fanfics I revisit

your body arches right into him. hot, sweaty chest, soft and pressed up against his own. clark's muscle tenses, his hip thrusting relentlessly into your squelching cunt. the sharp burn you once felt had manifested into something so dangerous and potent — the aching pleasure of your belly burning wildly and intensely.

clark's arm curls around your hips, his forearms flexing, holding you securely in place as he drives up into you. he'd barely begun fucking you and he already knew you were going to cum, with your pussy fluttering so warm and tight around him. the combined sweat makes your skin slick where you're pressed together.

he thinks he might've imagined it when he sees a flicker of an amber glow casting form your eyes. it pulses in your pupils, threatening to take over. clark keeps at his pace — the room then lights up, in the direction your head was tilted.

his eyes widens. an awed gasp caught in his throat as the amber coats your irises, illuminating his face for a brief second before you tip your head. column of your through visible as you come hard, coating the space in an otherworldly glow.

"jesus…look at you."

the glow pulses from within your skin. forcing clark to slow in the presence of the eerie hue. he stares, completely captivated. it quickly churns in him — a quiet, heady want that fills him. before you even begin to feel judged beneath his scrutiny, his hand comes to cradle your cheeks, thumbing gently at your cheekbone.

you lean into his touch, shy. "i-is it weird?" his gaze only makes you pulse around him harder.

clark lets out a low, shuddered groan at the flutter, hips jerking up into you.

"g-gosh no. not weird. it's…you."

his thrusts resume much slower, careful not to overwhelm you after your orgasm. but he's mesmerised, by the gentle flow that fades from your eyes. grinding slow and deep into you.

"you're so…so beautiful."

you feel his palm slide to the back of your head, flexing his fingers in locks of your hair. "m-mhn. you're…not just saying that to be nice?" you punctuate your words with a circle of your hips, matching the pace of his thrusts.

clark visibly winces, grunting low as he feels the familiar tightness in his balls. "you're…unbelievable." his gaze remains on you, sheepish, but truthful, "it is…so…incredibly hot," he croaks, his own head looks to the side. focussed on driving his cock into you velvet, tight pussy. "you're glowin'…cause of me."

you don't think you have another orgasm left in you. but you're as determined to get him to feel the same pleasure you did. a low growl rumbles in your throat as you squeeze harder around him.

"h-holy—…ugh!"

a broken whimper leaves his throat as soon as you relax around his length and his belly tightens, convulsing beneath you as he pants your name over and over. arm tightly locked around your hips as he empties himself deep inside you in helpless, desperate thrust.

you whine at the abrupt change in position, where clark pulls you down next to him, breathing heavily in the wake of his own orgasm.

clark's turns to you with a deep, content sigh, his hand coming up to brush the damp hairs stuck to your temple to the side. "wasn't such bad thing…" he murmurs, thumbing by your cheekbones.

"you're so weird…"

he lifts his head in mock offense, "how does that make me weird?"

"me beaming like a lighthouse is weird. liking it makes you weird. " you mumble with an embarrassed laugh, burying your face in his chest.

"it's not weird," he tuts, draping your trembling thighs over his hips, "first time i….came….i laser beamed my bedroom in the barn."

you snort. nudging your jaw on his chest.

"you're fucking with me."

"m'not," clark raises his palm, folding his fingers. "scout's honour."

"…you really think it's hot?" you lazily rest your cheeks on the sweaty, tuft of hair on his chest."

"are you kidding? i came harder than i have in years just watching you get like that…"

"you're just saying that." you cut in, hasty and in disbelief. "what's so hot about it?"

"gosh it's…" clark sighs, head slumping back, a lop-sided grin on his cheeks. "letting go for me like that, your entire body reacting so…beautifully. it's…it's like heaven —"

"jesus. you're so poetic for no reason. say it dirtier." you murmur. running your knuckles down the deep indents of his cheeks.

clark lifts his head enough to size you with a pouty look, but then he slumps. pondering on your words. you don't think he was actually going to follow through until you feel his voice drop an octave lower, gaze intently on yours.

"watchin' you…come apart on my cock is one thing. but seeing your eyes just…glow. like some kind of…extra-terrestrial adult film…star. i don't think a guy can ask for more. i thought i would explode. like i was gonna laser beam at my release like it was my first damn time."

you lift your head, almost in awe at his use of words, a soft, appraising growl leaving your throat.

There once was a curious little mermaid who longed to explore the world above the dark ocean floor. However, as the youngest of six, her father, the sea king, fiercely protected her. Whenever she asked to visit the surface, as her sisters had been allowed, he repeated the same objection. The human world was a dangerous place, ill suited for someone as innocent as she.

His insistence only made her more eager to learn the secrets of this fascinating world. Suddenly her sisters' tales of the golden light just beyond the kelp forest weren't enough to sustain her dreaming. She needed to see for herself and begged relentlessly until her father finally conceded.

Though conflicted about granting her wish, he hoped the journey would quench her thirst for knowledge. He comforted himself with the reminder that his older daughters had all obediently returned, vowing never to leave the underwater kingdom again. And so he convinced himself his youngest child would do the same.

On the appointed day, her father recited the rules that had protected his other children during their visits. "You may observe their world from the jagged rocks, but do not venture further. The shallow tidal pools will trap you as surely as the fishermen's hooks and nets," he began before segwaying to the general wickedness of humans.

As her father droned on about how they must be avoided at all cost, the impatient little mermaid swam back and forth. The anxious swish of her tail swirling sediment all around her.

Stamping his trident upon the sea floor, the king shot his daughter a stern look that instantly stilled her fins. "Have you been listening?" he demanded, holding her gaze with fierce determination.

"Of course, father, every word," she answered sweetly, green eyes sparkling back at him like bright gemstones.

It was this disarming look that always created a sentimental old fool of him. He would never have admitted it aloud, but his youngest daughter was his favorite and letting her go was even more difficult than he imagined.

Noticing a tear at the corner of her father's eye, she swam forward to embrace him. And with a loving peck to his cheek, thanked him for his blessing. "You're the best father anyone could ask for!" she whispered in his ear.

He only chuckled in reply as she darted away in girlish enthusiasm for adventure. And he smiled softly to himself as she disappeared from his sight, silently willing her to return unharmed.

For many weeks afterward, the sea king was blissfully ignorant of the infatuation born on that fateful day. He had not yet realized his daughter was stealing away to the surface daily for a glimpse of the handsome, bearded man she'd seen upon her first encounter into the human world.

With dark coat and heavy stride he came to the beach every evening before sunset to walk his dog and she listened intently as his deep voice rumbled forth to compete with the crashing waves. As he called to the animal, she wished it was her name upon his lips and despaired a little with each disappointing cry of, "Cryil!"

So infatuated was the little mermaid that in time, she could place him by his broad shouldered silhouette upon the sand as he took his nightly stroll. And in the fading light of the setting sun, she could almost picture herself beside him, his strong arm around her shoulder. He would regale her with amusing tales and their laughter would echo down into the depths of the sea. Only then would her father see how wrong he'd been about humans.

This fantasy is what compelled her to sneak away so often, desperate for even the slightest glimpse of the mysterious man she dreamed of making her own. He seemed lost and lonely in his world just as she did in hers. Perhaps together they could find happiness, she mused.

However, one day she saw that her love was not alone on the beach. While Cyril ran ahead to retrieve a stick from the water's edge, another man appeared at his side. He was much shorter in stature, a peaked cap pulled low over his eyes. They seemed to chat like brothers or old friends for some time and it was during this exchange she learned the name of her beloved, Alfie.

She said it over and over again to herself, a slight giggle on her lips as she repeated the odd sounding moniker. Lost in thought, she hadn't noticed the weapons raised between them until shots rang out in deafening succession. She stifled a scream behind her hands as Alfie was struck down, falling to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Disregarding her father's rules for the first time, she swam toward Alfie with speed she hadn't realized she was capable of. The instinct to go to him in his time of need overtook her and suddenly she forgot any danger lurking ashore.

Finding Alfie alone on the beach once more, she pulled herself from the safety of the water, landing next to him on the scorching sand. Far too concerned with his shattered cheekbone and ragged breathing to care anything for her own comfort. She endured the blistering heat at her back as she knelt over him, whispering his name like a prayer.

Pressing her palm to his unblemished cheek, her fingertips wandered the slope of his jaw. Lightly carding his dark beard, she cooed at the hint of ginger beneath, fascinated by the detail she'd never seen from the distant rocks. The feeling of his flesh beneath her hand was intoxicating, even more so when she was rewarded with a few short grunts.

Brimming with hope for his survival, she began to hum a gentle lullaby and her voice rose steadily when she noticed his eyelids flutter. She couldn't be sure he heard her, but she comforted him nonetheless until a chorus of voices sounded in the distance. Scrambling back to the water, she hid herself in a cresting wave just as the first rescuer approached.

I don't want this to be the last time, she thought, allowing herself one backward glance. Alfie was already being carried away from her, perhaps never to return. The notion was far too painful to dwell on when it first entered her mind. However, as weeks turned to months, the little mermaid grew despondent over the love affair that would never be.

The painful longing unbearable, she eventually called upon the only one who could offer solutions to the troubled. Though the little mermaid knew the venture was ill advised, she couldn't stop herself from seeking out the sea witch.

Terrified, but determined, the little mermaid swam through the inky abyss until she arrived at a castle made of ivory bone. Like a beacon in the darkness, it promised salvation inside. But first, she would have to cross a graveyard of polyps said to contain the souls of the sea witch's victims. It took all her courage to race past their spindly grasp, blocking her ears to shut out the low moaning, but somehow she came to the other side.

Body trembling slightly from the adrenaline coursing through her, she raised a fist to knock. The rattling echo reverberated through her even as the door swung open to reveal a shriveled old hag and she froze in abject fear.

"What is it you seek, my child?" the sorceress asked, her pet water snakes encircling the girl to prevent escape.

With more than a slight tremor to her voice, the little mermaid confided her secret, hoping the witch could offer some remedy to the deep longing in her heart.

"I want...human legs," the girl answered with a harsh gulp.

"That is a bold request," the sea witch croaked as she drew the little mermaid further into her lair.

"I can pay, I have gold," the girl offered, producing a sack of heavy coins.

However, the sea witch only laughed at the child. "It will take far more than that," she cackled. "For what you desire is not legs, but a human soul."

The little mermaid ceased all movement, feeling herself sink into the murky depths as she realized what she was truly asking. However, she was a tenacious thing, ready to pay whatever price the sea witch demanded if she could deliver what was promised. Bright green eyes flicking to the hag's craggy face, she ventured, "Can you help me?"

The sea witch took her time as though pondering the question for the first time. The eery silence hung between them like the bloated polyps outside her door which now began to weep softly in protest. The sea witch swiftly drew the mermaid's attention back with another sharp cackle. "So eager, are we?"

"I'll do anything," the little mermaid replied with such earnestness, the sorceress snorted at the girl's naïveté.

Beckoning her pets to bring her a small bottle, the sea witch snatched it up and held the colored glass to the light. It shimmered beneath the undulating waters, casting a glow over the little mermaid which left her in silent awe.

"To win your human love, you must become one yourself, that much is true. Drink this and you will be altered as you have wished," she explained.

Utterly entranced, the impetuous young mermaid blurted, "Legs? Oh, thank you!" Her nimble fingers shot out for the bottle just as the sea witch held it out of reach.

"But I warn you that every step you take will be more excruciating than the last as a reminder of what you've left behind," she explained. "And in return for this agony, you must still make payment to me."

"Yes, of course. What is it you want?" the little mermaid asked breathlessly, seeming to discount the dire warning of imminent suffering.

"Your voice," the hag answered nonchalantly, shrugging as though it were merely a trifle.

The little mermaid stopped to think for the first time since her arrival. Without her voice, how would Alfie recognize her as the one who had saved him? She would never be able to tell him of the times she watched him from the jagged rocks or how she came to sing softly to him on the beach that day.

As she weighed the decision, the sea witch twirled the vial in her shriveled tentacle and the enchanting light found its way to the mermaid's gaze once again. All doubts now silenced by the promise of her reunion with Alfie, the little mermaid agreed.

The glint of a steel blade and the sea witch's cackle was the last thing the little mermaid remembered before waking on the shore. She blinked against the brightness of the sun overhead, barely registering the blood tinged water or the dull ache in her mouth.

In fact, all was forgotten as the waves receded to reveal legs in place of a tail fin. Heart thundering in anticipation, she pushed herself up from the surf and gasped in horror. It was exactly as the sea witch had foretold, an excruciating pain shooting from the tips of her toes to her hip.

It took the better part of the afternoon to make her way inland, sometimes crawling upon the deserted beach to find shelter. When her resolve weakened, she would pray for Alfie to appear and rescue her before she surely perished.

Sometime later, as the clouds closed in overhead, she heard a familiar voice cry out, "Cyril!" For a moment she wondered if her delirious mind was hearing phantom voices on the wind, but then she saw a pair of boots trodding toward her with an unmistakable gait.

As Alfie approached, he couldn't help but take notice of her nakedness. Tilting his head to study her like some specimen under glass, he asked, "And who might you be, treacle?"

Forgetting the price she paid to the sea witch, the girl tried to tell him her name. However, there was nothing to show for the effort, except a thick trickle of blood running from the corners of her mouth. She swiped at it desperately, but the attempt only left a garish, crimson streak across her cheek. Wincing in pain and embarrassment, she tilted her chin up at him meekly.

"Got yourself a Glasgow smile," he remarked, as he came to stand over her. "Go on, tell us your story, little bird," he prodded, draping his coat over her.

The offer was met with silence and Alfie began to wonder if she understood English. He tried Italian and French next, even Yiddish, but she only stared back at him numbly. He had not yet considered his shocking appearance.

With his hulking form blocking out the light, she had an unobstructed view of the damaged side of his face. She inhaled sharply at the web of scars that criss crossed his cheek, pointing toward a milky white pupil which contrasted sharply with the hawklike focus of his good eye.

Noticing the way her eyes widened, Alfie finally understood. Stroking a ringed hand down his face, he explained, "Battle scars, innit? Don't let it give you the willies."

Eased by his remark, she found him no less attractive to her and she no less wanting of his affection. She extended a hand from beneath the thick wool of his coat, eager to feel his touch.

Pleased to see they were getting somewhere, Alfie's large hands closed over her delicate fingers to bring her to her feet. Briefly locking eyes with the girl, his brow furrowed at the striking shade of green. He'd seen them somewhere before. A whisper of a tune floated inside his head, but there was no time to reflect on it. The girl instantly crumpled beneath him and he rushed to catch her in his arms.

Blood smeared mouth opening in a guttural scream of pain, the girl inadvertently revealed why she didn't talk. Someone had cut out her tongue. "Ah, the little bird can't sing," he muttered to himself as a tear rolled down her cheek in sorrowful acknowledgement.

Alfie shook his head slowly, thoughts of which gang might be responsible. He knew several that silenced rats by taking their tongues, but he'd never seen it happen to a woman. He took a moment to decide if she was worth the trouble if it came to that.

A single glance at her angelic face, contorted in pain, erased all doubt that he should take pity on her. He scooped her up and carried her to his seaside hideaway, Lethe. There could be no safer place for her as everyone thought him dead. And who would come knocking on a dead man’s door?

Alfie's hunch had been correct. No one came looking for the girl in over a month. It was around this time, he began to breathe a sigh of relief that her pursuers had vanished and so the walls he'd put up to protect himself came crumbling down.

He invited his little bird, as he'd taken to calling her, to his study in the evenings to listen to opera recordings on his gramophone. In addition, Alfie provided translation, along with long winded explanations of the plot. If the girl objected, she didn't let on. Her brilliant eyes shone with interest, hanging on every word.

On the occasions his sciatic nerve allowed it, Alfie even danced with the beautiful girl who proved to be the most exquisite dancer he'd ever encountered. The abnormally long baths she required as part of her therapy were doing her good, he thought.

He did not see the price she paid at the end of those evenings, shoes soaked in blood. She'd learned to live with the terrible curse of her swollen and sore feet, hiding her pain in hopes of glimpsing a rare smile from Alfie.

On one such evening, just as Alfie chose the Turandot by Giacomo Puccini, they were interrupted by the housekeeper, Elsa.

"It's Mr. Shelby, sir," the older woman rasped, unaccustomed to announcing visitors.

Hand hovering over the needle, Alfie blinked slowly as he uttered, "Tommy?" It was less of a question and more of a remembrance of something dug from the depths of him, a tumor cut out long ago and promised never to return.

"What the fuck does he want?" Alfie grumbled with obvious agitation.

"He didn't say, sir. He only told me to tell you a storm is coming."

Alfie's face looked as though he'd smelled something putrid, Elsa more confused than ever.

"There's no chance of a storm tonight. The sunset was a lovely shade. And you know the old adage, red sky at night, sailor's delight, so I don't see how..." she began before Alfie silenced her with a fearful roar.

"Shut your bloody mouth, woman!" he growled, tossing a crystal ashtray against the wall for emphasis.

Elsa shrieked as she ducked the flying object. With trembling voice she asked, "What shall I tell him?"

Alfie ran a hand down his beard to collect himself. Exhaling a heavy sight, he conceded, "Tell him he has five minutes."

Elsa furrowed her brow. "Are you certain, sir?"

"Think I have a bloody choice do ya?"

Moments later Tommy Shelby, king of Birmingham, was before them. The girl knew nothing of his position in their world, but instantly recognized him as the man who shot Alfie. The memory of that day revisited her, causing her entire body to quiver in fear. She shrunk from both men, confining herself to the shadows of the sitting room.

The men continued their business, Tommy pressuring Alfie to provide soldiers to his cause by threatening to reveal Alfie's whereabouts. However, Alfie was a man who valued negotiation so he increased the fee with each mention of Tommy's betrayal.

"Think I deserve some sort of compensation for you cocking up my execution," he spat. "I asked you to kill me, not rearrange my fucking face."

The girl stifled a gasp at his confession, unable to believe that Alfie once wanted to end his life. Though Alfie was careful not to give her away, Tommy's keen eye spotted her bright eyes shining in the corner.

"Who is your lovely, young companion, Alfie?" he asked, the smoke from his cigarette briefly obscuring his piercing gaze.

"You want to steal her away, Tommy?" Alfie challenged. "You're gettin too old for chasing skirts," he added with a sniff.

Tommy shook his head with a humorless chuckle. "No, I just thought you'd like to know what she is." He stopped to brush the dust off his coat with a dramatic flourish. "That girl...well, not a girl, are you, sweetheart?" he smirked at her, gold tooth winking in the dim light. "She is the reason for your blindness and the cancer that eats your insides. It's why you aren't resting in your grave at this very moment."

Alfie gritted his teeth at Tommy's obvious provocation, "What are you talking about, mate?"

Lacking an ashtray, Tommy extinguished his cigarette beneath the heel of his expensive leather shoes, sighing deeply. "Why are you asking me, eh? Why don't you have a chat with your girl," he smiled smugly before leaving them in stunned silence.

The air was charged with electricity, suspicion lingering in the room. It was only amplified by the static of the skipping record which had come to an end.

Alfie quietly stood to remedy the problem, raising the needle from the record and bathing the room in silence once more. He paced quietly for a time, making the girl believe he'd forgotten the accusation leveraged against her. That is, until his temper reached a boiling point.

Then he raged, throwing things and cursing with such ferocity, she began to shake. When he descended upon her, she wasn't prepared for the onslaught of his fury. "Is it true?" he demanded, watching her face carefully.

When her emerald eyes shone back at him with glistening tears, it only seemed to enrage him more. "Don't!" he warned, pointing a finger at her. "Don't play innocent now that you're caught! Who are you?" he demanded.

Her limitations holding her back from answering, Alfie shook her shoulders violently as he shouted, "Was it you that day on the beach? I knew I recognized those green eyes! Don't fucking lie to me, girl!"

Choking back a sob, she nodded, eyes pleading for mercy for she had only ever wanted him to love her.

With pure disgust, Alfie tossed her aside like a rag doll. Now the object of his loathing, she became an unwanted thing he could no longer look upon.

She could bear his bad moods and the cursing, but not this. Not his hatred. Hanging her head in shame, she cried into her skirts.

"Do you know what you've done?" Alfie demanded, slamming his fist upon a nearby table and nearly shattering it. "My life is nothing but pain and misery. Can't you see that, you pathetic little wretch? I wanted to die by the sword like a man and you took that from me!" he bellowed loudly enough to make the paintings rattle.

The girl only sobbed harder as she fled the room, uncertain of where she should go.

As it turned out, there was no place for her other than Margate. She'd only known Alfie's kindness and without it, she feared she would starve. So she tried to coexist with him for a time, if only to see if forgiveness was possible.

It would not be the case. Something inside him rotted that day, turning his instincts rancid with cruelty.

Like Hades trapping Persephone beneath the shadowy realm of the underworld, Alfie caged his little bird. And though she tried to abide in her love for him, it was no use. His mind was bent on revenge.

She would make an attempt at escape a year later, but the pain in her legs made her easy to catch. For her punishment, Alfie brought her to the docks to see what the fisherman brought in. And there upon a large hook was a mermaid.

"You steal from me, I steal from you, my little bird....or should I say, my little fish," Alfie hissed, tilting her chin upward for a long look. "Your sister was a beauty."

She shook her head in disbelief. You're lying, she wanted to scream, but nothing more than a choked sob escaped her lips as she broke free of his grip.

"I'll give you a minute to catch up," Alfie offered mockingly.

Standing at the edge of the water that evening, the incoming tide washed an effervescent bright white froth ashore beside her and she wept. For when a mermaid dies, they turn to sea foam. It was a crushing realization that Alfie was telling the truth. Her sister was gone and it was her fault.

In a trance, she returned to Lethe, wishing she could forget all that had come before. But she wasn't granted that pardon.

"If you ever try to escape again, I swear you'll see every member of your family strung up," Alfie warned.

For the sake of those she loved, she stayed and lived unhappily ever after.

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Your breath is stagnant, your legs are shaking, and you want nothing more than that cock, already with the tip pressed firmly against your pussy. He doesn't penetrate you though, just presses his tip heavily against the folds of your pussy, but he doesn't push it in, not yet, even though you're already dripping. That's how much you want this man, who hasn't said a word since he had wordlessly pressed you against the ropes of the boxing ring and had kissed you. 

Tommy Conlon kisses like a god. His lips are soft and full, and what he doesn't say in words he packs all the more into the passionate movements of his mouth. Your breath caught when he kissed you so roughly, your knees went weak, but his strong forearm held you. You don't even know how much time has passed since he had pressed you to the floor, his hands on your body like a command. How deftly those fingers have pushed through the light layers of your gym clothes, as if they've done nothing else all their lives. Biting kisses, gasps for air, sweat, heat, everywhere. There was nothing like pressing your body up against his, feeling his heat, his hardness between your quivering legs. 

He'd almost managed to finger you to climax. But only almost. He'd stopped before you'd gotten the chance, and there it had been, a small, barely visible grin at the corners of his mouth. 

And now you're lying here, his hard cock between your legs, and he's still teasing you, holding you roughly while his tip just rubs very gently against your wet folds. Your body cries out for him, for release. You try to push yourself down further, up onto his dick, but he won't let you. Goosebumps run over your skin as you finally hear his voice against your ear. It's rough and deep. 

"You're so damn wet baby, how bad do you want me? Do you want me to fuck you?"

You nod, swallowing hard against the burning heat in your throat, clawing at his strong shoulders. 

"Tell me how bad you want me to fuck you."

"Fuck me, please. Now, Tommy I-"

A jerk, and you moan. A tiny bit more his hot dick has slid into your center, just barely grazing his tip at your entrance. God, it's driving you crazy, this here, he-!

"You want me to fuck you - right, huh, until you can't walk anymore? God baby, you're so fuckin' wet, you're so..."

"Tommy," your hands reach into his sweaty hair, pulling him down against your face. He growls quietly. "Fuck me, now."

"Impatient nasty girl, you are" he grunts, and it's amused, you can see it in the corners of his mouth.

You get a warm, breathless kiss, and before you know it, he's suddenly forcing inside you with one hard thrust. 

It's a revelation, that feeling - as his stiff cock finally penetrates deep inside your dripping pussy, as he finally conquers you with a sharp thrust of his hips. His lips slowly open as he sinks completely into you - for a moment he looks down at you, brushing a wet strand from your face. 

"Have you ever seen a real buck fight, honey?"

Your vagina tightens, you can feel exactly how your walls vibrate with every word - how they're already contracting tightly now, how they suck his cock in deep. 

"Of course."

"Then I'm going to show you how I fucking knock you out."

And he does. He supports himself with his strong arms to the left and right of your body, bites his lips hard, and then begins to thrust hard and relentlessly. His hips move as if boxing, penetrating deep and only pushing your trembling legs further apart, hard, sharp, tight thrusts, deep into your pussy. You can't even brace yourself against it, pick up his rhythm, it's too strong. And it really drives you to the edge of madness. 

Tommy Conlon fucks like a god, too. His hands claw into your sides, holding you, making your breasts bob along to the beat with each thrust. You see he loves it, the way he licks his lips afterward, the way his hips sputter. 

Your pussy almost explodes. Tommy's thrusts and cock are way too good for you, catching you ice cold and fucking you to a level you never thought you'd reach. He keeps up this pace, even as your dripping walls slowly tighten around him as the warm feeling in your belly grows stronger. You try to hold onto his shoulders, but he shakes your hands off, gets on his knees, pulls your ass up onto his trained thighs. And then he just keeps fucking you, the in and out of his hard dick like a prayer that all you can do now is whimper. 

"Tommy-"

"Come baby, come, I want to feel it, come on."

His right rough hand slides between your folds, and he teases your clit to no end, his thumb sliding over it, teasing the little wet bud. 

You come. You come so suddenly, as if Tommy had personally punched you in the face, as if he had thrown you out of the ring. You come so suddenly and so fucking hard that for a moment you can't even move your body, can't even breathe. 

He fucks you through your orgasm, wordlessly, breathlessly. His hand stays on your clit, keeps rubbing, his cock keeps fucking until you can't take it anymore, until your pussy contracts tight and hot, squirting slightly. And Tommy loves it. 

You don't know how long you feel the violent waves of your orgasm - but eventually you feel more wetness, more heat between your legs, feel his hips fucking harder than before and he lets out a deep grunt. He comes, pushing you over the edge again. 

When you're done, the floor of the boxing ring is wet as hell, showing all the traces of your violent encounter. You feel exactly how his cum runs between your legs, warm, always down your thigh. Tommy's eyes move between your legs, and he grins slightly. 

"We're going to take a shower, and then I'm going to fuck you again."

"Wow, you've talked more than you did all last year," you say shortly, and Tommy helps you stand up. 

He trained with his father, Paddy Conlon.

He never liked his father all that much. Paddy had been abusive and absent—especially when Tommy’s mother was sick and dying. But the only person Tommy trusted enough to train him now was the very man who broke him. Paddy had been his trainer and coach back in high school. And through all those years, Tommy couldn’t recall a single moment of happiness while doing something he was supposedly good at.

He didn’t even know what he was training his ass off for. Wasting his energy and blood over a competition that might not mean anything in the end. If he won—then what? His life was still already decided. And winning wouldn’t change the things that had already happened.

But still, The moment he heard about the upcoming tournament, all he knew was that he had to win.

Maybe—just maybe—it would give him a reason to keep going.

Tonight, Tommy trained alone as usual. He had thought about bringing his father along, but decided he couldn’t stomach the tension that day being around the old man. Paddy had been trying to fix things—mend his relationship with Tommy and his older brother Brendan—but Tommy didn’t believe that was possible anymore. Some things were too broken to be fixed.

What’s the point in trying to make things better, when all you’ve known your whole life is betrayal and disappointment?

Tommy wasn’t interested in useless connections. Or any kind of connection, really.

He ducked low to dodge the swinging bag in front of him, trading punches and kicks, grunting through every blow.

Meanwhile, you sat near the gym’s entrance, waiting for your older brother. He’d been coming to this small Pittsburgh gym for months now. You weren’t there to train—God, no. You had zero interest in the sport or the fitness community. You were here with one goal: to take pictures of your brother, the ring, the atmosphere, and maybe some of the other fighters in action.

You were submitting a portfolio for a local photography competition, and you really wanted to win. First place meant getting your work featured in a local magazine—and a nice cash prize to go with it.

You were already an aspiring photographer, though you never considered yourself particularly gifted. There were always flaws you noticed in your own work—composition, lighting, timing. But despite everything, you still kept taking pictures. Something inside you made you try, even when you didn’t know why.

Maybe, if you won—you’d finally prove yourself worthy of something.

You fell in love with photography the day your grandmother gave you a camera for your sixteenth birthday. You remember your very first shot: your father, slouched in his armchair with a beer in one hand and a newspaper in the other. And even though the lighting was bad and the angle was slightly crooked—the photo came out beautiful. At least, to you.

That camera became your escape to your dull life. You took pictures of everything and everyone. Your older brother had left for college, and you were stuck at home with your parents most of the time. He rarely came home—only for birthdays or Christmas, but by then he was gone again.

He had gone off to study biomedical engineering, but only to appease your father. In truth, he’d always loved boxing. Ever since he was a kid. But your father always dismissed it —“There’s room for hobbies,” he’d say, “but hobbies won’t get you anywhere.”

So your brother had snuck off in secret to train. Lied about having after-school classes. He found a small gym and started sparring with other aspiring boxers. After getting his master’s degree, he kept up the lie—working at the hospital and tending to others during the day, competing in underground matches by night.

And you? You got the same treatment.

The moment you expressed an interest in photography, your father tore you down. Criticized every photo you took.

“Not sharp enough”

“Too dark.”

“Nothing special.”

No picture was ever good enough. Nothing you did ever was. Even when you gave up photography to pursue a business degree just to make him proud—he found new ways to make sure that you knew you were useless.

Now, as you wandered around the gym aimlessly with your camera strapped around your neck, snapping candid shots of the space, you noticed a man off in the far corner—alone. You lowered your camera slightly, tilting your head. Why was he by himself instead of with the rest? Maybe he didn’t like working out around others. But he quickly slipped out of your mind as you moved on, trying to find something worth capturing. The light wasn’t great. The space felt uninspired. You reviewed your camera roll, deleting half the shots without hesitation. Nothing felt good enough.

You sighed. Today just wasn’t your day.

You were about to tell your brother you wanted to head home when your eyes drifted back toward the far corner. That same man. Still there. But now, as you looked closer—Your breath caught in your throat. It was him.

Tommy Riordan Conlon. A boy you once knew in high school—a long time ago.

“Tommy?”

The man in the sweat-drenched black shirt looked up from where he stood, hands braced on his knees. His eyes softened slightly as recognition dawned on him.

“Y/n?”

You gasped, your lips parting just a little in disbelief.

He remembered you?

Your body froze. Your hands were starting to get clammy. You swallowed a huge thick lump in your throat and tried your best to speak, even as your vocal cords refused to cooperate.

“Haven’t seen you in a long time. What’ve you been up to?” you asked, trying to sound casual. Like nothing had ever happened. But it was hard to be casual with someone who’d basically changed the most important years of your life.

Tommy wiped the sweat from his temples with a cloth pulled from his pocket. He hesitated—like he always did before talking. Maybe he was choosing his words carefully. Or maybe he just didn’t like talking about himself. He never had anyway.

“I’ve just been training,” he said finally, brushing his hair back. “Nothing much. What about you? Still taking pictures, huh?” he said pointing to your camera.

Your eyes widened slightly at the mention of your camera. “Oh—yeah, I still do photography. I’m actually here for a competition. Local portfolio thing.”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah? Ain’t much to take here, but I’ll leave that judgment to you.”

You laughed nervously. “I came with my brother. Thought I’d get some shots of him… and maybe anything else that looked, y’know, photo-worthy.”

Tommy took a long swig from his water bottle, his chest rising and falling with fatigue. “How many you taken so far? Sorry, I ask too many questions.”

You shook your head quickly. “No! No, you’re good. Really. I’ve taken a lot, but I’ve deleted just as many. I dunno… it’s hard to be satisfied with any of them. But—here, take a look if you want.”

You moved toward him, lifting your camera to show the screen. Your shoulders brushed briefly—both of you flinching just a little at the contact. It had been so long. And yet your body still remembered him.

You looked away quickly, lowering your gaze to the camera. “Sorry, Tommy.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just studied the photos as you clicked through them. You stopped on the last one—a sharp, mid-punch shot of your brother in stance.

You turned toward Tommy, who was already looking at you.

“So…what do you think? I think it’s okay.”

He looked away for a second, then back again. “I think it’s beautiful. You always had that eye. You take something ordinary and make it extraordinary.”

Your heart jumped. It was something he used to say back in high school—when you were still learning, still scared, still clinging to every bit of encouragement. He would hold your camera, look at your work, then say it with a softness in his eyes that never quite matched the roughness of his voice. Maybe, just maybe, the Tommy you knew hadn’t changed that much after all.

“Really? Wow. Thank you, Tommy. That means the world.”

Your eyes lingered on his for a moment—warm, familiar. Both of you locked in something quiet and invisible, until the tension pushed you apart again. You looked away, and so did he.

Tommy scratched the back of his neck. “Umm… I’m training for a competition too. The MMA tournament. I plan to win it—get all the money.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “MMA? Oh my god, Tommy—that’s amazing!” you said, practically squealing with excitement for an old friend.

The joy in your voice caught him off guard. He felt his muscles relax, just a little—like he hadn’t heard anyone be that happy for him in a long time. He licked his lips nervously, eyes darting around the gym again. Collecting his thoughts, his breath, anything to ground him.

Being this close to you was making him short-circuit.

“Hey, uh—Y/n… ain’t that your brother over there?” Tommy nodded toward the ring. “I think he’s about to spar with that guy.”

You turned your head. There he was—your brother, stepping into the ring across from a tall guy with a flat mohawk.

“C’mon, Mad Dog! Don’t go easy on him,” the other man barked, who you assumed was Mad Dog’s coach. He massaged his fighter’s shoulders, amping him up.

Mad Dog? You blinked. He sounded strong.

And it turned out, he was.

Within seconds, Mad Dog delivered a bone-jarring punch straight to your brother’s ribs. You flinched. Every strike after that made him stumble, crouch, fall—no matter how hard he tried to get back up. Even when he defended himself, arms up and tight, Mad Dog still found a way to get through. Another jab. Then followed by another. The final hit forced your brother to surrender.

You couldn’t tell if he needed immediate help or if this was just normal for fighters. Either way, you weren’t breathing.

A warm hand landed gently on your shoulder.

“Don’t worry about him,” Tommy said quietly. “He’ll be fine.”

It was exactly what you needed to hear. His voice, his presence—it settled something in you. You nodded and hurried over to your brother, who now sat on the bench, a damp cloth draped over his eyes, chest heaving.

“You alright?”

“Y-yeah… that guy’s insane,” he groaned.

He pulled the cloth off—and froze. Tommy was standing right in front of him.

“Tommy? Is that you? Jesus… it’s really you! How’ve you been, man?”

Tommy nodded awkwardly, eyes flicking around the gym like they always did when attention was on him. “Uh… yeah. Been good.”

“He’s training for MMA,” you added proudly.

Your brother’s grin widened. “No shit? That’s amazing, Tommy.” He clapped him on the back. “Good for you.”

Tommy stayed quiet, but his eyes were fixed on the ring again. Mad Dog’s coach was now scanning the gym, calling out for someone else to spar with his fighter. But no one stepped forward.

“I’ll fight him,” Tommy said suddenly, voice low. “If no one else wants to.”

Your brother whipped his head around. “Tommy—no. You saw what he did to me. Don’t.”

Mad Dog smirked from across the ring. “If he wants to try, be my guest.”

The coach sighed, eyeing Tommy. “Alright then. Let’s see what you’ve got, boy.”

Without hesitation, Tommy stepped into the ring. No prep. No warm-up. Just quiet focus. You watched as he stood in a fighting stance, heart hammering. But something told you he’d be fine.

Tommy struck first—swift and sharp. A kick to Mad Dog’s side sent the man staggering. When he rose, Tommy was already there, fists landing fast and brutal. You bit your lip, watching through your lens as the two collided over and over.

Every punch made you flinch. But it was beautiful, in a strange, haunting way. Two men, drenched in sweat, in a silent war for dominance.

And then—Mad Dog was down.

You raised your camera, zeroed in on Tommy’s face—panting, fierce, glowing with intensity—and snapped the shot. He looked like a monument.

The flash startled him. He turned, brow creased, eyes finding you.

“Oh—shit! Sorry, Tommy. I should’ve asked. I’ll delete it if you want.”

He walked toward you slowly, eyes still locked on the camera.

“Nah. Don’t delete it. Let me see.”

Hands trembling slightly, you flipped to the photo and held it out. Tommy stared at it for a long moment. Then looked back at you.

“Looka good. You made me look good. And I’m fuckin’ ugly.”

You laughed. “No you’re not, Tommy. You looked amazing out there.”

And he smiled. A real one. It made your chest ache.

Your brother, now dressed again, came out of the locker room—expecting to see the fight still happening, only to find Mad Dog on the ground and people helping him up.

“Wait… did you win, Tommy?” he asked.

Tommy just nodded, humble.

“Fucking hell,” your brother muttered with a proud grin.

Suddenly, Mad Dog’s coach waved Tommy over.

“I should probably go talk to him,” he said.

You nodded and watched him walk away, still dazed by what had just happened.

“We’ll leave soon,” your brother said. “Just gotta grab my stuff. Wait here, yeah?”

“Alright.”

Your brother and Tommy disappeared, and you sat down, scrolling through your photos again—eyes landing on the one you took of Tommy.He didn’t even have to try to look good. It almost annoyed you, how he couldn’t see how beautiful he was.

You were just working up the courage to ask him to be your model when his voice called out, but figured it was probably too late since your brother was already walking towards his car or maybe too soon for two old friends who’d only met after forever.

“Y/n.”

You looked up. Tommy was walking toward you again, scratching the back of his neck like he always did when he was nervous.

“So, uh…”

“I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna meet up sometime. Y’know… since we haven’t seen each other in like what? 10 years?.”

Your cheeks flushed pink as you fidgeted with your sleeves. You’d wanted to ask him the same thing. You’d been trying to find any trace of him online for years—social media, old threads, anything. But he had vanished. Until now.

“Of course, Tommy.” You smiled. “Actually… I was gonna ask if you’d be my model for the competition. If not, we can just hang out, talk, whatever works.”

He blinked, surprised. “Oh—yeah. I mean, I could be your model or whatever. If you think I’m, uh… worthy. I don’t really know what to do, though.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you said softly. “Just be yourself.”

You handed him your phone and he typed in his number. The two of you stood in silence for a beat—taking it all in. Neither quite believing this was real. Even after all this time, there was still something between you. But also, something unspoken, something fragile—an invisible thread neither of you knew how to pull yet.

Your brother waved at you from across the gym, motioning toward the car. You didn’t want to leave. You wanted to stay. But you would see him again. You knew you would.

“You should probably go,” Tommy said gently. “I’ll text you when I get back, promise.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah… I’ll see you soon, Tommy.”

As you walked off, you turned around one last time, he was still looking at you. He gave a small, thoughtful wave, lowering his head with that soft shyness he never quite outgrew. You smiled to yourself sheepishly and waved back jogging to your brother’s side as he urged you into the car.

On the ride home, your heart was full of motion. You watched the world blur past the windows—streetlights, trees, people. And somewhere in your chest, you hoped like hell that Tommy would text you. Not because you didn’t trust him.

But because it had been so long since anyone ever meant it when they said they would.

Your brother’s car pulled up in front of your place just after 9 p.m. The sky was dark, and your body felt heavy—but your head was still buzzing. The whole drive home, he’d been talking about the fight, about how insane Tommy was, about how maybe he needed to start training harder. You barely heard anything he said

You were thinking about the photo. About Tommy’s voice. About the way he’d looked at you right before you left.

You mumbled a quick thanks and shut the car door, rushing inside, tossing your bag down without even bothering to turn on the main lights. Your camera was still around your neck.

And then—your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even make it past your bedroom door before unlocking it.

Tommy Conlon: Hey. It’s me. You still want that model or what?

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Still in your jeans and jacket, you threw yourself down onto your bed face-first, then rolled over and typed back fast:

You: Of course I do. I was hoping you’d text first, actually. Free tomorrow afternoon? Golden hour?

Your heart pounded. You watched the little dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. Then finally:

Tommy Conlon: Golden hour sounds nice. Just tell me where.

And if I gotta bring snacks or just my awkward ass.

You laughed into your pillow, cheeks warm, legs kicking a little against the blanket like you were sixteen all over again.

You sat up just enough to reply:

You: Just bring yourself. And maybe a hoodie. It’s gonna be chilly. I’ll send the address.

Tommy Conlon: Alright. I’ll be there.

And just like that, It was actually happening. You looked at the camera still hanging around your neck, heart buzzing all over again.

You barely slept.

Every time you shut your eyes, you saw him—his face through your lens, the way he looked after the fight, the way he smiled when he said you made him look good. You kept replaying the sound of his voice reading your name.

By morning, your camera was already charging, your clothes were laid out, and your room smelled faintly like fresh coffee and nerves.

You stood in front of your mirror holding up outfit after outfit—first your “cool artist” look, then your “I-didn’t-try-that-hard” sweater, then something in between. You didn’t want to look too dressed up. But you also didn’t want to look like you just rolled out of bed.

God, why am I thinking about this so hard? you scolded yourself, throwing the hoodie back onto the chair.

Eventually, you settled on something simple and soft. Comfortable. Warm enough for the chill in the air. You pulled your hair back, then messed it up again. You checked your camera three times. Battery full. Memory card clear. Everything was ready.

Still… your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.

It wasn’t just the shoot. It was him.

It was that invisible thread between you both—the one that felt like it could either snap… or hold if you let it.

The sun was just starting to dip when you arrived at the location—a quiet stretch of overgrown field behind a shut-down rec center. Rusted bleachers sat untouched, wild grass curled around the old fence posts, and the light was melting golden across everything like honey.

It was perfect. Lonely but beautiful,

You adjusted your camera strap, checking the settings for the fourth time as you paced. He hadn’t texted that he was here yet, but your heart was already speeding like he had.

Then—you heard gravel crunch. Tommy.

He was walking toward you in that familiar, heavy kind of stride. Hands in the pocket of a black hoodie, hood up over his messy hair. His shoulders looked even broader under the sweatshirt. His eyes met yours, and the corner of his mouth tugged in something that almost looked like a smile.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a few feet from you. “Hope I’m not late.”

You shook your head. “You’re right on time.”

You tried not to show how weirdly breathless you felt. He looked good. That quiet, rugged kind of good. Like someone who didn’t know the effect he had.

“You sure this is the spot?” he asked, looking around at the peeling paint and weeds.

“Yeah,” you said softly, lifting your camera. “I like places like this. Feels like… something people forgot, but it’s still trying to be beautiful.”

Tommy nodded slowly, his gaze flicking around again.

“Alright. What do you want me to do?”

You smiled gently. “Just stand there for now. Don’t think too hard.”

He huffed a breath, a nervous kind of laugh under his breath. “That’s kinda all I do. Think too hard.”

You lifted the camera to your face.

“Then stop thinking. Just look at me.”

And it hit you—just how intense his eyes were. Not angry. Not cold. Just focused. Like he was trying to figure something out about you without asking.

Click.

You stepped sideways. “Now… turn a little to your side and just walk normally, Yeah. Look out toward the field.”

He did as you said. The light caught the edge of his jaw. You swore the wind shifted just right to make his hoodie fall back slightly, revealing more of his hair, the side of his neck.

Click.

“You doing okay?” you asked, gently lowering the camera.

He looked over at you, brow slightly raised. “I feel like an idiot just standing and walking here.”

You chuckled. “You don’t look like one. I promise.”

“You say that ‘cause you’re behind the camera. You got all the power,” he teased.

You smirked. “Exactly. So shut up and pose.”

He huffed again, but there was a softness behind it now.

After a few more photos, you walked up to him, showing him one of the shots on the screen.

His eyes scanned the image. Then he frowned—barely.

“Don’t like it?” you asked.

“No, it’s good. Just… I don’t know. I look too soft.”

You looked up at him.

“That’s why it’s good.”

He held your gaze for a second longer than he probably meant to. There it was again. That invisible thread. You lifted the camera back up. “Alright. Try sitting down over here—on the edge of the bleachers.”

He followed your direction, hands on his knees, eyes cast downward at first. The sky behind him was bleeding orange and gold.

Click

You didn’t tell him to smile. His face, even resting, said everything.

After a while, You both sat on the edge of the bleachers, your camera resting in your lap. The sky had shifted from gold to blue-gray, the wind growing cooler now that the sun had dipped below the trees. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just let yourselves sit there, shoulder to shoulder.

Tommy’s hands were clasped in front of him, His hoodie sleeves were pushed up slightly, revealing the curve of his forearms. He was staring out at the field like there was something out there he couldn’t name.

You looked over at him, lips parting, then closing again. Your fingers tightened slightly around your camera. You weren’t sure if you should ask. But it had been sitting in your chest like a stone ever since that night at the gym.

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly.

“You just did.”

You smiled faintly, despite the nerves. “What happened? I mean… after high school. You just—disappeared.”

The silence stretched long between you as you looked down to your feet, “Sorry. You don’t have to answer. I just… always wondered.”

“My mom got sick.”

“I left with her,” he continued. “She didn’t want to die there. Didn’t want to be near him. So we packed what we could and drove west. Stayed with some family friends for a while.”

His jaw clenched, “She died not long after we got there.”

You stayed quiet. The way he said it, like it was something he hadn’t said out loud in years. Maybe ever.

“I joined the Marines a year later,” he said. “Needed to get the fuck out. Needed to do something that made sense. I figured if I could fight for something else, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’d already lost everything.”

Your throat felt tight, maybe feeling a little upset that he kept it away from you. But then again, who were you to be upset at his decision?

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he added, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Not Brendan. Not my dad. Not you.”

“Why?” you asked softly.

He finally turned to look at you.

“Because I didn’t think anyone would care.”

Your heart cracked in half, feeling yourself getting more upset.

“I would’ve cared,” you whispered.

Tommy didn’t say anything. But he looked at you like he believed it—and like that belief hurt.

You wanted to reach for his hand, but you couldn’t, stopped by the invisible wall between the two of you.

You both sat in silence again, the air heavier now—but not unbearable. Just full of things that had never been said.

Suddenly you remembered.

Flashback — High School

You were sixteen, and your camera was still new, hanging from your neck with a bright yellow strap. The film was cheap, the lens a little scratched, but to you, it was magic.

You and Tommy sat behind the old gym building, near the school, leaning back against sun-warmed bricks. He had a split lip from a fight two days earlier. You had a scratch on your arm from your father slapping your camera out of your hands when he saw the newest roll.

“You should stop taking pictures if it gets you in trouble,” Tommy had muttered, gazing at the cracked pavement.

You shook your head, biting down the sting in your throat. “It’s the only thing I’m good at. And he hates it.”

Tommy turned to look at you then—his eyes were darker than the bruises on his face.

“Fuck what he thinks.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.

He took a deep breath, then added quieter, “One day…When I get outta here, I’m gonna take you somewhere nice. Not this shit town. Real places. Good light. Big skies. You’ll take pictures so beautiful it’ll shut him the fuck up.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds impossible.”

“It ain’t,” he said, dead serious. “You deserve to go somewhere that don’t make you feel like you’re small.

He reached out and tugged gently at your camera strap, just enough to pull the camera into his hand. He turned it toward you and squinted through the viewfinder.

“You’re the only thing that looks good in this place anyway,” he muttered, then snapped the photo.

Present

You turned your head to look at him—older, bruised, tired—but still that same boy, somewhere underneath all that hurt.

“ You remember when you said you’d take me to nice places?”

Tommy looked over at you. His expression shifted—almost like a wince. Like it hurt to remember that moment.

“Yeah, I do”

“And now here we are,” you smiled. “Maybe this isn’t Venice or New York or whatever, but…”

You gestured toward the field. The golden light now long gone, replaced with deep blue shadows and a soft, humming silence.

“It’s a nice place”

You looked down at your hands, resting in your lap, your fingers fidgeting with the lens cap of your camera. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you.

And then, gently and hesitantly—his hand reached for yours.

Callused fingers brushed over your knuckles before settling around them, his grip was firm but unsure, like he didn’t quite know if he was allowed. He exhaled, slowly. Like he’d been holding that breath for years.

“I meant it, y’know,” he said.

“That day behind the gym,” he murmured. “When I said I’d take you to all the nice places… places where you’d finally feel like you mattered.”

His voice wavered, just slightly, “I still want to do that.”

“But not just for you,” he added, more softer now. “For me, too. Maybe I need to see those places more than I thought. I want to see them with you”

You swallowed hard, throat full of things you couldn’t say yet, you squeezed his hand tightly.

“You’re already doing it, Tommy,” you whispered.

“This is one of them.”

His thumb brushed lightly over the back of your hand, “I know I fucked up back then,” he said. “I letft without a word. Didn’t think I deserved to come back.”

“But I wanna try again, Y/n. I wanna do right by you this time.”

His eyes met yours, steady— and it gentler than you’d ever seen them, more than you remembered.

Everyone always said Tommy was like the moon. Cold and distant. And always drifting in his own orbit. But not to you. To you, Tommy Conlon was the sun. Your sun.

When he smiled, it was the brightest star. When he spoke, his voice was the sweetest morning dew—warm and aching with things he didn’t know how to say properly.

“I should’ve taken you with me,” he said. “Back then. I wanted to. I thought about it more times than I can count, believe me.”

You stared at him, your heart breaking and blooming all at once.

He swallowed, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles now.1

“But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I’ll take you.”

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t look away.