Terry (Ahhghhh!!)

Someone asked to post what was going through Terry's head during the happy-ending massage lol. 😅💕

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You're sick. You feel gross. You've been half-hallucinating through the fever haze for most of the day, and now you're on your couch in a tangle of blankets, head pounding, thigh cramping, and god knows what else is shutting down inside you. But then—you're not alone.

They're here.

You don't know why they keep showing up like this. And seeing them is instant comfort. They also have that stupid, warm smile that makes your stomach twist in ways you refuse to admit.

You've been trying to pretend you don't notice it. That none of it means anything.

That they're just nice.

But when they smile at you like that and say shit like "pathetically cute," something inside you trips. You look at their mouth for one second too long. You hope they didn't catch that.

You're sick, you're not thinking straight. That's the excuse, right?

But then it keeps happening.

They offer to massage your cramping thigh and you laugh—because what the hell? But you're also in pain. And tired. And you want them to touch you—so bad. So you say yes, because you'll be damned if you let an opportunity like this pass.

You don't think it'll mean anything.

Except the second their hands touch you, even through the fabric, you feel like your whole body lights up. You're warm everywhere, and it's not just the fever. It's them. Their hands. Careful, attentive. Their fingertips circling slow over the tense muscle, gentle enough to make you melt a little, but firm enough to make you want to sink into the couch and never move again.

You're not wearing underwear.

You forgot. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, you knew you weren't and didn't care. Either way, by the time they're sliding your pajama pants up and their palm finds bare skin, it's too late to do anything about it.

They pause.

You know they noticed.

But they don't say anything. You don't either. Instead, you close your eyes and pretend that your heart isn't trying to pound its way out of your chest.

Then it happens.

They slide their hand a little higher. Accidentally—probably. You're not sure. But the moment their fingers brush against it, you almost jump. Your whole body reacts before your brain catches up. You tell yourself it's just part of the massage, just a slip. Nothing more.

But fuck—you want them to do it again. Accident or not, you want it. Again and again and again. They don't stop. Good. You don't want them to. You want more. But you won't ask.

You just lie there, praying for one more sweet little accident.

Should you say something? You should say something. But instead, you shift, just a little, like you're helping them reach a better angle. Like this is still just a massage.

It's not.

Their fingers keep moving. Light, teasing pressure that knows exactly where to press without being too obvious. You can't breathe. Your legs are tingling, not from pain now but from the unbearable coil of heat building low in your stomach.

You're so wet/hard. Embarrassingly wet/hard. You can feel it with every drag of their hand against your thigh.

This is insane. This is actually insane. You should stop it. But instead, you try to speak—to break the moment with something neutral. Something safe.

Work.

You talk about Holloway's deposition. Like discussing a criminal case is going to keep you grounded while someone's fingers are so so close to your... under a fucking blanket.

They play along. Their voice is steady, even as their hand slides lower again.

It shouldn't feel like this. This slow burn. This unbearable teasing that has you clenching your thighs and holding back moans. It shouldn't be happening. But it is.

And it's all so… gentle. Intimate.

You don't know how to process it.

You open your mouth again, say something about prepping for strategy, but your voice catches halfway through the sentence because their hand moves just right. You gasp. You can't stop it.

And you don't want to.

You're unraveling. All your defenses—every dry, sarcastic comment, every pointed look, every careful wall you've spent months building—they're gone. They're gone because their fingers are pressing right into you now/Their hand is stroking you now. Purposefully. Unapologetically.

And you let them.

You part your thighs without thinking. Let them have access. Let them keep touching you like this is something you both agreed to. Like it makes sense.

You shouldn't want this. Not from them. Not now. But your body doesn't care what you should want.

It cares about their hands. The low heat crawling up your spine. The sharp twist of pleasure every time they graze that spot again/they stroke that part of you again, and again, and again.

You're biting your lip now, hard enough to hurt.

You can't make a sound. You won't. You can't.

But then they lean in, whisper, "Still helping?"

And fuck, you want to scream. You want to pull them in and kiss them stupid. You want more than this.

You just nod.

Because if you open your mouth, you'll say everything you're not supposed to say. Everything you're terrified to admit. That you've thought about them like this before. That you're not as unaffected as you pretend. That you're scared of what it would mean if you let this become something real.

But right now? You don't care.

Right now, all you care about is the pressure building inside you, how close you are, how sensitive everything feels. How you're so fucking close to falling apart.

And then—they hit that spot/they stroke just right.

Your back arches off the couch. Your hips jerk into their hand. Your breath catches hard in your throat.

You're coming.

You can't stop it. You can't hold it in. The orgasm rips through you fast and intense, leaving you limp and twitching in its wake, your fingers clenched in the blanket like you might float away otherwise.

You're not sure how long it takes for you to come back to yourself.

But when you do, you feel raw. Overexposed. Like all your thoughts are stripped down to nothing but "oh fuck, what did we just do?"

You say the dumbest thing possible. "My sinuses are clear."

It's automatic. A joke. A defense. Something to fill the silence, because you don't trust yourself to say anything real.

They smile.

You should say more. You should ask what this means. You should ask them to stay. Or maybe you should tell them to go.

But you don't.

Because their phone rings, and it's like the universe hit the eject button before you could even figure out how to handle the aftermath.

They're leaving. Just like that. No explanation. No big dramatic moment.

You say thank you.

Not for the orgasm—God, no. But maybe a little for the way they made you feel, even if you'll never admit it out loud. You tell them you're good, and maybe you even believe it for a second.

But when the door closes behind them and you're alone again, staring at the ceiling, your body still humming from the aftershocks, there's only one thing echoing in your head:

You're not good.

You want more.

And you have no idea what to do about it.