ᴛᴇᴢᴢ

beside you, your telephone buzzed, blinking away the sleep—you opened the notification and instantly smiled. squinting at the message as blue light pierced your vision, recognizing the contact name immediately.

PP <3

just got back from patrol, wanna come over?

too lazy to type out your own response, you hearted the message and got up from your thin mattress with a groggy demeanor. shirt too large for your own good, nearly stopped below your knees, with pants dragging along the floor. the dollar rack at the thrift never disappointed you.

forcing your feet into your dingy uggs, you made your way out your apartment door and headed to the elevator. passing by, you heard the noise that was keeping you up all night get more earsplitting—high octave of a woman’s whines filled with pleasure and a man’s nonchalant groans.

groaning out in response, you placed both hands over your ears and stumbled into the elevator. wanting to get away from that displeasure so you can peacefully sleep in your boyfriend’s arms, trying to speed up the process by repeatedly pressing the button to the top floor.

unsurprisingly, it took the same amount of time—even feeling longer as you listened to the creaks of the machine moving up a couple floors. you were ripped from your zoned out state once you heard the familiar ding and sliding doors open to reveal the entrance to the attic floor. where peter had recently moved into to make his spidey ordeal more ‘secretive’.

it was like he was watching from his meticulously placed cameras, opening the door to let you grudgingly trek on inside. he watched in amusement as you shot him a deadpan expression and plopped down on his bed with a heaviness.

“neighbors at it again, huh?”

“i want to kill them.” your words being muffled by the pillow that your head dug into. peter chuckled, already out of his suit and sporting new bruises.

“that’s not very spider-girl of you.” at his retort, you groaned. lifting your head off the comfort that almost let you fall into a deep sleep.

“well maybe if they referred to me as a woman, instead of a girl—then maybe i’ll care.” rolling your eyes, you got up from your position and rested your chin on his stomach, wrapping your arms around his lower back as he neared. your body softened the tension as you stared into his brown doe eyes, you smiled with exhaustion. “thank you for doing patrol tonight, though.”

“of course, anything for you. spiders gotta stick together, baby,” he matched your expression, bringing a hand to caress the back of your head. using your superhuman strength, you pulled him into your arms onto the mattress that desperately needed to be replaced.

you were sure you surprised him with the strangled gasp that left his mouth, bringing your legs to wrap around his and gripping him tight—you hummed, eyes now closed. “alright, sleep time now. love you.”

peter shook his head, yet no complaint left him as he nestled into your embrace. “i love you.”

you accidentally dropped your keys in shock. you didn’t hear how silent they went when they both saw you, not ward expressing an angry grunt as he saw you before saying to rafe, “fix that up too” before leaving.

your eyes were brimming with tears as you stepped back, shaking your head. the humiliation & embarrassment but most of all fear. for not believing the pogues even after they had quite literally stated the violence rafe had done & been capable of. for not believing your sister over a boy you clearly didn’t know. and for the man who had treated you so gently to kill someone, take a life?

“baby..” rafe said, taking a step closer to you. his face tightened when you immediately backed away.

“you killed the sheriff?”

“let me -”

“you fucking killed her?” you screeched. rafe winced, turning and running a hand through your hair. “i was so pathetic, defending you to everyone and you didn’t even tell me?”

“i know.” his fists clenched. “i know, and im so grateful for that and i wanted to.”

“no you didn’t.”

“look.” he said your name, an attempt for peace, “just sit down and we - we can talk about it.”

you scoffed, wiping angrily at the tears on your face. “there’s nothing to talk about, rafe. we’re over.”

“no.” he snapped immediately, panic making his voice break. he quickly softened it as he stepped forward slowly, “no, cmon baby don’t pull that shit with me, no we’re not.”

you didn’t answer, turning to each for the door, but a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you to face him. rafe was kneeling infront of you, hands hovering over your stomach as he rested his head there too. “don’t - don’t leave me. i can’t survive it if you do.”

“rafe -“”

“don’t cry. don’t - look. i - i know i messed up, big time, but ill fix it. I’ll do anything. just don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.”

“let me go.” you said, trying to push his hands off, which he instead interlinked your fingers, his hands still soft, as he used his thumbs to wipe your tears away.

“don’t cry. just let me explain, baby.” when you shook your head, he persisted anyways, “look, someone had to die there, otherwise me and dad were gonna get thrown into jail. would you rather i was - was dead? no?” when you shook your head, he held out your hands and kissed them, one by one, on each finger, anywhere he could reach. “yeah, so it’s - it’s not that bad, right? it’s not..”

“you killed her. you just took a life, rafe!”

he was crying too now, as he flinched, “i had to. i had to, baby, can’t you understand that? just forgive me.”

“stop manipulating me.”

“im losing and ruining everything and i cant lose you too. i - i know i messed up, but i love you so much.” he pulled you flush against him by the waist as he kissed your forehead, nose, cheek, neck, all skin exposed. “i didnt mean to, i was just so scared.”

“rafe, stop.”

“don’t look at me like you hate me, okay? ill fix it, ill fix it all for you, i promise. just forgive me this once.”

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t know what to even do. but by the time rafe wrapped his arms around your waist and cried into your neck, you knew you already have forgiven him.

The night is warm enough that the backs of her thighs stick faintly to the hammock. Mosquitoes worry at her ankles. Somewhere farther out, something breaks the surface of the marsh with one quick splash and disappears again before she can decide whether it was a fish or an alligator or another creature with the good sense to avoid her family.

Her phone buzzes once against her stomach. The name on the screen makes her mouth pull before she can stop it.

Rafe.

She looks toward the Chateau instinctively, even though both boys are inside and neither possesses the supernatural ability to read a text through two walls and approximately thirty feet of humid night air.

Rafe: you awake?

Her thumbs hover for half a second, because answering immediately feels eager, and there are certain standards a woman should retain when secretly sleeping with the man who has attempted to murder her twin brother on more than one occasion.

She waits eleven seconds.

yeah

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Rafe: I’ll come pick you up?

The smile arrives properly this time, small and private and irritating enough that she bites the inside of her cheek to get rid of it. The hammock shifts beneath her as she sits up, ropes creaking softly above the water.

yeah. normal place

Rafe reacts to the message with a thumbs-up, which is offensively unromantic even by the extremely limited standards of their arrangement.

She stares at it. Then types:

don’t thumbs up me freak

The bubble appears again.

Rafe: hurry up

A car engine would be too obvious near the Chateau, even late. Rafe always parks several houses up where the road bends away behind thick trees and one empty shack with hurricane shutters still screwed over the windows despite the season. Their normal place. Their deeply normal, incredibly healthy system for clandestine sex between two people whose families would probably respond to discovery with firearms.

She swings one leg over the side of the hammock and nearly tips herself into the water when the whole thing rolls beneath her.

“Fuck,” she whispers, catching the rope with both hands and hauling herself upright with as much dignity as can be preserved alone in the dark.

By the time she crosses the dock and reaches the porch, her face has settled into something neutral. Bored, if possible. Slightly irritated by life. The standard expression required to leave the Chateau without inviting JJ to treat it like a criminal investigation.

Inside, John B is stretched across one end of the couch with his bare feet on the coffee table, staring at the television even though the screen is paused on the same frame it had been showing twenty minutes ago. 

JJ occupies the other end, shirtless, one knee raised and his head tipped back against the cushion while he talks through a lungful of smoke about an outboard motor that, according to him, could absolutely be repaired with parts already present in the yard.

John B says, “Those parts are from a lawn mower.”

“Motor’s a motor.”

“That’s not true.”

She walks behind the couch, reaches down and plucks the blunt cleanly from between JJ’s fingers.

His hand closes on empty air. “What the fuck?”

She takes a slow drag while crossing toward the front door, smoke scratching pleasantly down the back of her throat. “You’re welcome.”

“For stealing my weed?”

“Mhm.”

JJ twists around to look at her over the couch, blond hair falling into his eyes in a way that would make them appear far less related if her own hair didn’t do almost exactly the same thing after swimming. 

Twins were deeply humiliating like that. Twenty years of existing beside someone and still occasionally catching pieces of her own face performing acts of stupidity from across the room.

She hooks one finger beneath a strand near his temple and tugs.

JJ slaps lightly at her wrist. “Quit.”

She takes another drag purely because he’s watching and slides her feet into the battered black slides beside the door.

His eyes narrow. “You going somewhere?”

She releases his hair. “What’s it to you?”

“You’re disappearing into the night, weirdo.”

A laugh slips through her nose. She hands the blunt back, pinching it between two fingers near his face until he takes it. “I just need a walk. You guys smell so fucking bad, I need fresh air.”

John B lifts one arm and sniffs beneath it. His face changes slightly. “That’s fair.”

JJ points the blunt at her. “You’ve been outside all night.”

“I don’t keep track of where you go, creep.” She pats the pockets of her shorts, checking for her phone and lighter. “Leave me alone.”

“Whatever.” He settles back against the couch, though his eyes follow her as she crosses to the kitchen counter and collects the crumpled packet of cigarettes beside her keys. “Just take mace or something.”

She looks at him. “Mace.”

“Yeah.”

“From where?”

JJ considers this. “There’s bear spray in the shed.”

“That expired in, like, 2018.”

He shrugs and puts the blunt back between his lips, visibly deciding that if she gets murdered on her walk, he has at least fulfilled the brotherly requirement of offering equipment.

She opens the screen door. “I’ll be back.”

“Mhm,” JJ says, scepticism stretched lazily around the sound.

She gives him the finger without turning. “Bye, John B.”

“See ya, dude.”

The screen door slaps shut behind her before JJ can add another question.

The road beyond the Chateau is dark and soft at the edges, tree branches reaching overhead until the moon appears in brief silver pieces between them. Gravel presses through the thin soles of her slides. Her cigarette packet taps lightly against her thigh with every step.

She doesn’t light one yet. Rafe hates the smell in the car even though he’ll take one from her within ten minutes and smoke half of it while continuing to insist he’s quit.

The contradiction belongs to a growing collection.

Rafe doesn’t do drugs anymore, except for the drinks he pours too heavy and the cigarettes he steals from her mouth when he’s restless. Rafe doesn’t care where she goes, except he texts if he sees her walking alone and fills whatever car she has access to with enough petrol that she won’t need to stop after dark. 

Rafe doesn’t want anything from her except sex, except sometimes she wakes at Tannyhill beneath clean sheets with a glass of water on the bedside table and breakfast already ordered because he knows she forgets to eat when she’s anxious.

Friends with benefits would suggest friendship, which they don’t technically have. Enemies with health insurance might be closer, except she doubts Rafe has ever looked closely enough at a policy to know what one covers.

His truck sits beneath the trees around the bend, dark paint nearly disappearing into the road except for the pale interior glow from the dashboard. She sees the red tip of something near his mouth before she gets close enough to recognise it as a toothpick.

Rafe’s head turns when she opens the passenger door. The sight of him catches where it always does, annoyingly physical and completely unwilling to develop shame through repetition. 

Buzzed hair, newly grown enough to look soft over the crown but still too short to hold properly when she wants to pull it. Broad shoulders pressing against a dark t-shirt, one forearm resting high on the steering wheel. His chest fills the shirt in a way shirts probably resent privately.

“Hi,” she says, climbing in.

His eyes move over her once. Legs, shorts, thin tank top, face. Not hurried. Not subtle either. A small smile touches his mouth. “Hi.”

She shuts the door, and the locks click automatically. Rafe puts the truck into gear before she’s fully arranged herself, one hand turning the wheel as he pulls away from the curb.

She waves the cigarette packet beside his shoulder. “I come bearing gifts.”

He glances down, then back toward the road. A rough little laugh leaves him. His thumb wipes once beneath his nose, the same hand carrying the heavy gold Cameron ring, its flat face catching briefly under the passing streetlight.

“Y’know I’m tryin’ to quit.”

“I know.” She settles deeper into the seat and taps the packet against her knee. “I’m not, though.”

Rafe rolls his eyes. “Bad fuckin’ influence.”

“You picked me up.”

“Yeah, regrettin’ it already.”

“Pull over.”

His mouth shifts at one corner. “No.”

She lights one once they’re farther from the houses, cracking the window enough that warm air drags the smoke out in pale twisting streams. Rafe lasts exactly three minutes before holding out his hand.

She looks at it. His fingers flex once. “C’mon.”

“You quit.”

“Just gimme the cigarette.”

“That doesn’t sound like quitting.”

“S’not a fuckin’ deposition.”

She takes one more drag, then places it between his fingers. Rafe brings it to his mouth, inhales and exhales toward his own cracked window, posture loosening by a degree as nicotine moves through him. The ring taps against the steering wheel when his hand settles again.

“You’re weak,” she says.

He hands the cigarette back without looking at her. “You came outside at midnight because I texted, like, four words.”

She puts it between her lips. “Mm. Seven.”

“What?”

“You awake is two. I’ll come pick you up is seven.”

Rafe turns his head slowly enough that she sees the exact moment he decides not to argue with the mathematics. “Shut up.”

The hidden spot near the marina isn’t especially hidden during daylight. It’s a narrow maintenance turn-off bordered by reeds and thick scrub, the gravel eventually giving way to packed sand near an old service dock nobody uses anymore. 

At night, though, the trees close around it. The marina lights sit far enough away to become blurred golden dots across black water, and any passing car would have to make three deliberate wrong turns to find them.

Rafe backs the truck in beneath the trees and kills the engine. Water shifts against wooden pylons. Insects whine outside the cracked windows. The metal ticks faintly beneath the hood as it cools.

She takes the final drag of the cigarette and reaches toward the centre console for the empty bottle they use as an ashtray. Before she finds it, Rafe’s hand closes around her jaw.

His palm is warm. Thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers fitted beneath the other ear. He turns her face toward him without effort and kisses her. 

The first press of his mouth is almost mild, which is how Rafe usually begins when he’s been thinking about it for longer than he wants her to know. His lips move over hers once, then again, taking his time until her body starts offering little signs of betrayal. The cigarette forgotten between her fingers. Her shoulders turning toward him. Her mouth parting beneath his before he asks.

He tastes like smoke and mint gum and the drink he probably had before leaving Tannyhill.

She hums softly when his tongue brushes hers. There’s something about Rafe that should feel more complicated while his hand is around her jaw. Something that should make the entire thing uglier or frightening or at least difficult to justify when she’s alone later and the heat has left her body.

She knows who he is. There has never been confusion on that point.

Rafe has tried to kill her brother. JJ has tried to kill him back. Both attempts have probably multiplied in retelling, but she has witnessed enough with her own eyes to understand that a shared Christmas lunch isn’t waiting patiently in anybody’s future.

Rafe isn’t good. She isn’t particularly interested in pretending he is. The problem is that neither is she. Not in the same ways, maybe. Not with the same money insulating every bad choice or the same terrifying capacity for violence when fear climbs too high inside the body. 

But she has done things she doesn’t discuss. Hurt people because they were near enough to hurt. Stolen things that weren’t hers. Lied so cleanly it became difficult to locate the truth afterward. She has thrown punches because words took too long and once put a brick through a man’s windshield while JJ cheered from the passenger seat.

Some people survive by becoming gentle. The Maybank twins had never been supplied with the required materials.

Rafe’s thumb drags slowly over her cheek. His mouth deepens against hers, wet and warm and unhurried, and she leans across the console until her knee presses awkwardly into the cup holder.

He looks after her. That’s the fact that keeps getting in where it shouldn’t. Though not romantically, she would laugh in the face of anyone stupid enough to call it romance. But Rafe notices things. 

The fuel light when she still had the old Honda. The way she searched the kitchen at Tannyhill without taking anything because houses with full pantries made hunger feel more embarrassing, not less. The fact she hadn’t ordered for herself when he was getting food because she knew exactly how much money sat in her account and didn’t want him seeing her calculate it.

He would order anyway. Something she liked, plus something else because he’d decided she needed vegetables. He’d fill her tank while she was asleep. Leave folded cash in her cigarette packet once and then stand there looking honestly confused when she threw the whole thing at his chest.

The Honda had been sold a month ago. Groceries, electricity, the overdue water bill and the part John B needed for the Twinkie. JJ’s dirt bike remained leaning against the Chateau because sacrifice became unconstitutional when it involved his stupid fucking engine.

Rafe didn’t worry about groceries. Rafe barely worried about laws.

Sometimes, lying beneath the clean sheets in his room, she let herself imagine what that might feel like. The absence of numbers. The quiet part where there was always food and fuel and hot water and nobody had to sell something they loved to keep the lights on.

Rafe’s teeth catch lightly at her bottom lip and she forgets the rest. He pulls back only far enough to look at her. His thumb stays near the corner of her mouth. Their breathing mingles in the narrow space between the seats.

“Back seat,” he says.

She nods.

The routine is familiar enough to happen without discussion. She twists, plants one hand on the console and climbs between the seats, knees pressing briefly into the leather before she drops into the back. Rafe gets out instead because his shoulders won’t fit through the gap without dismantling part of the truck.

Cold night air enters when he opens the rear door. By the time he climbs in, she has stripped off her tank top and thrown it toward the front, leaving herself in a plain black bra and denim shorts. Nothing pretty. Nothing chosen for him. 

Rafe’s eyes move down her body like that distinction has never mattered. “C’mere.”

He catches her hip and lowers her onto her back across the seat. The leather is cool beneath her shoulders. One of the seatbelt buckles digs into her side until Rafe reaches beneath her without looking, yanks it free and lets it snap toward the door.

Then his mouth is on hers again. This kiss has none of the patience from the front seat. Rafe brackets her body with his, one knee pressing between her thighs, one forearm beside her head while his other hand grips her waist and draws her upward against him. 

His weight fills the narrow space. Heat through denim. Chest against hers. The hard shape of him already pressing where her legs have opened around his knee. Her hands find the bottom of his shirt and drag upward.

Rafe lifts just enough to let her strip it off. His shoulder catches briefly inside the sleeve because there’s simply too much of him for movement to remain graceful in a vehicle, and she laughs against his mouth when he mutters, “Fuckin’– hold on.”

“Very sexy.”

“Shut up.”

The shirt disappears toward the floor. Her hands land on him immediately, travelling across warm skin and muscle as he lowers again. Broad shoulders shifting under her palms. The strong line of his back narrowing toward his waist. Every movement rearranging something solid beneath her fingers.

Rafe grinds down against her. The friction catches exactly where she needs it through too many layers, dragging a moan out of her before she can swallow it. His mouth leaves hers. He kisses the corner of her jaw, then moves lower, teeth grazing lightly along her throat while her head tips back against the seat.

She reaches for his hair and finds almost nothing to hold.

“Grow this shit out,” she breathes.

Rafe’s laugh warms the side of her neck. “No.”

“I can’t grab it.”

“Find somethin’ else.”

She digs her nails into his shoulder.

His hips push harder between her thighs. “There you go.”

The smugness deserves violence. She considers biting him, but then his mouth finds the swell of her breast above the bra and thought becomes less organised.

Rafe drags one strap down. Then the other. His hand reaches beneath her back for the clasp, fingers fumbling once in the confined space before his patience ends and he pulls hard enough that the hooks release with a tiny metallic snap.

“You break that, you’re buying me another.”

“I’ve bought you bras,” he mutters.

He pushes the fabric aside, takes one breast into his palm and lowers his mouth over the other. Her spine arches. The sound that leaves her is soft and helpless, breath catching high when his tongue moves across her nipple. 

Rafe hums around it, the vibration travelling hot through her body. His hand kneads the other breast, thumb brushing slowly over the peak until it tightens against him. She tries again to grip his hair and ends up scratching lightly at the back of his head.

Rafe lifts his mouth. “The fuck’re you doin’?”

“Trying to hold on,” she grumbles. “Your head’s stupid.”

He bites gently at the underside of her breast.

Her insult breaks into a gasp. “Bitch.”

“Mhm.”

His mouth moves back over her. Wet, sucking pressure. Teeth just enough to make her hips lift beneath him. Her thighs tighten around his waist as he switches sides, giving the other breast the same attention while her hands roam restlessly over his shoulders and ribs.

The windows begin clouding at the edges.

Rafe lifts eventually, mouth damp and eyes dark. He hooks both hands beneath her hips. “Up.”

She obeys before remembering she usually makes him repeat himself. His thumbs catch the waistband of her shorts and drag them down along with her underwear. She lifts her hips, helping him work both pieces past her thighs and knees until he pulls them free and throws them toward the front.

Cool air moves briefly over her bare skin. Rafe looks down. His gaze is direct, hungry and faintly satisfied, like he has opened something he already knew belonged beneath his hands.

She shifts one knee against his side. “You done staring?”

“No.”

“Rafe.”

His palm slides slowly up the inside of her thigh. “What?”

The touch stops short of where she wants it. Deliberately.

She reaches down and catches his wrist. “Don’t start.”

He tilts his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Start what?”

“Being annoying.”

His thumb traces the soft crease where her thigh meets her body, avoiding everything swollen and aching by less than an inch. “Already wet?”

She tightens her grip. “Find out.”

Rafe’s mouth twitches. Instead of touching her, he lowers himself over her again and grinds the hard length of himself against her bare cunt through his jeans. The denim is rough. 

The pressure immediate enough that her fingernails bite into his back. “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah?”

She rolls her hips upward, chasing it. Rafe’s hand closes around the side of her neck, holding. Thumb resting beneath her jaw as his mouth returns to hers and his hips move slowly between her spread thighs.

She whimpers into the kiss. The sound changes him. His restraint tends to break in quiet places. A noise against his mouth. Her body softening when he gives an order. The moment she stops making him fight for control and lets him have it.

His hips drag against her again, harder.

“Rafe.”

“I know.”

“Take your fucking jeans off.”

He kisses her once, almost punishingly slow. “Ask nice.”

She stares up at him. Rafe waits. The fog on the windows has thickened enough that the marina lights outside look smeared and distant. His thumb moves once against the pulse in her throat.

She could drag it out. Usually does. Could call him a prick and reach for the button herself, make him catch her wrists and pin them above her head until they both forget why the argument started.

Tonight her body is already too hot and open, every grind of his jeans pulling pleasure sharp and unfinished through her stomach.

“Please,” she says.

Rafe’s expression shifts with quiet approval. “Atta girl.”

She slaps his shoulder.

He laughs, catches her wrist and presses it into the seat beside her head while kissing her again. “Brat.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah.”

He sits back far enough to undo his jeans. The zipper sounds too loud in the enclosed truck. She watches him shove denim and boxers down together, his cock springing free against his stomach, thick and flushed and already wet at the tip.

Her legs part farther without instruction. “You have a condom?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

He leans toward the front seat and reaches over the console for his wallet. The position pulls every muscle in his back into clear shape beneath the dim interior light, shoulders flexing, waist tight above jeans pushed low over his hips.

She runs her hand down his spine because she can.

Rafe glances back over his shoulder. “Hands to yourself.”

“No.”

“Could leave.”

She tilts her head. “With your dick out?”

“Wouldn’t be the first bad decision I made.”

He finds the condom and returns, then pushes his jeans and boxers fully off before sitting against the far side of the back seat. The space immediately becomes ridiculous. His knees bent, broad body occupying most of the available leather, cock heavy against his stomach while he tears the wrapper open with his teeth.

He rolls the condom down his length and looks at her. Then gestures once with two fingers. “C’mere.”

The command sends heat low through her body in a way she chooses not to examine. She rises onto her knees and moves across the seat, straddling his thighs. Rafe’s hands settle automatically at her hips. Warm, large enough that his thumbs nearly meet near the front of her pelvis.

She kisses up the side of his neck while he adjusts beneath her, mouth moving over the faint roughness along his jaw. His skin tastes like salt and clean soap and cigarette smoke caught from her.

One hand slides down to her ass and taps once. “Up.”

She lifts. Rafe guides himself beneath her. The tip presses against her entrance, slick enough to slide through her wetness when she shifts.

She lowers slowly. The stretch catches her halfway down, deep and full and burning just enough to make her breath leave against his neck. Rafe’s fingers tighten into her hip, holding her steady rather than pulling her farther.

“Easy,” he murmurs.

She sinks another inch.

His head tips back against the window, throat working. A low sound rolls out of his chest. “Fuck.”

She takes all of him, thighs spread over his, knees pressed into the seat on either side. For one suspended second neither moves. Her body pulses tightly around him, adjusting to the thick pressure sitting deep enough to make every breath feel connected to it.

Rafe lowers his face into her chest.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters against her skin. His hands drag slowly over her ass. “Didn’t even have to do anything.”

A whimper catches in her throat. She presses her face into the side of his neck, already overwhelmed by how full she feels. “You did things.”

“Barely.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

Rafe’s hand moves up to her jaw. He draws her face back and kisses her, slow and open, tongue pushing over hers while his other hand grips her hip. “Move, baby.”

She nods. Her first lift is careful. The drag of him inside her pulling a breathless sound from both of them before she sinks down again, taking him deep enough that her thighs shake.

Rafe groans into her mouth. “Shiiit.”

She finds a rhythm. Rising and lowering over him, palms braced against his shoulders while his hands guide her hips. The seat squeaks faintly beneath them. Her knees slip once against the leather and Rafe catches her harder, controlling the motion until she steadies.

“Like that,” he says. “There you go.”

She rolls her hips at the bottom, grinding against the base of him.

His mouth falls open against hers. “Fuck. So good.”

“So good,” she echoes, forehead pressing to his. “Oh my God.”

Their breath gathers hot between them. Every downward movement sends him deep, a blunt pressure touching something that makes her stomach tighten and her pace falter. Rafe catches the back of her neck, keeping her forehead against his. His eyes stay on her face.

“Jesus, baby.” His thumb moves along her nape. “You miss me or somethin’?”

She nods before pride can intervene. “Mhm.”

His expression shifts. Something warm and more dangerous because he hadn’t expected the truth to arrive without being dragged out. “Yeah?”

She bounces harder, refusing to answer again. Rafe’s hand grips her ass and helps lift her, then pulls her down firmly over him. Pleasure breaks bright across her nerves. She gasps, mouth parting against his.

He catches it in another kiss. Wet and deep and almost lazy despite how hard their bodies have started moving. His tongue strokes over hers while she rides him, hips rising and dropping in a rhythm that makes the truck shift faintly over its suspension. 

The windows are completely fogged now. Condensation gathering in thin drops along the glass behind his head.

Her breasts press into his chest with every movement. Rafe’s mouth leaves hers to catch one nipple, sucking it between his lips while she circles her hips.

“Rafe,” she moans.

His teeth graze lightly. She jerks around him. He releases her with a rough sound and both hands return to her hips. “C’mon. Harder.”

She obeys. The angle changes when she plants her knees more firmly beside his thighs, giving her enough leverage to lift and sink faster. His cock drags through her, slick and deep, every downward stroke punching another breath from her lungs.

Rafe watches where their bodies meet. “Fuck,” he groans. “Atta girl. There we go.”

The praise moves through her more efficiently than it has any right to. She nods against his forehead, eyes falling shut. “Feels so good, Rafe. Fuck.”

“I know.” His voice has gone rough, broken slightly by each thrust upward when he begins meeting her. “I got you.”

One hand holds the back of her neck. The other leaves her hip and moves between them. His fingers find her clit immediately. The first circle makes her whole body jolt.

“Oh–”

Rafe presses his forehead harder to hers. “Yeah?”

She tries to keep moving, but his touch is slow and exact, circling through the wetness gathered between their bodies while he stays buried deep inside her. Her rhythm breaks. Becomes desperate little grinds instead of clean movements, thighs shaking on either side of him. “Rafe.”

He keeps circling. Pleasure winds tighter beneath her stomach, dragging every muscle inward. Her head falls back and a cry tears out of her before she remembers the marina isn’t entirely abandoned.

Rafe’s hand leaves her neck and covers her mouth. “Shh,” he breathes. “Shh. Car’s not fuckin’ soundproof.”

Her eyes open. She grins against his palm, then bites him.

Rafe jerks his hand back. “Feral.”

The offended look on his face nearly makes her laugh, but his fingers never stop moving between them and the sound turns into another broken moan instead. “You like it.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t.”

He puts his hand back over her mouth, this time with the base of his palm safely away from her teeth. His other fingers circle faster.

She rides him through it, movements losing shape as the pressure builds too high and too quickly. Her breath comes hot against his palm. Rafe’s eyes stay fixed on hers, pupils dark, jaw tight with his own effort to hold back.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “C’mon, baby.”

She whimpers something useless into his hand.

“I know.” His hips thrust up hard beneath her. “Let go.”

Her orgasm hits before she can prepare for the size of it. Her body locks around him. Thighs clamping against his sides, pulsing hard over his cock while pleasure tears outward through her stomach and down every trembling muscle. The cry stays trapped beneath his palm, reduced to a broken high sound against his skin.

Rafe groans and pulls her against him, one arm banding around her back while his hips continue driving upward through the contractions.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, baby.”

She collapses forward, face dropping into his neck. Her body remains too sensitive, each deep thrust sending another aftershock through her until she shakes against his chest. Rafe grips her ass in both hands and moves her over him, slower now but harder, lifting her hips and pulling her down while his breathing goes ragged near her ear.

“Rafe,” she whispers.

“I know. Almost there.”

His body tightens beneath hers. One final thrust pushes deep, and Rafe comes with a rough broken groan, face pressed into her shoulder and both hands gripping her hard enough that she’ll probably find the shape of his fingers tomorrow. His cock pulses inside her through the condom while she remains wrapped around him, chest heaving against his.

Neither moves for several seconds. The truck becomes quiet again by degrees. First the leather stops squeaking. Then their breathing begins slowing, though hers catches occasionally in little aftershocks she cannot control. Rafe’s hand slides up her spine, palm warm and broad between her shoulder blades.

She presses one lazy kiss beneath his ear.

“Hi,” she whispers.

A laugh shudders out of him. “Hi.”

He helps lift her carefully. The loss of him leaves her body aching and empty in a way that makes her thighs draw together once she settles along the seat. Rafe ties off the condom with the practical concentration of someone handling evidence. He reaches into the front and finds the small plastic bag kept beneath the passenger seat, drops it inside and twists the top closed.

“Deal with that shit in a second,” he mutters.

“Romantic.”

“Yeah, well.” He catches his boxers from the floor and pulls them on. “Left the rose petals at home.”

She lies across the back seat naked except for one sock she apparently never removed and watches him retrieve the cigarette packet, lighter and a folded grey blanket from the passenger footwell.

Rafe looks at the sock. “What’s that about?”

She glances down. “Fashion.”

“Looks stupid.”

“You look stupid.”

He climbs back in and shuts the door behind him, trapping the warmth again. Then he grips her ankle, pulls her closer and rearranges both of them across the seat until he’s half reclined against the door and she can lie along his body.

She goes without argument, one leg fitting between his and her cheek settling over his chest. Rafe spreads the blanket across them. It smells faintly of detergent and salt, clean enough that it must have come from Tannyhill rather than having lived permanently in the truck. He tucks one side around her bare shoulder and rests his cheek against the top of her head.

Her breathing finally begins returning to normal. “Why do you have a blanket?” she asks.

His fingers trace slowly up the centre of her spine. “S’for the Aviara.”

She hums, eyes half closed. “Why?”

“Goin’ out tomorrow. We’ll need it.”

The hand on his chest goes still. Not noticeably, she hopes. Rafe notices anyway because his fingers pause against her back. She keeps her voice casual. “Who?”

“Me, Top, Kelce.” His palm resumes its slow path. “Some other people.”

She waits half a second longer than she should. “Girls?”

Rafe hums. “Probably.”

The answer sits in her stomach with an irritating little edge. Nothing she would admit to. Only awareness. Some girl from Figure Eight wrapped in this blanket tomorrow, laughing beside him on the Aviara while she walks home to a refrigerator containing mustard, beer and half a lime.

She presses her cheek more firmly against his chest as if the movement has nothing to do with the thought. “Fun,” she says.

Rafe’s hand stills again. She can practically feel him looking down at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You did a thing.”

Her brows pull together. She tilts her head enough to see him. “What thing?”

“That little voice.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I have one voice.”

“Yeah, and that one means you’re pissed.”

“I’m not pissed,” she snaps. 

Rafe studies her face with the wary focus of a man approaching an animal caught in fencing. “Okay.”

“Okay.” 

His thumb moves once along her spine.

She looks away first, laying her cheek back over his heart. “I hope you have fun with your boat girls.”

A laugh moves beneath her ear, so she pinches his side.

Rafe catches her wrist. “Ow.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just did,” he replies smugly. 

“That was awful.”

His chest moves again. She bites him lightly near the collarbone.

Rafe tightens his arm around her before she can escape. “Stop biting me.”

“Let me go.”

“No.”

She struggles once, mostly for principle. He rolls enough to pin her more firmly between his body and the seat, the blanket tangling around both their legs.

His face lowers near hers. “Hey.”

She stops moving because his voice has changed. Softer around the edges. “You good?”

Rafe peers down at her through the dim interior, one arm braced beside her while the other remains curved around her waist. His gaze moves over her face with that particular attention she never knows what to do with after sex. Checking for pain. Regret. Some hidden thing she might decide not to tell him until it becomes an argument.

She nods. “Mhm.”

“No, like…” His thumb rubs once against her side beneath the blanket. “You good?”

She can still feel him between her thighs. Her skin warm and damp, body loose beneath the pleasant ache. Outside, insects throw themselves against the windows. Somewhere at the marina, a metal halyard knocks against a mast in irregular little taps. Rafe waits.

She nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”

His eyes remain on hers for one second longer. Then he nods too. “Good.”

He lowers himself again and she resettles half over his chest, the blanket pulled beneath her chin. His hand returns to her back, drawing absent little paths over her skin.

After a minute, Rafe reaches blindly for the cigarette packet. He shakes one free and puts it between his lips, then searches for the lighter without moving her. She takes the cigarette from his mouth.

“You quit,” she reminds him.

His eyes drop toward her. “Right.”

She puts it between her own lips and strikes the lighter. The flame briefly fills the back seat with warm gold, catching on his Cameron ring where his hand rests against her waist.

Rafe watches her inhale, then takes the cigarette from her fingers anyway.

“Bad influence,” he says.

She closes her eyes and settles her cheek over his heart while smoke curls toward the fogged windows. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I know.”

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for my fics.

the slap of skin against skin is loud in the room, a wet, rhythmic clap that echoes off the walls and drowns out the noise in your head. you are riding chris with a ferocity that borders on violence, your hips snapping down hard, taking his cock deep inside you with a force that makes your head spin. it’s not about pleasure. it’s about exorcism. every time you slam your hips down, you are trying to punish yourself for hoping, for being stupid enough to think that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

you stare down at chris, but you don’t really see him. your vision is blurred by the sweat dripping into your eyes and the mental image of him. the guy who drifted away without ever knowing you existed as anything more than a friend in the group. the guy who made you feel something real for the first time in two years, only to pull back for whatever god damn reason. you noticed when the texts stopped coming and the jokes lost their edge. the friend group politics, the history with someone else. it was all a wall you couldn’t climb, and you broke your own heart trying.

chris’s hands are on your waist, but he’s not guiding you, he’s just holding on for the ride. his chest heaves, his abs contracting every time you drop your weight onto him. he feels amazing, thick and hard, filling you up perfectly, but you are chasing a numbness that won’t come. the burn in your thighs is grounding, a sharp physical pain to counteract the dull, hollow ache in your chest. you grind down ruthlessly, circling your hips, trying to erase the memory of that last conversation where the vibe was just… off.

suddenly, chris’s grip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. he plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up to meet you, stilling your frantic movements. you gasp, forced to stop, your body trembling with the sudden lack of motion.

"fucks goin’ on with you?" he pants, his voice rough and breathless. he frowns up at you, his eyes searching your face for something he can’t quite find. he straightens his back, sitting up slightly so you are face to face, the connection between you still deep and intimate.

"nothin’s goin’ on.” you snap immediately. your voice is cold, distant, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between your naked bodies. you try to pull away, to resume the rhythm that was drowning out your thoughts, but his hands are like iron clamps on your hips.

chris chuckles dryly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. he shakes his head, his wet hair sticking to his forehead. "you’ve been slamming your hips down like you’re tryna break your bones or some shit, dude. like, what the fuck." he looks at you with a mix of concern and confusion. "y’know you can just talk to me, right?"

the offer hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. you want to scream. you want to tell him about the disappointment, about the future you stupidly imagined in your head, about how much it hurts to be just another friend to someone who seemed like he would genuinely bring happiness into your life. but you can’t just spill that secret interest you’ve been having for the guy that probably never even intended to be more than friends with you. that’s not what this is. this is casual. this is just fucking.

no one in the friend group even knew about you and chris hooking up. you both decided that it was for the best after a drunken mistake led to surprisingly amazing sex. so after that one weird night, you came to an agreement of keeping this friends with benefits bullshit up without anyone knowing.

"yeah, well, i’m not here to talk, and i think we both know that.” you fire back, your voice sharp and clipped. you glare at him, daring him to push, to ruin the one thing that’s making you feel anything other than pathetic.

chris stares at you for a long moment, his jaw tight. he sees the cracks in your mask, the way your hands are shaking where they rest on his shoulders, but he doesn't call you on it. he exhales a long breath through his nose and lets it drop, for now. his hands soften on your waist, no longer restraining you but guiding you.

"alright." he mutters, his voice low. he starts to move you again, setting a pace that is slower than yours, more deliberate. "just… ease up a bit, yeah?"

you try to follow his lead, but the tension doesn’t ease. your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders. you move mechanically, up and down, the friction of his cock dragging against your inner walls sending sparks of pleasure that you can’t fully enjoy. the silence between you is heavy, loaded with the words you aren’t saying.

but eventually, the composure cracks. it’s not a dramatic sob, but a physical collapse. your arms give out, and you fall forward, your chest pressing against his. you bury your face in the crook of his neck, your breathing harsh and uneven against his skin. you aren't crying, not yet, but your expression is a mask of frustration and pain, your brow furrowed, your teeth gritted.

chris doesn’t push for answers. he just wraps his arms around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other cradling the back of your head. he holds you together while you feel like you’re falling apart. he shifts his hips, grinding into you slowly, changing the angle so that he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

"you’re too much in your head." he murmurs, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your ear. his voice is steady, a lifeline in the chaos of your mind. "i dunno what the fuck’s goin’ on, but lemme help."

you close your eyes tight, shutting out the world. you focus on the sensation of him. the heat of his body, the solid weight of him beneath you, the way he fills you up so completely. you let the rhythm take over, letting him dictate the pace. he rolls you both, pressing you into the mattress, his weight grounding you, pinning you down so you don't have to think, don't have to do anything but feel.

he thrusts into you, deep and steady, his breath hot against your neck. "just feel, yeah? let that shit go."

and you do, for a moment. you let the world narrow down to the friction, the slide of his cock in your pussy, the smell of sweat and sex, the sound of his breathing in your ear. the ache is still there, a dull throb behind your ribs, but it’s muted, buried under the overwhelming heat of his body against yours. you move with him, your bodies syncing up, searching for a release that you hope will wipe the slate clean, even if you know it won't last.

“Ash, you sort out the package?” Fez was standing by the cooler door, watching his brother stack some cash. 

“Yeah, but we running low on Molly.” 

“How much?” 

“Short 20 Pills.” Fez rubbed his shaved head. 

“How we running short on Molly, we just got a batch?” 

Ash shrugged, unbothered, still counting cash. “Supplier was low, so we low. Playboy just gonna have to deal with it.” Ash snorted, “Yeah,” Fez was itching for a Blunt, “if he gives you trouble just hollar.” 

Ash looked at him like he was crazy, as if the richie rich guy would fuck with either of them. Ash could bet the rich college guy had never even thrown a punch. 

Fez sat outside smoking, relaxing, waiting. He normally enjoyed just sitting around watching the world pass in front of him, sometimes selling some drinks and cigarettes, but nothing more. Fez liked that; it gave him time to think. 

A BMW raced into the parking lot, not caring about Fez sitting in a chair. Fez could tell from the way the guy carelessly stopped by Fez’s chair that the guy was pissed. Or more accurately, entitled and pissed that someone said no. It was a richie-rich guy. Fez did not bother to learn his name. 

“You got my stuff?” 

Fez already wanted to punch that guy. 

“Ain’t your stuff yet, playboy.” Fez walked past him into the shop, towards the backroom. 

Ash knew that when Fez showed up with the guy, the guy would be difficult. Normally, Fez just pointed towards the backroom and let Ash deal with shit, while he kept an eye out. 

Fez stood to the side, watching the guy- Sandy brown hair, all-American smile, probably a football player, or some shit, Fez thought. 

“We got...” Fez tuned out Ash, just waiting for this deal to be over. 

“I said, 50 Mollies.” 

“Yeah, well, we got 30.” Ash said, in his usual ‘I don’t give a fuck’ way.  

“I don’t care,” the guy glared at Ash, “When I say I want 50, I want 50.” 

Ash just leaned forward, rage already building. “Yeah, shit outta luck, playboy,” Fez added. 

The guy turned to Fez. “I know you two are retards, but I thought you guys could at least count to 50.” 

Fez just stared back, “We ain’t doing this today. I am telling you we got 30; either take it or get the fuck outta here and find a new supplier.” 

“Wow, you are such a tough guy.” The dude stepped up to Fez, trying to intimidate him like he was some schoolyard bully, in his letterman jacket and khaki pants. 

Fez just stared at him. “I am telling you, take it or leave it.” 

The guy had gotten redder in the face the more Fez told him no. 

Then he made the mistake of pulling his hand out of his letterman jacket too quickly. Before the guy knew what happened, Fez grabbed his arm and headbutted him, and Ash jumped over the desk. 

“The fuck you think you doing?” Fez said, pushing the guy against the wall, holding him there, while Ash patted the guy down.

“Fuck,” the guy groaned, his nose bleeding from Fez’s forehead. “What the fuck, dude.” 

Ash pulled out some cash and a phone. No gun. 

Fez gave the guy a final push. “You lucky as hell you don’t got a gun on you or I’d beat you with it.” 

Ash threw the phone back at the guy's feet and started counting the cash. He pushed the package towards the guy. 

“Take it and get the fuck out of here,” Ash said. 

The guy was still holding his nose, hesitating about whether to say something. 

But before he could, Ash pocketed all of the money. “Look at it as a dumbass tax.” 

It was clear the guy wasn't running the show here, so he took the package and raced out of the parking lot. 

Fez, forehead hurt from that prick's nose, and was ready just to go home and chill. Tired of dealing with ‘them rich entitled” people, walking up into his shop as if they were someone better than him just because he is a drug dealer, and yet still buying his products. But he had to make money. So he went outside to his chair again and lit up a blunt, in the hope of easing the headache already forming. 

Two hours later, they closed up the shop tight, ready to get out of here. Ash and he were driving in silence, listening to Tupac. 

Ash glanced at Fez, who had a slightly pained expression on his face. He was not sure what had happened to Fez- something about a hit to the head when he was younger, but he got headaches sometimes, and it seemed he was struggling right now. Ash might not care a lot about things or people, but he did care about his brother. So he begrudgingly texted you. 

Ash: Bad delivery. 

You: *thumps up*

Fez breathed a sigh of relief when they pulled up at their house. 

“I ain’t gonna get up from the couch anytime soon,” Fez commented. 

“Criminal Minds marathon tonight on TV, so why wouldya,” Ash commented, unlocking the door. 

The smell of freshly cooked bolognese sauce hit them simultaneously. The house was quiet, except for a soft hum from the kitchen. 

Fez involuntarily smiled, and Ash rolled his eyes at the love-struck look that overcame Fez’s face. 

Fez made his way up the hall towards the kitchen. You were wearing one of his long shorts, and shorts underneath your apperion you discovered some time ago. It was beige with dots and frills at the seam. You had looked at him in question, trying to picture Fez wearing it. Fez had blushed and mumbled it belonged to his grandma. 

Arms wrapped themselves around you, making you jump. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” You smiled over your shoulder at Fez. 

Fez pressed his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling something you could not quite catch. 

You decided it was not important and just leaned back into him, your left arm coming up, cradling his head, scratching your nails against his scalp. 

Ash was watching from the door; he would find it annoying, but he saw the way the tension left Fez’s shoulders, and suddenly he was glad you were here. 

“Hun, you gotta loosen the grip a bit; I need to check the Spaghetti.” Instead of letting go, he just shuffled you with him, still attached to the stove.

That just made you chuckle; turning in his embrace, you took his face in your hands. “Sweetheart,” you only used that pet name when you were about to be bossy. “Go take a shower, change into your PJs, and then get your butt out here. Dinner will be done by then.” You gave him a peck on the lips. Not giving him a chance to deepen it, but instead turning around to check on the food. 

Fez sighed, but followed your instructions. As usual, you were right; the cold water of the shower and the fresh PJs helped him rid himself of the annoyance of the day. 

He came out with a simple grey shirt and his M&Ms PJ pants, which you found adorable on him. 

Ash was sitting there like a grumpy child, also in PJs and freshly showered. Fez guessed you had forced him to take a shower too. 

The table was set: two pots, one with sauce, one with spaghetti, and a bowl of salad. On the table, the light was dim, and Fez was thankful for it, since his head still hurt a bit. Faye was sitting there happily waiting for the food. 

“Before we start,” you held Fez's hand and reached out to Faye, who was on your right. “We all say something we are grateful for today.” It was a tradition you had enforced. At first, Ash resisted and ignored you, but you kept smiling and saying the same thing before dinner. Eventually, you wore Ash down. 

“I’ll start,” you volunteered, “I am grateful for the walk I took today, since I met a cat that was super sweet and let me pet her.” 

Fez snorted; it was so like you. He still held your hand; his left was in Ash, and he squeezed it in warning to play nice with you. “Well, ma, I am grateful for this food right now.” “Second that,” came the voice of Faye, slightly out of it. “You can’t just take my answer,” Ash protested. It made you giggle. “Well then, let’s not wait any longer.” You said, getting up to start serving. 

At first, you were appalled by the way both Fez and Ash ate, more like inhaled their food. Slumping over the table, stretching their neck towards the spoon instead of the other way around, but you had gotten used to it. Smiling at the brothers. Dinner was silent, aside from the boys' moans of appreciation. 

You kept your hand on Fez’s back, occasionally running your hand up and down. You were grateful for the heads up Ash gave you. You hated the risk and stress that came with Fez’s line of work, and even though he always seemed mellow, you learned to read when he had tension in his body. 

“So good, ma.” Fez leaned back in his seat, rubbing your thigh in appreciation. Giggling, you kissed him on the forehead, grabbing the dirty plates. Fez wanted to follow you, but you directed him to the couch. “Just gonna clean the table real quick. The dishes can wait until tomorrow.” 

Ash grabbed his plate, and Fayes brought them into the kitchen before making his way into his room. Before closing the door, he gave you a quick nod in thanks. 

Smiling to yourself, you made your way back to the couch. Faye announced she wanted a bath and made her way down the hall. 

Taking your place next to Fez, you snuggled up right to his side. Some show was playing in the background, and he had a blunt in his hand. You breathed him in, the scent of tabakko and cologne on his sweater. You played with his gold chain around his neck, smiling that he always wore it. For some reason, you found it incredibly sexy. 

Fez pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I appreciate you, ma,” he whispered. 

You leaned closer into Fez. “I got you, and you got me, okay?” Instead of answering, Fez leaned down, slowly kissing you. His left arm around you and the other on your cheek, holding the blunt in his fingertips away from you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, “You got me,” to your nose, “and I got you,” he whispered in between before kissing you once more. 

Pulling back, he looked at you with his baby blue eyes, “If ya are here, and cooking like this, when I come home, I finna never let you leave.” 

“Hm, maybe that was my plan all along.” You kissed him again, deeper, slower, “Come on,” you dragged him back, lying on the couch; he nestled between your legs, lying on your chest. You stole his blunt, resting on the lean of the couch, pressing a small kiss to Fez's forehead. You stayed like this for a while, smoking, watching TV, and laughing at whatever dumb shit they did, your nails scratching on his scalp. You felt him slowly getting heavier on you, and shortly after, you heard him snore slightly. Smiling to yourself, you whispered: “I love you, sweet dreams, my love,” and turned down the TV volume.

Taglist: @tez0

Relationships would never be perfect—you learned that from Chris. Smashed vases, tears, and yelling were all a part of loving someone. He taught you that. Maybe you believed him, maybe you were too scared to find someone new, but you stayed. Because even when his hate stung you, his comfort soothed your wound every time. 

Your face was pressed against Chris's chest as you stood, your sobs soaking his t-shirt. "I can't do this with you anymore, Chris!" Your words muffled into the fabric.

"Shhh, I know baby, I know." His voice was steady, and nursed your shaking body. With arms around you, he held you like a prison you never wanted to break free from. 

Pushing yourself from him, you created distance between the two of you. He grasped at nothing as you stumbled backwards, your bare feet struggling to stay balanced. Craving the warmth of him immediately, you fought against your compel to run back into his arms. 

He reflected your mind—dishevelled and tousled. Sadness congregated in his eyes the way it did in yours. It was as if you were looking at a reflection of yourself—a broken mirror that revealed your innermost sorrow. 

"This is over. We're over, forever this time." The words scraped like thorns as they left your throat. 

Chris stepped towards you, brows upturned in remorse. "You don't mean that."

His words were hypnotizing, convincing you that they were true. Keeping the space, you backed up against the chilled wall of the apartment. The coolness hit your back, contrasting with the heat that was pooling at your core. 

Continuing to advance forward, he let his fingertips lift your shirt, grazing the exposed skin of your waist. "Tell me you don't mean that." 

"I-" you started, choking out the syllable. "I don't mean it."

"I know you don't, baby.”

a/n: please ignore that this is not what I’ve been promising I’ll write the past week

"Do you know him?" you asked, shifting your gaze toward Ruby's judgmental eyes.

She always formed opinions about people before actually getting to know them. So maybe she was just guessing and making assumptions again. Though he did look upper-class. A CEO, maybe.

She raised a brow, disbelief tugging at her smile. "Honey, do you live in the last corner of the swamp? That's—"

"Ladies, tea time is over."

You and Ruby turned at the sound of Silas' voice, spotting the manager in his all-black suit, silver hair slicked back today.

He raised his brows expectantly, gesturing toward the main lounge with his thumb, several golden rings gleaming across his knuckles. "Ruby, the gentlemen at Table Five asked for a table dance. If you need to freshen up, do it now." He grimaced. "And if Mr. Doublechin gets handsy again without paying first, tell him Larry will kindly escort him out."

Ruby chuckled, adjusting her spiked bra. "I've come prepared, but I'll let him know."

After she disappeared behind the velvet curtains leading to the dressing rooms, Silas turned to you with a sigh. "Kitty, I have a special request for you."

"Oh?" You blinked curiously. "Did Mr. Hemingway ask for the Playroom again?"

Hemingway was a funny-looking man with an odd personality who only ever requested services tied to the darker pleasures inside the After Midnight. Ruby usually handled those, except one time when he specifically requested you.

Surprisingly enough, he was one of the most respectful guests.

Silas adjusted his rings, shaking his head. "He's out of town for the next two weeks. I wouldn't want your intellect wasted on him anyway." His lips twitched, caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. "No, I believe you're suited for a more difficult customer. Though right now, the only service he's making use of is the bar."

Your gaze followed his toward the sad-looking loner at the counter.

Him?

An intrigued, almost excited smile tugged at your lips. "We do offer great drinks."

Even if he was still drinking bitter whiskey, a taste you never quite managed to enjoy.

"We also offer a great number of beautiful women, but it seems he has no thirst for that at the moment," Silas said, glaring at the back of the man's head before looking back at you. "Which is why you'll make sure to offer him a flavor he can't resist."

You crossed your arms, brows furrowing thoughtfully. "Ruby said he already turned Lacey and Dove down. Maybe he's just not interested in female company."

That made Silas bark out a laugh. "My dear, trust me, he'd sue the entire club and me personally if I sent a male suitor his way. And I'd rather collect his money than have him use it against me."

Once again, there was talk of ridiculous amounts of money surrounding the mysterious loner.

But before you could ask who exactly he was, Silas placed a gentle hand against your upper back and nudged you toward the bar. "Which is why you'll make Mr. Cameron's first time here worth his while." He leaned closer, voice dropping into a low murmur against your ear. "Maybe you'll even charm him into becoming a returning customer. We'd both profit from that."

Straightening again, he offered you a kind but insistent smile. "And he definitely looks like he could use a sweet kitty purring on his lap."

You blinked, remaining rooted to the spot. "Cameron? As in Cameron Estates?"

Of course, you knew that name. It was plastered across countless ads on the streets. But he looked a little young to be the CEO of such a massive company.

"Oh, no. Not the father." Silas scoffed, adjusting his dark mustache. "Cameron as in Cameron & Carrera Counseling. And technically it's Doctor, but let's not use that in here. He'd probably take it as a jab."

Counseling.

He was a therapist?

Didn't exactly look the part with that grim aura radiating off him. But somehow that only made him more interesting, a strange pull beginning to form inside your chest.

Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you crossed the lounge, passing the main stage where Lacey currently performed on the pole while hungry eyes followed every movement she made. Two men tried to pull you into conversation, a couple hundred-dollar bills already clutched in their fingers, but you politely declined, claiming your slot had already been taken.

In your head, you tried to figure out what kind of man Mr. Loner Cameron was. Most men who entered this place could usually be divided into three categories, though all of them belonged somewhere between upper-middle and upper class.

The shameless type—men who didn't hold back their lust, loud men desperate to be noticed, never particularly restrained when it came to money or physical contact. They usually sat in open VIP lounges with their little friend groups, women draped across their laps and shoulders. That didn't always make them disrespectful or disgusting, but they were still the group you tended to avoid.

Then there were the quiet guys. They usually came alone or with a friend, booked a table to talk while some woman entertained them, or reserved private sessions in advance. Most of them were single because work consumed too much of their lives to leave room for a relationship, so instead they filled that emptiness through the services offered here.

And of course, there were the men interested in an entirely different side of the club—the Playroom. The part of After Midnight meant for guests whose needs—Silas had taught you never to call them fetishes, because some men found the term insulting—could only be satisfied by a very specific kind of service allowed under the club's rules.

It was for men who liked submitting to women in non-sexual ways. Spanking, roleplay, things like that. For safety reasons, any dynamic involving the man taking control was strictly forbidden.

So which category did the mysterious loner belong to?

Not-the-father Cameron was currently pulling fifty dollars from his thick wallet, your eyes catching on the dozens of bills practically suffocating inside it. A massive fish for a cat who usually chased older mice.

He was already on his feet, frowning at something Larry behind the counter had said, and nearly bumped straight into you with how quickly he turned to leave, like he'd suddenly remembered an important appointment.

"Watch it," he muttered, irritation sharp in his tired voice, blue eyes first dropping to your pushed-up cleavage and the metallic heart dangling from your collar before slowly traveling up to your face.

What a pretty face, you thought as you met his irritated expression with a playful smile. And God, he smelled good.

Not drowned in some overly sharp cologne that ruined your senses, no, he smelled simple. Fresh and soft, something aquatic mixed with green tea.

Expensive, but effortless.

You glanced at his half-empty glass with a soft chuckle. "Whiskey not your kind of drink?"

"Sure is," he answered, almost sounding offended.

And before he could continue—possibly explaining why he hadn't finished it—you cut in teasingly. "You look more like a cocktail guy, though."

You mirrored his earlier gaze, letting your eyes wander over his face, down his broad shoulders hidden beneath the cream-colored button-up, the golden ring on his left hand, all the way to his dark pants and matte dress shoes.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as you did so, the weary set of his shoulders loosening slightly into something more playful, more willing to indulge you. "Do I now?"

"Mhm," you hummed teasingly, subtly adjusting your posture so your cleavage was presented more directly to him. "I bet a Pretty Little Disaster would suit your taste. It's No. 16 on the menu."

Still-nameless Cameron raised a brow, his smirk widening into a lazy grin as he stared shamelessly at your chest. "You offering to be mine?"

The soft giggle leaving your lips came naturally. "Depends."

"On what?" His eyes drifted slowly over your body, taking in your skirted panties, garter straps, and heart-adorned lace stockings. "Whether I can afford you?"

Careful now.

A strip club revolved around money—spending it on women and services—but no man liked being reminded of exactly how much he was paying, or that everything here was ultimately transactional.

And Dr. Cameron right here seemed like someone who didn't even want to be inside a place like this in the first place, let alone leave bills tucked into a stripper's panties.

No, it felt more like he was here for a reason he didn't fully understand himself.

He looked out of place. Lost. Like he was searching for an escape or distraction from whatever problem haunted him outside the A.M.

And part of you wanted to understand him, make him feel better, let him forget the real world for just an hour.

"No," you said softly, resting your hand near his against the back of the bar stool. "You look like you could afford to book the entire club if you wanted to."

Your thumb gently brushed over his as you looked at him with playful eyes. "What I meant is whether you're ready for another disaster cause it looks like you've already experienced one today."

That made his expression loosen, the arrogant mask slipping for just a second, revealing something raw and hollowed out in his eyes before he recovered quickly.

He let out a condescending chuckle, gaze dropping briefly to your fingers before he pulled away from your touch. "I have no interest in owning a pit hole like this for lonely losers throwing cash at fake Barbies."

The easy smile on your face faltered at his crude words, and before you could stop yourself, you smoothly withdrew your hand to fiddle with the heart charm on your collar.

He's got kind eyes, but knows exactly how to bite where it'll hurt.

And still, you felt a strange sense of empathy for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes tracking your fidgeting, the sharp edge gone from his voice, leaving behind only exhausted roughness. “That was... It was a fucking shitty thing to say.” He grimaced, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile. “I'm not an asshole, okay? I’m just…”

A shaky sigh left his lips, a hollow expression flickering across his features once more as he met your eyes. There was a turmoil of intense emotions in them, all marked by the same silent plea for understanding.

Ironic, coming from a therapist.

“Exhausted?” you asked gently, finishing the sentence for him.

His eyes widened a fraction, as if surprised by your understanding. Then he nodded, the defiant demeanor slowly crumbling beneath whatever weight rested on his shoulders. “Roughest day I've had in months.”

Maybe something happened at his practice?

So what he needed wasn't a lap dance or a strip tease, but simple company. Someone he could share his burden with.

Your fingers stopped their playful movement around your collar. Instead, you placed them back onto the wooden barstool, rebuilding that small point of connection between you.

"Sounds like you need to unwind a little," you said softly, understanding replacing your teasing tone. Your hand on your thigh toyed with one of your garter straps. You really wanted to initiate physical contact, but his earlier reaction made you cautious.

The guarded expression returned immediately, and he lifted his chin slightly as his eyes traveled over you again, assessing you more carefully this time. "I'm not here to have some girl grind on me."

What a funny guy he was, walking into a strip club like he'd accidentally taken a wrong turn.

"I wasn't talking about humping your knee, Silly," you replied with a sweet chuckle that turned his cheeks the faintest shade of pink.

Your playful smile returned as you leaned forward again, presenting your chest to him more directly. "And I'm a woman, not a girl."

It was cute how he fell for the move every single time, his gaze dropping again automatically. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, brows pulling together in a failed attempt to regain composure. "I can see that."

Then he looked back up, something serious, almost paternal, flickering in his eyes. "Still, you look way too young to be running around in underwear in a room full of predators. How old are you exactly?"

In other words: Are you even legal? Will I get into trouble if I decide to engage with you?

"Old enough to make my own decisions," you replied with a girlish smile, tilting your head to challenge him. "And you? Five more years until retirement?"

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, genuine amusement finally gleaming in his eyes. Though it looked like you'd awakened something else too.

The same look every other man in this place eventually wore, some simply better at hiding it than others.

Hunger.

"You're an insolent brat," he said, though there was no real bite behind the words. He straightened his posture slightly, sliding his hand across the barstool to bring it closer to yours. "Unfortunately, I'm nowhere near ready to sit my ass in a rocking chair and ogle the tits of grandmas."

You laughed at his choice of words and caught his own smile widening in response. "'Unfortunately'? I mean, if older women are your thing, Pandora might be more your taste. Great build." You made a cupping gesture around your own boobs. "She even offers a service related to that. Unless you're lactose intolerant?"

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck." Not-into-cougars Cameron twisted his face into a grimace, laughing despite his best efforts. "Nah, I'd rather keep her box closed."

Sweet. A pun.

You mirrored his grin, soaking in the way he visibly loosened up around you. "Then I guess you'll just have to settle for what I have to offer."

"Princess, you're too young," he argued, the heat in his gaze fading back into something more restrained. "And I already told you I'm not interested in that kind of service."

"It's Kitty," you corrected him, fully aware he was only using a term of endearment. One hand settled on your hip while the other slid from the barstool to lightly tap against his chest. "And I told you that's not what I'm offering."

His eyes dropped to your finger before lifting back to your face. "Fine. What exactly could stripper Kitty possibly offer me to brighten this absolute trainwreck of a day besides swaying her hips in front of my face?"

Silly man. All grim expressions and dry remarks.

"How about another drink and the pleasure of my simple company?" you offered easily, stepping closer to invade his personal space while batting your lashes at him with a smile too sweet to refuse. "Cats are great listeners. Everybody knows that. And their purring has healing effects."

"Is that so?" he chuckled, making no move to step away. "Then what's stopping me from going home to my own kitty and letting her sit on my lap? At least she isn't trying to rob me blind."

A cat owner.

You'd taken him for a dog person.

You flashed him a grin that showed off your canines. “I don’t shed, and my breath doesn’t smell like tuna. And I bet I cost only half as much as your diva does in a week.”

“Then let me hear how much you're planning to drain from my wallet,” he chuckled, his demeanor opening more and more with every passing second. “And we can compare maintenance costs.”

In that moment, you decided to take a risk.

There was a chance you'd walk away from this with no profit at all—not a single bill tucked into your bra—and possibly even a warning from Silas, followed by less pay that month to compensate for the loss.

But you knew naming a concrete price right now would instantly turn the little game between you into an obvious transaction. And if he disliked the amount—or felt provoked by it—you'd lose a potential customer entirely.

And this one, you definitely wanted to keep on the hook.

Not just because his wallet alone carried more cash than you made in a month.

No, part of you genuinely wanted to know what had ruined his day badly enough for a man like him to end up lost inside a strip club he clearly never intended to visit.

“Let’s not talk numbers yet,” you said, offering him a kind smile. “How about I help take some of today's weight off your shoulders first, and we handle the formalities afterward? What do you say, Mr...?”

He seemed surprised you didn't know his name. Or maybe he simply hadn't expected you not to insist on payment immediately.

Either way, the corners of his mouth tugged downward into an amused smile. "Rafe. None of that Mister shit. Makes me feel old."

A pretty name for a pretty face.

Though you couldn't help but wonder how old he actually was. He didn't look a day over his mid-twenties.

"Rafe, then. I like it." You nodded, absentmindedly tracing a tiny heart against his chest with your index finger. "So, should I take that as a yes?"

For a moment, he only watched you, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, probably weighing whether you were worth the unspoken price or if he should just go home and curl up with his alleged kitten instead.

Then his eyes fluttered shut, brows knitting together as a tired breath slipped from his lips.

Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Yes. Lead the way."

You nearly let out an excited giggle. Instead, your fingers slid down his chest before grabbing his hand, holding onto it as he instinctively flinched at the contact.

"Don't be shy. I won't bite," you teased, already starting to walk and dragging him behind you without looking back, aside from one quick glance over your shoulder that caught the sheepish look crossing his face. "Unless you want me to."

A low chuckle left him as he followed you across the opposite side of the club, weaving through tables and past semi-secluded lounge areas toward the private solo rooms. Each elegant black door was decorated with golden numbering, a red or green light glowing above it, depending on availability.

Suite No. 3 was usually yours.

You greeted Dana with a small wave, the broad-shouldered woman standing nearby to intervene if any guest inside the rooms forgot how to follow the rules.

She nodded back at you before throwing Rafe a dark, assessing glance from head to toe. His hand tightened around yours as she did.

Men tended to dislike Dana, while every woman in the club felt safer just from her presence alone.

The door to Suite 3 slid open after you pressed a button. It closed automatically once you hit another switch inside, shutting out the laughter, music, and voices from the main hall.

Now it was just the two of you, and the glamour of the room around you.

Dim lighting drenched the space in soft crimson intimacy, reflecting off the silver pole in the center and the mirrored walls surrounding it. From the sound system streamed a slow, sensual beat, your nerves already itching for a performance.

You took a few more steps with him toward the middle of the room before letting go of his hand to gesture toward the curved velvet couch facing the pole. "Go on, please. Take a seat."

But Rafe stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the pole, some unreadable emotion flickering across his face before he finally moved. He sank stiffly into the leather couch, legs spread, hands resting awkwardly in his lap, looking anywhere but at you.

"Thirsty?" you asked gently, walking over to the stocked liquor cabinet with its built-in cooler system. Your gel nails drummed patiently against the wooden surface as you leaned against it, deliberately presenting your ass toward him.

Rafe stared for a second too long before clearing his throat and nodding. "Whiskey."

"Again?" You already pulled out a glass and bottle. "We also have champagne, tequila, soda, or water."

That made him scoff. "Who the fuck drinks water in here?"

"Me, Silly," you replied with a chuckle, pouring a generous amount of amber liquid into the glass. "Hydration is important. We even have a small juice selection."

"Yeah, I bet," he snorted, throwing a suspicious glance at the leather cushions.

With a soft thud, you placed the glass and bottle onto the side table, smiling sweetly when his eyes immediately landed on your cleavage. "You have a naughty brain. Sexual activities are strictly forbidden throughout the entire club."

"And you believe that?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the conviction in his voice. "Yes, of course. Those are the rules."

"Hm," he hummed, eyeing you in a way that almost made you feel pitied. "And who makes sure people actually follow them?"

"Our manager and security, of course."

Rafe glanced around before shrugging. "Don't see either of them in here."

"Don't be silly," you replied, straightening again, amused by his questioning. "That would be very awkward for you."

But he didn't smile. "Then what's stopping you or your coworkers from making a few extra bucks through a quick fling?"

That made you pause. "Why would we do that?"

"Because there are bastards who take advantage of nice girls like you, Kitty," he said, every trace of playfulness gone now. "Manipulative fucking predators who know exactly how to talk. They make you think they're only asking when really they're pushing for it through sweet compliments, making you believe you actually want it."

Your own demeanor faltered, though you forced out a light giggle as you turned toward the pole, feeling his gaze drift to your ass once more. "You think I'm nice?"

You peeked back over your shoulder before turning fully, one hand wrapping around the cold metal pole. Slowly, you started swaying your hips to the rhythm of the music.

Rafe let out a frustrated breath, his eyes following your face rather than the movement of your body. "You seem like a very nice girl, yes. But that's not what I was trying to say. Men are—"

"Talkers," you cut in with a smile as you moved into a slow, sensual dance around the pole. "I know. They chatter and chatter like a flock of magpies and never know when to shut their beaks."

You slid down onto your knees, holding his gaze while rolling your body against the pole. "They like shiny things. The way a woman's body gleams under neon lights. How it curves." You arched your back slightly.

"How it feels." One hand slid over your throat, down your chest, over the bare skin of your stomach.

"How it sounds." You rose in one fluid motion, a soft moan slipping from your lips as you pressed yourself against the pole.

Rafe adjusted his position on the couch, spreading his legs a little farther apart as his eyes briefly flicked to where your body met the metal pole. When he spoke again, his voice came out rougher than before. "Magpies are intelligent. Men are not."

A startled laugh escaped you as you threw your head back, twirling around the pole with one knee hooked around it.

"It's not funny," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze dropped to a point somewhere in front of him, blank and hollow as he reached for the drink beside him. "One is a cruel animal chasing after precious, innocent things they can stain and ruin. The other is just an annoying bird. You can't compare these two."

He took a large swig from the glass and emptied it in one go, a bitter sigh leaving his lips afterward. His hands trembled faintly, eyes still fixed on the rug. "Magpies kill because it's biologically necessary."

He swallowed hard, his voice reduced to a broken rasp. "Men do it just because they can."

The smile disappeared from your face entirely, your movements coming to a stop as your fingers tightened around the pole.

The air in the room shifted from teasing playfulness into something heavier, gloomier. Like a dark cloud had settled over the space, thick with pressure, waiting to empty itself onto everything beneath it.

He slowly raised his head again.

The look on his face when he met your eyes was so hollow, so consumed by grief and some deep-writhing emotion you couldn't even begin to name.

"They take something good and kind and use it like a toy," he said quietly. "They twist it and break it and throw it around, abuse the innocence and devour what's supposed to be sacred until there's nothing left."

A faint shimmer had appeared in his eyes now, his voice stripped raw.

"And the worst kind of men are the ones staining the goodness under their own roof." He pressed his lips together, his neck and ears flushing red from holding back whatever rot was eating him alive from the inside out. "A magpie would never touch its own kin."

His jaw tightened. "A man would."

That was the cloud finally breaking loose. His words were a heavy black rain, drenched in pain and hurt, threatening to poison your senses. Shared grief now pressed down onto the atmosphere inside the room, daring to suffocate you with it.

And the worst part?

It reeked familiar.

Your knuckles hurt from how tightly you gripped the pole; your gaze locked onto him. And when you finally spoke, your voice came out quiet, all earlier confidence gone. "Is that what brought you here today?"

A single nod answered you.

Such a small movement carrying so much pain and grief, so many unspoken words. He didn't need to explain further for you to understand the weight he'd been dragging on his shoulders when he walked into the club.

Rafe swallowed hard, his lips trembling as he reached for the bottle again. A tremor ran through his hand while he filled the glass too far, whiskey spilling over the rim and onto the wooden table.

But he didn't react.

He simply set the bottle back down with a hard thud and stared into the drink in his hands.

"One session was enough for me to understand the kind of life she came from." His voice sounded rough and pained, his free hand curling into a tight fist against his knee. "A little girl whose worried teacher drove her to my practice and paid for the appointment herself.”

"I'm a therapist," he clarified with a broken smile tugging at his lips, and you didn't interrupt him to say you already knew. "I don't specialize in pre-adolescent patients which is why she was supposed to be assigned to my colleague, but her schedule was full. So, I took her anyway for the initial consultation."

A hollow chuckle escaped him.

"She reminded me of my youngest sister. Energetic, smart, impressively articulate for her age. Creative too. Could've filled entire books with stories better than the garbage kids are forced to read nowadays."

The sentence gutted you from the inside out.

"'Could have'...?" you asked quietly, though you already dreaded the answer.

Rafe looked up again, his expression twisting into rage and helpless fury before crumbling apart completely, tears now visibly warring in his eyes. "She never showed up to her second session. It was scheduled today."

He stared back down into his drink. “And I’m sitting in a fucking jerk-off club while she’s…”

He swallowed hard. “Fuck.”

Then he downed the entire glass in one large gulp, not even flinching this time, and slammed it back onto the table hard enough to make you jump.

In one fluid motion, Rafe rose to his feet, slightly unsteady, and pulled out his thick wallet. He fished out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills without even counting them before tossing it onto the table. “Should be enough to cover your rent and bills for this month.”

He moved so fast you could barely follow, your eyes frozen on the thick stack of cash.

But when he tried to move past you, something inside you reacted instinctively, and before you could think twice, your body stepped into motion.

“Be a good kitty and step aside,” he said quietly, glassy eyes fixed on yours as you blocked the door. The exhaustion in his voice scratched at the part of you that simply couldn't let him leave yet.

His soul was hurting, and something deep inside you wanted to fix that.

So you stood your ground, shaking your head, too startled by your own audacity to speak.

His weary expression hardened into something grim. "I paid you. We're done here."

"We're not," you replied softly, placing your hands against his chest when he tried to brush past you. "You can't leave like this."

Rafe’s brows twitched—irritation, confusion, probably both—and he stayed still for the moment. “Like what?”

Like you're in no state to go home. Or drive. Like you're one second away from breaking down completely, from hurting yourself or someone else with all this grief and anger rotting inside you.

But instead, you whispered: “Like you’re blaming yourself for what happened to her.”

Your words landed like a blow.

Rafe's entire face twisted with agony and sorrow, self-inflicted guilt written across every feature. His lips trembled like a child trying desperately not to cry.

"Because that's exactly how it is," he replied, his voice shaking, another wave of self-hatred washing over his face—something far older and deeper than this single tragedy alone. "I could've prevented it. One fucking call and she would've been dragged out of that shithole she called home the very same day, and she never would've taken that leap."

A choked sob finally broke free. “But I didn’t.”

Rafe took a step back, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes before shaking his head violently, gesturing toward his chest with rough frustration while angry tears filled his gaze. “Because I listened to my fucking supervisor instead of trusting my gut.”

A resentful smile pulled at his lips. "No reportable evidence, he said. Just concern based on instincts. Told me to document everything, keep seeing her, and avoid impulsive decisions that could cost me my license."

He gestured sharply toward the door, voice suddenly rising. “Now I still have my fucking license and she’s dead.”

The words came out ugly and brutal.

The ache inside him carved a deep abyss between the two of you, one threatening to swallow you whole if you stepped too close.

And it was hard not to let it.

The pain he carried for this faceless little girl without a name reached your soul in a way nothing else had in a very long time.

Part of you wanted to retreat, let him leave, let him storm out of the club and disappear back into the night while you returned to your shift. Let another customer book the room, and let wandering hands roam over your body for less than the money currently sitting on the table.

And yet Rafe's words had touched you more tonight than anyone's hands ever had.

He had opened himself up to you. Bared a part of himself he probably rarely let anyone see. Men like him hated crying; the world taught them to. More than that, they hated being witnessed while doing it.

Vulnerability was a luxury most men believed they couldn’t afford.

But to you, it was something precious. A gift.

A man letting his guard down enough to reveal the layers beneath himself—that was worth more than all the money in the world.

Which was exactly why you decided to expand the safety of Suite Number 3.

Carefully, you moved toward him, the sound of your heels softened by the thick carpet beneath your feet as you crossed the abyss between the two of you.

“It’s not your fault,” you said quietly, trying to catch his gaze with gentle understanding.

His eyes looked glazed and hollow, alcohol and grief leaving him utterly wrecked. Every ounce of energy seemed drained from him.

You reached for his upper arm, rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of his sleeve. “You did what you believed was right in that moment. You consulted your supervisor and followed his instructions. You couldn’t have known what would happen after a single session.”

“Yes, I could have.” Rafe nodded immediately, face twisting into a bitter grimace as he looked away from you toward the floor. “There were signs—I know there were—and I chose to ignore them. I failed my responsibility.”

His lips trembled again, dangerously close to another sob.

“She needed help and I…” His voice cracked. “I fucking failed her.”

And finally, the dam broke.

The tears he'd been desperately fighting spilled freely at last.

You didn’t hesitate.

Instinctively, you closed the final step between you, your hand sliding from his arm up to his shoulder while the other moved behind his neck.

Rafe’s body tensed instantly beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight from the sudden embrace.

But the moment your fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, and your head rested against the frantic beating of his heart beneath his chest, his resistance shattered completely.

In one fluid motion, his arms wrapped beneath your shoulders and around your torso, pulling you flush against him while his forehead dropped into the crook of your neck.

Raw, messy sobs shook through him, dampening your bare shoulder.

But you didn’t care.

Because in that moment he wasn’t a stranger.

Just another wounded soul trying to share his burden with another.

“The people around her failed her,” you whispered soothingly, though keeping your own tears under control was becoming difficult. “The ones who deliberately ignored her pain. The ones who pushed her to that point in the first place.”

Your fingers cupped the back of his head gently, holding him there. "You took her in even though she wasn't part of your specialization. You gave her a safe space, even if it was only for an hour, and you listened to her."

Your thumb brushed softly through his hair. "And what happened afterward wasn't you ignoring her. It was you reaching out in an attempt to get her help, but in the end, you settled on sticking to the rules of your profession. You worked within the circumstances you were allowed to."

You tightened your embrace slightly. “So, it wasn’t you who failed her. It was the system.”

He responded with an equally tight squeeze, sobbing into your shoulder like a boy clinging to his mother. You wondered if this was the first time in a long while that he'd allowed himself to be held like that.

Grown men either had a wife they could turn to, or they didn't.

And the men who wandered into strip clubs were usually the loneliest kind. Or cheating assholes. There was rarely anything in between.

Rafe wore a golden ring around his index finger, though it looked more like a family heirloom than a wedding band. And he didn’t strike you as the disloyal type.

“You’re smarter than half the bastards in my profession,” he murmured, barely audible against your skin. “And just as decent as my own kitty.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips at that. “I bet you take great care of her.”

"I do." He inhaled your scent, sending goosebumps prickling across your skin. "And you don't smell like spoiled attitude the way she does."

“Oh, I definitely have attitude too.”

He let out a weak scoff. “A stubborn brat. That much hasn't escaped me.”

Another minute passed in the intimacy of your embrace. The sensual music surrounding you and the soft red glow overhead made Suite No. 3 feel like far more than just another room inside a strip club.

Rafe wasn’t the first stranger you’d held in your arms here. Many men came looking for simple company, someone willing to listen.

But he was the first one who had touched more than just your body.

Which was ironic, considering there had been no physical intimacy beyond this embrace.

Eventually, he pulled away.

The movement was slow, making your hands slide down from around his neck to rest against his chest while his own lingered on your upper arms.

Warmth spread through your chest at the sight of the harsh edges in his face softening into something quieter. Some reluctant form of acceptance.

Maybe acceptance of the situation. Maybe of himself.

Or maybe the strong whiskey had simply done its job and numbed some of the pain weighing him down. Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow morning with the same heavy cloud pressing against his shoulders all over again.

But perhaps you’d helped some of that weight spill over tonight, enough to let him breathe just a little easier, even if only for a moment.

It looked like he wanted to say something, lips parting slightly before he stopped himself. Instead, he slowly let go of you, the weary softness in his face hardening back into a defensive mask.

He gestured toward the bundle of cash on the table. “I expect you to keep all of it. No handing over whatever cut your manager demands.”

Your hands slipped from his chest, lips already parting to argue, but he cut you off with a firm shake of his head. “Silas, right?”

You nodded.

"He'll get his share," Rafe said, authority slipping back into his voice. "I'll make sure he receives it personally." He pointed toward you. "So don't you dare hand any of that over. It's yours, Kitty. Understood?"

“But—”

“No.” His brows furrowed, somehow looking completely sober despite the wrecked exhaustion written across his features. “I insist.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

Arguing with him felt pointless. You’d already figured that much out from the little back-and-forth you'd shared tonight.

“That fucker will be generously compensated, I promise you,” Rafe continued, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at the mess his tears had left against your shoulder. “And if he still demands a cut, let me know and I’ll have a nice little conversation with him.”

What would Silas say about being insulted like that?

A startled laugh escaped your lips. “You’re a silly guy. How exactly am I supposed to let you know? Telepathy?”

Rafe smiled faintly, shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket before taking a small step backward.

“You’re a smart kitty,” he said. “I’m sure you’d find a way.” A knowing glint flickered in his eyes. “That is, of course, if we continue pretending you don’t actually know who I am.”

What a sly man.

“An arrogant customer,” you replied teasingly, matching his playfulness.

He scoffed softly and started walking toward the door alongside you. “I trust you'll keep your little snout shut about exactly which customer visited you tonight, correct?”

You gifted him your sweetest smile, clasping your hands together in front of your stomach and, intentionally or not, presented your cleavage to him one last time.

And of course, he looked.

“Don’t worry,” you said, flashing your canines again. “No one will ever know Dr. Cameron set foot inside this club.”

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 ᨐฅ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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♱

"yeah, baby... just like that," matt groaned, hips bucking against her hands. his girl was on her knees, trying her absolute best to please him.

matt's girlfriend wasn't very experienced when it came to sexual acts, but she was more than happy to learn for him. she enjoyed pleasing him and the view of him riding a high of ecstasy.

"tighten those hands a little, yeah?" he requested, eye shutting in pleasure. she obliged, pumping him slowly.

matt panted as her movements increased in intensity, his blue eyes hazy from need. he was obsessed with her lingering purity, watching the innocence flee from her the more she touched him.

"is this okay? is there anything else i can do?" she mumbled, looking up at him from the ground.

he shook her head, "no, doll, you'e doing so good for me... is it too much for you?"

"nuh uh, just wanna make you feel good," she responded, focusing her gaze on his thick cock in front of her. she was practically salivating at the sight, she had never imagined anything this big. she was thoroughly ruined for any other man, just like matt liked it.

"fuck, fuck! ahh, i'm gonna... i'm gonna cum, okay?" he looked down at her, making sure she was okay. her expression showed no change, so he didn't hold back.

soon enough, pearly ropes coated her hands and part of her face. matt's moans reverberated around the room, his body jerking closer to the source of pleasure. she didn't want to ruin his moment, but she was slightly grossed out by the liquid coating her skin.

he came down from his high, his eyes opening and facing towards his girlfriend. he could see the slight disgust in her expression, feeling guilty now.

"oh, darling, i'm sorry i made a mess," he frowned. matt slipped off the black t-shirt from his chest, wiping her face and hands of his seed. "you wanna take a shower? it might make you feel better," he offered.

"yeah... sorry, i don't want you to feel bad. i'm just not used to it yet," she shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"i'm not upset at all, i just want to make sure you're okay," he replied sweetly, rubbing her cheek.

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