldn’t want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.

You feel sick.

The door opens and Beau, Dean’s best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look okay.” He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t have to watch this, right?”

“I know.”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“I need to see it.”

Beau nods like he understands. “Want company?”

“Sure.”

He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. It’s something you’ve noticed about all the boys — they’re incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.

It’s the opposite of Cameron in every way.

The puck drops.

***

Garrett’s never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesn’t cheap shot. Doesn’t go for injuries. Doesn’t use his stick as a weapon.

Tonight’s going to be different.

He’s skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.

Garrett’s vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Can’t just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.

The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in — all legal, all clean — but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.

Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briar’s up 1-0.

The period’s winding down — about three minutes left — when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.

They’re at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

Beck leans in close.

“Hey, Graham,” he says, voice low enough the ref can’t hear. “How’s my girl doing?”

Garrett’s stick tightens in his grip, but he doesn’t respond.

“She still staying at your place?” Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. “That’s cute. Playing house. But we both know she’ll come back to me eventually. She always does.”

The ref’s getting into position.

“She’s a good fuck though, right?” Beck’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tight. Eager. Especially when she cries.”

Something inside Garrett snaps.

The puck hasn’t even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.

His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beck’s head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesn’t stop. He’s on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.

Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrett’s bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.

“You piece of shit-” Punch. “You fucking coward-” Punch. “You think you can talk about her like that-” Punch.

Beck’s nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.

The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.

Garrett’s still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.

Beck’s on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane — some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.

One ref is talking into his mic. “Number 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. You’re done.”

Garrett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.

The Briar bench erupts.

Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. It’s the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.

Support. Solidarity.

They know why Garrett did it. And they’re backing him one hundred percent.

Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even he’s fighting a smile.

As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beck’s sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.

Garrett doesn’t care.

It was worth it.

***

You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.

One second, they’re lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrett’s on Cameron like a feral animal.

Beau jumps up beside you. “Holy shit!”

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameron’s face turns into a bloody pulp.

The commentators are losing their minds.

“Absolutely vicious attack by Graham — completely unprovoked — this is going to be a lengthy suspension-”

But it wasn’t unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.

And Garrett responded.

For you.

The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood — not his own — is splattered across his jersey.

Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.

They’re supporting him.

All of them.

“Did you see that?” Beau’s grinning. “The whole fucking bench. They all know.”

“Know what?”

“Why Garrett did it. They’re telling him they’ve got his back.”

Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.

Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldn’t let it slide.

The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briar’s penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.

When the period finally ends, it’s still 1-0 Briar.

You close the laptop.

“You okay?” Beau asks.

“I don’t know.”

“That was pretty intense.”

“He did that for me.”

“Yeah. He did.”

“He’s going to get in so much trouble.”

“Probably.” Beau shrugs. “But Garrett doesn’t care. You should’ve seen him these past three weeks. He’s been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.”

“I need to-” You stand up. “I need to call him.”

“He’s probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.”

“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”

You grab your phone, pull up Garrett’s number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.”

Beep.

“Hey, it’s me. I just—I saw what happened. What you did. And I-” Your voice cracks. “Thank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know you’re probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I just—thank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.”

You pause, trying to find the right words.

“I’ll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?”

You hang up.

Beau’s watching you with a soft expression. “You care about him.”

It’s not a question.

“He saved my life,” you say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You sit back down on the bed. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything’s so complicated and messed up and I’m barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?”

“He cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.”

“What do you mean?”

Beau hesitates. “He doesn’t really talk about his feelings. None of us do — we’re athletes, we’re emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? I’ve never seen him like that with anyone. He’s protective to the point of obsession.”

“I don’t want to be his redemption project,” you say quietly.

“You’re not. Trust me. If you were, he’d be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesn’t do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.” Beau stands, stretches. “Anyway. I’m going to make some popcorn. You want some?”

“Sure.”

He leaves and you’re alone with your thoughts.

You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briar’s still up 1-0. BU’s pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briar’s goalie is playing out of his mind.

The commentators are still talking about Garrett’s ejection.

“We’re hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.”

Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.

You think about Cameron’s face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since you’ve known him.

You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that you’re glad Garrett hurt him.

But you don’t.

You feel vindicated.

***

Garrett’s in Coach’s office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.

But Garrett wasn’t there to see it.

“The league’s reviewing the footage,” Coach says, arms crossed. “They’re talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Just okay?”

Garrett shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.”

“Did you know Beck is in the hospital?”

That gets Garrett’s attention. “What?”

“Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.”

Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.

He doesn’t.

“Good,” he says.

Coach’s expression hardens. “Garrett-”

“He did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldn’t even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.”

“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“That’s not your job.”

“Maybe not. But someone had to do it.”

Coach is quiet for a long moment. “What did he say to you?”

“What?”

“At the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if it pushed you that far.”

“He talked about her. About-” Garrett can’t repeat the words. Can’t make himself say them out loud. “It was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”

Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “You know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.”

“I know.”

“You’re probably done for the season.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. “You’re a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.”

“Does that mean you’re not kicking me off the team?”

“I should. But no. You’ll serve your suspension and then we’ll see where we are.” Coach stands. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got someone waiting for you.”

Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.

He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore — he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beck’s face — but it’s a good kind of pain. Satisfying.

His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.

And one voicemail from you.

He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.

Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him you’ll be there when he gets back.

Something in his chest loosens.

He starts the car and drives home.

When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beau’s on the couch, watching TV.

“She’s in your room,” Beau says without looking up.

Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.

His door is closed. He knocks softly.

“Come in.”

You’re sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrett’s breath catch.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“I watched the whole thing.”

“And?”

You stand, walk over to him. You’re close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“You already said that. In your message.”

“I know. But I wanted to say it to your face.” You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

The smallest smile touches his lips. “Maybe a little.”

You hold his hand carefully, like it’s something precious. “You’re probably suspended.”

“Yeah.”

“For multiple games.”

“Probably.”

“Because of me.”

“Because of him,” Garrett corrects. “Because he’s a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.”

You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes Garrett can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.

“No one’s ever stood up for me like that before,” you say.

“They should have.”

“But they didn’t. You did.”

Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that he’ll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re not his to protect. Not really. You’re just someone he couldn’t walk away from. Someone he couldn’t save until you decided to save yourself.

“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “We can talk more in the morning.”

You nod, but you don’t let go of his hand.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad it was you. That night. When I called. I’m glad it was you who answered.”

Something in Garrett’s chest cracks open.

“Me too,” he says.

You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back for three weeks.

The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.

And something else. Something he’s not ready to name yet.

But it’s there.

Growing stronger every day.

***

The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for “excessive violence and intent to injure.”

Garrett doesn’t even blink.

Four games. That’s it. He was expecting worse — six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.

“Four games,” Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. “That’s nothing.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.

“Could’ve been better. Could’ve been zero games and a medal.”

Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. “Did you see the prospect rankings?”

“What about them?”

“You moved up.” Tucker grins. “Apparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.”

Garrett sits up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying you’re exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.”

Dean appears in the doorway. “There’s already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. It’s got like two million views.”

“Jesus.”

“You’re famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.”

Garrett doesn’t care about fame. Doesn’t care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.

You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrett’s old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. You’ve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister — protective, teasing, careful. It’s the safest you’ve felt in over a year.

“What’s all the noise about?” You ask.

“Garrett’s trending on Twitter,” Tucker announces.

“For the fight?”

“For being a badass, apparently.”

You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. It’s become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesn’t flinch when you’re near. You don’t panic when he moves. It’s taken weeks to build this comfort, but it’s there.

“How are the knuckles?” You ask.

“Better. Still ugly.”

“Battle scars.”

“Something like that.”

Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.

“What?” He asks immediately.

“The DA. The trial date got moved up.”

“To when?”

“Three weeks from now.” Your voice is shaky. “April seventh.”

Garrett does the math. That’s right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.

“You okay?” He asks.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”

“You’ve been preparing for weeks. You’re ready.”

“Am I?” You look at him, and there’s real fear in your eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?”

“Then I’ll be there to put you back together.”

It’s a promise. Simple and absolute.

You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.

But neither of you do.

***

The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.

The DA — a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep — meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.

“They’re going to try to discredit you,” she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. “They’re going to imply you’re lying, that you wanted it, that you’re just trying to ruin his life because you’re bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.”

“How do I not break?” You ask. “How do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?”

“You remember why you’re doing this. You remember that you’re not just fighting for yourself — you’re fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.”

Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.

“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”

“I know you can.”

The night before the trial, you can’t sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You jump, nearly dropping the mug. “God, you scared me.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep either.”

“Tomorrow’s the day.”

“Yep.”

You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. “What if he gets away with it?”

“He won’t.”

“But what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. They’ve got money and connections and-”

“And you have the truth.” Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. “You have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.”

“You can’t testify. You weren’t there.”

“No, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know you’re not alone.”

You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.

“I’m terrified,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“But I’m also angry. I’m so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.”

“He will.”

“Promise?”

Garrett shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Shouldn’t guarantee an outcome that’s out of his control. But looking at you — brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto — he can’t help himself.

“I promise.”

***

The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.

You’re dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.

Garrett’s beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. He’s a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.

“You look good,” you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.

“I look like I’m going to a funeral.”

“And still very handsome.”

He manages a small smile. “You ready?”

“No. But let’s do this anyway.”

Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You don’t let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isn’t a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.”

You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.

The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.

It’s smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces — your parents, who flew in from wherever they’ve been. Julie, who’s been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrett’s teammates.

And Cameron’s parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like they’re at a country club meeting instead of their son’s rape trial.

You don’t look at Cameron. Can’t. Not yet.

The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge — an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes — takes her seat.

“The People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,” the bailiff announces. “Charges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

The trial begins.

***

Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.

The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records — the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphy’s testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.

She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.

Cameron’s lawyer — a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour — objects to nearly everything. “Relevance, your honor.” “Speculation.” “Prejudicial.”

Most of his objections get overruled.

Then it’s time for your testimony.

You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.

Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. “Can you state your name for the record?”

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

“And how old are you, Y/N?”

“Twenty.”

“And you’re a student at Boston University?”

“Yes. Junior. Journalism major.”

“Can you tell the jury how you met the defendant?”

You take a breath. “We met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.”

“And when did the relationship turn abusive?”

“Gradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. He’d grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.”

“And did you tell anyone?”

“No. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, he’d go back to being the person I fell for.”

“When did the physical abuse become severe?”

“Last summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.”

Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.

“And the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?”

This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.

“He would force me. When I said no, he’d do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.”

“How many times did this occur?”

“I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more.”

“And the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?”

You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.

By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.

Then it’s Coburn’s turn.

He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.

“Ms. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?”

“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”

“A fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?”

“I was scared.”

“Scared. Of what?”

“Of him. Of what he’d do if I told anyone.”

“But you told Mr. Graham, didn’t you?” Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. “A hockey player from a rival school. Isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?”

Garrett’s hands clench into fists.

“No,” you say firmly. “I never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didn’t fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.”

“Allegedly tried to kill you.”

“There’s nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.”

“Or perhaps you two had rough sex and you’re retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?”

Katherine jumps up. “Objection! Badgering the witness.”

“Sustained,” the judge says. “Mr. Coburn, watch yourself.”

But Coburn isn’t done. “You say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?”

“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone who’s been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.”

“Or someone who’s lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You expect this jury to believe that my client — a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record — is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?”

“Based on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.”

Coburn smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “No further questions.”

You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.

The defense presents their case. It’s weak — character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.

It’s all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.

When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.

And then you wait.

***

Two hours feel like two years.

You’re in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.

Garrett’s there too, because they couldn’t make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.

“What if they don’t believe me?” You ask for the hundredth time.

“They will,” Katherine says.

“But what if they don’t?”

“Then we appeal. But they’re going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.”

Your phone buzzes. It’s your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Can’t deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.

Garrett’s phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.

“What?” You ask.

“Logan. He says if Beck walks, they’re going to handle it themselves.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

Despite everything, you almost laugh.

There’s a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. “Jury’s back.”

Your stomach drops. “Already?”

“Quick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,” Katherine says, standing. “Let’s go.”

You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up — more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.

Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.

The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but they’re all carefully neutral.

The judge addresses the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor.”

“On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”

“We find the defendant guilty.”

The courtroom erupts. Cameron’s mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.

“On the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.

The judge is talking about sentencing, but you can’t hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.

“Twenty-five years,” the judge announces. “With possibility of parole after twenty.”

Twenty-five years. Cameron won’t be out until he’s almost fifty.

Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. You’re crying.

And then you’re moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.

He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.

“We did it,” you sob into his shoulder. “He’s going to prison.”

“You did it,” Garrett corrects, voice rough. “You were so fucking brave up there.”

“I was terrified.”

“But you did it anyway. That’s what brave means.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. “So goddamn proud.”

Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. He’s shouting something — probably threats, probably curses — but you don’t care. Can’t hear him over your own heartbeat.

You’re safe. Finally, truly safe.

You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.

He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.

“Garrett,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

You don’t have words for what you’re feeling. Don’t know how to explain that this boy — this stranger who became your savior who became your friend — has somehow become everything.

So you don’t say anything.

You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.

For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.

It’s nothing like kissing Cameron. There’s no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.

“Was that okay?” You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.

“That was-” Garrett’s voice breaks. “Yeah. That was okay.”

Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.

His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face — harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like you’re something precious. Something worth protecting.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. Because you didn’t have to do any of it. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t.” Garrett’s forehead touches yours. “Not from you.”

Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside — they’re going to want a statement.”

You take a shaky breath. “Can Garrett come?”

“Of course.”

You don’t let go of Garrett’s hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Don’t let go as she explains the next steps — the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order that’s now permanent, the victim services available to you.

Don’t let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.

You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.

The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.

When it’s finally over, when you’re back in Garrett’s car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” you say.

“It’s not over,” Garrett replies. “He’ll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.”

“But the worst part is over.”

“Yeah. The worst part is over.”

You look at him — really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesn’t mean possession.

“What happens now?” You ask.

“What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.”

Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someone’s promise to you actually means something.

You believe in tomorrow.

You believe in healing.

You believe in love — the real kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt.

As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.

She’s not gone.

She’s been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.

And now, finally, she’s ready to wake up.

***

One year later.

You’re standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and you’ve never felt more alive.

The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriend’s team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? You’re just happy to be here.

Happy to be doing what you love.

Happy to be yourself again.

“Alright, Y/N, we’re live in thirty seconds,” your producer says through your earpiece.

You smooth down your blazer — BU red and white, professional but not stuffy — and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briar’s captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.

Who also happens to be the love of your life, but you’re trying to keep it professional.

“And we’re live in five, four, three …” The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.

You smile at the camera. “I’m here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonight’s season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.”

Garrett’s in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Feels great to start the season with a W.”

“You had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one — the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.”

“Yeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.”

“Lucky?” You raise an eyebrow. “That was pure skill and you know it.”

Now he’s definitely smiling. “Well, I’ve had some good coaching. Great teammates. It’s a team effort.”

“Speaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?”

Something shifts in Garrett’s expression. Gets more serious. “It’s bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But I’m also excited for what’s next.”

You consult your notes, but you’ve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrett’s favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you’re a journalist doing your job.

“Your team has high expectations this year,” you continue. “Returning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?”

“I think we’ve got the talent and the drive. We’ve been working our asses off—sorry, can I say that on air?”

You fight back a smile. “We’re cable. You’re fine.”

“Well, we’ve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyone’s bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think we’ve got a real shot.”

“And what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?”

Garrett looks directly at the camera. “Honestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.”

It’s a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.

You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But there’s something in Garrett’s eyes — a warmth, a familiarity — that makes you relax slightly.

“So,” you say, going slightly off-script. “Three goals on opening night. That’s got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.”

“Oh, especially against BU,” Garrett agrees, and now he’s definitely teasing. “No offense to your school.”

“Some taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.”

“You did. That third period though …” He makes a yikes face.

“Okay, rude.”

“I’m just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought you’d appreciate factual accuracy.”

You bite back a laugh. “I appreciate winning more.”

“Well, you’re dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.”

Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you can’t help it. You grin. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Plus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.”

“Oh, should I?”

“Definitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Garrett, we’re on camera.”

“I know.” He’s absolutely shameless, that smile widening. “Just keeping things interesting for the viewers.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

And okay, you do. You love this — the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the arena.

“Alright, I think that’s probably enough for tonight,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Garrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.”

“Thanks for having me.”

He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, he’s leaning in and kissing you — quick and sweet but definitely not professional — right there on camera.

When he pulls back, you’re frozen, face burning, completely flustered.

“See you at home,” he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.

You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.

“And that’s … that’s the post-game report from Agganis Arena,” you manage. “Back to you in the studio.”

The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. “Well, that’s going viral.”

“I’m so sorry-”

“Are you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Great job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.”

You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. There’s already a text from Julie: OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.

Then one from Logan: G’s getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.

Then one from your mom: Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional 😊

You’re laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrett’s truck — you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but you’ll both end up at the same place.

Home.

It still feels surreal sometimes. That you’re here. That you’re happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like you’re precious.

You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss that’s probably being GIF’d and memed as you drive.

When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.

You let yourself in — still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home — and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.

“Hey, superstar,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.

He looks up, grins. “Hey, yourself. How’d the rest of the interviews go?”

“Fine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.”

“I couldn’t help it. You looked too good.”

You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. It’s automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.

“With who? Your producer loved it.”

“With my professional reputation.”

“Your professional reputation is that you’re a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briar’s hockey team.”

“Extremely handsome? Really?”

“I’m just reporting the facts.”

You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You played really well tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan — perfect pass.”

“Are you analyzing my game?”

“I’m a sports journalist. It’s literally my job.”

Garrett’s expression softens. “You know what I love about you?”

“My devastating good looks?”

“Well, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You could’ve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didn’t.”

You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago — broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.

But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BU’s sports network.

Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.

“I had help,” you say quietly.

“You did the work.”

“We did the work.”

Because it hasn’t been just you. Garrett’s been there for every step. Patient when you couldn’t be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.

He’s been to therapy himself — dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.

You’ve healed together.

“Come here,” Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi.”

He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.

When you break apart, you’re both breathing harder.

“I’m really proud of you,” he says. “For tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.”

“It was just an interview.”

“It wasn’t just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.”

You hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t consciously registered that you were in BU’s arena doing what you love without fear.

“He’s in prison,” you say. It’s a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if he’ll somehow find you. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Garrett agrees. “And even if he could, he’d have to go through me first.”

“My fierce protector.”

“Always.”

You kiss him again, and this time it’s different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.

“Bedroom?” He murmurs against your lips.

“Bedroom,” you agree.

He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs — something that should be cheesy but somehow isn’t, not with him — and lays you gently on the bed.

The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.

Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.

You don’t cry anymore. Now it’s just … good. Better than good. Amazing.

He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.

“This okay?”

“Yes.”

“And this?”

“Yes.”

It’s something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though you’ve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.

Only gives.

He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameron’s handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.

“Beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.

Hours later, you’re both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks.

“How different everything is.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“The best different.” You tilt your head to look at him. “A year ago, I couldn’t imagine being happy again. Couldn’t imagine feeling safe or loved or … whole.”

“And now?”

“Now I can’t imagine anything else.”

Garrett’s quiet for a moment. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too.”

“I’m going to marry you someday.”

It’s not a proposal — just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. When you’re ready. When we’re ready. But someday, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.”

You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.

But you don’t.

You feel safe.

“Someday sounds good,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.

You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.

She’s still here. She’s been here all along, just waiting to be found again.

And she’s got so much left to do.

Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.

But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her — the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all — she’s exactly where she needs to be.

“Garrett?” You murmur, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for answering the phone that night.”

His arms tighten around you. “Thank you for calling.”

Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, you’re safe and loved and whole.

And that’s more than enough.

Garrett shakes his head immediately, pulling you closer like you’ve said something insane. “No.”

“Garrett—”

“Need this,” he grinds out against your mouth. “Barely get you alone. Barely get to have you.” His grip tightens at your waist, his stare going heavier on yours. “I need this tonight, baby.”

“Okay,” you breathe as he lowers himself to your lips. His muscles tremble beneath your hands as they wrap around his biceps. You shift underneath him, arching just enough for him to realize something needs to change.

Garrett notices immediately. He wets the split in his lip, eyes narrowing with slow amusement. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Get on your back, Garrett.”

“What?” He laughs softly, still hovering over you like he thinks there’s no chance you’re serious.

“Back. Now.” You try to roll him but he grabs your wrist, pinning you to the mattress.

“You serious right now?” He whispers against your lips, letting out a raspy laugh before hissing when the smile tugs the cut back open.

“Now.”

Garrett lets out a rough breath like he’s too sore for this, shifting onto his back beneath you, broad chest rising and falling harder once you settle over his waist.

A dark bruise shadows the side of his ribs, already blooming beneath tan skin where he got slammed into the boards earlier.

His hands slide to your thighs automatically—big palms squeezing instinctively—but you catch his wrists before he can settle them there.

“Uh-uh.” Your voice comes out softer this time and he cocks an eyebrow at you, loving wherever the hell this is going. “Coach said you have to relax. R e l a x,” you breathe as you guide his arms over his head, fingers tracing over the thick muscle of his forearms until your hands lace together above him.

“I don't wanna relax,” he chuckles.

“I don't care.”

“You’re bossy tonight,” he says with a tilted smile, already breathless.

“Maybe,” you smile down at him like you already knew you’d win this. “But you’re a problem.” Your fingertips drag lightly down the center of his chest. “Not now that I’ve finally got you pinned down for once.”

Garrett lets out a short laugh through his nose, shaking his head against the pillow. “Control? You know how easily I could get it back, baby?” He tilts his head against the pillow to look at you better.

Then your hand reaches across the bed for your pink lace panties—discarded somewhere in the mess—and Garrett clocks what you’re doing about one second too late.

“Wait,” he breathes, eyes narrowing. “Hold on—” His head tips back into the pillow as you loop the lace around the headboard, knotting it around his wrists while he watches with parted lips and a slow swallow working down his throat. “You’re serious.”

“You keep hurting yourself,” you sigh as your thumb brushes carefully near the cut in his lip. “You don’t listen. All you do is fight.” You lean closer, softer now. “So now you don’t get to be in charge for a little while. Baby, you're stuck—”

“It’s a pair of pink panties.”

“And yet,” you murmur softly, tightening your grip around his wrists for a second, “look how good you’re behaving for me.”

He sucks his teeth and chuckles at that. “Behaving?” He scoffs. “Behaving. I've been getting chirped about you all night and I snapped once after he slashed me. He threw the first punch. Ten minute major. Now you’ve got me tied up in a thong. What more do you want from me?”

“Maybe I just wanted you to sit still long enough for me to take care of you,” you whisper, your mouth brushing over his. “Thank you like I’ve wanted to since you stepped into the penalty box. Does that sound so bad?”

He lets out a deep breath, nodding like that’s exactly what he needed to hear.

Your body dips lower, back arching as your ass lifts slightly while your lips trace his ear. “Maybe, I wanted to tie you up, and make you my bitch.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, a dark laugh breaking past his lips as he turns his head, burying himself in your neck. “M’not your fuckin’ bitch, alright?”

“You’re not?” You soften your voice and his whole body loosens beneath you.

“…Fine.”

“Fine what, baby?” You ask as your gaze meets his again, his eyes falling to your lips as you smile.

“I’m your bitch,” he says under his breath, intentionally quiet enough to piss you off.

Your mouth falls open dramatically, hand pressing against his abs, moving lower making his breathing catch. “Well, that wasn’t very convincing, baby.”

Garrett laughs again, deeper this time, turning his head like he’s embarrassed by how easy he is for you, a blush creeping across his cheeks.

“I’m your bitch, baby,” he repeats a little louder now, brown eyes sliding back to yours. “Happy?”

“Very.”

“God,” he huffs, smiling despite himself. “You like fuckin’ with me, don't you?”

“More like love, but yeah,” you tease, leaning down, lips pressing against his neck, shifting lower, soft lips trailing over his stomach, tongue teasing his v-line before your mouth dips lower, nuzzling between his thighs.

His stomach tightens instantly, thighs flexing as he lifts his head, getting a better look.

“Fuck,” he breathes when your tongue flicks over his balls, warm and slow. His thighs tighten when you take one into your mouth, then the other, stroking his thick cock with your hand while you suck softly. “Damn, baby,” he moans, head falling back against the pillow. “Gonna make me lose it.”

“How many times?” You ask sweetly, breath fanning over his spit-slick dick, feeling him twitch in your grip. You glance up at him through your lashes, looking way too innocent for your words.

“So what?” He murmurs. “You gonna tie me up and just—use me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum around him, the sound making his abs tighten again. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Garrett swears softly under his breath as you crawl back up his body slowly, your fingertips skimming over the sculpted ridges of his abs, higher over his chest, nails scratching lightly, his gold chain flickering in the low light when he sucks in a breath.

His hands twitch against the lace when your wet pussy settles over his length again, grinding down slow, your breasts pressed against his broad chest.

“You’re so fucking hot, Garrett,” you murmur against his lips, but the smile slips through anyway.

“You have no clue how good you look on top of me,” he mutters, his voice already rough, even though the corner of his mouth still curls smugly. “You gotta stop teasing me.”

Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the bruise blooming dark beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lip still angry red. His dark curls fall onto his forehead, half brushed-back from running his hands through them, wet with sweat again.

“All fucked up and still the hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” you murmur, thumb brushing lightly near the cut. “You’re unbelievable.”

Garrett lets out a low sound at that, somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“Unbelievable, huh?” His voice drops rough around the edges.

“So fucking greedy, Graham.”

His brows pinch immediately. “Graham?” He scoffs, finally lifting his head enough to look at you properly. “Garrett’s for you. The fuck are you callin’ me Graham?”

You just smile wider—a slow little smile. Underneath all the cockiness, Garrett loves this—the way you toy with him when you get bold enough to take control.

Your fingers drift lazily through his hair while you stay settled over his lap, watching him try and fail to keep that smug look on his face.

“Talk to me nice,” he mutters, low and warning, even though his hands are tied above his head and he’s already losing this fight. “Talk to me like you love me.”

You bite back a smile, grinding your hips on top. “Captain’s havin’ a hard night, huh?”

“Holy shit,” Garrett drags out the words like they physically pain him. His head falls back, wrists pulling taut against the lace.

“Just take it,” you breathe, mouth brushing close enough to his that he can feel the smile there. “Unless you want me to stop.”

“Don’t,” he grunts immediately, the word coming out stern and final even while his wrists tug uselessly against the lace above his head.

Garrett tests the restraints again anyway, muscles tightening beneath you, but you shove playfully at his chest before he can get too cocky about it.

“C’mon now,” he mutters, eyes glinting up at you while his tongue drags across the cut in his lip, soothing the sting. “You’re not my coach. You’re not one of the guys.” His gaze lifts to yours again, darker now, quieter. “You’re my girl.”

“I am,” you hum, moving a little closer to his lips.

“And…” he adds lower, lashes dipping for half a second before meeting your eyes again, “Garrett sounds better when you say it.”

“Yeah?” You tease softly, fingers sliding around his neck, through the damp curls at the back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Love when you say my name—” His words cut off when your hand traces lower, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, stroking slowly. “‘Specially when you're proud of me.”

“I am proud of you, Garrett,” you praise and he takes the compliment like air. He moans when your thumb brushes over his thick tip of his dick, his brows furrowing while his lips part. “Easy, Garrett,” you murmur. “You’re getting a little needy for me.”

“A little?” He laughs softly, breath catching when your thumb brushes the tip again. “You’re pushin’ it—me. All of it.”

“The offer to stop was there—”

“Baby, I’m injured,” he complains softly. “Feels kinda fucked up not to let me cum.”

“I don't think you're ready,” you whisper as you reach down, thumb brushing along his chin where a little blood smudged. He parts his lips, eyes locked on yours as he sucks it clean. “I could get outta here if I wanted, you know. Lucky I’m playin’ nice.”

“So am I. You’re enjoying this, baby. Stop trying to play tough with pink panties around your wrists. I know you love it.”

He laughs softly under his breath at that, teeth catching briefly on the split in his lip. He watches you for a second like he can’t decide whether he wants to argue with you or watch.

“You done talkin’,” he asks hoarsely, voice rough and low, “or are you gonna keep torturing me for fun?”

You giggle against his skin. “So my panties around your wrists and my hand around your dick is—”

“One of my favorite things you’ve done, yes.”

“It was torture a second ago,” you counter with faux concern.

The tip of his cock drips precum, sliding in a lazy tear over your knuckles. “Fuck you.” He chuckles.

“You’d like that,” you grin as you lift your hand, licking his mess off the back. “Look at how relaxed you are.”

“You’re actually gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he laughs under his breath.

You move between his legs, smirk dying on your lips as your mouth parts, that dangerous look still burning in your eyes as you lick a slow line up the underside of his cock, following a vein, watching his biceps flex as he tests the panties holding him in place.

“Standing down by the glass,” he says, breath hitching as you swirl your tongue over the tip. “Playing against your ex.”

“Mhmm,” you whisper.

“You know how much shit I took. Three periods of reminding me all about his favorite things about my girl. And, I couldn't say shit. Couldn't even tell Coach why I went in the box in the first place.”

You run a line of spit down to his throbbing head as you stroke and he shivers, feeling it roll down the slit, gliding down the side.

“Been keeping this a secret for six months. Think I deserve something—Fuuuck.” His head slams back into the pillow when he finally gets it. “Yeah… that’s it, baby.”

Your lips stretch around his cock, eyes flicking up to watch his reaction. Garrett’s lashes flutter shut, mouth falling open, chest lifting as you sink down again. You moan around him, the sound making him shudder.

“So fuckin’ good,” he pants.

You wrap one hand around the base, slick with spit, and stroke as your mouth works the head, dragging your tongue along the ridge. He groans again—deep and filthy—his fists clenching above his head.

“Shit. Shit—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he grits through his teeth, muscles locking under you. “Gonna cum in that pretty mouth—”

His whole body coils tight as you suck, slurping, gagging, throating his length as he fights back his pleasure.

A loud moan breaks past his lips, filling the room. He hisses out a breath as he feels the sharp sting, bottom lip trembling. “God, damn—just… You’re…” His voice cuts off, too far gone to finish, filthy-wet between your lips and the thick length of him—too much for you to take, but you’re trying anyway.

Garrett pitches his hips, meeting you stroke for stroke, eyes squeezed shut as his thigh muscles tremble.

“Fuck me,” he whines, your name whispering past his lips as he empties into your throat, cock throbbing while his voice breaks into a sobbing, pathetic laugh. “Shittt—oh my god—fuck—” He chokes on his words, hands twisting into fists above him.

You pull off him slow, kissing his swollen, pulsing tip. He throws his head to the side, pressing his mouth to his bicep, shuttering out a pathetic breath when you kitten-lick his cock; body jumping with each cruel flick.

“Pussy,” his voice comes out slurred. “Give it to me—fuckin’ need it, alright?”

You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you crawl up over him—tits brushing his chest, his face flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving—you wrap your hand around him again, pumping slow as you guide him toward you.

He’s still recovering when you line him up, circling your hips just enough to tease the head against your slick folds.

“So good,” he groans, eyes rolling back. “Oh my fucking god, baby—” You slide down on him, hands pressing against his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath until you're fully sat.

“Fuck, Garrett,” you breathe as you drag your hips. His eyes lock on the wet place where you connect, lips parted like he's trying to think of something to say, but the thought dies there instead.

He tugs at the panties roughly, brows furrowing, lips snarling as he forgot for a second he was tied up. You lean forward over him slowly, chest brushing his as you lower yourself toward his mouth, smiling when his breath catches.

“Can’t even slap your fuckin’ ass—” CRACK! Your hand smacks against your own skin, cutting off his complaint, and he groans beneath you like he's getting some sick secondhand pleasure from it.

“Bounce for me,” he rasps, lips vibrating against yours. You push yourself upright again, hands slapping against the metal rail above his head, and his eyes snap back.

Your pussy swallows up the length of him, hands braced on the bed frame between his—like you own the room. Like you own him. “So fucking perfect for me—”

He curses loudly as he throws his hips up to meet you, making the whole damn bed creak.

Heat coils low in your stomach, your thighs starting to shake around him. “Yes, baby—cum like this. Use me, c’mon,” he pants. Your pussy pulses with your heartbeat, wild and quick, fluttering around him as you cum; Garrett thrusting up into you so deep your vision blurs.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop,” he grits out, the tone of his voice proud like he knows you won't. His mouth falls open, his eyes rolling back, the muscles in his chest tight as his fists lock. “I’m cumming, shit.” The look on his face and the deep, fucked-out sound of his voice make you shatter above him.

Your head’s pounding so loud, ears ringing so high you can't hear the praise leaving his lips, but you know it's there.

He fights the restraints—the lace tearing slightly.

You smile as you start to grind again, nice and slow, swirling your hips, slick dripping down his big cock, making him suck his teeth.

Garrett’s still twitching underneath you when you finally slow down enough to breathe, his lungs still working hard beneath yours. The lace strains again when he flexes his wrists, biceps swelling, his whole body slick with sweat.

“That was perfect, baby,” he says, still breathless. You laugh softly, brushing damp curls off his forehead. You lean down, kissing his cheek over the bruise, soft and careful.

“You okay?” You ask, assessing the damage.

“M’fine, baby,” Garrett answers immediately, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you. “And honestly? Worth it.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” A lazy grin tugs at his mouth before he winces at the split lip.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“Guy spent three periods talking about you like he was gonna be the one here after all this.”

“He’s an idiot,” you whisper.

His eyes flick away for a second before landing back on yours. “Kept acting like he knew you better than me.”

“Baby—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Just pissed me off.”

“He doesn’t know me better than you.”

Garrett stares up at you for a second. “Finish junior year. One more season,” he murmurs, “and it will be you and me.”

“You’ve really thought this through, huh?” You ask, cheeks burning with your smile, finger tracing absentmindedly on his bare chest.

“Been in love with you for months, baby. Had time,” he hums, leaning in for a kiss, pulling back just out of reach from where he's still bound, chasing it before he lets out a little growl of a breath.

“I love you too,” you coo, and he huffs, rolling his eyes away. Your hand comes up, grabbing his cheeks between them, squeezing just enough to pout his lips. “If I untie you,” you tease softly, “are you gonna behave?”

He takes a moment to think it over. “Probably not.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” He says, a chuckle catching in his throat, eyes warm now. You glance up toward the headboard, finally noticing the pink lace stretched tight between his wrists, strained enough now that you realize that Garrett Graham is only still there because he’s letting himself be. “Kinda getting used to it—”

“You know what?” You murmur, brushing your hands over his chest, fingers straightening his chain on his throat. “You’re right.” Garrett lifts an eyebrow as you speak. “This is exactly where you should be.”

Garrett’s eyes flick toward the stretched lace for half a second before landing back on yours. That cocky, hockey-boy smile spreads on his lips. “Why are you like this, huh?” He asks quietly.

“You’ve been behaving so well for me.”

“You done playin’ coach now?” He asks.

You open your mouth to answer him, but Garrett suddenly plants his feet into the mattress beneath you, muscles tightening hard underneath your hands— SNAP.

Rafe was a freak. You knew it from the first time he got you under him, the way he fucked like he had something to prove. Like he needed to ruin you—leave you wrecked and trembling just to stroke his ego. But the first time you slapped him? That’s when you saw something shift in him, something dark and desperate, something that made his dick twitch inside you as his lips curled into a wild, feral grin.

He fucking loved it.

And now, every time he had you under him—or on top of him, bent over, against a wall—he wanted more. Wanted you to do it harder.

Tonight was no different.

Your back hit the mattress, Rafe towering over you with that cocky smirk, sweat dripping from his temples. His hands gripped your thighs, pushing them open with zero hesitation before dragging his cock through your slick folds. The head of it brushed your clit, making you whimper, but he just chuckled.

“Already so fuckin’ needy, huh?” His voice was low, thick with amusement as he slapped the tip of his cock against your clit, watching you jerk. “You like being used, don’t you?”

You swallowed hard, back arching as his fingers wrapped around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your pulse race.

“I asked you a question, baby.”

Your lips parted, breath shaky. “Y-Yeah.”

Rafe grinned, leaning in close. “Yeah, what?”

“I like being used,” you whispered, heat pooling in your belly.

“That’s my good girl.”

He didn’t waste any more time. He lined himself up and pushed in, burying himself deep with a rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. Your nails dug into his arms as he set a brutal pace, hips snapping against yours hard enough to make the bed creak.

“Fuck—Rafe!” Your hands scrambled at his biceps, nails digging in.

He groaned at the sting, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. His hand wrapped around your jaw, forcing your gaze on him.

“Slap me.”

Your brows furrowed, but the way his dick twitched inside you told you he was serious.

“Come on, baby. You know how much I love it.” His voice was a breathy growl, desperate, needy. “Fuckin’ slap me.”

You hesitated only a second before bringing your palm across his cheek, the sharp sound echoing in the room.

Rafe groaned, his eyes darkening with lust as his thrusts grew rougher.

“Harder.”

Another slap.

“Fuck, baby. Again.”

You smacked him again, and he practically snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head as he fucked into you like a man possessed. His jaw clenched, the red mark on his cheek only making him look hotter.

“You like that?” You taunted, breathless. “You like getting slapped while you fuck me like a slut?”

Rafe let out a low, breathless chuckle, his fingers tightening around your wrists.

“God, yes.” He leaned in, his teeth grazing your jaw. “And you fuckin’ love giving it to me, don’t you?”

You whimpered, nodding, the coil in your stomach tightening with every bruising thrust.

“Such a dirty little thing,” Rafe groaned, his hand slipping between your bodies, rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna cum on my cock while I fuck you stupid?”

You couldn’t hold back. Your body arched, back bowing as pleasure overtook you, your release crashing down so hard you almost sobbed. Rafe wasn’t far behind, groaning against your neck as he spilled inside you, his body tensing as he emptied himself with a deep, shuddering thrust.

He stayed inside you, panting, his forehead pressed against yours. Then, his hand found your cheek, fingers brushing over the heated skin where you’d slapped him.

“God, I fucking love you.” His lips ghosted over yours, smirking. “Do it again next time.”

You smirked back. “Only if you deserve it.”

When you finally found a time that works for both of your schedules, you decided it would be time to make your move. Fuck waiting for him to initiate. You can do it yourself. You'd been subtle about it at first—a hand on his thigh, a few inches higher than where you'd normally place it, lips running over his jaw. 

The man had simply laughed nervously, and returned with a kiss to your forehead.

Briefly, you wondered if it truly is because he's not into you that way. However, that thought flits right out of your pretty head when you see the unmistakable tent slowly forming in his pants. 

So you’d upped your actions, nibbling at his earlobe in the middle of dessert, fingers trailing up his inner thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. Screw subtlety. (And hopefully, him too.) By the time you two sat in the back of the cab, he’s a squirming mess.

“S-stay the night?” he’d been so shy about it you debated teasing him a little more. Maybe if you weren’t so horny, you would have, but relief had simply flooded your veins. Finally. So you nod, teased him a little more in the back of the cab until he had to grab your wrists and hold them in place, because he swore he’d probably come in here just from one more brush of your palm. The lightest pressure and he’d be a goner, a pathetic mess, and you hadn’t even really done anything. 

There had been no build up once you got into his apartment. Simply an exchange of quick, sloppy kisses, Spencer pushing you deeper into his house until the couch hits the back of your knees and both of you came tumbling down. He’s already rutting his hips against your thigh, his erection hot even through his slacks. Clumsy fingers strip off fabric and shoes, leaving them strewn haphazardly on his living room floor.

You had pushed him away then, grinning enticingly as you went to straddle his lap. You ground your hips in circular motions against his still clothed crotch, gasping as the obvious bulge gives you even more traction to rub on. 

“No fair,” he whines, fingers leaving crescent shaped indents on your hips, “P-please stop teasing, you’ve been doing it all night.”

He’s so tightly wound it’s almost pathetic. He’s lucky you’ve some semblance of mercy left in your body, because you could probably come undone just from the friction that came by dry humping him. But you relent, sitting back on his thighs as you tug at his underpants. 

“All right baby, since you asked so nicely.”

Thus exposing what’s going to be the small issue of the night.

Rather, the large issue.

His cock springs free and for a moment you just stare at it. Red, veiny, pulsing and huge. Larger than anyone you’ve been with, larger than even the toys that hide in that one drawer in your bedroom closet.

“W-what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You paled a little.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips, “You didn’t tell me you were hung.”

His eyebrows scrunch, so ridiculously adorable you have to bite your lip to stifle another giggle.

“Hung?”

“Yeah, like, your dick is huge.”

Red blooms across his cheeks, “It’s - it’s certainly above average—”

“You know what the average length is?”

“I-in North America, yes.”

“I didn’t know you swung that way, baby.”

He groans, moving to hide his face into the crook of your neck, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, I know, I’m kidding.” You manage to shift and catch his head before he has a chance to press it to your neck. Your lips land on his, and he’s pushing his tongue inside your mouth sloppily. When you pull away for air, you add, “You’re just bigger than what I’m used to.”

“Is that bad?”

Is it? One hand wraps around the base of his cock, stroking up delicately, testing out the girth and the weight of him. He shudders, muscles tensing. His fingers dig into your hips. With a grin, you reply, “On the contrary, I think it’s exciting.”

You position yourself over him then, letting the blunt tip run up and down your slick folds. The friction makes you both shiver. Every single ridge and vein of his cock catches on your sensitive flesh, and you can’t help but start moving your hips up and down, rubbing your folds over the length of him. 

“You’re - ah - so wet.” his tone is wretched with desire and awe.

“All for you baby.” You continue your ministrations, letting his length part your folds, the tip hitting your clit at certain angles. His cock is covered in your slick within moments and your poor boyfriend looks like he’s about to combust. You feel the twitch of his cock, the shift in the way he moves his hips—rocking up desperately against you—and you know he’s close. So you stop.

You’re rewarded by another whine.

“Please,” his grip is hurting you now, palms clutching handfuls of your ass. You don’t think he’s even aware of how tightly he’s doing it. “Please, I’m so—”

“Spence, do you really want to cum without even being inside me?” That shuts up his whining. “Mhm, didn’t think so.”

“Can I— please, just—”

“What?”

“Wanna touch you.”

Your lips tug into a smile. At your nod of assent, one of his hands let go of your ass to move to your pussy, the pads of his fingers quickly locating your clit.

“Fuck, Spence,” your head falls forward, forehead meeting his, “Faster, baby.”

He obeys, tilting his head forward to capture your lips. Your mouth opens to him, muffling your moans as you begin to move, shamelessly riding his hand. His finger finds your entrance, dipping shallowly, hesitantly, but you’re so wet that, with a quick thrust of your hips, the digit slips all the way in. 

Spencer pulls away from the kiss to watch, the pupils of his eyes nearly eclipsing the ochre irises as your pussy swallows his finger greedily. Transfixed, he adds another finger and it’s your turn to squeeze and mark up his alabaster skin with crescent marks. 

“Yes,” you groan, gasp, writhe in his lap as his fingers curl and find the sweet spot inside you, “Oh god, Spencer, yes!”

He’s entranced as he pumps his fingers in and you, mouth hanging open as your pussy parts and accepts his fingers so prettily. To reciprocate, your hands—plural, yes both hands—wrap around his cock, starting a slow, lazy pace. That throws his rhythm off, fingers stilling inside you.

“Keep going,” you urge him, hands slowing to a stop as well, “Spencer.”

He whines, hips bucking up into your palms, but something in your voice seems to set him straight. Fingers thrust in and out of you again, long and elegant and stretching you for what’s about to come. Satisfied, you pump your hands over his cock again, twisting them every time you motion up, and squeezing as you go down. It doesn’t take long for him to fall apart, his cock twitching before cum shoots from the tip. Because you’re straddling his lap, it makes a mess and lands on both of you—his stomach, your chest, some even on your hair. 

“Oh god,” he’s whining again, embarrassed, “I’m sorry, I’m so—”

You silence him with a kiss, still stroking him, as your hips move over his hand. His brain manages to work, curling inside your fluttering walls. The movements are messy, uncoordinated as you chase your orgasm and he struggles to catch up. A whine leaves your lips, soft and needy. Something about it must trigger the neurons in his beautiful brain, make him remember you have the perfect bundle of nerves being neglected and he has more free fingers. 

With a slight shift, he presses his thumb to your clit. 

“Fuck, baby, yes!” you cry out breathlessly, head falling forward on his shoulder. 

“Good?” he asks, increasing pressure on that sensitive nub. Small, quick circles. You wonder when he became so dexterous.

You nod, thighs clenched and quivering as your climax nears, the pleasure in your stomach building and coiling into something white-hot and— “Oh, Spencer!”

His other arm wraps around your waist, crushing you to him as he helps you through your orgasm. In the steady comfort of his arms, the rocking of your hips slow to a stop. You feel his lips at your temple, not really kissing the spot, just resting there. Heavy breaths rifle strands of your hair. 

“Oh god,” he sighs, fingers slipping out of you with a pop, “Angel, that was amazing.”

You straighten up, grinning, “We're not done yet.”

“No?”

Eyes dart down suggestively, and his gaze follows to his own lap. Still completely erect, his cock lays flat against you, heavy and pulsating. “No, I think I need to take care of you a little more.”

“Y-you don't have—”

But you've already lifted yourself to your knees, fighting through the quake in your thighs, in order to position the tip of him at your slick entrance. His hands return to your thighs, nails clamping down on your skin.

“But I'm not— condom—”

How cute, he can barely speak. You grin, press a chaste kiss to the dimple on his cheek. “I'm clean. And on the pill.”

“You sure it’s okay?”

It's more than okay, actually. You're too shades shy of being desperate for his cock to split you open, but you're not sure if he'd survive hearing that sentence so you say, “Of course it is baby. Unless… you want me to stop?” If he catches the hint of insecurity in your voice, he doesn't show it. 

Instead, his head is shaking no, vigorously, lower lip jutting out in a pout. 

You smile, and kiss it away, “Okay then. I'll go slow, okay?”

You'd meant it as an empty warning. Really, there's nothing more you want than to impale yourself down on him and ride him like there's no tomorrow. However, as you slowly lower yourself onto his cock, as the blunt tip breaches your entrance and spreads your walls, you realize that going slow is probably more of a necessity. 

He's big. Almost uncomfortably so. 

One sharp exhale from your lips and he's suddenly looking at you in concern, “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” you gasp, although the furrow in your brows suggest otherwise. 

“You don't have to—"

“Hush, baby, I just need a moment.” You say, forcing yourself to relax and take more. The broadest part of his head pushes through, stretching you wider than you've ever been. Soft, keening sounds fill the air. It's hard to know which came from you, or from him.

You look up, and laugh when you realize Spencer's skin is dappled with large red splotches. He's staring at where the two of you are connected, his cock barely fitting inside you. With a deep breath, you roll your hips around, trying to get used to the feeling. He whines again, his torso falling back onto the cushion, “Oh my god,” he gasps, lower lips trembling, “Oh my god, please.”

“Need you to be patient for me, Spence.” you mutter, dropping down a little more. You place one hand on his thigh for balance, while the other wraps around the base of his cock, stroking him to give him some relief. The greedy bastard bucks up, involuntarily, and you hiss as another inch pushes into you before you're ready.

“Spence!”

“Sorry, I'm sorry! Just - oh god, oh god, please, oh did I hurt you?”

And then it happens. Something glimmers on his cheek as it catches the light. And then another. And again, this time on the other cheek. Your hand leaves his thigh to grasp his chin, tilt his head up.

Your boyfriend is crying. Splayed out on the couch, cushions embedded by the sharp joints of his elbows from where he's propped himself up. He's looking up at you with glimmering liquid gathered on the rims of his lashline. Dripping down his cheeks, only to be replaced by another bout. 

“Baby,” You sigh, pouting as you lean down. Soft lips catch his tears, leaving sticky residue on his cheekbones from the remains of your lip gloss, “It's okay.”

Another sob. Large teardrops crawl down his chiseled face.

Knowing that it’s your fault makes a feeling of power surge through you. “You’re so pretty like this, Spence.” 

“Angel, please—”

The sight of his tear streaked face does something to you, your walls relaxing and fluttering as you manage to accept another inch down. His reaction is instantaneous, nails sinking into your hips, head falling back. “No, no,” you say, hand coming to the back of his head, tilting his head forward again, “Look at me.”

Tear streaked and hazy eyed, he manages to keep his head steady in order to maintain eye contact. It’s a little sick, the way this turns you on, but it allows you to sheath his cock further in. 

You lift yourself up, until only the tip remains notched inside you, and his cock gleams with the evidence of your arousal. With a smile, you sink down again, walls fluttering as you take him deeper, until you have about three fourths of his length buried inside you and he’s little more than a puddle. 

A hiss escapes your lips, brows knitting from the stretch. It isn’t just that his length is impressive, it’s that he’s thick too, splitting your pussy open. But now he's buried more than halfway through, giving you enough room to lift yourself up, and sink down again.

You count that as a victory.

He groans, muscles tensing, and you know he's desperately trying not to buck up and meet your movements. With a small smile, you lean close, forehead resting on his. Large, honeyed eyes stare back up at you, still glassy with tears. You repeat the same motion of your hips, moaning as you feel every single ridge and vein of his cock straining inside your walls. 

“Feel good?” you murmur, swiping a stray teardrop with your thumb. 

“Mhmm,” he nods, breath hitching as your movements grow steady. The sting remains, but it's grown dull now that you’ve gotten more used to the size of him.

“Oh god, baby, why haven't we done this sooner?” you whine as you rock on top of him, enjoying the fullness of having him inside of you. The question is rhetorical, but he's in absolutely no state of mind to answer. His hands grip your hips tightly as he sniffles, unable to do anything else except enjoy the ride you're giving him.

Praises leave your lips, murmured in tones cloyingly sweet and half mocking. 

“Crying over sex, you're so lucky I'm so into you.”

“You look so pretty with tears in your eyes baby."

“Never had pussy this tight, haven't you?” 

That last one rips another sob from him, because you know this is his first, that you're making a mockery out of something significant for him. So you soothe with a kiss, and whispers of “I'm sorry, it's okay, you're doing so good, you feel so good.”

You punctuate it by moving faster, your pussy thoroughly comfortable and so wet that there's barely any struggle to bounce on his dick. However, you're still careful, still unable to take him all the way in. You figure it's something you both can work up to, something for the future. The thought makes you smile. 

Besides he doesn't seem to mind, moaning beneath you as you ride him. He seems to have lost all ability to articulate himself, instead just staring at you with red, tear filled eyes and a slack jaw. It makes you giggle, the way he looks so utterly fucked out. 

You clench around him, walls tightening sharply, sending sensations that make the two of you gasp. 

“I-I'm so close.” He manages to say, his hands now helping you, guiding your body as you impale yourself over his cock again and again, “Please, I'm so—”

“I know, baby, I know, you can come.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and his voice is especially strained when he asks, “Inside?”

You tug his hair teasingly, and his kids flutter open again. With a grin, you confirm, “Inside.”

A few more thrusts and he's gone, crying out, squirming desperately beneath you as spurts of his cum paint your walls. You don't stop, riding him continuously as you chase your own release. Thick, creamy liquid drips from your pussy and down the base of his cock with every movement. 

He sobs even more. 

“Touch me,” You whisper, pleading, “Spence, please baby, I'm so close.”

His fingers are at your clit in an instant, rubbing hasty circles as your pace grows erratic and sloppy. 

“Please,” He gasps, looking up at you with glassy, imploring eyes, “Please I wanna feel you come.”

Your body seems attuned to his desperate pleas, because as soon as those words leave his lips, your pussy clenches around him so tightly you both yelp in surprise. He doesn't stop his ministrations on your clit, helping you through your orgasm until you're panting. For the second time tonight, you collapse against him, face buried at the crook of his neck. 

“My god.”

He laughs, breathless, “My god indeed.” 

He shifts, moving slowly so he doesn't jostle your boneless frame too much. There's a hiss from you as he slowly pulls out. You find yourself clenching around nothing, feeling oddly empty after such an intense fullness. 

Silence wraps around both of you, heady and languid. His fingers in your hair, scratching your scalp. Soft intimacy after a whirlwind of lust.

And then he breaks it, so achingly sweet it almost makes you cry, “I'm sorry that I hurt you.”

“Mhm?”

“Earlier,” He clarifies, lips finding your shoulder and staying there. His voice becomes muffled and sheepish, “When I thrust up.”

“I didn't think you'd remember that.” You tease, fingers tangling into his hair and tugging at his curls.

“I've an eidetic memory, remember? I remember everything.” He laughs too. Relief makes his voice sound lighter. “I never want to hurt you.”

“You didn't,” You reassure him, “Well - okay, a little bit, but it's fine. I don't think you meant to.”

“Of course not,” He hums, lips traveling up your neck, “But I'll be more careful next time.”

“Next time huh?”

“Mhm,” Teeth on your jaw. Playful, teasing. “Next time.” 

It sounds like a promise. You know he intends to keep it. 

— boyfriend jj who… thinks you’re the funniest person on the planet — the way he cackles at every joke you tell makes you question if it’s forced, or exaggerated at the least, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. your humor matches his so perfectly that everything you say or do he only wishes he would have thought of first. the two of you are constantly a nonstop giggling mess full of silly inside jokes and plain stupidity.

— boyfriend jj who… thrives off of long hugs with you; specifically when it feels more like you’re just holding him. hiding his face in your neck and breathing you in calms his nerves in a way that smoking weed never could.

— boyfriend jj who… is absolutely mesmerized by everything you do; whether that be your makeup (he thinks you’re the artist and the art), or simply steering the boat (the way the wind blows in your hair and the sun highlights each and every shade is unreal). he often finds himself completely zoned out of reality with soft blue eyes as he marvels in awe at everything that is you. he's often chewing the inside of his lip as he stares, quickly averting his gaze to his hands when you look his way, though it’s always so obvious.

— boyfriend jj who… loves when you come to watch him surf, though it’s stressful watching him disappear under the waves for what feels like minutes at a time. but, without fail, he always ends up running to you with a big, toothy smile as he wraps a cold, muscular arm around your waist, pressing wet, salty lips to yours as he beams with excitement: “babe, did you fuckin’ see that?!”

— boyfriend jj who… isn’t too good at saying ‘i love you’ but shows it in everything he does: plucking you random flowers (and weeds, though he doesn’t know that), fixing your top as you chat amongst friends, keeping a hair tie on his wrist because he just knows you’re going to need one, always keeping physical touch with you in some way (absentmindedly twirling your hair, resting your legs on his lap, holding your hand, leaning on your shoulder).

— boyfriend jj who… tries to contain his himself but is more than willing to get in a fight when it comes to you; whether it be one too many comments made about you in order to taunt him or another man’s hand lingering on yours for way too long, jj is quick to set things straight no matter who it puts him up against.

— boyfriend jj who… gets jealous very easily but tries his hardest to control it. before you started dating, he would simply avert his attention or walk away from any situation involving you and a guy, knowing he shouldn’t be jealous but he couldn’t help it. now that you’re officially his, his emotion is worn clearly on his face.

— boyfriend jj who… falls asleep virtually anywhere, as long as you were around. he hates it, obviously wanting to be awake when he’s with you, but the feeling of genuine comfort and safety you give him is nothing like he’d ever felt at home, or anywhere, so he often finds his head on your lap or shoulder, fighting a slumber.

— boyfriend jj who… likes to take off his cap and place it backwards on your head whenever you’re making out, always laughing into the kiss whenever it inevitably falls over your eyes.

— boyfriend jj who… noticed your awestruck reaction to once finding the ‘perfect’ seashell in the sand and now brings you the prettiest, shiniest, most perfect seashells he can find — no matter who it inconveniences: “dude, it’s been, like, twenty minutes! can’t we just buy one somewhere?” pope groaned. “yeah, let me get a fake i.d. and forge a check, too, since we’re frauds now,” jj scoffed.

— boyfriend jj who… has absolutely no filter so he often just says things that you then have to somehow answer for: “is your hair supposed to look like that?” he’d wonder aloud innocently. “jj!” you’d whisper before clearing your throat, “he just means did you have to use any product or-or anything or is it naturally so pretty?”

— boyfriend jj who… remembers all the little things about you, despite his forgetful and oblivious nature, often taking you by surprise when he mentions them: “nah, you won’t like that, s’got peanut butter in it.” or "wait, the same girl who kicked down your sandcastle in third grade? i hate that bitch. sorry, sorry, continue.”

— boyfriend jj who… let’s you fiddle with the numerous rings and bracelets adorning his hands whenever you want, knowing it’s a calming distraction whenever you’re anxious. often times, you’ll be sitting with his large hand on your lap, twisting and pulling at the metal around his fingers as he chatted amongst his friends, completely unfazed by your fidgeting — he’s used to (and loves) it.

— boyfriend jj who… carves the both of your initials into the trunks of numerous tree’s across the island, whether it’s one on the side of a busy street or in the depths of a secluded wood — he likes knowing that you’re etched permanently everywhere.

— NOTES: this was highly requested and im ngl, it’s definitely one of my favorite kinks! however, i know it’s still a taboo so please if you don’t like it, DON’T READ IT. i might get criticized a lot for writing this, but remember this is fanfiction. it’s a fetish, a fantasy. none of this is real. it’s just a story — and i hope you enjoy it as much as i did! ♡ but if i get cancelled im gonna deactivate and you’ll never see me again! mwah!

“you are so pretty” matt said as he plopped down next to you, snuggling closer. “you’re glowing, seriously. you look amazing” he complimented you as he caressed your face with his thumb, the coarse skin of his fingertips rubbing against your soft cheeks.

matt always dreamed of being a father. when he first heard the news, he fell down to his knees. he immediately wrapped his arms around your hips, nuzzling his face on your tummy before kissing it over and over again, whispering a bunch of thank yous. although matt was filled with joy, he couldn’t help himself. he had his hands all over you — he would even lift your belly so your back would stop hurting. matt was simply mesmerized by the sight of you carrying his babies.

his hands travelled down your body, stopping by your round, prominent tummy. matt was gentler now that the girls had started kicking, as if they could actually feel his touch. the only thing he wouldn’t go easy on were your tits — he never did. right now, matt found himself squeezed between your spreaded legs, trying hard to hold his weight up so he wouldn’t hurt you, both knees against the soft cushioned sofa. his left palm had quickly moved to your chest while he kissed your neck, nibbling your sensitive skin between his teeth. 

“matt… don’t squeeze them too hard” you sighed when matt increased the pressure of the massage. he hesitated for a second, removing his hand and pulling away from your skin. matt’s baby blue orbs flickered between your lips and your breasts, “did it work?!”

you chuckled at his eagerness, adjusting your back on the couch and allowing him to lay by your side. “better than i had expected” you said, taking the strap of your nightgown in between your fingers, teasing him. “turns out i don’t really have to pump that much because it started flowing pretty easily, so i guess it’s gonna come out with some suction”

matt’s usually determined, dominant gaze altered to a soft, mesmerized one. he couldn’t really find the words, choosing instead to smash his lips against yours in a deep, wet kiss. a moan escaped from the back of your throat as you felt matt’s boner poking against your thigh, him biting your lower lip before opening a satisfied grin. “i really fucked a baby inside you didn’t i?” he spoke, more to himself than to you. he was so proud of his own accomplishment, and he needed to hear it from you. “i love you so much, my beautiful, beautiful wife”

“all yours” you whispered, sealing your lips together on a quick pack. matt’s touches were soft again, his index motioning in circles against your hardened nipple through the fabric of your dress. “turned you into a real mama hm?” he said, trying to keep a tough-guy persona, but you knew this wouldn’t last long.

matt continued speaking to himself, admiring your figure. “making milk and everything” he mumbled under his breath, fully squeezing your tit. 

“my mama” there it was. you smiled at him, ruffling his hair. “yeah? my good boy made me a true mama?” you continued to feel his hard-on pressing against you, his hips slightly moving. 

“i need it” matt’s parted lips begged as he felt his cock twitching inside his pants, puppy, pleading eyes making it harder for you to say no. “please, i need it so bad. please i’ve been a good boy” he continued. “i wanna taste you so bad, mama”

you unconsciously bit the flesh of your cheeks, trying to look unbothered. deep down, you wanted this just as much “go slow, prince”. as soon as you gave matt permission, he pulled your dress down, revealing your full, swollen breasts. they hurt often, even before you were pregnant, and matt always helped you to get rid of the soreness. he dragged his tongue on your boob, circling your nub with the wet muscle before latching his lips around your nipple. 

matt closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before sucking — just like he always did. after a few seconds, small droplets of milk landed against his tongue, the surprisingly mild taste taking over his mouth, brain and body. matt pulled away for a second, letting your tit hang loose “you…” he babbled, swallowing the liquid. once again, matt wasn’t able to form a proper sentence, getting distracted by the tiny strand of milk dripping from your nipples.

“fuck you’re leaking so much” matt mumbled, quickly latching on your chest. he wans’t gonna waste a drop. “nhng— ‘m gon’ have to take care of this while” matt spoke as he tried to swallow the sudden spurts of milk coming. “while our babies don’t come huh?” 

“gonna have to keep your mouth in my boobs all day aren’t you?” you cooed, causing matt to nod desperately. his grip and suction got faster, followed by the sudden rutting of his crotch against your bare thigh. matt was far gone now, mindlessly humping, trying to reach his high. you could be mean and make him stop — but the poor boy was enjoying it so much. it really felt like his first time all over again, the desperation, the neediness, the loud, wet noises filling the room. 

“seems like you’re the one behaving like a baby now” you said, gently pulling his hair so he’d look at you. “having my milkies and cumming inside your pants? little virgin boys do that” matt groaned at the humiliation, the sweet, warm tone of your voice making it even harder for him to hold back. “mama— please” he managed to speak. “not… not a baby!”

“oh? aren’t you?” you continued the teasing, “then i guess you don’t need this am i right?” you grabbed your own tit, pulling it away from matt.

“no! i do! i need it so bad mama, please let me cum… wan’ be your good boy” matt pouted, begging to keep sucking. “that’s what i thought” you said, letting go of his hair. “be a good boy and cum in your pants for me”.

matt suckled harder than he ever did, trying to get out everything he could. actually, he was probably trying to milk you dry, just so that your tits would need his mouth again. his body tensed before he bucked his hips forward, a sudden warm taking over his boxer as the thick, sticky spurt came out of his slit, filling his underwear with cum.

matt stopped and sighed deeply, letting his body fall flat next to you. “you ruined my dress” you teased, looking at the milk stains on the fabric. “i’ll do the laundry anyways” he chuckled, still coming back from his high. “buy more. i’m gonna ruin all of them”. 

matt masterlist | complete masterlist

Greasy hair hung down in long tresses, wary eyes pierced into your skull, an apron sat snug around his midriff stained with dark blood. Up close, you could listen to the way he breathed heavy through the mask that obscured his lower jaw, only the bridge of his nose and his forehead visible through it. He stunk of sweat, rot, and fresh meat. His weighty hand tightened round the handle of the hammer he'd set down, veins popping out with the sheer size and strength of his enormous, hulking body.

“Tommy!” The woman's voice cracked out in the night, the name finally ringing clear enough for you to hear. His head whipped around to the source and he stared in her direction; you watched her turn a blind eye to your predicament in the grass and step back inside the house. It felt as though your heart might burst in that moment, the fear and tension running through you like a taut wire about to snap in two.

The giant grunted overhead. You looked back at him again and squeezed your fists against the dirt, expecting him to lift that hammer and crush your skull into the ground with it. But upon resting his palm on the blunt end of it, the monster instead used it to lower himself to one knee. With a hand outstretched, he slowly, carefully brushed your damp hair aside, and pressed his fingertips firmly into your cheek. You shuddered as they moved downwards, probing around the soft spot beneath your ear and the curve of your jaw. He tilted your chin back and slid his whole, grubby hand down your neck…and with the most tentative squeeze around your throat, you swallowed and he all but jumped back. Your skin ran cool again as his warm hand ripped away from you, but with just as much hesitation he grazed your lips with his knuckles and trailed them across your forehead, leaving smudges of wet blood behind.

“Tommy!” A harsher voice tore through the quiet night, yanking his attention away from you again. The sheriff–the fake sheriff, that is–came stomping up from around the back of the barn, the shotgun hanging at his side causing you enough panic to scramble to your knees. But you wouldn't get far. Not even a couple feet. Your body hit the earth within moments of you climbing to your feet, and you heaved out a pained moan at the mountain of weight that pinned you down and crushed you underneath him. The giant had thrown himself forward and taken you down without thinking twice; his beefy arm came around your neck and tightened, his muscles flexing under the coarse fabric of his shirt for him to hold you in place.

“Attaboy, Tommy.” The older man came around his side as you struggled, clawing at the bicep that was crushing your windpipe with barely any effort. The sheriff kicked your flailing leg with a holler, cackling at the way you squirmed under his nephew's brute strength. “Stupid bitch. Gonna learn your lesson now, aint'cha?”

Dying squeaks for mercy escaped your throat, your words barely tinged with any discernible syllables. Thomas’ grip only grew tighter. Your arms went slack, then your legs slowed to a trembling halt…and before long your head slumped forward as you passed into unconsciousness, hoping to god this would be the last time you woke up in this sweltering Texas hell.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The chatter of voices melted into the gentle clatter of silverware. It wasn't the sounds that stirred you from your sleep rife with nightmares, though–it was the sliver of a sunbeam cast through the window that shone gently on your face. You blinked blearily as your head lolled in a stuttered circle, slowly and quietly coming to. Clink. Clack. Eyelids cracked half-open, you raised your head up despite the weight of a pounding headache, and watched a pair of wrinkled hands set down a teacup on a saucer in front of you.

Although there was much to see, you instantly turned your gaze to the woman you'd seen on the porch. Your nerves jittered and you flinched as she reached out to touch you, but it passed with her gentle shushing as she tenderly caressed your cheek. The age showed in creases all across her face, her eyes soft but wet with something terribly uneasy behind them.

“Such a pretty girl,” She crooned, a smile like nothing had happened plastered across her face. The eagerness with which she watched you unsettled you to your very core, but it would be second to the nightmare that was waiting to explode on you across the table. “I always wanted a little girl. Never seen one so pretty.” Despite the sweetness of her words, a shift of your hand rattled the chair you'd been tied to; both wrists buckled under the tough ropes used to bind you, indented where you could see dry blood crusted over the fibers. Either you moved a lot in your sleep, or someone really wanted to punish you for trying to get away.

As tenderly as if she was your own mother, the lady brought your teacup up and tilted it for you to drink, which gave you a moment to let your eyes wander. With a glance around you took a mental sweep of the place. Your chair sat at the end of a dining table, and aside from the woman you spotted two other older men; the frightening man with the shotgun, and an elderly man in a wheelchair. Framed photos hung around the room against peeling wallpaper, and aside from a decent amount of clutter and antique decorations of a house long lived in, nothing struck you as out of the ordinary from the cutlery to the frayed rug that cushioned your bare feet.

The aging woman tottered around the table to pick up a plate and slid a few eggs on from a saucepan in the middle. That and a few strips of bacon made their way down to your placemat, still sizzling.

“Why're you givin’ this bitch special treatment, mama?” The fake sheriff glared you down from his seat at the head of the table, spitting off to the side with his hands still clasped in front of him. “Already got enough mouths to feed.”

“Hush.” She finally snapped, and gestured with the spatula still in hand. “This is your fault. You wanna play sheriff so bad, Charlie.”

“It's Hoyt, mama, for god's sake!”

“Don't you cuss at me!” The old woman warned, aiming the spatula right at his chest.

“U-Um,” You whimpered softly, and drew the attention of all three of the frightening strangers, who turned their heads in your direction. The focus on you made you falter, but the problem at hand was far more pressing than fear. “Th-The rope…please..” You managed to squeak out, and only then did they seem to notice your hands were changing colours. They were so tight the blood wasn't circulating, and you feared even a few moments more of the ache would result in something very unpleasant in the near future, especially when you knew there was a chainsaw floating around here somewhere.

Just then, the floorboards creaked at your back. Too afraid to turn your head you only shifted your gaze, and in your peripheral you saw it. Two thick, fat-fingered hands reaching downwards to tug at the binds round your wrist. For someone so huge, he made short work of untying you even without the aid of one of the knives scattered round the table settings. The rope loosened and dropped to the floor in a coil like a dead snake, but as he reached over you to undo the other–and you got a whiff of soap amidst his sweat in the process–the man naming himself Hoyt grumbled and slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and silverware.

“Goddammit, boy–what'd I say? We ain't keepin’ her, for Christ sakes!”

“Watch your mouth!” The woman–mama–shrieked, and her fist shook as she dumped the spatula down on the table with a thunk. The other cuff came loose and you released a sigh of relief as you touched your wrists, wincing at the open cuts that had only half dried over. And while the two continued to bicker about one thing or another, a great shifting of clothes and a thump beside you caught your gaze. Thomas, the giant that you'd watched haul the others off to the slaughter, had knelt down by your chair like a dog and still came up to eye level. God, he was just massive. Somehow it made him less intimidating though, since he looked at you like he was waiting for scraps from your plate. It was somewhat pathetic, but…endearing? Was that a word you could even consider using for a maniac like him, or was it beyond all common logic to even think of him in such pleasant terms?

“A-Are you…hungry?” You whispered, only to be met with a slow shake of his head. Thomas raised a melon-sized arm and pushed the plate closer to you, as if to say ‘eat up, it's getting cold’. Emboldened by his tender gesture, you shakily plucked your fork off the placemat and leaned in to examine the bacon. It looked like…bacon. Hot, crunchy, cut in strips like you would see any day in the supermarket. Still, you tentatively went for the eggs first, and raised the tiniest bit to your mouth as the two older ones finally managed to settle down whatever argument they'd been having.

“Boys, time to say grace.” Suddenly flushed hot with embarrassment, you lowered your fork in an instant and followed their lead. You bowed your head with them, listened to mama say her standard prayers of thanks–and then, when everyone else began to eat, you cautiously lifted the bite to your lips and chewed thoughtfully. It felt like forever for you to discern whether or not it was normal, if it tasted like it should, but after a while of chewing you had to relent to the fact that it didn't taste abnormal, so it was about as fine as you could expect. You ate in silence alongside them, but just when you pondered whether the food might be drugged or other awful possibilities, the sheriff cleared his throat and drew your attention to him once again.

“Now,” Mama scowled at him, but he continued to speak nonetheless. “You got two options here, kid: eat, or be eaten. Them's the laws of life.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, readying himself to say more, but an interruption came with a grunt from your side. Hoyt raised a hand and waved the wordless concern off. “Don't you mouth off, boy. Gettin’ to it.”

You shifted your gaze to Thomas, who only nudged your plate closer to you to urge you into eating more. Something gnawed at the back of your mind. Their behavior was so strange, the looks exchanged even stranger–there was something that wasn't being said, like a plan was brewing right under your nose.

“See here, this is how it is. You got choices. Now, my nephew here happens to like you,” His honeyed southern drawl couldn't hope to mask the hopelessness that stirred in you at those words. “Ugly as sin, but he's a good enough boy, ain't that right?” He looked to Thomas, but the ‘boy’ in question stared right at you when he nodded. “So you choose. You wanna eat-”

“I'll eat,” The answer flew from your mouth without hesitation, so much so that even the most uninterested of folks around the table caught your gaze. Your breath hitched in your bruised throat. “I'll eat, I swear. I'll eat.”

“Mm-hm.” Hoyt eyed you and nodded. Something about the way he watched you made you feel overexposed, like your skin had been stripped raw from the bone and he was peering into every inch underneath. “Fine then. Whore's all yours, Tommy-boy.”

At those words, your world shifted with a violent blur of motion. Before you could even gasp there were huge, strong hands under your armpits, and you were lifted out of your seat like a child who weighed less than nothing. You'd be thanking yourself later that you at least polished off most of your plate, because aside from an accidental thump of your foot hitting the table on the way by, you wouldn't be touching the rest of your breakfast again. Thomas slung you over his shoulder and cradled your lower half in the crook of an enormous arm, and with a shriek you felt yourself being carried off by the giant and taken away into another world.

The basement.

It had been a month and a half since you'd been taken in, now. Life had gone on despite you vanishing from the world you knew, and regardless of whether or not you woke up each morning and wondered why you were still kept alive, the earth continued to turn. Time went on and you adjusted, albeit shakily, to the routine of a life in the backcountry of rural Texas. You learned to help on the farm and Luda Mae, or momma as you were taught to call her, passed on her generations-old knowledge of cookery and cleaning and caring for the household. Sometimes you'd get driven out with momma and one of the uncles to tend the store, but that was on the rare side since they didn't trust the locals not to mess with you. Pretty things like you didn't come by often and you had values to uphold, now.

Plus, you had a man at home. Tommy was the reason you survived that awful first night, but now it was expected that he was also the reason you kept on living.

The rest of the family kept out of your business together for the most part, but you'd long been perplexed by the dynamic that had ensued since you'd first arrived. For as hulking and strong of a beast he was, you came to find out that Tommy's appearance was a shell that sheltered a soft-natured, sensitive boy at heart. His penchant for murder was not so, rather it was a duty carried out regardless of will in the service of a family he was lucky to have, despite you certainly thinking otherwise. He liked to work, and eat, and make things. His rage could certainly be a problem, but it was a rare thing that only cropped up once in a great while. He would endure more than ten times a normal person before he finally snapped, and even then he wouldn't ever let you see it. The few times he got mad, he would stomp out to the barn or head to the now-abandoned slaughterhouse, and take out his aggression on the thing he knew best. Meat. And most of the time it was a beating from Hoyt or a few too many bouts of yelling before he felt the need to get away.

After all, it wasn't anger that led his interactions with you. It was odd; he'd pointed you out specifically as the one he wanted to keep, but he seldom showed any entitlement in taking whatever it was he wanted from you. He'd lean in for kisses but most of the time he missed anyways. You weren't exactly sure what you could call your one occasion of intimacy with him that you recalled, because he didn't ask if you wanted it, but you didn't really tell him outright that you didn't. Would it have even mattered? Maybe not. But he barely managed to find the hole he was looking for anyways, and by the time he did it was obvious he had no clue what he was doing. Fumbling hands and a bit of awkward thigh-humping later and he'd finally left you be, albeit soaked and sticky with sweat and the residue he'd clumsily left behind on your bare stomach. Since then, it'd been just a few fingers on your thighs and some tame through-the-mask kisses, nothing more.

Not that you should really be questioning the love of a serial chainsaw butcher, but as the days passed it grew harder to see him in that light alone. You witnessed too much of the deformed, mentally-disturbed man who refused to eat before you did, who wouldn't lay a hand on you like he'd had laid on him all his life. Thomas showed affection in odd ways but they were more endearing than you thought they would be, from picking you flowers off the side of the road to cleaning up the small room you shared so you'd feel more at home. Sometimes his arousal would grow against your back while you laid in his arms, but a bit of shuddered hip-rocking through your pajamas while he thought you were asleep and the moment would pass. He was pretty easy to please.

There came a time when new visitors drove through town, however, and you knew what was going to happen as soon as Hoyt came home and called for Tommy to come upstairs. You stood at the sink washing dishes while you peered through the window; out in front of the same cornfield you'd crawled out of nearly two months ago, a van sat parked next to Hoyt's stolen Dodge. You watched with your breath held tight in your throat as five people hopped out the sliding door one by one, all seemingly chipper for where they were. Three girls, two guys. Their sunbleached hair and fancy beach clothes said all you needed to know about what type of people they were. One of the girls had a pendant hanging round her neck that caught the light just right, and you found yourself staring at it as it jostled against her sweat-soaked collarbone.

Chnk, thuuunk. At the sound of the basement door sliding open you turned your head, and there stood Tommy in the kitchen. Quiet as ever he came walking up and placed his thick hand on your head. The look in his burning eyes said it all. “Everything's okay. Don't fret.” He touched your hair a moment until Hoyt's voice rang out again, and with a silent huff he stepped away and made his way out to the lawn.

The light in each and every one of their eyes left the moment they spotted him approaching. One of the girls even grabbed her friend’s arm, stepping behind him halfway out of fear of the hulking giant that couldn't sleep without cuddling you at night. A dish slipped from your hand into the sink and splashed you, but as you pulled a rag from your apron pocket to dry the counter a bang and a high-pitched scream cut through the peaceful din of your quiet afternoon. You hopped up to see what was happening, but struggled to piece together the aftermath of the last five seconds.

On the ground lay one of the girls with a cavernous opening in the back of her head, collapsed in a steadily-growing pool of her own blood. Her lifeless eyes stared through you from across the lawn, they pierced into your very soul as she choked listlessly on her own blood, and you dropped to your knees behind the counter. Hands clamped over your mouth, you heaved each breath and hoped not to puke all over the freshly-mopped floor. Momma would have a fit if you ruined your own hard work.

Blind to whatever senselessness resided in their screams, you held back the churning of your stomach on your own bruised knees while the two of them took care of the rest. Within a few minutes you'd managed to pull yourself back up on shaky feet and finish washing the dishes. Within the hour, Tommy and Uncle Hoyt had gathered up the remaining survivors and taken them in. Two in the barn, one in the guest bedroom…and one locked up in the basement.

“Momma?” You called out softly into the hallway, wiping your fingers on your apron. Your chores for the day were finished, and the sun was starting to set on the horizon. Now would usually be the time you headed out to the chicken coop to lock it up, but with new visitors around, you didn't know the protocol. The last time this happened was…well, you didn't like to think about it.

“Down here, darlin’.” Luda Mae popped her head out from the living room, and you hurried down the hall with your skirt fluttering around your legs. All your dresses were pretty modest and most of them were out of a trunk stored up in the attic, since momma had a whole collection of clothes she'd worn in her younger days that she figured would suit a young lady just fine. When you stepped in, you weren't expecting to see what you saw lying on the couch near uncle Monty's favourite spot.

It was one of the guys from the hippie van. His long hair had been soaked with blood and he was gagged, his face sporting bruises from an undoubtedly rough encounter with uncle Hoyt, who stood on the opposite side of the living room glaring at him.

“Fucker tried to escape.” He sniffed, nursing a bloody nose with a hanky as he spoke with momma. “Other one's putzin’ around somewhere. You two keep an eye out, you hear me?” He pointed in your direction and you nodded out of instinct. Your eyes flicked towards the bound man on the couch as he made muffled noises of panic, but he was soon silenced by Hoyt whacking him over the head with the butt of his shotgun before he left to continue the search. Meanwhile, uncle Monty sat in his wheelchair unbothered, listening to the radio as it played on the windowsill and reading without a care in the world.

“Momma-” You tried again, but she turned to you with gentle eyes and gripped your shoulders lightly.

“Go clean up the kitchen for me, sweetheart?” She asked in earnest, and the plea you had to beg her not to make you take part died on your lips.

“Yes, momma.”

“That's my good girl.” Your hands fell at your sides, while she petted your hair lovingly and turned you away from the scene, patting you on the back as she ushered you back towards the kitchen. Blowing your hair out of your eyes, you resigned yourself to at least being a bystander to the horrors that were about to come, and made your way down the hall with your arms crossed over your chest in contemplation. Was there nothing you could do? No way to get out of playing a part, or at least ensuring they wouldn't ask? You had no doubts that you didn't have the stomach to do anything to the visitors, but then again, momma didn't have to do much either. Maybe you'd be saved by the tradition that dictated the six generations-deep household, and be regulated to the homely chores you'd tended to since first becoming a part of the family.

As you pushed through the door that led into the kitchen, the sounds of pots and pans clattering already grabbed your attention. It would be too late to do anything, however–because before you could even take a breath, someone's chest hit your back and there was a knife pinned to your throat.

“Don't you fucking move!” An unfamiliar voice whispered harshly in your ear. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on the hand he had at your neck, but he jolted and the blade sunk deeper into your skin, causing you to cry out–and immediately be hushed by the stranger now holding you hostage. The bruising grip he had on your wrist now moved to clamp over your mouth, his body moving with you as you struggled in a momentary panic. Despite his warning, you brought your elbow backwards and loosened his grip on the knife as he choked in pain, throwing his arms off you as you stumbled forward and tripped over one of the dining chairs. Your skirt ripped as he tried to grab ahold of you again, but in his scramble to pick his weapon back up you kicked it away; and that was when fear truly started to pulse through your limbs like a heartbeat, when he glared daggers into you with a murderous rage, and you cried out the one name through tears that came to mind.

“Tommy!” You sobbed, crawling away and trying to use the table to hoist yourself up, only to be kicked down again with a harsh shoe planted in the middle of your spine. Coughs ripped through your lungs as they seized in desperation, the wind having been knocked clean from your chest, and the sticky wetness of blood started pooling under your chin from hitting the floor face-first. Your nose wept with scarlet-red blood into your trembling palm, but that realization couldn't come close to the terror you felt at being grabbed by your hair and painfully lifted up off the ground.

“You fucking bitch!” He screamed, voice hoarse and frighteningly loud so close to your face. “I'll kill you–I'll kill all you psycho motherfuckers!” He brought the knife so close to your heart you felt it cutting through the air–but before he could bring it anywhere near your skin, a muffled thump from close by yanked him right to attention. He turned his head frantically towards the source, and you took the opportunity afforded to you. You brought your foot up hard into his groin, and released his grip on you for the second time for you to drop to the floor in a heap. Your dress smeared the blood you'd left on the pristine, freshly-mopped floorboards as you shuffled away from him, fearing the worst of retaliation from the panicked, indignant captive.

That is, until the thumping grew so loud you heard it clearly coming up the stairs, and without so much as a hint of ceremony your savior burst through the kitchen door; his eyes wild, his fists clenched with indomitable rage. His gaze swept over the scene to you, so small compared to him, huddled in the corner between the cabinets with a blood and tear-stained face. What could only be described as a growl erupted from his broad chest, and he grabbed the legs of your hunched-over assailant and dragged him closer between his feet.

“No!” He cried, but it was far past too late. Tommy grabbed him by the back of his head, yanked him upwards to the height of his shins, and slammed the guy's head so hard into the floor that you could hear the sickening crack of his skull. Dazed but still semi-conscious, he fumbled for the knife he dropped or for anything that could save him, but it wouldn't be enough even so. With his nose ten times as smashed up as he'd done to you and his eye sockets bruised, Tommy's grip trembled on his head like he was considering whether or not to end him right here, right now. Evidently he figured that would be too easy, and before your very eyes he hauled the man up and carried him screaming down into the basement, where you heard the thwacks of him being cuffed down to the workbench before footsteps came echoing back upstairs. He found you in the same spot, still shaking like a leaf, and pushed the table aside to waste as little time as possible getting to you.

“Tommy..” You winced, touching your own face for your fingers to come back bloody. He knelt down like a mountain sinking into the sea and felt around your neck, his concerns for the shallow slash you'd gotten in the struggle that you hadn't even noticed was bleeding. He grunted in reply; one hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, while two meaty fingers lightly pinched the sore bridge of your nose. Knowing what he was about to do wouldn't make it hurt any less, but you still gave him the go-ahead to do it anyways–he forced the bone back with a gut-churning twist, and you squealed out in pain, but it was momentary and the ache that followed was a dull one, thank god.

But still, you sat with a face full of blood and bruises and cried, half out of pain and half out of pure misery. This wasn't the life you wanted to lead, and you hated that you had no choice in the matter. You wanted to go but you knew it would mean the end, and you hated that whenever you thought of all the things you despised about this life, your mind would always wander to Tommy and you'd feel guilt over hurting him or leaving him behind. You hated it all, but somehow you couldn't really hate him, and it left you trapped in this cycle that you loathed to think would never, ever end.

While the tears continued to streak down your face, Tommy took to patting your cheeks gently. He held them and squeezed them carefully, so tender and cautious when it was you that was the meat between his destructive hands. He moved in close, his breathing hot and stifled beneath the mask he never took off in front of you. His head tilted, tongue wetting his lips in anticipation, and he-

“Boy!” Uncle Hoyt roared as he burst through the kitchen door, alerting you both and tearing Tommy's reverent gaze away from you. He stood fast and took you with him, your elbows cupped in his rough hands as he hauled you singlehandedly to your feet. “You find that fucker yet?!” He swung his shotgun around and you flinched at the way he aimed it so carelessly. The ‘boy’ in question tucked you under his arm out of habit and shielded you almost entirely with the sheer enormity of his titan-esque frame. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the direction of the basement door with your trembling self still pinned tightly to his chest. The pseudo-sherriff narrowed his eyes at the both of you, namely the blood caking your otherwise pretty face, and scoffed. “Hose her down, Jesus almighty..” He muttered that last blasphemy under his breath as he moved past out the back door, leaving the two of you wide-eyed and uncertain; his arm squeezing you tight against him, and your calloused fingers digging into his dirty sleeve as the crickets chirped outside the screen door.

“You..” You swallowed dryly. The words came to you when no others did the same justice. “You're a good boy, Tommy. You did a good job.”

Your praise hit his ears just right, as it always did. Tommy nuzzled his face into yours just so gently, barely grazing your skin with the damp leather as he tended to your wounds. With your broken nose already re-set, he rummaged through the drawers around you without taking his hand off your arm, sparing little time before his hand clasped around a roll of familiar gauze and he nudged the drawer closed. Though it was shallow enough to have stopped bleeding already, he wrapped some around your neck for the cut that would surely leave a scar, and used a clean rag to mop up your face with a bit of water from the tap. As he moved down your body to your waist, clearly concerned by the generous bloodstain marring your pretty, cotton dress, something caught his eye that froze him in place and sent a throbbing anger right into his dense fists. Worried, you set your hand on his shoulder, but it would do no good at comforting him after what he saw.

Your skirt. Torn like it had been yanked apart, desperately, and it had. Was he worried you'd be upset over the damage? You wondered for a passing moment, but as his fists shook with rage and your dresses’ hem balled within them you knew it to be a different reason entirely. He thought–

Oh. So that's what he thought. You sought to comfort his fears but he'd had enough. Your delicate hands tugging at his mammoth arms made barely a dent in his intense march towards the basement, your begging too saccharine to even reach his ears. He walked with purpose into the hallway, wrenched open the sliding door with a force that bent it slightly, and with a palm outstretched to ward you off from following, he slammed it shut with an enormous bang that rattled the whole house. Standing there in shock and horror, you listened to his footsteps pounding the stairs before turning away and heading back towards the kitchen.

You had quite the mess to clean up in there, and there was nothing better to distract yourself from the howling screams of agony that would persist until dinnertime.

Maybe this was exactly how awkward it was when you'd been sat in that familiar chair. You remembered little of your first meal, the very first breakfast of many you would share with the family that had adopted you in to their home.

This was a lot less…friendly, though. Out of the five people who had arrived, two of them were dead. The one that had attacked you in the kitchen had grown silent in the basement. The other two–the hippy with the long hair and a redheaded girl–had their wrists bound to two chairs diagonal from each other. The guy sat at the very end where you'd once been, and the girl to his right with tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing softly as you filled everyone's bowls. Luckily for you, Monday was chicken soup night, so you had no worries over what kind of meat Hoyt would want to prepare for the special occasion. You'd been the only one to stir the pot, and the only one who made it at all for every Monday that rolled around. It had quickly become Tommy’s favourite, hence why he was only a few minutes late to arrive outside the dining room for dinner. Though you could tell that he'd barely cleaned up, his apron and his pants still soaked liberally with clotted blood.

“Hands?” You questioned, your ladle poised over the pot of hot soup, and waited until the hulking giant tentatively stepped in the doorway to hold out his massive hands for inspection. When it was your turn to cook, you learned that you held the authority over the table for that evening. So you rarely followed the lead of uncle Hoyt or the others, and wouldn't wait until after grace to invite Tommy into the room. You checked over his knuckles–bruised, but scrubbed clean–and only then did you nod towards the seat you saved for him and waited until he settled uncertainly into the chair to pour him a bowl and set it down in front of him.

If not for the whimpering captives at the table, it would be a better-than-average night. You'd improved on your recipe with a bit of creative seasoning, and the night had cooled off considerably to offer a bit of respite from the oppressive heat. You led grace, and smoothing out your fresh dress to fan out under your thighs as you sat, the table commenced with clinking spoons and bread being buttered that you thanked the stars hadn't gotten stale yet. Though of course, the unexpected visitors weren't so keen on your homemade cooking and didn't so much as look down at their bowls.

Tommy was too distracted to be frustrated by it, though. With his head dipped down to the table like a mutt, he slurped up his soup through the mask and chewed noisily on bits of chicken and corn. You'd saved the biggest roll for him and he tore into it like it was nothing, ripping chunks of bread off with his teeth and enthusiastically gulping down broth to wash it down. You hadn't even had time to butter his bread for him first like you usually did, but it pleased you to see him enjoying your cooking even more than usual.

“Please,” A wobbly voice pricked at the tense silence. The redheaded girl pulled at her restraints again, shaking the table in the process. “We didn't do anything…please, please, let us go!” She sobbed, wailing even louder as she thrashed against the stiff arms of the old chair.

“C'mon, man! We won't tell anyone, swear!” The hippie chimed in, only for Hoyt to slam his fist down on the table to silence the whining of his two captives.

“Shut the hell up!” He snarled, whipping out a revolver from his holster to point at each one of them. “Had enough of your shit today. Shut your mouths.” He motioned towards his still-bloodied nose, and endured yet another scolding from momma for cussing at the table as he tucked the gun back into its place. You peered over at the two of them, but regret came immediately when the hippie's green eyes locked on yours like he saw a glimmer of hope within them. You forced your gaze back down to your bowl. You couldn't be their saviour, no matter how much they wanted you to be.

“Lovely soup, sweetheart.” Momma smiled over at you, while uncle Monty nodded quietly in agreement.

“Mm-hm. Momma taught you all her secrets, eh?” Hoyt added with a slurp off his spoon, the irritation from earlier having vanished. You thanked them politely, keeping your pride to yourself at the coveted praise directed your way. In a household where anything could go wrong at any time, you had to hold the good things as tight to your chest as you possibly could.

From beside you, Tommy lifted his head from an empty bowl and sighed softly with satisfaction. The remnants of spilled soup dribbled down his mask and his grimy neck, so with your own cloth napkin you reached over and did the job that was normally momma's; you wiped his face clean with a gentle hand, and he sat still for one of the only people he didn't flinch away from when you touched him.

“Good, Tommy?” He wasn't used to being asked his opinion, much less on something as scarce as food, when you didn't have much choice on what you ate. He nodded slowly, looking at you like you held the world as you finished wiping up the mess he'd left on the table.

Just then, one of the captives–maybe both of them–kicked their legs out in frustration, and shifted the table with a jolt that sent hot soup splashing out of the pot. The redhead's bowl tipped over and dumped her untouched meal all over her lap, but the porcelain shattering as it hit the floor wasn't what had Tommy rising out of his seat.

Wasteful. That's what they were. Insulting your cooking. You saw it in Tommy's eyes as anger overwhelmed him again, and for the second time tonight your reassurances weren't enough to halt him in his tracks. His chair legs scraped the floor loudly as he got up and maneuvered around the table, the tense quiet peppered by the screams of the girl as he grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down into the slick tabletop. Not nearly as hard as he'd done to the other guy, but enough so that he brought her back up with a nose gushing blood and a harsher sob on her lips.

“You teach her a lesson, Tommy!” Hoyt eagerly encouraged the violence, but you reached your hand out over the table and pressed your palm flat against her forehead. At the resistance you gave her, Tommy's grip grew slack and a look of panic came over him at the distress etched clear on your face. He looked conflicted, peering over at Hoyt and then back at you. Was he being bad, or being good? Was what he was doing right, or was it wrong? Hoyt started shouting and cussing at you for stopping him, but Tommy skirted back around the table to your side and put himself between you and his furious uncle. A swat to the back of the head wasn't totally uncommon for you, even if it didn't happen often, but the punishments Tommy received were always far worse. The belt or a two-by-four were considered light work in Hoyt's sadistic mind, but after what you'd been through today you were certain Tommy wouldn't be keen on letting you endure any more pain. He would take punishments and beatings for you whenever he had the chance–sometimes Hoyt had even asked him what he preferred, and not once had he put you up for the chopping block if he could take it for you.

“Enough of this shit!” Hoyt finally roared. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the basement and shoved both you and Tommy towards it. “Take these sons a’ bitches downstairs, and don't come up until they're meat!”

Both of the captives shrieked and flailed in their chairs at his demand, but you managed to undo their binds despite the struggling and let Tommy haul each one up in his arms; one over his shoulder, and one tucked up under his armpit. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat as you followed Tommy's lead towards the stairs, and when it came time to shut the door, you had to swallow your fear with a gulp as the metal scraped on metal and a heavy thunk pitched you into darkness.

The only times you'd watched Tommy work before was when he'd taken you to the slaughterhouse. It was an aging, now-abandoned building that had seen generations of hard workers come and go, and despite it no longer being in business he still came by to do some work when he wasn't needed for chores at the house. You weren't sure why he didn't usually take you along or why he decided to on those few occasions, but regardless of the stench, the blood, and the intensity of chopping and cleaning meat, it was easy to tell that Tommy was good at it. Real good.

It was a little different today. About a week had passed since the visitors came through town, and by now all five of them were taken care of. You'd barely eaten since you couldn't stomach the fresh meat, and with you excusing yourself to throw up that first dinner after you'd had guests, the rest of the family had been looking down on you. Momma was sad for you, and Monty was mostly indifferent when he wasn't straight up disappointed in you. But Hoyt was vindictive and angry. He thought you were turning your back on the family, judging them, acting “all high and mighty” and worst of all, risking your family's safety. You'd gotten caught leaving the locks loose on the two survivors' shackles, and they'd nearly escaped out the basement before Hoyt caught both of them in the cornfield and finally shot them dead.

You swore it was an accident. Hoyt thought otherwise. He would've killed you right then and there if Tommy hadn't stepped in for you, and even then the air had been strained in the house ever since, as uncle Hoyt demanded you be properly punished for your sins.

That's why you'd been dragged along with Tommy to accompany him to the slaughterhouse. By the end of the day, Hoyt wanted a proper apology–one in the form of a bloody limb, an organ, or maybe just your head on a platter as recompense for betraying your family. And worst of all, he wanted Tommy to be the one to do it, to decide what would be a fitting price for you to pay. To ‘grow some balls and be a man’, as Hoyt put it so delicately.

But since morning, he'd just been chopping meat. Tommy hadn't even looked at you the whole time you'd been here, not even on the walk down the side of the road to get here in the first place. He'd picked you up under your arms and sat you up on the table behind him, and then he'd turned his back to you as he brought down his cleaver on the piles and piles of dripping meat. Sometimes he would turn around and hand you chunks to wrap up in butcher's paper, but for the most part he indicated nothing towards the task he had primarily been sent here to do. Somehow it just made it all worse; you felt on the edge of snapping from the anxious terror that tightened up all your muscles, wondering what on earth Tommy would do to you before the day was done. Was he just procrastinating? Because if he arrived back home with nothing to show for it, it wouldn't save you in the end–it would just make it worse for both of you when he got punished too.

“Tommy.” You gnawed on your bottom lip. He brought the blade down on the chopping block with a thunk. With the bone separated, a squelch hit your ears as he slid the sections apart and dragged over another hunk to slice through. “I'm sorry.”

Thunk. Not even a passing glance over his shoulder. And it was hard to tell if he was mad when he wouldn't even look at you.

“I didn't want to get you in trouble…”

Thunk.

“I was just scared.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Tommy-”

The slow escalation of his measured cuts finally culminated into an uproarious clatter, his cleaver smacking down on the soaked table before he turned himself to face you. Blood marred the clothes you'd taken off the laundry line for him that morning, apron slick and sticky with viscera as it almost always was. Sweat poured down his arms and his hairy chest and beaded at his dense forehead. Every inch of him was dirty, and yet you didn't cringe away from it when he closed the distance between you and came up harrowingly close. The stench of blood and meat wafted off of him from barely an inch away. His hips edged in between your knees as you sat on the lip of the counter, keeping personal space far from his mind when he grabbed your arms and dwarfed them under his massive fingers. Each breath heaved beneath his mask like swallowing a bubble, ready to pop.

This time, Hoyt was nowhere around to interrupt him. Momma wasn't there to scold him. Nobody would hear for miles what he would do to you, and you had no idea what he'd had brewing in his mind since he'd choked you out in the cornfield that first meeting. That intense stare of his was like a bear honing in on a rabbit, and if you had the thought to run, it was already too late.

Thick fingers clamped down around your neck, dug into the scar that had formed from the asshole that had sliced you, and you felt your heart stutter as Tommy pulled you along the length of the table and slammed you down into it by the throat. This way you were laid out like a cow would to be butchered, plenty of room for him to work as he held you down and reached over to pull a leather strap over your midsection. He affixed the buckle tight to the opposite side and tightened it more when you squirmed against the pressure, but not quite enough to be as painful as the ropes that dug into your wrists at your first family meal. With that in place he didn't need to hold you down to keep you pinned against the table, and although you whimpered in fear and fought against the bindings he paid your resistance little mind, instead looking through his tools on the cutting table to find a decently-sized paring knife–drenched liberally in blood–for him to hook under the neckline of your dress and make a cut down the middle. Once he hit the tough leather over your stomach, the tool skittered across the table as he abandoned it in favour of ripping your skirt apart with his bare hands, the thin layer of cotton offering no resistance to his brute strength.

Why did it make you so wet? You couldn't shake the feeling of arousal from how animalistic he was behaving, nor the sheer, overwhelming musk of man and sweat and blood. Tommy was never rough with you but he was certainly making up for it now; you flinched at the firmness of his fingers digging into your skin, leaving trails of thin blood and dirt behind as he tore your cotton bra into loose pieces. His hands trembled at the sight of you exposed like this, too much skin to handle, and such soft flesh that filled out his palms when he cupped your breasts in each eager hand. A hitch of breath was enough to show him that you liked it, whether it was the attention itself or exclusively because it was him touching you. It didn't matter.

Tommy massaged each one with such eager reverence, his handwork clumsy compared to the ease with which he handled so many other forms of meat. He wasn't keen on ripping these off your body and eating them; although he did want to test how they would feel in his mouth, especially those plum, soft nubs of yours that perked when he brushed his thumbs over them. By now you weren't completely certain he wasn't going to butcher you, but you had a pretty good idea that this was his plan B–take out that inner aggression on you that would not make his god-fearing family proud.

A deep, weighty groan slipped out of him at the taste of sweat on your skin. Every bruise he left with his teeth would have to be covered up and powdered, but god, god it was so easy for him to undo every vestige of purity you'd put on for show. Your back arched and your worn shoes squeaked against the steel table as you wiggled, the globes of fat he held in his palms jiggling with a mesmerizing glow every time you moved. As much as you wanted to wrench yourself free in some moments, in most others you couldn't bear the breaks he took to catch his breath, leaving your chest prickling with goosebumps as a draft hit your spit-sticky skin. He squeezed and kneaded to his heart's content and took a twisted glee out of making you squirm, especially when you made those gurgly noises that were so traitorous to the pristine image you painted for momma. She'd made it clear that you weren't to go off messing with boys when they came strolling up to the store's counter, or return any of their flirtations no matter how many times they called you pretty.

Obviously she didn't think her son would be the one you had to keep from tempting, but that train had long left the station now. Thomas’ index finger tore through the thin fabric of your panties with a swipe, and there you laid bare and naked to his wandering eyes while he yanked the shreds of them down the rest of your legs. He probably didn't know what positions were which and how girls had their periods, but he knew enough to slide those thick fingers through your folds and to keep going when you moaned like a dying animal. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy”, it was a mantra that hit his ears just right and urged him into clambering on top of the table with you with wild eyes. They drank in every inch of your sweltering body, the pulse of your heart through the hole he was jamming his fingers into, and on instinct he was guided to push down his waistband and throw off his apron as he knelt back on his haunches.

You might've thought he was nothing but hair if he wasn't so thick. Clearly he'd never shaved in his life with the erroneous bush he sported, curly hair matting down his thighs and his belly too once his shirt started riding up. But that fat, drooling knob of his swayed to hit his thigh, and you got an eyeful of pure, veiny, gut-smashing terror that you were sure would kill you if you didn't manage to relax. The further he leaned over your body, the more you felt like he was going to crush you as soon as he lined himself up with the hole he'd be stretching out like a little homemade cock sleeve. His hands slid under your knees to prop them up, but rather than sling them over his shoulders he bent them back and pinned them to your chest. An aching burn raced up your thighs but he paid no mind to your trembling; Tommy knelt over you and settled between your legs, and without warning, started sinking slowly into that hot opening he'd been dying to get deeper inside.

“H-Hold–wait, T-Tommy, hold oh-!”

Were you really so convinced he would play nice with you? Maybe you'd become complacent with the gentleness he showed you at his best, because when Tommy finally pressed in past the tip, he was gone. Forcing your knees back even further, he let out a groan and pushed himself up higher over you; all just to settle himself into your deepest pits and trap you in a violating mating press. After doing nothing but enjoying your heat, smushing his hips down against yours in a grinding motion, he soon seemed to realize he could move–and move he did, drawing back just to crush your hips with a deep, stomach-punching stroke.

“Unh,” What most resembled a moan fell from his scarred lips, and he fumbled around the back of his head to unclasp the leather from his face. This was the first and only time he'd ever felt safe enough to take it off since you'd met, and it was when he'd finally listened to his body and acted on his need to force every inch of him inside you. To be one. Now you finally were, and his synthetic face dropped on your chest before slowly sliding off to hit the floor.

If your jaw hadn't already gone slack from his violent thrusting, it would probably fall from the realization of what hid under that mask day after day. The sallow, sunken nose, the scars, the jagged skin and self-inflicted wounds…why wasn't it as scary as you thought? You figured, in the moment, you'd just gotten too used to him in personality, or maybe because you were just too distracted at the moment, but…

“Tommy-!” You squeaked out. The wet smack of his balls on your ass stuck in your ears, the strings of creamy slick linking you flesh-to-flesh as he went to town on your pussy. If he truly was losing his virginity to you, then all that pent-up frustration must be the source of him absolutely ruining any semblance of tightness you might've had. “A-Are you tryin’ to–you wanna gimme a baby? S'that it?” You slurred, slowly losing your good sense the longer he showed you your place.

Though you thought it would be to your horror, his slow nod only sparked something dark and tremulous within your loins. Something more than sweat and slick and the vile squelching of his seldom-washed dick rubbing up to your womb. It hit you then; this was your punishment. Every clap and sticky smack of flesh on flesh was a promise, an urge fulfilled to tear your meat from the bone and thrust a new purpose unto you. A homemaker. Tommy's little bride. A momma. Make his momma a grandmama like she was always praying for.

Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. No doubt in your mind that was exactly what he was doing, and exactly why he brought you all the way out to the slaughterhouse to do it. The leather strap over your stomach kept you from wriggling away, but that would only be if you could somehow get him to pull out, and that for sure wasn't happening. He didn't bother with long strokes and leaving the tip in, your cunt was a home for him to bury himself in and he wasn't about to waste a second of this. His thick thighs trembled over yours, and he ground the swollen head of his cock deep against your cervix. So deep it was painful, but why would he care? He was doing a good thing. He was being a good boy, giving you what uncle Hoyt told him all women wanted, even if they didn't say it out loud.

Tommy's moans grew to a higher pitch once he affixed his hand like a necklace round your throat, swelling with the faster, faster, faster pace of his thrusts downward. He pressed his other meaty hand into your knees and shoved each one further apart, which made you whine but gave him easier access to pound you into greedy, delectable mush. Whereas it might've turned off weaker men, your nails digging deep, long scratches up his back made Tommy groan and tilt his head back in delirious pleasure. His knees kept you pinned at your sides and his weight–his stomach squishing into you from above–held you down where you belonged, where you'd be the most beautiful and of best use. Beneath him with a womb spilling over with cum, sown by his seed and his seed alone. His picturesque, pretty little wife. Hewitt property. He wouldn't stop, and you wouldn't beg him to even if you weren't being choked of any air you had left, and the world started to spin as the ecstasy took hold and Thomas was squeezing your moans out of you with trembling fervour. It felt as though your lower half exploded and left you with a warm, full, tingly sensation, marred by pearly-white globs of a load he'd had saved up since birth.

In contrast to the violent lovemaking he'd just shown you he was capable of, you were slowly brought back to life by small, soft little pecks. Kisses like the fuzz of a bumblebee brushing by your cheeks, pressing into your lips with a sweetness you weren't used to. This felt like Tommy again, like the gentle touch he used when nobody was around to laugh at him for being so sweet on you. He shuddered with bliss as his cock pulsed with your heartbeat and milked him of what little he had left, but with his chubby fingers rubbing at your jaw and brushing your sweaty locks aside he managed to drag himself off of you. Slowly, like molasses on a cold day, he brought himself back down off the table and let his feet hit the floor, having to brace himself against the table to keep from stumbling to the ground. Click-shuuunk. The leather belt snapped back into its holder as he released it, which left a sizeable indent across your abdomen that you'd have to hope would be covered enough not to show bruises. All you could do was watch as Tommy did up his pants on his way around the table, only to return to your side with the biggest, sharpest knife you swore you had ever seen. You flinched away and nearly cried out-

Shlip. With a strand pulled taut, Tommy made quick work of separating a lock of your hair from your head. Just a short one, so as not to make much difference–but he held it to his face and sniffed deeply, and it ashamed you to say that the gesture in itself just made your clit throb with need you thought you'd been completely overdosed on. Despite that, you laid still while Tommy reached over and retrieved his mask, tucking the tuft of hair inside it so he could smell it all the time. To calm him down, to cool him off, to just enjoy…all the things that you brought to him when no one else did, or could. From his pocket he produced something small and shiny, and dangled it over your face to show you before he set on fixing it around your neck. The pendant you'd seen that girl wearing a week ago now hung against your collar, the gleam of gold in it polished clean of the blood spilled to take it.

You barely let out a moan as he set on rearranging your limbs, turning you over, letting his cum spill down your thighs and all over the table like the blood from a fresh cut of beef. His calloused digits traced down your spine and up again til he found a sweet spot, and padded down your springy flesh that separated bone from his fingers. The carving knife had tinged when he'd sharpened it but he didn't show it to you–that would be too much for you, given what he was about to commit to.

Every arc, long and curved or short and straight, burned. The tip of the blade dug into your flesh like a red-hot needle, but Tommy's warm palm on the back of your neck kept you from moving out of his reach. He needed to start and to finish and his hand was already unsteady, mostly from the way his breath still hitched and his cock stirred all over again at the sight of your writhing body. Your blood turned him on. He hadn't touched any of the victims before you, not in that way, but you weren't really the same as them–no, you were special. If you weren't, Tommy wouldn't be carving those words into your back, and putting on display his ownership over the one and only thing he would ever see as more than meat.

If you didn't get pregnant this time, then this would surely be enough for the family to forgive. The letters scrawled in bloody ecstasy that would heal over, scar, wounds to be reopened over and over again.

Tommy's girl

It started when a police officer in the program spoke up about his struggle with weed addiction, going into detail about the tranquilizing effects and how it left him unable to focus on the job. Whereas his story would sound appalling to most, Spencer found appeal in its descriptions. Cannabis offered the same calming qualities as Dilaudid, but with a lower overdose risk, and on top of that, it was far easier to obtain.

So when the officer casually slipped his dealer’s address in the middle of immersively sharing his story, Spencer made a mental note and found himself on the location later that day. The transaction was easier than he’d expected; showing the cash in his pocket was enough for the gruff man to hand him a small, opaque bag, its contents concealed. 

That same night, Spencer found himself sitting on his couch, supplies spread out on the coffee table before him. He remembered a guy from his PhD mathematics program, rolling a blunt in Yale’s community garden under the same big tree where Spencer would read his literature for the day. It gave him some of an idea on how to proceed. Once he had the wrap filled, he methodically pinched and smoothed the paper as he rolled it with his fingers, careful to avoid tearing. 

He didn’t feel much with the first drag, but as he inhaled deeper, a tingling sensation spread to his head and chest, almost coaxing him into a dosed state. The world around him instantly softened, and he sank further into the couch, as if a fuzzy, warm blanket had draped over him.

That moment marked the first of many, as Spencer would often return to the plant when experiencing withdrawal or when he started developing headaches later in his life. He frequently recalled how the officer mentioned performing less at his job while under the influence, but for Spencer, it had the opposite effect. He tended to approach cases too objectively and analytically. When he would go home at the end of the day and smoke before bed, his mind would suddenly make creative, out-of-the-box connections — connections he had never considered before. 

Spencer wasn’t ready to give up weed just yet.

———

You were lying down, your head resting on the armrest of the pink velvet couch that stood in the corner of your therapist’s office. For the past fifteen minutes, you’d been staring at a small star painted on the ceiling, which was part of a mural of the universe. It was supposed to help people ground themselves — to remind them that their existence was nothing more than a tiny spark in the entire cosmos.

“I don’t know,” you eventually responded in a sigh as your therapist questioned you once again. “This is a really dark time for me, I’m going through a lot.”

“By ‘a lot’, you mean drugs?”

You were thrown off guard by the inquiry, brows furrowing. “Um, I wouldn’t-”

“Drugs?” She repeated, her pen ready in hand, as her notebook rested open on her lap.

Your head shot up from its position on the armrest of the couch. “No, it’s a-”

“No?” She probed, her eyes raised up, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

“It’s a natural plant,” you stated, sitting up straighter.

“No, I’m not judging.”

You rolled your eyes at her attempt to reassure you. “I’m not an addict.” 

“I’m just saying-”

“I don’t think-”

“You wanna talk about it?”

———

The door slamming behind you was as much of a response as you would offer her. With hurried steps you walked out of the building, hand reaching into your pocket as you searched for your car keys. With a small click of the door, you entered your beat-up old car, shivering as you still haven’t been able to fix the radiator. 

You didn’t need to pull up the GPS — not that you even owned one — to know where you were headed. You speed-dialed your dealer as you rounded a corner, and maybe that was enough to confirm that you did have a bit of a problem with drugs. At least you were seeing a therapist; not many can say the same.

The sun was disappearing behind the clouds as you pulled into the familiar motell parking lot. There was a chill in the air, making you pull your jacket tighter around you as you walked toward room number 13. 

Your attention was drawn to a tall, lanky man with messy curls, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands tucked in his pockets as he stood in front of the door. It was a rare sight to see someone ahead of you in line — usually people would arrive one by one to not bring any attention to the scene, but then again, you made an appointment at the very last minute.

You walked up to him, standing beside him in an attempt to make the scene look like a casual visit. You offered a polite smile, which he returned with a brief wave of his hand. Awkwardly, you turned your gaze to the door in front of you, waiting. You could feel his eyes scanning over you, making you reach up to fix your hair, just in case something was out of place. He seemed to notice your action and turned his head.

After a minute, you cleared your throat. “Did you knock?”

He looked at you, and you weren’t expecting the flutter in your stomach as you met his deep, brown eyes. 

“I did,” he answered. “It’s been four minutes and twenty eight seconds, which, based on my previous encounters, gives him approximately three more seconds to open the door.”

You fell silent as the door opened, just like the handsome stranger had predicted. You reached into your jacket pocket, pausing when you found it empty. Your heart began racing as you checked the other pocket, then anxiously patted down your jeans.

“Fuck.”

“Are you okay?” The brown-haired man asked in concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just- I forgot my wallet.” 

“I could pay for you.” 

The casualty of his offer took you by surprise. “Really?” 

It was embarrassing that you didn’t turn him down, but you didn’t have the energy to be polite — today had been rough, and all you wanted to do was go home and relax. You felt a little less guilty when the stranger’s lips curled into a smile, as if he was happy to do this for you.

“Well, I don’t give a shit who pays. Just give the damn money — it’s cold.” 

The stranger’s lips tightened in response as he handed the man twice the usual amount of bills. The dealer handed over two small bags in return, closing the door behind him with a loud slam. 

“Here you go.”

You breathed out a soft ‘thank you’ as you accepted the bag from him. “I’ll pay you back next time.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind,” he replied with a casual wave of his hand. 

You exchanged names, which led him to compliment yours and give you a brief history lesson on its origins. 

“I never expected to learn more about myself from a total stranger,” you chuckled. 

You didn’t notice he had walked you to your car until you stopped in front of it. “This is me. Where are you parked, or are you staying here?”

“I got here by subway, actually.”

You raised your brows, surprised. This wasn’t the safest neighborhood, especially at night, and Spencer didn’t strike you as the type to wander around here. 

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” you asked, just to be certain.

“Absolutely!” he answered, lifting up his shirt, revealing a gun holstered at his waist. “I can handle myself.”

Alarm bells blared in your mind at the sight, and you instinctively stepped back. 

“Wait! No, no, no,” Spencer put his hands up, showing you that he meant no harm. “I work at the FBI.”

He could read the doubt in your expression, slowly moving one hand to his jacket while keeping the other raised in the air. Carefully, he retrieved his badge and held it out, revealing it to you. You leaned in, observing the golden emblem and the ID picture beside it.

“Now, that wasn’t what I was expecting,” you said with a relieved sigh. “I guess I can offer you a ride, then?”

Spencer looked at you, as if considering all the possible outcomes of his answer. He ended up nodding his head and giving you a soft grin.  

“I’d appreciate that. Thanks.” 

The car ride was filled with a comfortable silence, the weight of the day settling over both of you. 

“You seem nervous,” he observed.

“How’d you know?”

“Your fingers are tapping against the steering wheel, and they’re out of rhythm with the radio, so it’s not like you’re tapping along with the song.”

“I guess I am.” You turned your head to him, then back to the road. “It has nothing to do with you, though. I feel oddly comfortable around you.”

When you glanced at him again, he was smiling, a glimmer in his eyes, shyly playing with his fingers. “Me too.”

———

You hadn’t expected Spencer to invite you in when you arrived at his house. He suggested you smoke together, saying you shouldn’t be driving while feeling anxious. 

Honestly, you didn’t care about the reasoning. You just wanted to spend more time with him. 

You were sitting beside him on the couch, legs pulled up and half draped over his as you took another drag from your joint. You didn’t know who started the conversation, but somehow you found yourself opening up about life and its struggles.

“I caught my ex cheating. He was supposed to pick up his stuff and leave the next day, but instead he crashed my place and just… destroyed everything I owned.”

His expression remained neutral, like he was trying not to judge, though his eyes said enough. After a beat, he spoke up again. “My girlfriend got shot in front of my face.”

Your eyes widened in shock, but the weed dulled your reaction. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah… shit,” he muttered in an exhale, picking up his joint again. 

Your eyes were drawn to his fingers, noticing the long, slender shape of them, the small bones shifting under his skin as he gripped the joint. The image of a tree flashed through your mind, its branches moving in the wind — or maybe it was just the weed making your mind wander. 

As he brought the joint to his lips, your gaze followed the movement, your breath catching when his pink lips parted just enough to reveal a hint of his tongue. A shiver ran down your spine as your eyes lingered there, entranced. He closed his lips around it, letting out a low hum that was almost a moan as he inhaled. 

He exhaled, filling the air with smoke, the rich scent enveloping you.

“Can I take a hit?” 

He didn’t question why you weren’t using your own. Instead he handed you the joint, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as you took it.  

You kept eye contact with him as you placed it between your lips, softly moaning at the contact, knowing his mouth had been right where yours was. 

Spencer took you in with dark, tired eyes. You threw your leg over his thigh, feeling the need to be closer to him as the air around you grew warmer. 

He didn’t seem to mind your clinginess, which gave you the confidence to lean in closer. Carefully, you reached out, your nails lightly grazing his jaw, making him shiver as he let out a quiet purr at the touch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked in a husky whisper, more intrigued than accusatory.

“I’m horny,” you whispered against his lips, fingers trailing down his jaw. 

His breath heaved at the proximity. “Evidence shows that cannabis can enhance sexual pleasure.” 

“Yeah?” you purred, lips brushing against his. “And what should I do about it?”

“You should touch yourself.”

“Should I now?” your voice teasingly sang as you leaned back, your hands sensually moving up the sides of your body before squeezing your breasts through your shirt.

“Like this?”

He blinked a couple of times, licking his lips. “A bit lower.”

You smirked, your hands trailing down your body, relishing how he was taking you in, unable to look away. Your hand stopped as you cupped your heat through your clothes, slowly rubbing your fingers in circles. “Here?”

He groaned at the sight, nodding his head in confirmation. “Right there.”

Spencer’s bulge pressed against your leg, which you had thrown over his lap. You couldn’t resist moving against it, making him gasp as he threw his head back.

“You should take care of that,” you suggested, nodding towards his pants. “Let me give you something to work with.” 

Spencer’s gaze was expectant, as he watched you slowly peel your clothes off. Inch by inch, you revealed your skin, leaving him desperate for more. 

Spencer mirrored your actions, undressing himself before he took a hold of your bare leg, placing it back on his lap, so that your legs were spread wide open. With one arm behind you, he pulled you in closer, his other hand reaching out to caress the skin in between your breasts, making you catch your breath. 

His hand trailed further up your skin, until his fingers were lightly tapping against your lips. “Open up for me,” he murmured.

You obeyed without hesitation, parting your lips for him to slide two of his fingers inside of your mouth. You responded instinctively, wrapping your lips around them, your cheeks hollowing as you started moving your head back and forth. Your tongue swirled in lazy circles, humming at the taste of his skin.

“Good girl,” he cooed in approval. “Get them all nice and wet, so that I can touch you.”

Spencer watched your eyes sparkle at his words. When a moan escaped your lips, vibrating around his fingers, he was reminded once again why he loved being high — it soothed his anxiety in a way that made his thoughts spill out without overthinking. And it thrilled him to see the effect his words had on you, words that would usually stay locked in his mind. 

The hand that had been resting around your shoulder wandered down to your breast, giving it an experimental squeeze. You moaned around his fingers, meeting his gaze, his nose nearly brushing yours as he watched you with intent focus. 

He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a pop, before he reached down to press them against your pussy. You closed your eyes in bliss as he rubbed his fingers up and down your slit, the combined juices of your slickness and your mouth made his fingers easily slip between your folds with every move.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered in awe as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. 

“That’s your fault,” you teased, a playful smile tugging at your lips. He chuckled, his breath brushing your cheek. “I’ll take the blame,” he murmured before pressing his mouth to yours.

You hungrily accepted his kiss. Your hand slid between his thighs, finding his hard length pressed against his stomach. His cock felt warm against your palm as you wrapped your fingers around him, the movement causing a string of precum to form, connecting from his tip to his happy trail. 

Spencer groaned into your mouth, his tongue swirling against yours, deepening the kiss even further. You traced your thumb over the sensitive head of his cock, causing him to buck his hips and pressing his fingers harder against your clit in response. 

You squirmed at the intensity of his touch. His slender fingers continued to trail over your pussy, teasing with delicate strokes before slipping a finger into your dripping heat.

“Fuck, that feels good,” you moaned. 

You began stroking his length, squeezing him gently as you flicked your wrist. Every movement was a lazy, unhurried exploration of each other’s bodies. Savoring the haze of the high as it sharpened your every sensation. 

You broke the kiss, as you reached for the joint on the coffee table, turning toward Spencer with a playful glint in your eye. He gratefully parted his lips, as you placed the roll between them. He took a deep drag, the smoke curling into his lungs. You leaned closer, opening your mouth in anticipation to receive the smoky breath he exhaled, as you shared the pleasure.

Spencer took in the sight of you. Your swollen lips were slightly parted as you breathed in. Your nipples were hard with excitement, and your pussy glistened around his fingers as he slowly pumped them in and out of you. You were a sight to behold, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten tonight.

He could look at you all day. He’s never felt so drawn to someone before, and he could easily finish just by watching your body as you sat bare in front of him. His cock fitted perfectly in your delicate hands. You were gripping him just right, bringing him closer to the release he’s been longing for.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, the words slipping out naturally. 

“So are you,” you replied just as sensually, your eyes tracing the way your hand palmed him, feeling his heavy weight in your grip. “I wanna know how you’d feel inside of me.”

A flush crept across his cheeks at your bluntness. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly, humming in response. “Bet you’d fill me up so good.”

“Jesus,” he groaned, swallowing hard as he could feel the way you clenched around his fingers.

“Are you clean?” you asked him, and he quickly nodded.

He eagerly grabbed your hips as you crawled on top of him, moaning softly as he felt the weight of you. His hand slid to your neck, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss, sucking your bottom lip.

You reached down between your bodies, fingers curling around his thick length as you guided him to your entrance. You let out a shaky whisper as he filled you up more than you expected. Spencer noted the furrow in your brow, but before he could remind you to take your time, you were already rocking your hips against him.

“Oh, baby,” he cried out, his hands sliding to your back as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Your thighs rolled over his, and he met your pace, thrusting up into you.

“You feel so good,” he continued moaning as his fingers dug into your skin. 

You could only whimper in response and you fastened your movements, your breasts brushing against him with each slide of your hips.

He could feel you tightening around him, your legs trembling against his. “Spencer, I-”

You didn’t need to finish your sentence for him to understand. “Me too, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Please, don’t stop.”

You kept moving, the urgency in his voice spurring you on. You leaned in to capture his lips one more time, and Spencer accepted with a desperate whine. 

The pressure in your core finally broke, and you cried out his name as an overwhelming pleasure washed over you. Spencer’s grip on your hips tightened, and he pushed up into you one last time, his body shuddering as the warmth of his release filled you.

“You’re so amazing,” he sleepily groaned, nuzzling his head into your chest as you came down from the high. You chuckled at the scene, unsure if he even noticed how clingy he was being. It had to be the weed that made him hold onto you like that, but the action still made your heart flutter, imagining how you could be the reason why he’s acting this way.  

“Can you pick up the joint for me?” he softly asked, his lips brushing against your stomach. 

You giggled. “You’re really an addict.”

You took a tiny sip of the hot drink. Spencer, it seemed, hadn’t touched his even once. Both of you, consciously or not, were stretching out the moment just a little longer. And, truth be told, you could afford to. The parking lot around you was only beginning to fill with cars, suggesting the early hour. It was nice to sit there together, sharing the quiet without any discomfort.

You realized this was supposed to be your first day at work as a couple.

A warm, pleasant feeling spread through you at the sound of that word, even though you hadn’t said it out loud. It still felt a little unreal. You had grown closer during the New Year’s Eve party at your place. It was only after that shared—and not just one—kiss that a new perspective dawned on you about the past months of your relationship, revealing some undefined emotions.

"I was wondering..." Spender suddenly began, his brows furrowed slightly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

His gaze suddenly fell on his watch.

"We still have some time," you reassured him calmly. "Let me guess. You've been wondering what would happen if we crossed the DNA of a jellyfish that can reverse its life cycle with the human genome?"

A small smile flickered across his face, a touch of affection despite the rather serious expression on the rest of his face.

"That too," he admitted, nodding. Then he opened his mouth, with some visible hesitation, as if a particular question was troubling him. You shifted in the driver's seat, preparing for whatever he wanted to discuss, whatever he wanted to ask. "How...how are we supposed to act...you know, towards each other? At work?"

For a moment, your brain didn’t understand what he meant. But then, a fleeting oh escaped you as the meaning of his words sank in, and you realized that it was indeed something worth considering. Somehow, over the past few days, neither of you had brought it up. You had just gone back to work, without any reflection on the fact that none of your colleagues knew about the progress in your relationship. About how it had suddenly taken a step to a completely different level.

Spencer studied your face in silence, waiting for a response. As he looked at you, coming up with a logical solution became incredibly difficult. Before you finally said anything, you let out two half-intelligent mutters, like a fish thrown onto the surface.

"We have to tell them," you finally said, stating the obvious. "Somehow. Maybe...we can meet at my place this weekend. All of us. Or we could go out somewhere, and then tell them calmly."

"This weekend?" Spencer repeated cautiously.

It was Monday.

Suddenly, it became incredibly hard to read the expression on his face. He was facing you, his brows slightly furrowed, a look of uncertainty, almost withdrawal. The air inside your car thickened, making the silence even more palpable. He seemed almost concerned, downcast. You froze, wondering if you had really said something wrong.

"So until then," he started more quietly, "are we just supposed to hide it from them?"

“I'm not sure hide is the right word," you replied with a grimace. "I just...I meant, maybe we should wait. For a better moment, you know? Instead of walking into the office on the first Monday of the year, when half the people are still nursing hangovers, and saying hey, guess what? we hooked up!”

His expression hadn't changed, despite your pretty honest explanation.

"You don't like the idea," you stated, rather than asking. You made sure your voice sounded gentle, adjusting it to the situation. "I can see that, Spencer."

"Okay, you're right, I don't like it," he admitted with a sudden coolness, his lips tightening slightly between sentences. "Because...I don't get your reasoning. Or, maybe I just don’t know if this is really what you mean."

Slightly surprised, you shook your head.

"What else could I—"

"I don’t know if it's really about that, or maybe..." he cut off, looking into your eyes as if hoping you'd understand by now. But you didn't have the skill to read his mind, no matter how remarkable it was—it was also incredibly complex. "Or maybe...I don’t know, you just don’t take it seriously. That's why you don't want to tell anyone about it."

You gasped, finally understanding his behavior. Realizing the hidden concern.

"You’re worried I don't take us seriously?"

Spencer shrugged briefly.

"You know, if that's really the case, I'd rather know now..."

You leaned in to catch one of his hands, which had been clasped over his chest. You broke his defensive stance, pulling him toward you by his long fingers, simply holding it for a moment before speaking again. With a smile. A slightly amused smile.

"Of course, I take us seriously, you idiot," you snorted. A sense of relief washed over you. Earlier, he’d seemed genuinely worried, and you’d been expecting far worse things than the fact that your guy literally paled with anxiety over worrying you weren’t as invested in your fresh relationship as he was. Well, out of context, it sounded like a very serious concern. But the context was, you took it seriously, and you were incredibly happy he did too. "You know what? Maybe you're right. Why should we make idiots out of ourselves for the next week? Let’s just walk in like this."

You motioned toward your intertwined fingers, raising them as if they were a trophy earned through sweat and tears. Spencer followed their movement with his gaze, initially surprised, but then the corner of his mouth twitched, and he tilted his head with a quiet chuckle.

"We can do it your way," he said, taking control of your hands, clasping them with both of his. He looked relieved; your reassurance and the sincerity in your voice clearly calmed him. You smiled too, finally seeing that peace on his face. "I really don't mind waiting a few days. It might even be… interesting. One of us might not hold out and accidentally slip up."

You raised an eyebrow in a teasing manner.

"Another bet, Reid?" you clicked your tongue. You kept eye contact with him, feeling his thumb gently tracing circles on the back of your hand. He seemed so unaffected, as if he didn’t realize he was doing it. "You already lost five bucks about…ten minutes ago. At this rate, you'll be broke within a month, and we'll have to skip that overpriced coffee downtown. Now that would be a real horror story, speaking as a citizen of the first world."

"Didn't say anything about another bet!”

"Too late," you shot back, turning his hand and taking it in a more formal handshake. "Handshakes sealed the deal."

He rolled his eyes, but a half-smile lingered on his face. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

"I think we should get going," he said reluctantly.

You sighed with the same enthusiasm. You really felt stuck to that seat, right next to him.

"You know, being late on the first day of the new year should be fully justified..."

"We really need to go."

He was right. But before either of you could move to get out of the car, he leaned forward. Gently cupping your cheek, he drew you in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his touch, and for a brief moment, the world outside seemed to vanish—just the two of you, in that quiet, perfect stillness.

His face suddenly turned to the side, noticing something through the windshield. You frowned and looked in the same direction.

"That's Gideon," you remarked out loud, even though both of you had already spotted the silhouette of your coworker stepping out of a car that had just parked a short distance ahead. He wasn’t looking your way yet, but he could at any moment. "Quick, hide!"

Okay, you were completely honest with yourself. It wasn’t about being afraid of getting caught. After all, there was nothing strange about two coworkers arriving at work together in the same car—it was even very eco-friendly. You just liked the idea of shoving Reid under the seat. And the poor thing, so thrown off by the mock authority in your voice and the situation itself, did it without a second thought.

When Gideon finally noticed you, you cheerfully waved at him.

"Fuck," you muttered suddenly.

"What is it?" Spencer returned to his seat, adjusting his glasses on his nose. "Do you think he saw me?"

You shook your head.

"I just realized…this is your car."

*

"Okay, draw a straw."

"Morgan, how old are you?" You shook your head in disbelief, staring at the man standing across from you in the motel lobby. The place where you were spending the night this time was very tidy, with subdued colors, but, as tradition demanded, there had to be some sort of problem. You had one room for two, but one of them only had a double bed. So, you had to decide which two lucky people would share it. "Five?"

"And a half. Listen, we have to decide somehow. Let fate do it. The two who pull the shortest will sleep together. Simple as that."

Before you could say anything else, Garcia approached, weighed down by her bags. Yes, her—rarely did any case require her to be on-site, but it wasn’t completely unheard of.

"Oh, come on, Sweetie," she muttered to you, setting her luggage down and hunching slightly to catch her breath. "Let him feel like a kid again for a moment. He doesn’t get the chance often."

You sighed in resignation, but before you could pull one of the purple straws (how did he even get them?) that Morgan was holding in such a way that their lengths were hidden, you glanced around briefly. Sometimes you arrived at hotels at different times, some getting there faster, others later. Spencer and JJ had just walked in, both wearing coats to shield them from the cold January air. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him and his fogged-up glasses, which he quietly cursed under his breath—judging by the movement of his lips. However, you quickly composed yourself, returning to a neutral expression. It had only been two days since your agreement to keep the details of your relationship hidden, and so far, neither of you had slipped or forgotten to keep quiet around the others. Well, out of the two of you, you were probably struggling with it more—being a bit of a clinger, sometimes even your body would naturally gravitate towards his when standing next to him.

“Why are you standing here?” Spencer asked, approaching you. “Is there a problem with the rooms?”

“Is there ever not a problem with the rooms?” you responded, laughing. “Some poor souls are going to have to share a bed,” you explained, making brief eye contact with him. You were sure only he could catch the emphasis you placed on poor souls.

Of course, you wouldn't mind ending up in the same room. It wasn't about the fact that you were together—before, you’d shared rooms and even beds, and you were used to it by now. You would've probably offered it yourself, if it weren’t for the potential suspicion and that silly bet, which was starting to lose its point in your eyes. Maybe you should’ve just told them a few days ago?

“Oh,” he said shortly, crossing his arms with a bit of stiffness. His brown bag hung from his shoulder. He held your gaze for a moment, but his expression wasn’t as amused as yours. His brows furrowed slightly as he cleared his throat. “Poor them. Who’s it going to be?”

You slightly puffed out your lips slightly, watching him with a sharp look. What was it that made him so uneasy—the fact that you might not be in the same room this time?

“We were just about to decide,” Penelope replied, glancing at her friend with a teasing smile. “Morgan’s going to show us a game he learned today in kindergarten."

 JJ couldn't help but snort.

 “Just draw a straw…!”

You couldn’t recall another moment when all of you, every single one, rolled your eyes in perfect unison. But that’s exactly what happened when Derek once again enthusiastically explained the rules, as though they weren’t already ridiculously simple. In the end, each of you reached for one of the straws he was holding.

JJ went first. She pulled hers quickly, and it was of regular length, so it was immediately clear she wasn’t one of the poor souls. She raised her hand in a mock display of triumph, earning a few amused chuckles from the group.

Your turn came next. You approached the task with a certain gravity, as though the fate of the night depended entirely on the straw you chose. You studied each one carefully, as if their lengths could somehow be deciphered from the way they were arranged.

You wouldn’t have minded drawing the shortest straw. But only on one condition. 

Morgan looked at you with mock sympathy. Your straw wasn’t even half as long as JJ’s, which seemed to settle things. Now, it was just a matter of figuring out which of the remaining two—Reid or Garcia—would end up joining you.

Spencer reached out with a calculated, deliberate motion, his eyes immediately darting to yours when his straw turned out to be...one of the longer ones.

You shot him a look of bitter disappointment before your gaze shifted to your soon-to-be roommate. Penelope didn’t seem disheartened—on the contrary, an enthusiastic smile lit up her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but you caught the fleeting shift in her expression and the subtle flicker of her eyes.

“Oh no,” she suddenly gasped, her voice filled with exaggerated horror, even though she’d just seemed perfectly content, or at least not displeased, at the idea of sharing a room with you. “No, absolutely not. There’s no way I’m sleeping in the same room with her. Do you guys even know how loud she snores?”

Lies! You wanted to yell, but stopped yourself as realization dawned. Garcia was a good actress—you had to give her that—but her flair for dramatics always bordered on overkill, making it far too easy to catch her in a lie.

“I’m not used to traveling as often as you guys are,” Penelope continued in the same over-the-top tone. “I barely get a wink of sleep in a new place when it’s quiet, let alone with someone next to me snoring like a steam engine…”

“Love you too, Pen,” you muttered dryly.

“Someone has to switch with me, please,” she concluded, clasping her fingers together in a dramatic plea and pulling off the best puppy-dog eyes you’d seen in a long time. Well, at least since the time Reid had tried to coax you into reciting one of your old, cringe-worthy high school poems—the existence of which you’d only ever confessed to him.

“JJ?” Penelope turned her hopeful gaze toward her.

“Not a chance. My straw was the longest,” JJ replied, smug and immovable.

“Don’t even think about asking me,” Morgan chimed in before anyone could so much as glance in his direction.

And so, all eyes inevitably fell on Reid.

He awkwardly scratched the back of his ear, not looking directly at you.

“Well, I always carry earplugs with me…”

“Then it’s settled!” Garcia declared, hoisting her luggage with sudden determination. One of her heavy bags was thrust into Morgan’s arms so abruptly that he staggered backward under its weight. “Sweet dreams, everyone! Don’t let the bedbugs bite, and may the sheep you count tonight be extra fluffy and adorable. Goodnight!”

Just before she fully turned to leave, she sent you a quick, knowing wink.

You shook your head in disbelief, but the faintest smile danced on your lips. You didn’t even bother questioning how she knew. Only one conclusion circled your mind. Penelope could be really impossible. Thankfully, being impossible didn’t disqualify her from also being the best friend under this vast, sprawling sky. Period.

*

"What do you think about starting a tier list for all the hotels we stay in?” you remarked as both of you crossed the threshold of the room. Your eyes immediately landed on its unexpected feature. “Or at least the weirdest ones. Like the one with walls the color of cat pee where the power went out in the middle of the night. That one’s definitely at the top..."

"I don’t really get the point of a mirror on the ceiling," Reid said after a pause, looking over his shoulder at you. He was standing a few steps away, near the bed in the glaring white room with birchwood floors. "Who wants to look at themselves while trying to fall asleep?”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if he was joking or not. He raised an eyebrow too, not understanding why you did that. Okay, he wasn’t joking.

"You know, the main point isn’t really to look at yourself while falling asleep," you explained, with a bit of amused pity. Your gaze also briefly lingered on the glass surface above the bed, designed to reflect the bodies of people lying in bed. You thought it was a surprising addition but weren’t planning on spending too much time on it for now. You just wanted to get your shoes off—shoes you’d been wearing since sunrise—and finally lie down on something soft. "By the way, I’m taking a shower first."

Spencer only muttered something under his breath in response. Before disappearing behind the bathroom door, you cast one last glance at him. He seemed quiet—strangely quiet. Not that you were expecting his usual chatter after a long day of work; it could weigh on anyone and leave them feeling subdued. Maybe he just needed an extra moment to unwind, and that’s where his restraint came from.

Anyway, you took a quick shower. The pressure of the hot water nearly scalded your skin, which meant you’d be spared the bitter complaints, grumbling, and dramatic resignation threats from Morgan the next day. You felt too tired to linger under the stream for long. After a few minutes, you stepped out of the shower, changed into your sleepwear, and gathered the clothes you’d worn all day from the floor.

You and Spencer passed each other in the doorway without a word.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you frowned. The bathroom door shut behind him, and some concerned question froze on your lips. For a moment, you stood still, debating whether you should ask it. But then the sound of running water reached your ears, and you figured he probably wouldn’t hear you anyway.

Instead, you decided to climb into bed, wait for him, and ask about it then. Whatever it was clearly weighed on him, and the fact that something was bothering him bothered you. Funny how that worked, right?

You spent that moment lying on your back, eyes wide open, afraid you might accidentally fall asleep if you closed them. A comfortable bed during a case—it felt like pure luxury. You were waiting for Spencer to finally emerge from the bathroom so you could curl up next to him, fall asleep to the fresh post-shower scent of him, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Just like you had spent half the day after the New Year’s party at your place—wrapped around each other, arguing over who would get up to make coffee and whether you should start cleaning up the mess from the night before.

You tucked your arm beneath your head, gazing at your fully-covered form reflected in the ceiling mirror.

“Did you find a portal to another galaxy in there or what?” you finally called out, impatient. He’d been in there way too long. And coming from you—a known lover of long, indulgent baths—that was saying something.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he finally emerged from the bathroom, wearing a gray t-shirt instead of his usual neat work attire and tie perfectly knotted at his neck. He still had his glasses on, which he might’ve forgotten to remove, judging by the way he slid into bed to your left without taking them off.

You watched him closely, rubbing at your tired eye. The shower had managed to wash away about half of the tension from Spencer’s face, but the other half stubbornly remained.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said softly.

“I didn’t have to,” you admitted simply, watching as he carefully adjusted himself, finding the right position. The lamp on his side of the bed cast a warm glow over his skin. You were both half-sitting, you comfortably propped up against the soft pillows, and him barely leaning back against them. “But I wanted to. We really lucked out with this room, huh? Penelope is one of a kind.”

"Did you tell her about us?"

"I didn’t say a word. She's just more observant than the rest”

He nodded, agreeing with you. You thought he might say something else about it, maybe make a joke about the bet, but he didn’t. You yawned.

"You seem tired.”

“How did you figure that out, Sherlock?” you asked, your sarcasm light, without a hint of malice. “You too, by the way. Although, it’s not just that you seem tired—you are tired, at first glance. Or maybe something’s bothering you. Or maybe both. Am I right?”

He shrugged slowly.

“No, as far as I know.”

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You pulled your knees closer to your chest, shifting into a full sitting position with slightly bent legs. You leaned forward just enough to gently take his glasses off and fold them, your fingers brushing briefly against his cheek. He didn’t look at what you were doing, his gaze fixed on your face under the soft fall of his lashes. The wonderful color of his eyes, the slight hesitation in your movements as you moved a little closer to kiss him—a fleeting, tender press of lips.

“Something’s going on, and you can tell me about it.”

“Or we could just go to sleep,” he suggested quietly. “It’s been a long day. You must be tired, I mean, you yawned a little while ago.”

You tilted your head, studying him thoughtfully. Was he really trying this hard to dodge the topic? How could you get him to open up?

“I know blackmail isn’t exactly healthy for relationships,” you started finally, turning his glasses over in your hands, “but I’m not giving these back until you tell me.”

Both corners of his mouth twitched at once.

“Oh no, what am I going to do now?” he replied with feigned concern, gently shaking his head. Then he lowered his voice.  “This is exactly what I’d say if I didn’t also have contacts with me.”

"Sometimes I just want to…ugh."

"Violence isn't too healthy for relationships either."

"Just like not opening up. Remember what we talked about a few days ago in the car? You were worried I don't take you seriously. How else am I supposed to prove I'm serious if I don’t ask what’s wrong when I can tell something’s off?"

Your explanation sounded a bit jumbled, but he had to get the general idea. The reference to that specific conversation and his own words seemed to hit a sensitive spot.

"I didn’t want you to feel like you have to prove anything to me," he quickly corrected, swallowing hard. His chest fell, and the sigh felt like surrender. "I'm sorry. I just don't want you to worry about it. It's nothing serious. I’m just tired...and a little stressed."

"Stressed?" you repeated, surprised. "You're stressed? But about what?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"Just... about this," he said vaguely, his gaze shifting from you to your reflection in the glass ceiling. "Us, I mean."

"What do you mean?" you asked quietly, still confused, gently shaking your head. "We've shared rooms before, so if it’s about that, I really don’t get it."

"Yeah, but never like this. In a room with a king-sized bed and a huge mirror right above us," he explained, his voice tinged with embarrassment, clearly wishing he could just stop talking. "Okay, I know this sounds dumb, I know it does, but I don’t know why it’s messing with my head like this. I just...I kinda thought maybe you'd want to..."

"Spencer," you interrupted, saving him from going any further. You saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. You weren’t sure what emotion was bubbling up inside you now—whether it was still confusion or just pure amusement. "You were worried I’d want to have sex with you?” 

You didn’t even need to wait for his answer to know you’d hit the nail on the head. Considering how your relationship had grown out of friendship, slowly evolving over time and shared experiences instead of a sudden burst of passion, you weren’t surprised you hadn’t yet taken that step together. It was something special in its own way—there had never been any pressure, and you hadn’t expected that he might feel the exact opposite.

So when you finally figured out what had been bothering him all this time, you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine.

"You were right, you know. It does sound kind of dumb," you said, unable to keep the smile from your face. His expression remained unreadable, his posture betraying a hint of anticipation as he waited for the rest of your reaction. "But also…I don’t know, kind of adorable? But seriously, Spencer, we don’t have to do anything if you’re not ready."

"It’s not that I don’t want to at all," he clarified quickly, almost too firmly. "I mean...it’d be our first time. Together. That’s what I mean. And I guess I just didn’t expect it to...happen tonight, here, of all places."

"I didn’t either," you admitted truthfully, the smile still lingering on your face. Unlike him, you didn’t feel even a hint of embarrassment. "I figured we’d just go to sleep, especially since we both already admitted we’re exhausted."

"Fair point," he mumbled.

"Honestly, this has to be the biggest example of overthinking I’ve ever seen anyone put themselves through, Spencer," you teased lightly, shaking your head.

For a moment, he stayed silent, but it felt like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding.

“You’re gonna have to get used to that,” he admitted finally, his voice soft. But then, you caught the faint glimmer of a smile tugging at his lips.

He even started to laugh, a quiet chuckle filled with a sort of amused self-awareness. Meanwhile, you leaned out of the bed to place his glasses on the nightstand on your side. If he wanted them in the morning, he’d have no choice but to reach right over you.

“But just for the record,” he began after a moment, as you reached for the edge of the blanket that had slipped off you earlier, pulling it back up to wrap around yourself. Your head was only inches from the pillow now. You gave him a questioning nod. He, too, was getting ready to lie down, finally looking genuinely relaxed. “How pathetic do you think that was, on a scale from one to ten?”

You just rolled your eyes, not even dignifying the question with an answer.

“In the interest of science,” he pressed, “one to ten?”

“Pathetic enough that you’ll need to redeem yourself a little in my eyes,” you sighed dramatically. “Go on, I’m waiting for your ideas.”

“I think I might have a few,” he replied with a soft chuckle.

You prolonged the kiss, savoring the deep sense of comfort it brought you. The two of you lay face to face, and you gently brushed a few still-damp strands of hair from Spencer's forehead, though they stubbornly fell back into place. Eventually, you gave up with a soft sigh against his lips. Spencer kept his eyes closed, lost in a quiet bliss, even as you pulled back just slightly, leaving only an inch of space between you.

"Can I turn off the light now?" you asked, as always. The question had become a tradition since you'd learned about his complicated relationship with darkness.

He hummed in agreement, nodding faintly. Leaning over him, you reached for the bedside lamp on his side. The room was instantly bathed in darkness, your reflections in the mirror above fading into obscurity.

You didn’t fully return to your original spot. Instead, you shifted closer, resting your head comfortably against his chest. The hotel pillows were unbelievably plush, you had to admit, but that night, you chose this over anything else.

"You’re not asleep," he noted gently after about fifteen minutes. He cleared his throat. "During sleep, a person’s breathing becomes slower and more regular. You know, if you’re uncomfortable here, you don’t have to…"

"I’m listening to your heartbeat," it slipped out of you. Though it was true, you hadn’t planned on admitting it out loud. "Nothing sinister, just to be clear. I’m not planning to rip it out of your chest or anything like that. It just works for me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Like those videos that imitate the sound of a crackling fireplace. Pretty calming."

"My heartbeat reminds you of the sound of a fireplace?" he said, a glint of confusion in his softly hoarse voice.

You sighed, in the darkness, he couldn’t see the faint smile painting itself on your face, pressed against his chest.

"Sweet dreams, silly."

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