#POUNDING THE FLOOR ARE YOU KIDDING ME

[tending-the-hearth]

HAYMITCH WAS THE FLINT STRIKER AND KATNISS WAS THE SPARK HE NEEDED

[awesamforehead]

I Need To Eat Him

[ryoflix]

sukuna tries to be a better dad | f. reader, s/h prns., resolved angst and fluff, estb. rl, mentions of toxic masculinity and bullying ؛ ଓ

it’s late afternoon when she says it.

you’re sitting on the floor, your girl in front of you, legs crossed, hands in her lap, shoulders straight — because she likes it when you do her hair neat, “like a princess who also fights battles.” your fingers work through her thick strands, slow and patient, braiding from the crown down as the golden light spills in through the window.

she’s quiet today. not her usual humming self.

“mama,” she says softly, not looking up. “do you think daddy doesn’t like dancing?”

you pause mid-braid. “what makes you say that, baby?”

she shrugs like it’s practiced. like she’s been doing it all day. “it’s just… other daddies come up on stage and spin their kids around. and they clap and wave and stuff. daddy just crosses his arms and watches. he doesn’t even smile much.”

your heart sinks a little. she’s not pouting, not upset. she says it like a fact. a tiny, unpolished truth she’s been holding quietly in her chest.

“he always comes, though,” she adds, quickly, like she’s defending him. “he never misses anything. and he carries my costume bag. and he sits in the front. i know daddy likes me.”

your fingers still in her hair. you lean down and press a soft kiss to the top of her head. “he loves you more than anything in the world,” you whisper. “but i think sometimes, he forgets how to show it.”

what you don’t realize is that sukuna’s standing in the hallway just around the corner. he was passing by, only wanting a glass of water. but now he’s leaning against the wall, head bowed slightly, eyes half-lidded and tight. his daughter’s voice is soft, but it might as well be thunder in his chest.

he remembers the event she’s talking about. the dad-daughter social. balloons and tiaras and a tiny glittery stage. the other fathers with their daughters on their shoulders, giving big hugs and taking selfies. he remembers standing there, arms crossed, heart pounding with so much affection it ached, but feeling like a brick wall in the middle of a rainbow field.

he didn’t know what to do. didn’t want to embarrass her. didn’t want to get it wrong.

he hadn’t realized silence could hurt, too.

—

the next week, at her school band recital, it’s different.

the auditorium is full. folding chairs in neat rows, kids in matching little uniforms, some with scuffed shoes or crooked ties. you’re seated in the second row, camcorder balanced on your knee. and sukuna? sukuna’s standing.

in the aisle.

arms crossed at first, like always. until the curtains pull back and your daughter walks onto stage, gripping her clarinet, eyes scanning the crowd. she spots you first, then him.

and that’s when he moves.

sukuna throws his arms into the air like he’s in a coliseum. “there she is!”

a few heads turn. a teacher flinches. someone claps hesitantly.

“look at her! MY kid! kick their asses!”

“sukuna,” you hiss.

“with MUSIC,” he clarifies, before bellowing, “BLOW THAT CLARINET LIKE IT OWES YOU MONEY!”

your daughter’s face flushes crimson — but there’s a tiny smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

when the song begins, sukuna stays standing. arms crossed again, but this time it’s intentional. protective. loud in silence. and when the music ends, he claps louder than anyone. you catch your daughter glancing at him as she walks offstage, her expression unreadable for just a second.

and later that night, as you're tucking her in, she whispers, “daddy was really loud today.” you smile, brushing a curl off her forehead. “did you like it?”

she nods, a little bashful. “...yeah. i liked it.”

from the hallway, sukuna leans against the doorframe — quiet now. arms no longer crossed. but in his hand, he’s holding the program from the recital. and folded inside it is the little flower she wore on her lapel.

he doesn’t say a word. he just watches her fall asleep like she’s the only thing that ever mattered.

the drive back from practice is quiet, unusually so.

your boy’s sitting in the backseat, hunched forward with his little forearms braced on his knees, shin guards still on, cleats unlaced. he’s picking at a thread on his sock like it personally offended him. sukuna glances in the rearview mirror.

“you mad you didn’t score?”

no answer. just a shrug. not his usual one, either. this one’s limp. low.

sukuna keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window ledge. the silence itches. it’s not the kind he’s good at. this one crawls. he doesn’t push, not yet. he waits until they’re parked out front — engine still running, AC humming low — before he says, “talk to me.”

his son fiddles with the strap of his water bottle. his voice comes out small.

“the other boys… they said i was slow. and weak.”

sukuna turns in his seat. his son stares down at his shoes, frowning so hard his little brows knit in a mirror of his father’s own scowl. “they say i don’t hit hard enough. or run fast enough. they call me babyface. they laugh when i mess up. and i wanna tell them to shut up but… i just…”

he shrinks, right there in the backseat, like he’s folding into himself.

“...i get scared.”

and there it is.

the one thing sukuna didn’t think he’d hear from his son. not because it’s wrong, not because he doesn’t know fear. but because he’s sukuna, and his boy wants nothing more than to be just like him.

he knows that.

he’s seen the way the kid walks after him — chin up, chest puffed out, copying his strut. the way he tries to talk tough. the way he tries not to cry when he scrapes his knee, like showing pain would disappoint him.

and that realization stings.

sukuna exhales, slow and long, and twists around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest now, voice dropping low — not rough, not barking, not what the world hears from him.

“look at me.”

the boy lifts his eyes. sukuna stares back, steady.

“being scared,” he says, “means you care. means something matters to you. your body gets small so you can protect what’s big inside.”

his son blinks, frowning in confusion. sukuna smirks, just a little. leans closer.

“you think i’m not scared sometimes?”

“...you?”

“hell yeah. i was scared the day you were born. scared when your sister got sick. scared when i almost dropped your mom’s glass bowl.”

the boy huffs a tiny laugh at that.

“but i don’t let that fear decide for me. and neither should you.”

his son stares, quiet.

“you don’t need to punch back to be strong,” sukuna continues, voice firmer now. “you don’t need to yell to be heard. and you don’t need to stop feeling things just to be a man.”

a pause.

“you wanna make me proud?” sukuna leans in further, eyes sharp but kind. “then be honest with yourself. with how you feel. that takes guts. more than throwing a football ever will.”

and then, reaching out, sukuna ruffles his son’s hair — the kind of thing he doesn’t do often, but means more than it shows. your son’s eyes glisten, but he nods.

“...can i still hit them if they don’t stop?”

“if they touch you,” sukuna mutters, straightening up and shifting gears, “you make them see god.”

his son snickers.

as they pull into the driveway, the boy glances at him, hesitates, and then says, “...you’re, like… a good dad.”

sukuna smirks, tight-lipped.

“yeah, well. don’t tell anyone.”

“i already told mom.”

“snitch.”

“dad.”

“…yeah?”

“...i’m not slow. i just got short legs.”

“damn right you do. now get in the house, babyface.”

and the laugh that erupts from the kid is the kind that makes sukuna grip the steering wheel just a little harder. so he doesn’t show too much.

but he’ll remember this one.

[animamii]

"Fushiguro, that's your girl?" One of Toji's block mates asks, eyeing one of the many pictures Toji had of you taped to the slate gray brick wall. It was a simple picture, your hair was wavy in this one, a cute dimply smile, lashes curled as you looked all natural. But god, were you still stunning. Toji looks up from the thing he was doing, sitting in the steel chair that was bolted down to the floor.

"Yup, that's my ol' lady," looking up at the picture he can't help but proudly smile. Toji's wall is covered in pictures. Of you, of Megumi. The whole family. Cute pictures you took with each other before he got locked up. It was his motivation to stay straight while being inside. To remind him of what's waiting for him when he gets out.

The block mate lets out a low whistle, nodding approvingly as he leans back against the cold wall. “Damn. She bad.” His celly's eyes roam over the pictures. Ones where you're dressed up all pretty, makeup done perfectly. Ones where you're wrapped around one of Toji's arms, looking up at him with all the adoration in the world. Even the ones that show just a little too much, which Toji keeps right next to where he lays his head.

Toji chuckles, shaking his head. “Watch it.” There’s no real threat in his voice, but there’s an edge of warning that makes the other guy hold his hands up in surrender.

“Ain’t mean no disrespect, Fushiguro,” he says, still looking at the pictures. “Just sayin’. You lucky.”

Toji doesn’t need to be told that. He already knows. It’s what gets him through the long nights, the endless hum of fluorescent lights, the hostility of the barbed wire that separates him from the outside. Knowing you're out there, waiting, is the only thing that keeps him from losing his damn mind.

He leans back against the desk he sits in front of, arms folding across his broad chest, eyes fixed on the pictures. His ol’ lady. His girl. His anchor in a life that never gave him much stability.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. He can still hear your voice, that soft, teasing lilt whenever you’d call him by his full name just to mess with him. “Toji Fushiguro,” you’d say, dragging it out, pretending to scold him, even though your eyes always gave you away. He lived for those moments.

“Bet she writin’ you, huh?” the block mate asks. “You get letters?”

Toji nods. “Every week.” And he does. Neatly folded pages that smell like you, inked with words that remind him that he’s still human. That he’s still yours. That he still has something waiting for him beyond these walls. But god, does he miss you.

“Damn,” the block mate mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Every week? That’s real love right there.”

Toji just smirks again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, edges worn from being opened and closed too many times. He doesn’t even need to read it again—he’s already memorized every damn word—but still, he unfolds it, running a calloused thumb over the handwriting. Your handwriting.

Hey, baby. I know you hate when I get all mushy, but I don’t care. I miss you. I miss you so much it drives me crazy sometimes. But I’ll wait. However long it takes, I’ll wait. You better be eating, staying out of trouble, and keeping that smart-ass mouth in check. (Okay, maybe not too much. You know I love that about you.)

Toji chuckles to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, you knew him too damn well.

Megumi misses you too, even if he acts all tough about it. You should’ve seen his face when I told him your letter came. He’s just like you, y’know? Won’t say how he really feels, but it’s all there in his eyes.

Toji swallows hard, jaw clenching. Megumi. His kid. Another reason for pushing through this hellhole. He pictures him—too serious for his own good, but with those same sharp blue eyes. His boy.

“Yo, Fushiguro,” another voice calls out, snapping him from his thoughts. One of the guards. “Mail just came in.”

Toji is already up before the guy even finishes his sentence, heart pounding just a little faster. The guard hands the baby pink envelope with a lazy flick of the wrist, and Toji snatches it up quick, already recognizing the familiar scrawl of his name across the front.

His block mate lets out a laugh. “Man, look at you. Actin’ like a kid on Christmas.” Toji was always stoic, kept to himself and never showed much emotion. But hey, you always brought it out of him and he wasn't gonna front or hold a facade when it came to how he felt about you.

Toji doesn’t respond. He just sits back down, thumbs sliding under the flap of the envelope, tearing it open like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing in this godforsaken place. The first thing that falls out is a polaroid. His breath catches. It’s you.

You're sitting by a window, sunlight spilling over your skin, that soft, gentle smile on your lips. His girl. His sweetheart. Looking at him like she sees something in him that even he has trouble believing in sometimes. And just like that, the walls of the prison don’t feel so damn suffocating. He’s got something to hold onto.

Toji runs a thumb over the polaroid, like he could somehow feel you through it. The picture is warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold steel and concrete around him. He exhales through his nose, staring at it for a long moment before finally unfolding the letter.

Your words hit him like they always do—gentle, teasing, but full of something deeper. Something that reminds him why he’s still holding on.

Hey, baby. I hope you’re not making the guards’ lives too hard. (Who am I kidding? I know you are.) It’s been getting colder here. I keep stealing your hoodie, the one you always say is yours but smells like me now. Tough luck, Fushiguro, it’s mine until you come back and take it from me.

Toji smirks, shaking his head. She’s gonna pay for that one.

Megumi’s been doing good in school, but I had to threaten to ground him just to get him to eat something other than instant ramen. He’s stubborn, just like his old man.

His smirk fades a little. He can picture it—Megumi sitting at the dinner table, arms crossed, trying to act like he doesn’t care. Just like Toji used to. The guilt settles in his chest, heavy and unshakable. He just wishes he could be there. For the both of you.

We miss you. I miss you.

He stops, lingering on that line. Simple, but enough to send a slow ache through his ribs.

I don’t care how long it takes. You come back to me, Toji. We’re waiting.

Toji exhales sharply, pressing the paper between his fingers, his grip a little too tight.

“Damn,” his block mate mutters, watching him. “She really ridin’ for you, huh?”

Toji just nods. He doesn’t need to say anything. He folds the letter carefully, tucking it away with the others. Getting up, he sticks some tape of the back of the polaroid, putting it up next to the rest of the pictures. Then he leans back in his chair, looking up at the mosaic of pictures you send him.

Yeah. She’s waiting. And he sure as hell isn’t gonna let her down.

[holeforzenin]

hiiiii >3<

whaaaaatttttt ifffffff, u wake up in the middle of the night all sweaty and shaking, head pounding and a fever creeping up ur body, and ur dear, hot, amazing roommate toji (which we love berry muchhhh) hears the little whimpers u let out cause ure sooo uncomfortable because of the fever and takes care of you…T-T

Awww I love this sm <333

It’s past midnight when the fever really starts to hit. You’re tangled up in your sheets, practically drenched in warm sweat, your skin burning up but your body trembling like you’re freezing.

Your head is pounding, every beat of your pulse thudding behind your eyes. You don’t even realize you’re whimpering, but you are— tiny little sounds slipping past your lips because everything hurts and you don’t know what to do.

Then you hear it— the quiet creak of the floor outside your room, the low click of your door easing open. “Hey,” comes a rough, sleepy voice. Toji.

He stands in the doorway shirtless, just gray sweats hanging low on his hips, his hair messy and eyes squinting from the bright hallway light and tiredness. “You okay, kid?”

You try to answer but your voice cracks, and you just barely manage a shaky whisper. “Feel bad…”

That’s all it takes. He’s by your side in seconds, hand brushing your forehead to feel you, frowning immediately. “Shit sweetheart. You’re burning up”.

The mattress dips under his weight as he sits down next to you, gentle fingers pushing your hair back so it doesn’t tickle your face, his voice going soft.

“Why didn’t you wake me up, huh?” he murmurs, grabbing the blanket that’s clinging to your sweaty body and pulling it down a bit. “Laying here all quiet like this… poor thing”.

Before you know it, he’s tucking one of his strong arms under your back to sit you up, holding your body against his bare chest, his skin cool and solid against your heat. “C’mon lemme get you some meds and some water”, His lips brush the side of your clammy temple. “Then I’m staying here with you. Can’t leave my poor girl like this”.

[sangunary]

YANDERE BATFAM x NEGLECTED READER

-Hush now crybaby.

SYPNOSIS: When your family only cherish you after your death.

Warning: Child neglect, bullying,violence, gore, death.

\\ Part 1 // \\ Part 2 // \\ Part 3 //

You were the blood daughter but not the same as how Damian was, you were from a simple one night stand your father had... A mistake.

Ever since your mother left you behind with your suppose Father your life took an unpleasant turn.

Your life with your father was supposed to be colourful and exciting afterall you've been watching the other kids playing with their Fathers in the park. You remembered how envious you were back than, how everybody have a sibling to talk about, but for you? It wasn't that much of a talk on your end and you felt boring.

It broke your little heart when you realised that... Family really suck.

If it wasn't true than you wouldn't be standing alone on the stage while everyone else have their father's by their side.

It was supposed to be a father daughter day.

You inform him yourself even picking out a new dress for the special occasion with Alfred but your Father wasn't even near sight.

You were holding back your tears, gripping onto the end of your new dress looking at the ground.

Each time your heart pounds against your ribcage you could feel the agonizing pain that sent shock throughout your whole body.

The tears in your eyes were filling, dangerously close to bursting out. Yet you tried your best to not spill even a drop of tear.

Everybody called you a crybaby, but you weren't a crybaby just- it's hard to understand why you even cry ay times.

It wasn't your fault your poor heart couldn't handle their harsh word... It's not your fault your heart is fragile, it just needed some love and maybe a tint of understanding to fix it.

"Im sorry kid, I can't bring you to the park on Tuesday, me and little wing made an arrangement that we would go to the museum" Dick words ring inside your ears.

"But you said- you promised me that you'd bring me to the park... last sunday, I ask first" You replied, your hand's wrap around the little bear that you were going to give to your older brother... To thank him for bringing you to the park.

You couldn't help but feel a terrific ache inside your heart.

It wasn't fair, Damian asked today and you already asked last Sunday! And Dick and Damian already went to the museum together last monday...

"Im sorry but... Damian you know how he is, he's just cold and opportunities like this never come often, you have to understand. You're a big girl" Dick reminded you.

You couldn't help but let out a little huff. Damian that Damian this when was it ever about you. Even on your birthday Dick always brought present for him!

You remembered how Dick gave you a silly bunny doll abit chewed on, said it was his dog old/favourite doll... While Damain received a literal book signed by the very author on your birthday!

"You... promised first!" You spit back.

You were on the verge of crying spilling it all out. You grip onto your doll as you looked at the ground a drop of tear fall from your eyes and land on the marble floor.

And that's when you heard the disappointed sigh from your older brother.

The floor was clean enough to the point you could see your own pathetic face... Face red and eyes watery... You look ugly.

"Kid look... See this is why I choose Damian, you're too... spoiled, you can't just cry to get what you want. If you don't change this behaviour I won't go out with you"

"I-"

"No 'I', you're extremely spoiled and Damian isn't. This is why I don't want to go out with you, Damian is somewhat more shameful than you"

You swallowed your Saliva, staring into the marble. Tears began to rain as you couldn't stop them from spilling, you wipe your tears with your hands which wasn't helping.

You sniff and hiccup not daring to even look at Dick.

It was very clear who the favourite was from the beginning. Even if you were to get stab Damian would be the first they check on for any scar or scrab.

Every night you would weep inside your room or bathroom, grabbing onto anything and wrapping it around you to envision the warmth of comfort.

"Jason?" you called out. You only called out because you were on the verge of crying and you could smell the cigarette and you knew only Jason smoke.

"Jay?" you called out again, walking towards the balcony, you're in desperate need of comfort now. It was your birthday yet nobody remembered even Alfred forgot it.

It was terrible, the only thing you asked for was a little family dinner together having fun not everyone forgetting your own existence.

"Ja-"

"I heard you the first time"

Your hand's were twiddling with eachother, showing a clear sing you were somewhat anxious.

"Could you hug me? Please"

You cried out looking up at the older male.

You could never forget to say please cause last time it didn't end up well for you. They called you mannerless and even insulted your mother! You couldn't quite understand what Damian was speaking but he called a shame saying you ruin the perfect blood! to your face! Infront of everybody... Just because you forgot to say something!

"You're too old for one"

"I don't mind, just once please... it's my-"

"not everything have to be about you, princess"

Your smile flattered into a frown, when Jason first started calling you princess you were excited and extremely happy thinking he saw you as an amazing princess... Turns out that he only see you as a spoiled little girl... You heard it yourself.

"Just- it's my birthday and I thought a hug would be a very nice gift"

You spoke bravely again, maybe if you were persistent he might give up and hug you?

"...I don't want to hug you or acknowledge you, I don't want to hurt your little feelings but, do not indulged yourself with me. Is that clear?"

"Yeah... sorry"

Without a word you left the room, walking towards yours... Jason was compared to other's very good to you: he usually ignored your presence which was alright.

Before your reached your room you had to walk pass tim's and he was home but locked up again doing whatever he wished.

You could hear him mutter something from outside and you had a very nice idea.

After abit you knock on his door, your hand's wrap around a cup of coffee which you made yourself!

You knocked again. Nothing happened.

You knock thrice... Not even a sound.

Just than you decided to invite yourself in, afterall everyone in the family can definitely do that. You've never seen them knock to enter Tim's room.

"Tim?" you called out poking inside you check if he was there. Cause last time when you enter his room he went out the window, you found it funny.

The room was dark and the only source of light being the computer in which he was so absorb into.

Without thinking you went inside not forgetting to close the door.

"I made you coffee!" you announced to him.

"Thanks"

"...What are you doing" you asked hoping to atleast have a little conversation with him...

"Adult stuff" Tim was very vague.

"Can I se-"

"Im busy, put the coffee on the table and leave"

"Alright..."

You did as he asked and went towards the door and before you could even leave you watch as Tim throw the whole mug into the bin.

He definitely knew you were still in the room afterall he was smart he should know that. But, you didn't even speak up just suck it up and leave the room.

And as soon as you close the door, from the coner of your eyes you saw Damian. Looking at you directly.

Damian was bold and said lot's of bad stuff to you, as a result you spent half your day's avoiding him and as usual you tried avoiding him but... he stopped you.

"Where have you been?" His tone was surprisingly calm.

"Urm... I- was ugh..." You didn't know what to say? Told him that you were avoiding him and getting grounded or just yourself more of a victim than ever.

"You can't speak now?"

"I... sorry"

"Happy Birthday"

You couldn't even contain your shock face. Damian remembered your birthday? That's odd but very nice.

"Thank you!"

You couldn't help it, Damian of all people remembered your very existence... You felt important and that's all you need.

"There's a gift for you... Inside your room."

"Thanks! Im so... I thank you so much! I'll go check it!"

Before he could speak you ran towards your room all your tears gone now and you were filled with joy and excitement.

The moment you open the door to your room your heart dropped.

"..."

Your room was in ruined... Your heart dropped as you walk inside, your bed was wrecked your clothes were gone... most importantly the only picture of your mother was gone.

"What did you do?!"

You turned back, Damian was leaning against the door frame with that cocky grin on his face.

"Im helping you grow out your crybaby phase."

"What...?"

"See, crying again. Is that your only talent to cry until you get attention? Pathetic"

Without thinking you launched at him, it turn into a brutal fight but with Damian skill you were no match. He wasn't not going to pity you and you knew.

It took atleast two family members to seperate you two and stop the fight.

Jason was holding you by the hair but he wasn't pulling on it just silently threating you.

Everybody else were checking on Damian completely ignoring the fact that Damian punch you so hard your nose was bleeding.

And ever since that day everybody in the family saw you as the troublesome kid and whenever anything bad happened it was always your fault.

Not to mention how they even take a step further in ignoring you.

Every family movie night you would sit alone while everyone else sit in this big couch cuddling and giggling together. Even during Tag they completely forgot about you... Saying you were too old to play tag with them which made no sense...

Alfred was suddenly busy whenever you needed him and sometimes you had to walk home during a cyclone/rain because Alfred was busy.

Bruce become more strick and because of that your friends at school didn't even want to talk to you. Saying that as much as they wanted to be friends it to them it seems as you were ghosting them. You tried explaining even crying and begging humiliating yourself further... They never even dare to looked at you.

Everyday kept getting worse and you didn't even know what you did wrong.

You finally snapped out your thoughts and looked around... The same stage and same faces just- Bruce was still not present.

Salty tears stream down your face as you couldn't hold it in anymore. Everybody just stared at you and before your teacher could even ask you aside you ran.

You didn't know where or what your destiny was, your leg just moved on their own.

And before you knew it something hard hit you and your light were cut short.

From that day you found out you died, unfortunately you didn't went straight to haven and instead forced to stay on Earth.

You watched as your family finally acknowledged you. Always visiting your grave and even crying when nobody were around.

You felt happy, they finnally loved you!

But all it took was your life for them to realise their fault.

This Suck So MUCH.

[shyoko]

✧ Accidentally sent a dirty message to another member. ✦༺⊹

This writing is my own; no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it. 𓂃 

✦ 4.0K words * Masterlist˚ Taglist✧ Requests “Open”₊‧ ✦𓂃 

enhypen x fem!reader ⚠️ cw: NSFW / +18 — rough sex, jealousy, possessive behavior, light choking, wall sex, hair pulling, spanking, dirty talk, slight humiliation, intense kissing, marking (hickeys), sex in the shower. Minors DNI. Read responsibly.

✧ Heeseung ----------

It was noon. Heeseung had texted you from work, telling you that the day was turning into a complete nightmare. His message was short, but you could feel the exhaustion in his words: "I can't take it anymore. I'm done with everything today."

You sighed, imagining him in his studio, his head full of stress. You wanted to cheer him up. And you knew exactly how.

You got off the couch, walked to the mirror, and took a picture — nothing vulgar, but definitely bold. Provocative. Sexy. Perfect to lift his spirits and remind him that when he got home, he’d have something far better than work waiting for him.

You sent it without double-checking.

Seconds later... your world froze.

Sunghoon replied with: "…" followed by "Was this meant for me?"

You froze. You opened the sent message... and there it was. Your photo. Sent to Sunghoon.

Your hand flew to your mouth. Your heart pounded. You tried to delete the message, but it was too late. The damage was done.

And then your phone rang. It was Heeseung.

"Are you kidding me?" he said as soon as you answered, his voice deep, tense, furious. "Did you send that picture to Sunghoon?"

"No! It was a mistake, I swear… it was meant for you…"

"I’m leaving work. You better have answers when I get home."

He hung up.

You stood there in silence, gripping your phone, feeling the burn of shame mixing with the fear of what would come next.

An minuts later, you heard the door slam. Heavy footsteps approached. He walked straight to you, not saying a word. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his eyes dark and intense.

He stopped in front of you. He didn’t yell. He didn’t ask.

"Give me the phone."

You handed it over with trembling hands. He unlocked it without effort, went straight to the chat with Sunghoon, deleted the message… and then the entire contact.

"You're never talking to him again." His voice was low, trembling with restrained anger.

"Heeseung, it was an accident. I swear..."

He placed the phone on the table, took your face in his hands, and looked at you so deeply you felt the floor disappear under your feet.

"An accident?" he whispered, his rough voice sliding down your spine as his hand moved slowly from your neck to your waist. "Then let me show you how we fix a mistake like that."

Without warning, he pushed you gently against the wall, his mouth crashing onto yours with a mix of fury and desire. He kissed you with hunger, with jealousy, with fire. His hands moved over your body with a possessive firmness, as if he had to reclaim every inch of your skin.

"You're mine," he growled between his teeth, lips brushing yours. "Only I get to see you like this. Only I get to touch you like this."

His mouth moved down your neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses, stopping at your collarbone. He made sure you felt every mark he left. His hands pulled you closer, demanding all of you.

"Do you know how hard it was to hold back all day? And now this..."

His voice trembled between desire and the need to make sure you never forgot who you belonged to.

✧ Jay ----------

You were in the living room, lying on a couch with your phone in hand while the guys chatted animatedly on the other side. Jay was standing, leaning against a table, laughing calmly with Jake and Sunghoon. His voice—so distinctive—had that effect on you: it pulled you in effortlessly.

You bit your lip without realizing it, watching him smile, move, talk. It felt like he hadn’t looked at you in hours, so focused on that conversation. You crossed your legs and sighed... You wanted to tease him a little.

So you opened your gallery and picked a photo—one of those only he was supposed to see. Nothing explicit, but suggestive, intimate… with a look that said everything your words didn’t. You smiled mischievously and sent it directly as a private message.

Or so you thought.

Seconds later, something felt off. Jake stopped talking, looked at his phone… then looked at you. He said nothing, but his eyes said it all. You swallowed hard. Checked your phone.

You had sent the photo to Jake.

Your heart stopped.

Jay noticed Jake’s reaction and leaned in to see the phone. His expression changed instantly. The muscles in his jaw tensed, and his eyebrow slowly raised.

"What is that?" he asked quietly, though everyone heard him.

Jake raised his hands, uncomfortable. "I… it wasn’t meant for me."

Jay turned to you, his eyes locked onto yours. He said nothing. Walked slowly toward where you were, while you tried to say something—but your tongue felt like stone.

"You were going to send that to me… but you sent it to Jake?" he said softly, in a tone that chilled your blood.

"It was a mistake… Jay, really, it wasn’t for him…" you whispered, feeling the shame rise to your ears.

But he didn’t answer.

He just grabbed your arm, firmly but not hurting you, and led you out of the room. No one said a word. Only his footsteps and your shaky breathing could be heard.

You entered his room, and he shut the door behind him forcefully.

He slowly let go of you, but his gaze stayed locked on yours.

"Do you know how I felt seeing that photo on someone else’s phone?" he asked hoarsely, holding back something more than anger.

"Jay, it was an accident. I swear…" you said, stepping closer.

"I don’t like it when you play with me." His voice was low, his words came out slowly, like he was deciding whether to hold back or give in.

Then he stepped forward, took your face in one hand, firmly, like he needed to make sure you were only looking at him.

"That photo was mine. Do you know how it felt to imagine Jake seeing you like that?"

His lips crashed into yours suddenly. The kiss was deep, burning, full of unspoken demand. It wasn’t sweet. It was possessive. Like he needed to prove you were still his.

His hands traveled down your waist as his body guided you back, pressing you against the door. His breath was hot against your neck as he moved down and left a slow, teasing, firm hickey.

"I’m going to mark you, so you won’t forget. No one else has the right to see you like this. No one."

Your legs trembled under his touch. His mouth returned to yours, this time slower, more intense. Jay’s hands slid down your hips with intent, while his lips burned with the same desire you had tried to awaken… and that now threatened to consume you completely.

✧ Jake ----------

You had a quiet day. Jake hadn’t texted you much, but you knew he was with Ni-ki—like he always was lately. You didn’t give it too much thought. You got comfortable on the couch, turned the TV on in the background, and grabbed your phone.

You missed him. Much more than you wanted to admit.

After a few minutes of thinking, you started writing him something. Something you knew would make him smile... or maybe something more. The message was bold, direct. You told him exactly what you wanted to do to him that night. How you were going to kiss him, touch him, ride him slow, and tease him until he begged you to let him come.

You bit your lip, amused by your own daring. And you sent it.

But seconds later, your screen hit you like a slap.

Ni-ki: "…Was this meant for me?"

Your heart stopped.

You opened the chat.

Yes. You had done it. Your dirtiest, most explicit message… had been sent to Ni-ki.

Ni-ki. Who was with Jake.

Blood rushed to your face, your hands trembled. You checked everything a thousand times, trying to convince yourself it wasn’t real. But it was.

You texted Jake. Nothing. Another. Silence. Tried calling. No answer.

And then, hours passed.

Until you heard the door open.

It closed with a sharp thud. No voice. No greeting. Just heavy footsteps down the hallway. You watched him as he walked straight into the bedroom.

You didn’t know what to do. You stayed on the couch a few minutes, biting your lip nervously. Then you got up and went after him.

He was lying on his side, back to you, shirt still on. He hadn’t covered himself. He hadn’t moved.

You carefully climbed onto the bed. Quietly approached him. Slowly lifted his shirt. He said nothing. He didn’t pull away.

You started kissing his back, his neck. Slowly. Gently. Almost afraid.

"I’m sorry, Jake… it was a mistake. That message was for you. I swear."

You continued kissing your way down until he suddenly turned and looked at you directly. His eyes were dark, intense. There was pain. There was anger.

He gently grabbed your hair, pulling you close to his face.

"Say it to my face," he whispered. "Was it a mistake? Or are you cheating on me with him?"

You looked him straight in the eyes, without hesitation.

"It was a mistake. I swear. Ni-ki has nothing to do with it. The message was yours. It was always meant for you."

Jake swallowed hard, closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they were glassy—but he didn’t cry. He kissed you. Suddenly. With hunger. With desperation.

"Fuck… thank god, baby…" he murmured against your lips.

Then he climbed on top of you, kissing you hard, with a mix of desire, relief, and fear. He held your waist tight, trapped you under him like he needed to remind you you were his.

"I thought you’d chosen him," he confessed as he kissed down your neck, reaching your collarbone. "Thought I wasn’t enough anymore."

"Never. It’s you. Only you."

Jake growled, kissing down your stomach with desperate need. He spread your legs, settled between them without saying a word. Only staring into your eyes.

"Then tonight you’re going to remember. You’re going to feel it. Every fucking second."

✧ Sunghoon ----------

It was almost eleven at night. You were alone in your room, body burning, mind lost in a single thought: Sunghoon. You had been secretly seeing each other for a few months. No one in the group knew. 

And that made it all the more addictive—this feeling like you were playing with fire.

You missed his body, his cold hands on your skin, the way he looked at you when he lost control. So, caught between need and boldness, you decided to record something.

You slipped under the sheets, pulled down your underwear, and started touching yourself while thinking of him. You let the moans come out—soft, filthy—

You recorded the audio with your eyes closed, skin tingling, heart racing. And you sent it.

Only… it didn’t go to Sunghoon’s chat. It went to Heeseung’s.

You realized it a second later, when the double blue checkmarks appeared under the wrong name.

“No… no, no, no,” you muttered, pale, unlocking your phone like you could undo the inevitable.

Heeseung replied quickly. Way too quickly. First a message:

“Was this for me?”

Then… a video. Short. But explosive. He was in it, panting, shirtless, staring into the camera, whispering:

“Fuck… you don’t know what you do to me… Y/n…”

You almost dropped the phone. The world crashed down on you. Heeseung thought the audio was for him. And now… he was playing along.

You locked your phone, covered your face with your hands, totally frozen. You’d screwed up. Badly.

And the worst part hadn’t even happened yet.

Because Heeseung… told Sunghoon.

Everything. In detail.

He was so excited, so convinced the audio was meant for him, that he showed it without thinking.

Sunghoon didn’t say much. Just enough.

“It was meant for me,” he muttered, jaw tight.

“What? What do you mean—” “You heard me.”

And he left. His face completely twisted by jealousy.

An hour later, he was at your door. He knocked hard. Walked in without saying much. His eyes were burning. He shut the door, looked you up and down, and spoke with a calm so fake it was frightening.

“Did you send it to the wrong chat? Or are you going to tell me you were trying to turn on my best friend?”

“Sunghoon, no! It was a mistake. A stupid mistake. It was for you. I swear…”

But he wasn’t in the mood for speeches. He pushed you against the wall, one hand firm on your waist, the other around your neck—not tight, but enough to make clear who was in control.

“For me? Then prove it.”

He kissed you with fury, with a mix of desire and rage that stole your breath. Lifted you up in his arms, carried you to the bed like you weren’t allowed to walk. Tore your clothes off in one swift move—fast, careless, like he needed to reassert that your body was his.

He climbed on top of you, not letting you escape his gaze.

“Say my name. Like in the audio. But loud this time.”

And you did. Again and again. Screaming.

His thrusts were deep, fast, intense. There was no room for tenderness. It was all skin, moans, fingernails digging in, and teeth on your neck. His hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing you to take every inch.

And in the middle of it all, without slowing down for even a second, he grabbed his phone, unlocked it, and recorded an audio.

“Listen to this, Heeseung,” he whispered into the mic, voice low and hoarse. “That’s how she moans my name.”

He let it record everything. Your moans. The sound of bodies slamming together. Your desperate voice crying out his name like a prayer.

He sent the audio without hesitation. Then dropped the phone to the floor and kissed you again—hard, with tongue, with jealousy.

“You’re mine. Only mine. And if anyone dares think otherwise again, I’ll fuck you even harder. You hear me?”

And it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

That night, the world stayed outside your room. There was only Sunghoon—his body, his rage, and that fierce need to make sure no one else touched you.

And you… didn’t want anyone else to, either.

✧ Sunoo ----------

The afternoon had been normal. At least for you.

You had sent Sunoo a sexy photo a few hours ago. Not just a provocative selfie, but one you had taken with clear intention: naked body, perfect angle, eyes staring straight into the camera. You wanted to drive him crazy. You wanted to play with his desire.

But something changed when he got home.

He didn’t say a word. No greeting. No smile. Not even a glance. He just walked past you with a serious face, brows furrowed, jaw clenched. Locked himself in the bedroom and didn’t come out.

“Sunoo?” you called from the living room, confused.

Silence.

You walked up to the half-open door. He was sitting on the bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen like he wanted to shatter it with his eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

Nothing. Not a turn of the head. Not even a different breath.

The anxiety started rising in your chest. You didn’t understand. You hadn’t argued. Nothing strange had happened. At least, that’s what you thought.

“Did I do something? Please, just tell me.”

Then he stood up. Slowly. Eyes dark. Cold.

“You had no idea, did you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The photo. The fucking nude photo you sent to Jay.”

Your body tensed instantly.

“What…? No. That’s not possible. It was meant for you.”

“Well, it went to Jay. And guess who saw it on his screen before he deleted it? I did.”

You were speechless. The world crashed down on you. A wave of shame, fear, guilt—everything hit at once.

“Sunoo… I didn’t know. I swear, it wasn’t on purpose. It was for you. Only for you…”

But he laughed. Dry. Hurt.

“Of course… how convenient. What a lovely little mistake.” He turned toward you, face contorted, emotions finally spilling out. “Do you know what I felt when I saw it? When Jay showed me the notification with that stupid smile on his face?”

“Please… don’t say it like that. That’s not what happened.”

“You broke me,” he whispered. “But the worst part… is that even though it hurts, I still want you like a fool. I still love you, and that pisses me off more than the betrayal itself.”

You stepped closer, but he didn’t move. Until suddenly, he snapped.

He grabbed the back of your neck, eyes glassy, voice trembling.

He kissed you hard. Wild. Broken. His tongue forced its way into your mouth with desperation, with anger. His body slammed into yours, pushing you back against the wall. You could feel his chest rise and fall heavily, like he was on the edge of breaking down.

And then… tears.

His.

Hot. Silent. They fell onto your skin as he kissed you, as his hands moved over your body with a mix of need and bottled-up rage.

You gently pulled back, lips swollen, heart in your throat.

“Are you crying?”

Sunoo lowered his head, trembling.

“It just hurts. Hurts to love you like this. Like an idiot. Thinking I have you, when in reality… I’m not even enough for a damn photo.”

“Don’t say that.” You cupped his face in your hands. “It was a mistake. A fucking mistake. That photo was yours. Only yours. I made it thinking about you. About how you look when you want me. How you moan my name. How you tremble when you touch me.”

He looked at you, breathing hard.

“Say it again.”

“Only you, Sunoo. No one else.”

His expression shattered. Completely.

“Then prove it. Right now.”

And you did.

You led him to the bed. You knelt before him. You worshipped him. You cherished him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Your lips moved down, your tongue traced over his skin everything words couldn’t express.

And him—with fingers tangled in your hair and teary eyes—could only whisper your name over and over again like a desperate prayer.

✧ Jungwon ----------

That afternoon, you had been trying on the lingerie Jungwon had given you a few days ago. It was beautiful. You looked good, you felt confident… and you knew he would love to see you like this.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, smiled to yourself, and took a picture. It was provocative. The lighting was perfect, your expression even more so. It was exactly the kind of image Jungwon loved—intimate, yours, made just for him.

You added a little message to go with it:

“Look how what you bought me fits… do you like it?”

And without thinking too much about it, you sent it.

A bit later, you went into the bathroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower, enjoying the hot water running down your body. You closed your eyes, letting yourself relax, until you heard the bathroom door swing open.

You jumped.

“Why did you send that photo to Sunoo?” came Jungwon’s deep voice.

You turned around in shock, heart pounding. He was standing there, completely serious, phone in hand, jaw clenched.

“What? What are you talking about?” you asked, disoriented.

“The photo. Your message. You sent it to Sunoo’s chat.” His gaze was intense—hard, hurt.

Your face turned red instantly.

“No! No… Jungwon, it wasn’t for him. I swear. It was meant for you. I sent it to the wrong chat…”

There was a moment of silence. Then, he set the phone down on the counter, his eyes never leaving you.

“A mistake, huh?” he said as he slowly took off his shirt.

Your breathing quickened.

“Jungwon…”

He unbuttoned his pants, slid them down calmly, and removed the rest of his clothes. All of it with a tense, controlled energy that made the air between you vibrate.

He opened the shower door and stepped inside without another word.

The water ran over him, soaking his hair, sliding down his shoulders. He moved toward you, gaze locked, not a single doubt in his eyes.

“Are you sure it was meant for me?” he whispered, so close you could feel his breath on your skin.

“Yes. Only for you,” you murmured, trembling.

He took your face in both hands and kissed you. Hard, intense, desperate. Like he needed to confirm you still belonged to him. His lips moved with urgency, his body pressing you gently against the shower wall.

“Don’t ever make that mistake again,” he whispered between kisses, as his hands slid slowly down your waist, your back, your soaked skin. “Because if anyone else sees you like this…”

His mouth moved down to your neck, stealing your breath, as steam filled the room and his body pressed to yours with a mix of need, jealousy, and desire.

“Only I get to see you like this. Only me.”

✧ Ni-ki ----------

You were in Ni-ki’s room, at the group’s house. He was somewhere else in the building, helping one of the guys with something, and you decided to wait for him… but not just any way.

You put on the lingerie you knew drove him crazy—the black lace one he had picked out with you. You looked at yourself in the mirror, struck a provocative pose, and snapped the perfect photo. You added a clear message:

“I’m waiting for you in your bed… I want you to make me yours tonight.”

You smiled as you sent it. You knew he’d get the message instantly and come find you with that intense look that made you melt.

But your blood ran cold when you saw the reply notification.

It was Jungwon.

“Wow… you look really pretty. But I think you sent this to the wrong person 😅”

Your heart dropped to the floor. You had sent it to the wrong chat. Jungwon had seen it. All of it.

You covered your face with your hands, not knowing whether to laugh in embarrassment or scream in frustration. You tried to explain, sent a quick message—but there was no way to undo what had already been seen.

Minutes later, Ni-ki opened the door.

Slowly. Seriously.

He looked at you with dark eyes, without saying a word. Closed the door behind him firmly as you sat up nervously on the bed.

“Ni-ki…?”

“You sent that to Jungwon?” he asked, voice tense, calm but tight. “He saw you like that?”

“No! It was for you, really. I messed up… I nearly died when I saw it. It was a mistake.”

But he said nothing.

He pulled off his jacket in one swift move. Then his shirt. His breathing was heavy. He looked at you like he was holding back something wild, something ready to break loose.

He came toward you, gripped your face firmly.

“A mistake, huh?” he whispered, bringing his lips close to yours. “Then I’m going to make sure you only moan my name… and Jungwon better hear it.”

He kissed you hard. His body pushed you back onto the bed, eyes locked on yours. His hands moved over your skin with restrained rage, with desire, with total possession. His lips traveled down your neck, leaving marks that burned.

“Spread your legs. I’m going to make sure you never even think about looking at anyone else again.”

And he did. Hard, with passion, with jealousy. Every movement carried one purpose—to leave you breathless and make sure no one else could touch you, not even in your thoughts.

And when you cried out his name, gasping, he smiled against your skin and whispered proudly:

“That’s what I like to hear… let everyone hear it.”

✦A/n: Hii, I really hope you liked it. ILYSM. MWAH!

✦Taglist: @lezleeferguson-120 @nuki-riki @ijustwannareadstuff20 @vvenusoncasual @miellette @enhacolor @xxkatsusjinsux @somieverse @ourshin @han-to-my-minho @douqhnxtss @nuggets4lifers @mitmit01

[digitald0rk]

ANIMAL ATTRACTION

𓏵𓏵 DON'T LET HER GET AWAY ! mark grayson ( invincible ) x fem reader ( catwoman ) synopsis : in which mark tries to put a kitty back in her cage. warnings ⤻ swearing, suggestive content, you are a tease <3 mentions of blood, sexual tension, grinding? no actual smut. w.c : 3.5k. notes — mark's still a rookie hero ++ new to the GDA so yeah :3 he's trying his best! not to let his hormones control him. title is indeed a swr reference.

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ taglist ! @vm4879bb-blog @fairii-majii @hihowyoudoin00 @rayaaa4444 @wadehowl3tt @luvvcharxo @lacesoflove @urmyvalentine1 @sweetb3rry

this wasn't how it was supposed to go.

the plan was simple: retrieve the stolen jewels from the infamous thief and then take care of said thief.

so why the hell is he just staring at you from the shadows as you toy with one of the shiny red rubies, holding it up and watching as the moonlight reflects off it prettily.

“mark,” cecil's voice rings in the half viltrumite’s ear, “are you there? can you hear me kid?”

“huh? i mean yeah, yeah i’m here.”

“you catch the thief yet?”

“uh no but i’m getting to it”

liar, it's been twenty minutes, he could easily overpower you — but he hasn't, yet.

“i’ll talk to you when i’m done okay? don't want her getting suspicious or something.”

“you know i can see you, right?”

oh fuck.

a nervous chuckle escaped his lips at that, he floats closer to you sitting on the roof — all clad in that leather body suit that makes him feel lightheaded and that damn smile, you know what you're doing, there's no way you don't know the effect you have on him. he rips his gaze away from your thighs, taking a deep breath to calm himself down.

“what you did was not very nice,” he says dumbly, his voice cracks slightly at the end and he wishes the ground would swallow him.

“oh i'm well aware invinciboy.” holy shit are you teasing him? you're still playing around with the gem in your hand, it's like you're not scared or even slightly fazed by his presence, he's not sure how to feel about that.

“ah, so you know who i am?” he huffs a little proudy, “you know stealing is a crime right?” he asks, again a very dumb question but his brain is a little fried right now especially with the way you're looking at him like that.

“i’m gonna have to take you with me,” he manages to say.

“a man who knows what he wants,” you put the ruby back in the sack full of other similar precious jewels and walk closer to him, hand pressed against his chest as you lean over to whisper in his ear, “i like that.”

he's going to die.

his heart jumps at the action — beating way too fast, it's almost painful, he's sure you can hear it too.

“listen lady, you're coming with me,” he says weakly, stepping away a little and trying to put some distance between you two for his own sanity, god you smell good.

“go on and try, pretty boy,” you challenge him, holding his gaze as you step away too — you sound a little too confident, too sure of yourself.

he'll just have to put you in your place.

or maybe he won't, he feels dizzy all of a sudden before his head starts pounding and eyes start getting heavy, he groans at the pain.

and just like that, you're swinging the sack over your shoulder and getting ready to run away, looking back at him through your mask, the wind making your suit's tail sway.

“wait,” he pathetically calls out, his body feels weak — what on earth have you done to him?

you throw his way the now empty small dart, with a pointy needle attached at one end, that you stabbed him with, which was probably filled with some sort of drug or worse poison, he assumes. so that beating of his heart wasn't that painful for no reason, you had stabbed him huh? he should've been more careful — shouldn't have underestimated you.

he tries reaching for you again but his knees give out, making him fall onto the cold rough floor of the building's rooftop, he grunts and looks up at you as he tries to keep his eyes open.

and you have the audacity to blow him a kiss playfully, “we'll meet again invincible,” you even send his way a wink for good measure before you make your escape, effortlessly moving to jump from one rooftop to another, landing precisely each time.

mark reluctantly falls into a slumber, hearing cecil’s worried voice as his eyes shut down.

he feels groggy and disoriented when he wakes up in the all too familiar GDA patient rooms.

“about time,” cecil’s voice makes him sit up a little bit straighter as he tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“how long was i out for?”

“almost six hours.”

it was supposed to be a simple job, in fact he only took it because he needed a break from all the intense, hard hitting, leaving-him-with-severe-injuries missions. he knows cecil is disappointed — heck, he's disappointed with himself too.

“get some rest kid, i’ll send someone else to take care of her.”

“no let me, let me fix my mistake, let me go after her again,” mark says without thinking. it's his job to stop crime, he'll do it no matter what  — is it also an excuse to see you? maybe. 

cecil sighs, “fine. but you better get that damn cat in her cage. and don't hold back this time.”

he's going to see you again. 

“why are you smiling?”

“i’m not!”

“give me that bag right now,” mark demands.

the GDA was able to track you down easily — or maybe that's what you wanted, as donald had suggested earlier.

now here he is, standing in front of you in your little hideout, the bag of precious gems behind you as you guard them with a charming smile.

“i don't appreciate your tone, sweetheart.”

“well i don't appreciate you stabbing me with a sleeping drug either.”

“heard you superheros don't get enough sleep, i’m just trying to look out for my favorite one, love.”

you're messing with him — it's working, the thought of him being your favorite in any kind of sense makes his cheeks heat up.

“don't make me use force, cat,” he threatens, walking closer. except you don't back down, you never do and it annoys him deeply. he takes a hold of your neck and pins you to the wall behind with a loud thud, the sack worth probably millions momentarily forgotten — his eyes trained on you as if he's waiting for you to validate him, his strength.

“choking? well that's certainly kinky.”

“what?” he stammers out, he knows you're enjoying this — his cheeks are flushed from both the proximity and your words.

“you heard me,” you smile up at him like he can't just crush your bones in a second of he wanted to, “didn't take you for such a bold one,” you muse aloud, nails lightly raking against his suit from his neck down to his chest, the action sending a shiver down his spine that settles low in his gut, a familiar heat starting to bloom down there.

“you're coming with me,” his voice is rough as he turns you around so your front is pressed against the cold wall and he pins your hands behind your back with one hand while the other rests on the back of your neck.

his eyes not so subtly take in the view — the leather of the black suit clings to your body deliciously, the slight arch of your back and the way the fabric stretches across your thighs and ass has his breathing hitching.

“enjoying the view back there invinciboy?” you sway your hips side to side as if to taunt him which makes him huff, the sound annoyed but undeniably laced with some sort of fondness.

“you're so annoying,” he whispers into your ear — just like you did before you decided to drug him and knock him out.

mark presses himself against your body almost unconsciously, gulping when he feels the swell of your ass rub against his very obvious hard problem.

“is that a gun or are you just excited to see me?”

“shut up,” he mutters, embarrassed but still wishing you'd continue to grind back on him to offer him some sort of relief — relief which he hasn't been able to get ever since your first meeting.

“well then maybe you should put my mouth to good use.”

excuse me? his mouth goes dry at your comment.

and for a moment his teenage hormone driven brain even considers the very obvious inappropriate insinuation before he snaps out of it at cecil’s voice.

the bag.

mark drags you with him, manhandling you — something which you look a little too happy with but he doesn't comment on it, instead he grabs the bag with his free hand that's not restricting your arms but it feels suspiciously light.

so he empties out its contents carefully and lo and behold, it's only filled with a handful of gemstones — the bottom is filled with cotton and other trash of no use.

he glares at you, scoffing when you only playfully bat your eyelashes at him, feigning innocence.

“where's the rest of them?”

“maybe they turned into wool?” you shrug and his eye twitches.

“don't play dumb with me cat, where are they?” his patience is running thin.

“fineeee, they're in the vault down there, under the desk.”

he's still wary of you — for good reason, but he knows he can stop you if you try to run away and plus his main priority is those stupid gems so he lets you go, moving to locate the said vault.

he manages to find it, entering the passcode you gave him and opens the metal vault.

mark immediately gets hit in the face with some sort of gas can which leaves him coughing and wheezing, the purple colored gas leaking and making it hard to see, even his eyes start watering a bit as he tries to find where you are.

you yelp when he ends up yanking your tail, dragging you right to him and where the fuck did you get that mask? of course you planned everything till the end, you always do.

he's about to catch you, once and for all but you catch him off guard, pulling the dirtiest, most unfair trick in the book, a kick right to his family jewels. ouch.

he winces loudly and stumbles back a little, the purple haze only getting more dense as the seconds tick by making it even harder to see, he can make out the faint sound of your pretty voice through the gas mask, “sorry!” yeah right, you don't sound sorry at all.

his eyes feel heavy, not this again — does this woman have a thing for knocking people out or something? mark thinks as his consciousness starts to fade out, the sound of your footsteps fading away as well.

and just like that you've slipped through his fingers. again.

he'll catch you, just you wait.

he wakes up after god knows how many hours, why the fuck is he all tied up with a mirror in front of him — he groans in frustration when he comes to the conclusion it's probably your doing.

i mean who else would draw cat whiskers and a dot on his nose and leave him tied up in the same spot he was once again outsmarted by you — it is humiliating and he is definitely not turned on by the idea of you tying him up to do something else. nope. no.

oh right there's cecil, clearly not amused.

“mark.”

the younger man sighs, he knows he's in for it.

much to his surprise, the stolen jewels — half of them, were found in the same bag behind some important political building which mark would know of if he did actually pay attention in class and wasn't busy day dreaming about catching you, chasing after you — the thrill of it all is something he craves.

he knows you steal from the rich, but it's still a crime. 

so when he catches you in the act of seemingly stealing another thing, in broad daylight this time, that honestly he could care less about, he wastes no time flying over and grabbing your tail — okay, he may or may not have a thing for pulling on it.

“cat.” he tackles you to the ground, palms sweaty at how close you two are— which to his amusement you look very happy about, being underneath him like this. it's almost as if you planned this too.

your bodies pressed together has him acting up, a soft almost imperceptible sound leaving his mouth. the softness of your chest against his, your nails lightly raking up and down his arms, he feels himself getting worked up.

“invincible.” you smile up at him like you can see right through him, like you know how red his face is beneath that mask.

“come on, just hand over whatever you've stolen.” he grunts when you swiftly move to roll over with him, he's now under you.

“you mean your heart? oh sweet boy it's right there,” your place your palm flat against his erratically beating heart, “although it seems like it will jump out any second,” you chuckle, those annoyingly alluring eyes staring right into his soul.

“stop that.” he says weakly even though his hands move to settle on your hips, his mind already going a mile a minute as he takes in the position you two find yourself in.

“stop what?” you shift slightly on top of him, sitting up and he pathetically chases the friction of your leather clad body rubbing against his bulge, a small sound escaping his lips much to his horror.

“looking at me like that.” it makes his skin feel like it's on fire.

wait, no why are you getting up?  goddamnit it no!

mark can't help but gasp when your heeled foot rests on his chest, the heel slightly digging into his suit, the pressure is delicious and so is the view — you standing over him, looking down at him like that, like you'll eat him alive, he's not sure how his heart hasn't given out yet. if omniman finds out about this he's sure his father would never look at him the same.

and then you drag the heel down, from his chest down to his needy aching clothed cock and gently apply more pressure by shifting more of your weight onto it and he moans so prettily — a familiar throb settles between your legs.

he desperately bucks his hips up, but you pull away completely, leaving him flushed and panting oh so horny.

“you're evil,” he frowns up at you, reaching to tug on your suit's tail, holding back a chuckle at your little gasp as you lose your balance.

“you seem to enjoy it.” you're not wrong.

you throw his way the small pouch you stole before jumping down to make your escape like you always do, leaving him needy, conflicted and confused each time.

he sighs as he undoes the strings closing the pouch to open it, curious to see what you'd given up on so easily.

his jaw practically falls to the floor.

you fucking tease.

it's a pair of panties — your panties, a small note falls out of the pouch too, “have fun sweetheart,” it says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world.

he should've known, those wide eyes of yours as he caught you “stealing” were just for show.

he resists the urge to just relieve himself right then and there, hands toying with the soft fabric of the material in his hand, mouth going dry as he rubs his thumb across the gusset, mind going into overdrive.

god, does this mean you know that he's a pervert and touches himself to the thought of you?

he needs a cold shower.

with the way everything is going in the superhero business, mark decides to quit GDA to clear things up and just help people without cecil barking orders at him.

it definitely has nothing to do with the fact that cecil had to witness you two being horny bastards, grinding on each other because holy shit did you look good with blood on you.

mark blamed it on some villain's “sex pollen” afterwards, both cecil and him knowing it's a damn lie.

yeah no, he's going to stay away from cecil for a bit, that was embarrassing — although he has zero regrets.

“sorry for you know . . . kicking your balls and making you lose your job.”

you say it so casually like you didn't just once again somehow manage to knock him unconscious when he was on his way back to his house from a mission — where the hell are you getting all these resources and equipment from anyways?

and now he's here, hanging upside down by some flimsy rope that you both know he can easily break, but he won't.

last time he used his strength, you ran away and that did not sit well with him no matter how much he tried to deny it.

so he'll indulge you in your antics as long as your attention is on him and him only.

“apology rejected.”

you act wounded at his words like he's ripped your heart out or something with the way you're clutching your chest all dramatically, the action makes his lips twitch into a small smile.

“well that won't do,” your eyes sparkle with that gleam, dangerous and all too familiar to him, “how can i make you accept my apology then, invincible?” 

it seems like you already have something in mind because you're leaning closer and closer, until your lips are only an inch apart from his.

except obviously you don't act all suave about it and have to say some shit like, “damn your lips are dry as hell,” which makes him laugh more than self-conscious, he knows they're not dry — he's been taking care of himself a lot more ever since you've stepped into his life, you know just in case you two kiss or something, a small innocent, okay maybe not innocent, but nevertheless a fantasy that he certainly does not dream about everyday.

his dad did not tell him that being a superhero comes with whatever this is, he was never told it meant being stuck with an annoyingly hot woman who he's ready to do a concerning amount of things for, just for the rush of adrenaline that he's sure he's grown addicted to.

just like he's grown addicted to your presence.

“i think you need to moisturize them,” you clear your throat, your flirty facade breaking the tiniest bit, eyes glued to his lips.

and he's not that dumb. he knows what you want and lucky for you he wants that too — maybe even more than you.

“yeah i really do, think you can help me out with that cat?” 

“i think i can,” your lips brush against his teasingly — but you're holding yourself back, giving him the option to back away if you've read into the situation wrong but he doesn't. instead he firmly presses his lips against yours and for all the innuendos that get thrown around between you two and the undeniable sexual tension, the kiss is sweet, almost tender — his lips moving in tandem with yours.

it lasts for what feels like an eternity — but not nearly enough when you two pull away. he immediately regrets the action.

he doesn't need to breathe, he needs you.

mark chases your lips, fully expecting you to tease him about his clear desperation but you don't, you kiss him back, again.

“is my apology accepted now?” you mumble against his lips, he chuckles at your words having completely forgotten about that, “yeah,” he gives you a lopsided grin that has you smiling back.

“you gotta work on your morals, kissing a thief? now that's just low invincible”

“no no it wasn't kissing, remember? you were-”, he tried to do air quotes before realizing his hands are still tied, “you were helping me moisture my lips, no?” he teases you back, the playful banter flows easily between you two, like always.

“oh right, my bad, moisturizing.”

“i think my lips are still dry though.” he sheepishly says, hoping you'll kiss him some more.

and you do.

this is so wrong, he knows that, but your lips against his feel like heaven, your hand cupping his jaw oh so gently like he's made of glass just feels so right.

he stiffens slightly when he feels you lick a strip up his face. you menace, his eyes snap open and look at you in mock disappointment.

“are you ever not horny?

“that's bold coming from you invincible.”

“you're gonna leave me blue balled again, aren't you, you tease?” he sighs exasperatedly.

you gasp, “at least take me out on a date first,” your faux offense is adorable — like you haven't been making his life a literal nightmare with all those teasing touches and heated gazes.

he forgets whatever he was about to say when you gently force his jaw open, thumb tracing his jawline while you slide a piece of paper in his mouth, “close your mouth,” your tone alone is enough to make him obey, closing his mouth — teeth holding onto the paper’s edge.

“good boy.”

mark feels himself getting hot and bothered at your praise. he holds your gaze, hoping for an explanation.

“my number, love.”

oh, so you weren't messing around for once.

you press one last kiss, to the tip of his nose before hopping onto some building's ledge, your body moving gracefully, once again leaving him hanging — quite literally this time.

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal, repost or translate any of my work. want more? click here ★

[cameronsbabydoll]

can we get ex husband!rafe and the one time he isn’t being arrogant and it’s because he is comforting reader (she has big fear of storms) and their son during a really severe storm

ex!husband!rafe comforting you and your son during a loud storm

wc: 428 — a/n: this gif sorta matched the vibe of the fic but the coloring doesn’t match my blog aesthetic so that’s really annoying

the power went out five minutes ago.

the storm was loud enough to rattle the cheap little windows of your rental house — a far cry from the estate you used to live in with rafe, where storms sounded distant, muted by money and insulation and walls thick enough to keep the world out.

here…it was right there.

rain lashed against glass. Thunder cracked sharp enough to shake picture frames. and you — curled on the living room floor with your son tucked tight against you — couldn’t hide how badly you were shaking.

and then — a pounding knock at the door.

followed by his voice.

"open up, baby. it’s me."

rafe.

of course it was him.

you didn’t even remember texting him, but your call log showed a missed message.

storm’s bad. stay put. i’m comin’ to you.

you opened the door and nearly collapsed into him. he was soaked through — shirt clinging to his chest, hair dripping into his eyes — but his hands cupped your face like none of that mattered.

"jesus," he muttered, like he hated how small and scared you looked. "you should’ve called me sooner."

your son’s little voice piped up from behind you — nervous, scared in that way kids get when their mom is scared too.

"daddy…"

rafe was inside in two steps, scooping him up like nothing else in the world mattered.

"i got you, buddy. ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you, yeah?"

and for once — for once — there was no arrogance. no teasing. no possessive bite in his words.

just rafe. just home. just safe.

he set your son down on the couch, tugged blankets around him, then turned to you — peeling off his soaked jacket and tugging you gently by the wrist.

"c’mere, sweetheart," he said quietly, voice so soft it barely sounded like him.

you resisted for half a second — pride, distance, divorce papers still fresh in your mind — but the next crash of thunder had you practically in his chest.

and rafe just held you.

not like he owned you.

not like you owed him.

just like he was scared too — but would never, ever let you or his son feel it.

his hand rubbed slow over your back. his chin rested on your head.

"storm’s gonna pass," he promised, voice rumbling against your cheek. "always does."

and maybe later, when the lights flickered back on and the world felt normal again, you'd remember why you left him.

but right now — wrapped up with him, your son snoring softly between you — it was heartbreakingly easy to remember why you ever stayed.

[wonderthor]

your neighbor sukuna who lives in one of the apartments upstairs may be a rough and dangerous man, but he’s funny and nice to you, so you become friends anyway. you even develop a little crush on him, and when he calls you little pet names like sweetheart and doll, you start to think he might like you too. one night you decide to go out for drinks, and as he drinks more he lets out more about his past and you learn he is a little more dangerous than you thought. he talks about how he broke into people’s houses at night all the time to steal their things and when he finally did get caught and locked up, he had probably broke into over 200 people’s houses by then.

“that’s crazy, but you wouldn’t get that lucky with me though”

he sets his beer down, raising his eyebrow at you in question.

“what do you mean?”

“i mean that im a very light sleeper, always have been. and there’s no way you couldn’t break into my apartment without me knowing it.”

he picks his beer back up and takes a swig before looking back at you with a smirk.

“you sure about that?”

you confidentially smirk back at him.

“oh absolutely. i get woken up if the wind blows a little too hard against the window. i even woke up that one time i had a mouse in my apartment and i could hear it scurrying across the floor. i would definitely hear you open my door and walk around.”

sukuna taps his fingers against the bar counter with his head in his hands and his eyes still on you, thinking.

“how about we make a bet.”

“a bet? on what?”

“if i can get into your locked apartment and into your bedroom without waking you up, i win. if i do, you win.”

“and what do i get when i win?”

sukuna chuckles at that, almost like a villain’s laugh.

“i wouldn’t worry too much about that.”

you roll your eyes at him.

“oh please, you sound way to confident in your impossible chance at winning.”

he laughs at you again.

“i am. there’s a reason i was able to break in so many people’s houses while they were still in there without getting caught. it’s kind of my specialty.”

you take another sip of your drink and lean back.

“your specialty, huh? and you still haven’t mentioned what we get if we win.”

“what do you want?”

his tone caught you off guard for a second, getting deeper and more serious without you expecting it.

“u-um, i don’t know. you can pick.”

he smiles at you again, a devious smile this time as he leans in closer to you.

“if i win, i get to do whatever i want to you. if you win, you get to do whatever you want to me.”

time stops for a minute and you don’t realize that you’re just staring at him until after several seconds.

“what do you m-mean by that?”

he leans back to hold his beer and his playful demeanor is back.

“well according to you, you won’t have to worry about that, right?”

a couple of days went by and you were still on edge. you mentally slept with your eyes open and even kept your bedroom door cracked, just in case you really couldn’t hear him come in. even though you knew it was just a bet and a silly little game, you couldn’t stop your heart from pounding against your chest. maybe because you still didn’t really know what he said meant. and there was also the eerie feeling that you were essentially waiting for him to break into your apartment, like a real robber. like the robber he used to be. and even though you knew he wasn’t dangerous to you and wouldn’t hurt you, you were still admittedly a little scared. you truly didn’t know what to expect.

it had been a couple of weeks now and you were sure sukuna was fucking with you. whenever you saw him in passing, he was his normal playful and flirty self, and mentioning nothing of the bet. you were starting to think he was kidding, just making that up to scare you and mess with you. or you also thought he could have just forgotten, since he was drinking a little and couldn’t have forgotten all about it.

but little did you know that you were playing right into his hands. he was waiting on you to lose your edge, to slowly get comfortable enough again to slip into deep and dream-filled sleeps. that’s why you didn’t expect it, why you didn’t expect to lose.

when you woke up one night, you felt your heart fall out of your body and your eyes almost jump from their sockets. there he was, in your apartment, in your bedroom, on your bed, leaning over you on his hands and knees. when he saw that you were awake and too stunned to speak, he smirked and leaned in closer to you until his face was just inches from yours.

“guess i win, sweetheart.”

[strawberriianime]

Cream

♡ JJK men cumming inside

♡ satoru gojo, suguru geto, nanami kento, toji fushiguro, choso, sukuna.

♡ cw: 18+ themes, descriptions of sex, creampies, breeding kink if you squint, unprotected sex, degradation if you think hard (Sukuna)

✰ Satoru Gojo

"Fuck"

A roll of sweat rolls down the side of his face as he grips the headboard, pounding into you at a steady pace. The room was filled with the constant squeak of the bed accompanied by your sweet moans. "Baby you feel so good" He closes his eyes attempting to push back his own release, making sure to satisfy you to the fullest. "So good. So So So good" you moan out. "Ah, fuck baby I'm gonna cum I-I can't hold back anymore." His grip tightened on the headboard knucked turning a slight hue of red. "I want you to cum inside" his thrust got sloppy hearing your words. "You're not on the p-" "I know" As if a switch flipped in his brain he began pounding into you roughly. "Gonna fill you up so well". "Fu--Fuck gonna fill you with all of my babies" With a final thrust, you felt his warm seed fill you as he collapses onto your chest. "I love you".

✰ Suguru Geto

His long dark hair tickled your chin as you held his body close to yours, nails scratching at his back slightly as you let out low moans into his ear. “Fuck you feel so good” he groaned tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. “It’s like you’re sucking me in” his hips snaps into yours once more hitting that spot that causes you to let out a sultry moan. “Gonna fill you up nice and good hmm? How does that sound?” his pace sped up pumping into you at a newly found speed. You claw at his back once more, feeling your release start to build up. You can tell by the broken pace he was in the verge of orgasming as well. “Shit…” You feel his warm seed filling you insides, some leaking out onto the black sheets of the bed. The room was silent for a minute only being filled with heavy breathing from the both of you. “Don’t think we’re done just yet” It’s going to be a long night.

✰ Nanami Kento

Your arms wrapped around the blonde's neck pulling him closer, placing a sweet passionate kiss on his lips. You felt his tongue swipe at your bottom lip causing you to part them allowing him to explore your mouth. His smooth hands found their way to your hips pulling up the thin material of the slip you had worn. Breaking the kiss, he shuffled his pants down, allowing them to hit the floor. He lined himself up at your entrance, peppering small kisses along your collarbone before pushing himself in. Your back arched slightly at the newly found feeling as you let out a low groan. “My love …you feel so good.” He sat at a steady pace causing you to wrap your legs around his waist pushing him deeper into you. “Baby you must want me to cum deep inside you.” His words caused you to squeeze him slightly causing him to let out a deep moan. “You’d like that huh? Being stuffed with my cum.” “You better not let a single drop spill”

✰ Toji Fushiguro

“Fuck. Just like that”

You placed your hands on his broad chest to keep a steady rhythm as you bounced up and down his dick. “You’re gonna milk me dry” he watched as you eagerly rode him, dick slick with your juices causing every snap to release a squelching sound. He sat p slightly, as you began rolling your hips his rough hands coming to meet your hips to push you down further. “You’re working hard for my cum hm?” You placed your hands on his shoulders for more stability as you matched the new pace he had set. "You want me to fill you up huh? You want to give me a second kid huh?" His words caused you to clench down on him as he let out a slow moan. "Damn, baby the way you're gripping on me you're gonna make me cum now." Your movements became more unstable as his grip on your hips tightened, ensuring to leave bruises the next day. "Fuck I'm gonna cum, you ride dick too good." "Gonna breed this pussy." He spewed as his thick cum filled your hole covering every inch of your walls.

✰ Choso

"Baby please"

His whimpers filled the room as he pushed into you raw for the first time, trembling at the newly found sensation of your gum walls clamping around his bare dick. "Babe it's okay, I want you to cum inside," you reassured him stroking the side of his face, a red flush trailing on his pale face. It was common for you both to use condoms but since you suggested he take it off, he was comfortable doing so. He continued to slowly move his hips, slowly stroking your insides as you let out a satisfied moan. You pressed your hands to his lower back, signaling him that you wanted him to go even deeper inside of you. He paused himself further as the tip of his dick pushed into your spongy walls. He felt you shudder under him as he pumped in and out, hitting your g-spot causing you to let out an array of moans each louder than the previous. "I'm so close, I'm gonna cum" you moaned out nails scratching at his back. He felt his own release building up as you pulsated around his dick walls tightening. "Ah I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum inside I-" he sighed feeling his own cum mixed with your own. You slowly began gathering your breath before feeling the moment once more. "Can't let any of my cum spill out" he said pumping into you again sensitive walls fluttering.

✰ Sukuna Ryomen

"You're such a dirty little slut"

You could barely hear him as the room was filled with the loud creak of your bed combined with your loud moans. He was fucking you roughly from the back as you clawed at the red bedsheets that had half fallen onto the floor. You felt his sharp nails clap at your hips, drawing blood slightly. "You're a fine little concubine" he smirked watching your ass jiggle with each thrust of his hips, dick glistening with your juices. You felt him push your back slightly, signaling you to deepen your arch. You followed as you felt him push into you deeper making you cry out moaning. "You like that huh dirty bitch." he sharpened his thrust pounding into you at a rougher pace. "You don't deserve my cum, I want you to beg like the bitch you are" he slowed slightly causing you to whimper. "Please...." "Please Sukuna I want your cum please cum inside" he slammed back into you making you scream and claw at the sheets once more. With another rough thrust, you felt his hot sticky cum fill your insides causing you to let out a sultry moan.

[seren1tyhaze]

Unconditional

PAIRING: jaehyun x afab reader

WORD COUNT: 1.9k

SUMMARY: dating a hot actor is great and all, until you find some texts on his phone that make you wonder if he's really the man of your dreams

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm back after another unplanned hiatus. Even when I'm not posting here, I'm always thinking about writing things and wanting to share more. I have written a couple things for Ao3 so those will be up there soon. As usual, Mr. Jeong Jaehyun himself has ruined me again with his new song and video to the point where I sat down and wrote this in one sitting and never looked back. More from me soon, I promise xx

WARNINGS: established relationship, domestic fluff, explicit smut, swearing

PLAYLIST: Unconditional by Jaehyun, Smoke by Jaehyun, Birthday by Ten, Honey by John Legend

--

--

“I just don’t believe you Jae! Do you think I’m stupid?”

Your cheeks are burning red and you know your chest is splotchy as your temperature rises, heart pounding. Ever since you were a kid, your skin would turn bright red the moment you started to get agitated, making you a terrible poker player and never one to even try to lie to anyone. It was one of things that endeared you to Jaehyun immediately, his bright red ears the moment someone teased him or he felt embarrassed.

“Baby, baby,” he starts, groggily reaching a large hand to you from the mountain of pillows and plush white sheets. His hair is still pushed back in that stupid plastic headband he fell asleep wearing the night before, making it hard to take him seriously in the heat of the moment.

You wipe a single tear from your eye before it can slip down your cheek and turn away from him, throwing his phone onto the covers with more strength than you thought you had in the moment.

Dating a famous actor who spends most of his time at premieres in Seoul and on movie sets around the world wasn’t easy. You had turned Jaehyun down the first few times he slid up on your Instagram stories, a mutual stylist friend having introduced you at a small birthday dinner you both were invited to.

Grabbing his phone off the nightstand instead of yours this morning had sent you into a spiral, shaking him awake in the bed to ask for an explanation about why he’s messaging someone about a “gorgeous girl named Honey” and how he “can’t wait to spoil her the way she deserves.”

“We’ve been together for a year and now you’re going to start cheating on me? Really original, Jeong.”

Your eyes roll back into your sockets and you scoop all your long, curly hair onto the top of your head, pulling running shorts and socks from the dresser near the window as you continue to grill him.

Jaehyun sits up fully, the comforter slipping off his shoulders and exposing his bare, chiselled chest. He’s still pale from having spent the whole winter filming in Canada, not having had enough trips to the nearby beach to have his adorable freckles reappear on his cheeks. His hair is bright white, platinum, and long in the back, soft in the morning light streaming in the floor to ceiling windows.

“You know I went out with Mingyu last week to that Dior party and he said if I ever wanted it to be a real date, just say the word and he would drop everything and everyone.”

“Dior? You wound me,” Jaehyun replies, mockingly rubbing his pec as he rolls his eyes. You know how much the statement had to hurt him, he always had been worried about your closeness to his friend Mingyu (and Mingyu’s long wavy hair, sparkly eyes, and massive biceps), even if he lets that go unsaid now.

“I’m going for a run and when I get back, I really hope you’ve managed to get up, shower, and figure out how you’re going to tell your PR team about this, unless they are all in on it too,” you finish, wobbling near the foot of the bed as you try to put your socks on while standing.

A firm hand is on your wrist, instantly balancing you. You look up to meet Jaehyun’s eyes, soft and glittering and sending you back to the first time you ever met.

“Who needs the candy, you look sweet enough to eat,” he had practically purred in your ear, pressing a hand between your thighs, under the silky material of your Vivienne Westwood skirt in a private booth in the back a dark room, surrounded by tall crystal jars of sweets.

Your marketing executive job had your team planning events for high end clients on a regular basis but this event had been extra special as your best friend had finally launched her own luxury cosmetics brand. The event was a mix of rich pops of red, velvety cushions and extravagant accessories, diamond necklaces draped across necks of models with artistic and bold eye looks. You had spared no expense for your friend and your assistant had the mountains of receipts to prove it.

The guest list was no exception, you had made sure every A-list name had received an invite and hundreds of attractive and trendy faces from fashion and entertainment filled the event space. That included Seoul’s hottest star, known for his striking and stoic look and deep, rich voice.

“You are not using that as an opening line on me,” you had sighed, trying to push down the moan bubbling up in your throat as long fingers toyed with lace dangerously close to slipping out of place.

“Technically, I asked you if the brownies had tree nuts because my body guard is allergic,” he quipped back, thumb brushing over you with intention.

You had bit your lip in frustration and swatted his hand away, grabbing his phone from his coat pocket and giving him your number, insisting that he had to reach out first because you were busy with a “real job”. He had laughed, sucking his now wet thumb into his mouth and letting it slide out with a loud popping noise and a simple “Yes, ma’am”.

That same phone was now in his hand a little under a year later, his fingers moving quickly against the glass screen.

“You don’t have anything to say?” you ask in shock and before you can say another word, your doorbell is chiming and he’s up from the bed and down your hallway, wearing nothing but his stupid boxers with lemons on them.

You roll your eyes and move to your large kitchen for a glass for water, almost letting it slip from your hands as he places a large Prada shopping bag on the marble island.

“A bag? A fucking purse is supposed to make me forgive you? How did you even get that this fast?”

“Baby, just look inside and it will explain everything,” he speaks calmly, sliding the bag carefully closer to you.

You untie the ribbon holding it loosely closed and you think you’re losing your mind when you see the bag move on its own. As soon as the thick paper opens, a tiny brown and curly head of fur appears. Neatly groomed ears are shaking and a tiny black Prada collar is clasped around the neck of the puppy.

“A dog?!” you exclaim in disbelief. The puppy lets out a small but high pitched bark, demanding to be let out of the bag with a fluffy paw nudging your hand.

“A chocolate French poodle puppy,” Jaehyun corrects, moving behind you and wrapping his arms around you, pressing his bare chest into your back. He lifts the puppy from the bag and places her into your waiting arms, the puppy taking no time at all to snuggle into your neck.

“Her name is Honey,” he tells you and you can practically feel his smile from the way he speaks.

“Honey…” you repeat. The dog’s eyes are wide in curiosity, head tilting to the side as she appears to recognize her name.

“Yeah, baby?” he jokes back, pressing warm lips to the short hairs at your hairline. You can tell he thinks he’s funny for that joke and you don’t need to turn to see what kind of look is in his eye. He trails his mouth to your ear, nudging the metal hoops along the shell and kissing the “14” ink at the skin behind your ear.

Your mouth is suddenly so dry that you can’t speak so you simply turn in his arms, letting Honey drop to the floor and bound excitedly on your slippery floors.

“How long had you been planning this surprise for me to just ruin it with my paranoia?” you murmur against his forehead, pressing a tender kiss to smooth skin.

“A couple months, I was just trying to find the perfect puppy for us,” he replies, fingers drawing circles on the bare skin exposed between your sports bra and shorts.

“I’m so sorry,” you reply, feeling embarrassment heat up your cheeks and sweat start to prick at your hairline.

“Don’t be,” he smiles back with his million watt smile that landed him his first commercial at eight years old, plucked from his class trip to a theme park by a talent scout.

“You know how I feel about you, nothing is going to change that. Not even if you go on 127 million dates with Kim Mingyu,” he finishes, sealing his lips over yours.

You open your lips and greedily press your tongue behind his annoyingly perfect teeth, lifting your fingers up to tug at the hair almost touching his shoulders.

“God,” Jaehyun growls in between kisses, grabbing at your ass to hoist you up on the counter, tugging roughly at your shorts to push them down to your ankles and ripping your legs open.

You’re panting, resting back on your wrists as he holds your knees open and presses wet kisses to your inner thighs. His energy is wild and chaotic, exactly as you’ve always expected from him and your mind is starting to go to that numb place it always goes when gets his tongue on you.

You arch your back in pleasure, letting moans tumble from your lips freely, trying desperately to ignore the adorable face now perched on your couch, eyes curious but also dozing off from exerting energy after running the full length of your penthouse.

You let your eyes fall to the rolling waves out the window, morning sun blinding you and forcing you to look down at the bobbing head of the blonde man between your legs. He meets your gaze with sparkling eyes and drops a kiss to his self proclaimed favorite tattoo of yours, a small rose on your hip bone. You smile softly at him before shrieking and almost crushing his head with your thighs when he takes sharp canines to the spot, almost drawing blood.

He jumps up and starts running towards your bedroom, scooping a startled Honey off the back of the couch and holding her in front of him he runs backwards.

“Jaehyun, you cannot use our child as a shield!” you yell, almost slipping in your socks as you bound after him.

When you round the corner, you slam into his bare chest, standing at the foot of the bed. Honey is curled up on the same pillow Jaehyun had tucked under his arm as he slept, already dozing again.

“Our child? I like the sound of that,” he says seriously, his voice velvety and tempting. His hands are at your waist again and you are having a hard time thinking straight.

“Calm down there, mister,” you chuckle, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the bed and dropping to your knees in between his open legs.

“Let’s see how you do with this dog first,” you mutter, hands pushing down his boxers easily to take his hardened length between experienced fingers.

He smiles with his whole face at your words, eyes crinkling up in the corners and shoulders shaking a bit as you move your mouth over smooth skin, letting his soft moans fill the room and calm your racing heart.

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (3) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael offers to help you carry a large box, but when the elevator’s out, you end up climbing six flights of stairs together. The climb is tiring but playful, and it leads to him spending time with you in your apartment.

Word count: 2180

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20/ Early 50s)

Authors Note: part 3!!! the story Michael tells is based on a actual story from someone in my life lol. if I forgot to add you to the tag list, very sorry! let me know if I didn’t add you and I’ll add you on. again thanks for the love! I enjoy reading your comments :) - ryn

Wednesday 7:20pm

“You need a hand with that?” Michael asked, walking up to the mailboxes, key in hand. He slid it into the lock and pulled out a small stack of mail. He looked tired—fresh off a long shift, still in scrubs.

You had just come back from a coffee shop, where you’d stayed after work to chip away at lesson planning. Now you stood by the mailboxes, eyeing the large box at your feet.

“Oh hey! Yes, please! It’s pretty heavy. Like, definitely a two-person job.”

“Alright, let’s go for it.”

The two of you hefted the box together, making your way toward the building’s single elevator—only to find a sign taped across the doors: Out of Order.

You both set the box down and stared at it in silence.

“Crap,” you muttered.

You exchanged a glance. It was obvious—you’d both just gotten off work, bags in tow, and neither of you had the energy for this.

“Okay… well, I guess we’re hitting the stairs,” Michael said.

“I can just leave it…”

“And let someone in our building steal it?”

“Who’s dumb enough to steal a box that weighs, like, over fifty pounds?”

“Hey, you never know. People are desperate these days.”

He bent to grab his side of the box, and you followed suit.

Together, you maneuvered the large box toward the stairwell, bumping it against the doorframe with a dull thud that made you both laugh, tired and amused.

Then began the slow, painful climb—six flights of stairs ahead.

They two of you made it about halfway.

“Okay—wait, wait,” Michael huffed, setting his side of the box down with a dramatic grunt. He leaned over the banister, catching his breath. “I need a minute. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

You laughed as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, shaking his head.

“How old are you, anyway?” you asked, playfully squinting at him.

“Fifty-three,”

He was twenty-nine years older than you. He’d lived more life, seen more, carried years of experiences you hadn’t even brushed against.

“How old are you?” he asks back.

“I’m twenty five”

“Geez,” he mumbled under his breath, masking his reaction with a slow exhale. He’d known you were young…just maybe not that young.

“Should I be worried about you throwing out your back?” You tease.

He gave you a hard, playful look as he looked up at you from leaning against the banister.

“Careful,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I might just leave you to drag this thing up yourself if you keep it up.”

“You wouldn’t do that." you say.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t” he chuckles.

He was teasing, sure—but he meant it. He’d never leave anyone hanging, especially not a woman. That’s just the kind of man Michael was. Caring. It was something his mother had instilled in him from the time he was a kid: look out for others, be kind, be useful.

It was why he became a doctor in the first place. He didn’t just want to fix things, he wanted to help people.

“Okay… halfway there,” he said, standing up straight.

You mirrored him, both of you grabbing your sides of the box as you began the final climb—three more flights of stairs.

By the time you reached the sixth floor and made it to your apartment door, the box hit the ground with a heavy thud.

You and Michael both let out loud huffs, panting like you’d just run a race.

He dropped his backpack beside the box and hunched over, hands on his knees.

“Shit,” he breathed.

“Okay—we… we did it. We made it,” you said, dropping your own bag, one hand braced against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

“What even is that?” he asked, squinting down at the box like it had personally offended him.

“It’s a shelf,” you replied.

“Do you wanna come in? I’ve got water… beer.”

He was still hunched over, catching his breath, but he pointed a finger at you when you said beer, wagging it up and down like it was the magic word.

“Beer… a beer sounds good.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

“Do you think we can just… take a minute?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the hallway—at the idea of not moving at all for a bit.

“I’m right there with you,” he said, like he’d read your mind.

You both stayed there a second longer, just breathing. Neither of you moved to open the door.

—

Eventually, the two of you made it inside your apartment. The box lay on your living room floor. You and Michael slouched on the couch, beers in hand, too exhausted from not only lugging the box up six flights of stairs but also your jobs.

“Are you gonna build it?” Michael asked, glancing over at the box.

“I was gonna have Aiden do it,” you said with a shrug.

Michael raised an eyebrow. Well, if Aiden didn’t even unjam your window, he most likely won’t be assembling your shelf either. The box was probably just going to sit there until you caved and did it yourself. He thought about it for a second, then sighed.

“Well, since I’m already here, I can put it together for you,” he offered.

You blinked. “What? No, come on, Michael. You just got off a 12-hour shift, you just helped me lug this thing up six flights of stairs—and your back—”

“My back will be fine,” he said quickly, waving it off.

It was a lie. His back was definitely hurting, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He’d pushed through worse and, honestly, he didn’t mind helping you out. Plus, it gave him an excuse to stay, to linger in the space for a little longer.

“Well, if you’re gonna build it, at least stay for dinner,” you said, giving him a pointed look.

“Okay, deal,” he agreed, grinning.

“I can also supervise you as you cook. You know, so you don’t smoke your apartment out again,” he said, teasing you, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes. “Very funny.”

“Hey, I take this supervising gig seriously.” He leaned back, a mischievous grin on his face as he took a swig of his beer

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” you replied, getting up from the couch, heading to your kitchen.

__

You start cooking dinner, the comforting rhythm of mixing and stirring filling the air. Michael sits on your floor, his glasses on as he carefully reads the directions. His second beer sits not far from him, and tools and scattered pieces of the shelf are spread across the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, watching him as he concentrates, fiddling with the screwdriver in his hand, his brow furrowed in focus. The scene feels oddly domestic.

For a moment, you let yourself savor the quiet comfort of it—how natural it feels, how easy. You wish you and Aiden could have moments like this, too. No rush, no tension, just small, simple acts of being together. But the thought lingers, bittersweet, before you return to the task at hand.

“How long have you been a doctor?”

He huffs out a laugh “A long time”

“Uh well I started working in the ER when I was around your age–” he says picking up a piece and screwing it to another part. “I was assigned to the ER as med student…never really left after that. the department I wanted to be in”

“What made you want to be a doctor?” you asked, stirring the food in the pot, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the sides.

“I knew from a young age I always wanted to help people,”

“I was raised by a single mother,” Michael said, his voice steady but thoughtful. “She taught me to be kind, to be useful. Helpful in any way I could—whether it was something big or small. Her rule was: take action. Don’t just stand there waiting for someone to tell you what needs to be done. If you see it, do it.”

Michael said, his voice softening a bit and tinkering with the now half-built shelf, fitting a wooden panel into place. “There was this time when I was a kid—my friend and I were messing around with his BB gun, and he ended up getting shot in the torso. It was lodged in there, and he was too scared to tell his parents because we weren’t supposed to be playing with it”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What did you do?”

“I panicked, but then I remembered her rule. I went into full rescue mode. I kept running back and forth through my house grabbing supplies—Band-Aids, peroxide, even tweezers. My mom was yelling, ‘What are you doing?’ and I just kept saying, ‘Emergency!’”

You laughed quietly, picturing a younger version of him in full crisis mode.

“Long story short,” he continued, “she was proud of me for wanting to help him, but also told me, very clearly, to leave it to the professionals. And right then and there, I knew I wanted to be one of them.”

He looked over at you.

“What about you? What made you want to be a teacher?”

You stopped stirring, turning the burner to low before resting the spoon on the edge of the pot. And grabs bowls from the cabnit.

“Kind of the same thing, I guess,” you say. “I just knew as a kid I always wanted to be good and do good. I thought I could do that by being a teacher. Impacting kids, inspiring them. I remembered how some of my favorite teachers made me feel… seen, safe, like I mattered. I wanted to do the same for someone else.”

“Look at us—working two of the most underrated, underappreciated, and undervalued professions,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me about it,” you said, cracking a tired smile as you scooped rice into the bowls.

“The food’s done. Come eat,” you called over your shoulder.

Michael paused mid-screw on the shelf, then set down the tool and picked up his beer. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

He made his way into the kitchen, peering into the pot with interest.

“Red beans and rice,” you said, ladling it into bowls. “It’s a Louisiana dish. I’ve got family down there. This is kind of my go-to comfort food.”

“Smells good,” he said, taking the bowl from you with a nod. “Thank you.”

—

The two of you sat at your island table like the first time the two of you had dinner, natural conversation flowing between you. Eventually, you both cleaned up the kitchen and made your way to the living room. Michael returned to the half-built shelf, you helping this time, passing him screws, holding panels steady, the quiet kind of teamwork that made the space feel warmer.

“How long have you been with Aiden?” Not looking at you right away, his focus on aligning two wooden panels.

You paused, caught a little off guard by the question, but not in a bad way.

“Since college,” you said, handing him a screw. “That was a different time though.”

He glanced over at you then, curious but not prying.

“Different how?” he asked, his tone careful, curious.

“We’ve changed a lot, I guess…” you said, your voice briefly tinged with sadness. But you quickly deflected, flashing a teasing grin and adding, “Not as young as we used to be.”

You mirror his earlier words, throwing them back at him when he had stopped to rest while carrying the box up the stairs.

He notices the brief shift in your mood but doesn’t push, sensing you’re not ready to dive into the heavier stuff. He figured maybe Aiden had been the one to change since then.

Instead, he chuckles, the sound light and familiar. “Says the 25-year-old. If you’re old, then what does that make me?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Ancient? A fossil? Practically prehistoric?”

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head “You wounded me.”

After finishing up the shelf, you both set it carefully in the corner of your living room.

“Now I have a place to house my books and not leave them lying around,” you say, stepping back to admire the shelf.

He crosses his arms, looking at the shelf with a proud nod. “Well, look at that. Mission accomplished.”

You glance over at him, your expression softening. “Thank you, Michael, can I repay you?

“Hey, you paid for my manual labor in beer and food, so we’re even.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, so pay you in food and beer—got it. Noted for future reference.”

He picks up his bag off the floor, signaling that he’s heading back across the hall, giving you a mock-serious look. “I expect my shelf to be filled with books and knick-knacks and whatnot.”

You give a mock salute. “I promise, it’ll be a shelf worth showing off.” The two of you walk toward the door.

You pause at the threshold, glancing at him with a soft smile. “Good night.” He says.

“Good night, Michael.”

With a final, lingering glance, he steps out into the evening, and you close the door behind you. You heart feels warm.

Tags: tag: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967 @lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep

Across The Hall (1) (2) (3)

[popcornpoppypop]

I'm So Glad We Aren't Brunch People

Summary: Robby comes home from a shitty day to you having another headache. You both lean on each other for survival.

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff. Mentions of patient death.

A/N: This was an anon request, I hope it's what you were looking for! I'm working to get through the other requests right now, but I have heard the call for more Abbot x single mom!reader, I promise!.

When Robby walked into the house and was met with complete darkness, he knew exactly what was going on. He dropped his bag, kicked his shoes off, and went in search of you. He tiptoed into the living room and found a familiar shadow on the couch. He walked over and crouched down next to the sofa.

“Hi.” Your voice squeaked out from under your blankets.

“Hi. Bad one?” He asked, his voice soft as he brushed a few stray hairs from your face.

“Yeah. Head started pounding at 4pm. Can’t get it to stop.” You sighed.

“What did you try?” He asks as he absent-mindedly massages your neck.

“Um, caffeine, ice packs, ibuprofen. I got too tired to try anything else.” You said moving to sit up. Robby helped guide you, fixing your blanket.

“Should I go get McDonald's fries and a coke? Have we reached such drastic measures.” He smiled.

“No, I mean we’re at that point. I don’t want you to leave.” You looked up at him with big puppy-dog eyes.

“I need to shower, I stink, and that isn’t going to help.” He sighed.

“Alright, I guess.” You pouted.

“You can join me if you want.” He chuckled. “Might help you relax a little.”

“Yeah, okay.” You said as you got to your feet, the pounding in your head making you nauseous.

“Yeah? Alright.” He smiled, wrapping an arm around you as the two of you shuffled into the bedroom.

“How bad was it today?” You asked as you turned the shower on.

“Oh, it could have been worse.” Robby shrugged. He started peeling his scrubs off as the steam filled the bathroom.

“That’s a non-answer. Those are forbidden, your rules.” You smirked, your pajamas falling to the floor.

“Damn that therapist.” Robby shook his head. “Well, lost a patient. Worked on him for three hours. Just a 19 year old kid. Broke up a fight at a frat party, they beat the shit out of him. Too much blunt force trauma.” Robby sighed, the image of the boy stuck behind his eyelids.

“I’m sorry.” You rubbed your hand up and down his back.

“Yeah. Let’s wash this day off.” He grabbed your hand and kissed it.

You both climbed into the shower, the hot water beating against your skin. The steam making your chest relax, the tension starting to leave your shoulders.

“Glad you talked me into the stupid massive shower head.” Robby smiled.

“I told you it was a good idea. Turn around.” You ordered as you poured soap on the loofah. Robby obeyed, letting you scrub his body. He let himself relax, let himself grieve under the hot shower and your soft touch.

“Better?” You asked, your left eye twitching as the pounding continued.

“Yeah. You don’t have to take care of me when you’re sick.” He said, squeezing shampoo into his hands and forcing you to turn around. His fingers massaged into your scalp, his nails scratching ever so slightly. You let out an involuntary moan as you relaxed into his touch.

There was nothing sexual in any of it. It was simple, romantic domesticity. It was leaning into each other for survival and enjoying it.

“Lean back.” Robby detached the shower head and rinsed your hair. The water making your hair heavy and pulling your head back.

“I like when you wash my hair.” You hummed. You wrapped yourself around him as the water warmed you both.

“All you have to do his ask.” He murmured into your scalp, leaning into you as much as you were into him. Your skin felt like it was meant to be next to his.

“How’s the headache?” He asked, pulling away and holding your face in his hands.

“Eh. Better, not gone.” You shrugged.

“I think the cold eye mask is in the freezer.” He noted, “water’s going cold.” He said, turning the shower off.

“Might have to call it an early night.” You sighed.

“I’m not going to argue with that.” He said, grabbing a towel and handing it to you.

“I feel bad. You worked hard all day and I can’t be up with you. It feels selfish.” You shook your head as you dried yourself.

“Not selfish. You’re taking care of yourself, which is important to me. I don’t want to be awake anymore anyway.” He said as he wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Today was too much for both of us, I guess.” You said, walking into the bedroom and rifling through your dresser for something to sleep in.

“But we get to end it together.” He kissed your forehead as he left the bedroom.

“And we don’t have to go anywhere tomorrow, thank god.” You huffed, pulling on your pajamas.

“I plan on doing nothing for the next two days.” He came back in, handing you the cold eye mask. He pulled on fresh underwear and climbed into bed.

“I second that decision.” You sighed as you laid next to him.

“I’m so glad we aren’t brunch people.” He chuckled as he turned the bedside lamp off.

“I mean, I like brunch. I don’t want to get up for it is the problem.” You smiled as you settled your head on his chest, pulling on your eye mask.

“I’ll make you some French toast.” He kissed your head.

“You might have to pick up my Zofran prescription tomorrow.” You chuckled.

“I picked it up yesterday, you were half asleep when I handed it to you.” He laughed, the vibrations shaking his chest.

“My hero.” You sighed as sleep slowly took over you.

[salem-s]

08 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, angst (familial issues, miscommunication). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 9.6k. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. apologies because this is very description heavy. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER fake plastic trees by radiohead

Barbaric knocking jolts you both awake.

Your head pounds so achingly hard that you audibly whine, burying your face into Rafe’s warm chest without hesitation.

He lifts his head up off the pillow, blinking the bleariness out of his eyes as he tries to gauge the situation. Head pounding, he curses, leaning back on the pillow and throwing an arm over his eyes. 

Eventually the loud knocking stops, and you feel like you can breathe again, sighing in relief against his skin as he lazily rubs your back. But then your eyes snap open when you hear the door click open, putting all of your strength into lifting your head to see who is entering the room. 

You nearly cry when you see your mother, standing at the end of the bed and peering down at the two of you. 

“You two are late. Let’s go.”

You've got to be kidding.

You and Rafe simply blink up at her, unsure if the hangover is playing mind games on you or if Paulette is actually standing in front of you both right now, clad in a beach coverup and a purse so comically large it looks cartoonish. 

“They won’t hold the reservation if you’re more than fifteen minutes late,” Paulette snaps, clapping her hands to get you to wake up. “Get up!”

The noise sounds like artillery fire. 

“Ow,” you mumble, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and dropping your head against Rafe’s chest. “What are you talking about?”

Paulette shakes her head in disbelief. “You two have a couple’s spa reservation that Jessa so graciously booked for you guys.” With a manicured hand, she grabs the sheets and rips them off of you.

You and Rafe audibly groan at the sudden coldness, the lack of clothes barely fazing your mother.

“I’m not leaving until I know you two will get out of bed.”

Eventually, you pick your limp body up to pull yourself to the edge of the bed, throwing your feet over the edge and rubbing out the piercing migraine. You look back to Rafe, who manages to sit up and curl into himself. Regardless of your double zombie-like state, Paulette seems to be satisfied that you're both sort-of up and at it. 

She hums like a priss. “I’ll be waiting outside the room, and I will come in again in five minutes if you’re not out here.”

Then, Paulette leaves the room and the door shutting behind you is as loud as thunder.

“Oh my god.” You moan into your hands, nearly shaking from the force of your hangover. “Rafe, I feel like I got hit by a bus.”

“More like a train.”

You groan again, willing yourself to stand and stumbling at the dizziness.

It's comical, really. You'd laugh if you didn't feel like dying.

You and Rafe navigate in the dimly lit room like baby fawns learning how to walk, bumping into each other as you attempt to get dressed and go to the bathroom. You gag when you brush your teeth, nearly hurling right then and there. Rafe at one point trips over his suitcase, landing harshly on the cold tile with a groan, and it takes you at least two minutes to get him up off the floor. 

By the grace of a higher being, you make it out into the hallway before Paulette can forcibly enter again, rolling her eyes at your clearly disheveled state as she wordlessly leads you to the elevator and down to the lobby.

You have to grab Rafe’s forearm to steady yourself, cursing under your breath that you didn’t grab sunglasses to shield from the blazing sun that shines directly into your eyes as you walk towards the spa treatment center. 

You both don’t have the capacity to even ask what the hell she means by a couples spa treatment until you're standing at the entrance, your heart dropping when you see Jessa and Kevin, and Yara and Grant waiting there as well. 

This couldn't get any worse.

“Oh my god, I’m actually going to throw up,” you mumble, Rafe nearly wincing at the mere thought of vomit right now.

“Don’t say that,” he groans. “Don’t bring it up.”

The spa therapist emerges from the back with a smile to chipper, too bright, that it makes the both of you wince. “Buongiorno, tutti!”

You and Rafe join the group, lingering in the back as you practically lean on each other for physical support. 

“My name is Giuditta, and I will be your group therapist this morning! Thank you for signing up for our exclusive Couple’s Spa Retreat!”

God, her voice is way too loud right now.

Also, what?

Before you can comprehend the scene in front of you, Jessa nudges your arm with a sly smile. "Long night?"

Your cheeks burn when you see her gaze flicker between you and Rafe teasingly, unsure if he can hear her right now. You want to tell her to shut up, to make up an excuse to get you out of here, but the sight of her darting eyes gives you motion sickness so you squeeze yours shut.

"Dude," you whisper painfully, "what the fuck did you sign us up for?"

Jessa snorts quietly, finding your state amusing. "Something expensive, so enjoy it while you can."

You want to bite back that you really don't care if it's free or the most pretentious treatment on the planet, you'd much rather be in bed gaining a few extra hours of sleep instead of wavering nauseously in the same room as your ex and high school acquaintance, but when you try and speak you nearly throw up.

So you settle on a groan.

Giuditta doesn't notice your conversation, and even if she does, you'd never know given how chipper she is. “...is our highest recommended treatment for all kinds of couples to unlock their inner personal connection, enhancing the bond between souls through physical and mental contact.”

Meanwhile, Rafe frowns once he digests the words.

What? What are they about to do?

Before he registers it, everyone is being coaxed into the large private room. It’s dimly lit, thank god, but overtly romantic with candles being the only source of light.

He studies the set up: three huts evenly spaced from one another. The curtains draw open to showcase the inside, a double bed with soft sheets, with a smaller table full of supplies for each hut. Two robes are neatly folded on each bed as well as matching slippers. 

Slowly blinking the hangover fog away, Rafe's heart drops when he realizes where he is. What you're about to do.

“We’ll have each couple assigned to one hut,” Giuditta happily explains. “Once you’ve picked your spot, please use our private fitting rooms to change into our pillowy soft robes! It is preferred if undergarments are removed, but this is a safe space, so you may leave them on if it makes you more comfortable.”

Jessa and Kevin take the bed on the left, Yara and Grant take the one on the right, leaving you and Rafe to approach the bed smack dab in the middle of the two couples.

Great.

If you weren't hurdling towards death you would’ve made a joke to Rafe, who probably would’ve laughed if he wasn’t also on the verge of death. 

You head into one of the changing rooms and strip out of your dress cover up, slipping on the butter-soft robe that nearly has you melting. All you want to do is lie down in bed with your head stuck in a giant ice cube. Or at least lay on the beach with your head in a giant ice cube.

Anything, you mean anything, would be better than this right now. 

Exiting at the same time as Rafe, you nearly snort when you glance at him.

His hair is disastrously unruly while his robe is way too short, exposing his already lanky legs to heights unknown. He immediately shakes his head at you, jaw clenching so hard you're sure it’ll break off. A hand instantly finds the small of your back as you retreat back to your hut, almost a warning to keep walking and not say anything about it.

“Not a word,” he grumbles miserably.

It only makes you stifle a laugh, poking his over-exposed thigh. “I don’t know. I think you’d rock the five inch seam shorts.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s kind of hot.”

“Sweet girl,” he warns as you both sit down on the bed. It only makes his robe hike up further. 

You go to pinch his thigh again, but is interrupted by Giuditta's excited clap, one that makes you both wince at the volume. 

“Okay!” She stands in front of all the huts, each couple looking at her expectantly. “Now, we understand privacy is of the utmost importance, so we will be shutting each hut door to give each couple the intimacy that is promised on the brochure.” 

Two assistants line up at each hut door, waiting for the green light to enter and shut them to start the treatment, which suddenly makes the entire scene way more intimate, as it essentially cages you in together. You shift uncomfortably next to Rafe, who rubs a hand down the side of his face.

God, the room reeks of eucalyptus and you sigh, unsure if it’s out of nausea or irritation.

“Now, you will each have your own intimacy coordinator who will lead the spa treatment, along with some exercises to get you more in tune with your partner,” Giuditta explains. “I won’t keep you any longer. Enjoy!”

Rafe takes a long deep breath, about to say something regarding the BS of this entire thing, but closes his mouth when your two coordinators enter the makeshift hut, a short woman with a soft smile and long dark hair and another woman who’s much taller with a bob. 

“Hello,” the shorter one greets politely. “I am Amelia and this is Birdie, your massuses for this session. Please remove your robes and we’ll cover you with a sheet. Let’s start on our stomachs, please.”

You and Rafe navigate onto the bed essentially in the dark. Slowly, you start to strip out of the robes. Rafe left his boxers on that he wears under his swim suit as you still have your bathing suit on, unsure if you wanted to be naked for this ordeal. 

Of course, you take one last attempt to be funny as you pinch his thigh again, causing him to gently swat your hand away with an incoherent grumble, flopping on his stomach as he rests his head on the fluffy pillow. You follow suit with a quiet laugh, laying down and turning your head away from him so you're facing the wall. 

The bed is actually pretty comfortable, and you find yourself nearly sighing. Perhaps you'll get the sleep that's been calling to you instead of participating in whatever bullshit is in store.

You assume Rafe thinks the same because Amelia clears her throat. “Please face each other and lock hands. We’re going to begin our breathing exercises.”

Right. 

Awkwardly, you both adjust and crane your necks so you and Rafe are facing each other, cheeks smushed against the pillows as you blindly reach down to find each other’s hands. Rafe’s hand engulfs yours, locking your fingers together and squeezing once, as if in solidarity that you will get through this despite how sick you feel. 

You lock eyes for a moment, your breath hitching at the physical intimacy of it all.

This is all of a sudden too much.

You blink a few times and then close your eyes, not wanting to know if he’s done the same or if he’s still looking at you. Regardless, he squeezes your hand again a little lighter than before, but not without smoothing over your skin with the pad of his thumb, as if he's tracing over a map.

God, this is only going to make your hangover worse, since every small doting gesture he does makes your stomach flip anyway, so you can’t imagine how you're going to feel if this whole treatment is about connecting with your partner on a level deeper than physicality. 

“Scusate?”

You open your eyes to Birdie leaning down.

“May I untie your top?”

You blink, short circuiting and trying to ignore his eyes on you. “Uh, yeah. That’s fine.”

Birdie thanks you and begins to untie your swim suit top, your back now bare, both masseuses preparing their lotions.

Rafe’s eyes travel to drink in your exposed back, swallowing thickly at the sliver of side boob that smushes out from laying on your stomach.

Instinctively, he grabs your hand a fraction tighter, tearing his gaze away from your body and shutting his eyes instead. 

He's fighting a million different demons right now. Starting with the one in his head that's telling him how nice your hand feels in his right now.

“Okay,” Amelia says calmly, “we are going to start with a light back massage to start that should ease us into a more relaxed state. Take a nice, deep breath in through your noses.”

You and Rafe do so as cool hands meet the smalls of your backs at the same time, lathered in lotion as they press the heels into the muscles and push up your spine.

Once they reach your shoulder, Amelia adds, “Now exhale out your mouth.”

The masseuses do this a few times, breathe you both through a basic massage that lasts about fifteen minutes.

You close your eyes, feeling sleep overtake you as your breaths get deeper. At one point, you feel your fingers twitch against his, lips parted as you're so close to peace, so close–

“Alright,” Amelia’s voice breaks you out of your trance, blinking your eyes open blearily as Rafe does the same, probably almost falling asleep as well. “Now that we’ve connected our breathing, we’re going to sit up to a criss-cross position and face each other.”

You want to cry. You're so goddamn tired.

Birdie ties your swim suit before you can sit up, groggily pushing yourself into a criss-cross as Rafe does the same, although it takes him a little longer to get comfortable due to his long legs.

He shoots you a pointed glare when you bite your lip to suppress a laugh, noticing you struggling to keep a straight face while watching him, especially when Birdie motions you to scoot closer together so your knees are touching. 

The contact makes your heart skip.

The masseuses pay it no mind. “Alright, now straighten your spines with a deep inhale.” You do as told. “Then an exhale. Let’s join our hands together by our knees and we will begin our soul ties segment.”

Sorry, the what segment?

You and Rafe shoot each other a nervous glance, reluctantly doing as you're told and locking your hands together once more.

Sheepishly, he averts his gaze up to the makeshift ceiling of the hut, the thrum of his heart beating louder than ever. He blames the hangover for amplifying his senses, dialing them to eleven, hating the magnetic pull he has towards you, especially right now as he can feel your gaze burning into his profile.

Rafe hopes the candles don’t show his rising blush. 

“Our exercise will start with a light massage to further release inhibitions,” Amelia explains, standing behind Rafe as Birdie stands behind you. “We will start at your forearms and work our way up to the shoulders to release any tension built there from bottled emotions. While we do this, you two will participate in a verbal exercise. Please look each other in the eye and take turns listing qualities that you admire about the other.”

Silence fills the hut. 

His piercing blue eyes meet yours and for a moment, you both come up short on what to do.

You nearly speak up, wanting to give a huge disclaimer that the relationship is very much unlike the others, that this isn’t what they think it is. Your heart races, and for a second, you consider hurling all over him to give an escape route. 

Then, Rafe’s stupidly arrogant voice interrupts your internal panic. “Ladies first.”

God, you want to smack that stupid smirk off of his face.

Shaking your head lightly in disbelief at him, you clench your jaw, but is jolted out of your moment of pitiful anger as Birdie’s hands meet your forearms, signaling the start of the exercise.

Rafe raises a brow at you expectantly, almost mockingly, and you grip his hand bruisingly tight as your heart races with the pressure of initiating this part of the treatment.

“Uh, uhm,” you stutter, unsure of how casual you can keep it without raising alarm bells. “You have nice, uh, hands.”

Rafe stifles a snort, cocking his head to the side. God, he’s way closer than you realized and it makes your head spin. “Nice hands?” he drawls out slowly, mockingly.

“Yes.” Your cheeks flame in embarrassment. You're going to kill Jessa for booking this. “That’s what I said. Now you go.”

He chuckles softly, running his thumb over the smooth skin of your hand as if it means nothing. He darts his gaze between your narrowed eyes, clearly displaying his amusement for this whole ordeal.

“You have a funny laugh.”

Your lip curls in disgust. “Really?”

Rafe shrugs as much as the masseuse will allow him. “It’s adorable.”

“Oh my god,” you grumble, ignoring the insinuation. “Okay. Your music taste isn’t that bad most of the time.”

“I knew you liked it, baby.”

“It’s your turn.”

Rafe smiles lazily and your heart skips a beat. “You sometimes talk in your sleep and I find it very amusing.”

"Rafe."

"Your turn."

If it’s possible for your face to feel even hotter, it is. “That's not admiration, that's a form of entertainment."

"Fine," he says, indulging your dispute. "I admire how you talk in your sleep. We had a full conversation once."

"I do not. And I never did that.”

“How would you know? You were asleep.”

“You probably imagined it.”

He nods. “Sure.”

At your silence, he squeezes your hand gently.

“Your turn.”

Cool hands meet your shoulder blades and you nearly forgot there are other people here, who are probably confused at the lack of seriousness this conversation has.

You hate how easy it is to get lost in his eyes, hating how captivating they are, how much joy they hold at the moment. He’s totally eating this up, because if there’s one thing he loves to do, it’s rile you up and make you a blubbering, flustered mess.

It only frustrates you further, huffing quietly. Especially when he's clearly joking about this whole exercise.

You want to flip the script back to him. If he wants to play this game, then you can, too.

“You have a nice singing voice.”

That has him raising a brow, confusion plastered all over his pretty features. He goes to say something in clarification, but you interrupt him. 

“I heard you the other day,” you say, softer. “It was the second day here. I obviously wasn't really asleep, not deeply, anyway."

The memory of what happened after he came into the room as your heart skipping a beat. How he made you beg for it.

But you refuse to cower. "You were singing an Ariana song. It was really sweet.”

Rafe gapes his mouth open like a fish.

“Shut up,” he stutters, embarrassed at the call out.

But he narrows his gaze when he recognizes the game you're playing, at the little smile ghosting your lips as you take in his flustered appearance. Rafe can't help but straighten up, knowing you can go band-for-band right now if that's how you want to play.

Game on, sweet girl, he thinks.

“Alright, you’re a grade-A nerd.”

You narrow your eyes. "That feels like an insult."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm saying you're smart. One of the smartest people I know. You know a bunch of history shit off the top of your head and it's mildly impressive."

"Only mildly?"

"Immensely, sweet girl." His voice is faux saccharine, trying to get you to crumble. "Your turn."

But. it doesn't faze you.

“You’re super protective. Physically. I remember being trapped in the mosh-pit at Davo’s and you pushed your way through to get me out,” you recount the memory almost defensively.

Rafe wants to tell you I told you so, as he remembers that day vividly. He felt like a damn hero, and teased you relentlessly after you refused to thank him because you said you could get out of it yourself (he knew you couldn't). It only took three orgasms back-to-back-to-back for you to give him what he wanted: a simple thank you.

“You have a cool style, and you’re always annoying well-put together.”

“You’re the one to talk." You scoff. "You can simply throw on jeans and a t-shirt and look like you’re straight from a magazine.”

The notion makes him snort as an attempt to hide his flustered mind. “You’re basically a Sour Patch Kid,” he retorts. “You’re sour because you like to make fun of me and act all mean and tough, but then you’re-"

"Let me guess, a sweet girl?"

Rafe hums. "Yup. The sweetest." Then, before he can shut his mouth, he adds, "Like when you read to me the other day.”

The memory makes you falter, dropping the competitive demeanor and soaking in the weight of his words.

You stare at him, unsure if there’s more to it, but there isn’t, and he almost looks startled at the confession, eyes wide with a flicker of uncertainty, as if he’s said too much. He swallows thickly as you feel a tonal shift in the air. 

Playtime’s over. 

“I liked reading to you,” you admit gently, genuinely.

Rafe studies your expression, trying to really decipher if you're joking around still. But you don't crack a smile, or laugh, or give him any indication that your words are untruthful. In fact, you look appreciative. He isn't sure what to make of it.

Just barely narrowing his gaze, his confusion grows. "You did?"

You nod earnestly. “I like when you let your guard down, because then I can see you.”

Rafe stares at you, that flicker of uncertainty leaving his eyes and instead is replaced with something you can’t pin point. Appreciation? Gratitude? You barely register that he squeezes your hands a fraction tighter, and whether he does it intentionally or not, it makes your heart pound all the same.

His voice is small. “You’re the only person I feel like I can let my guard down to.”

That makes you frown slightly. You think back to his friends at school, his best friend Elliot, his sisters. He has a support system, people who care about him. How are you the person he feels he can be the most authentic with? Is this a joke?

You swallow that thought. “I admire how you’ve seen some ugly parts of my life and you didn’t run.”

Not that he could, you think immediately. You're trapped in a foreign country together.

But Rafe's heart drops at that, resisting the urge to cradle your face.

“You’re selfless in a way you don’t want people to know about,” he says quietly, “like how you’ll bring me a coffee without my asking or clean Marianne's room when she’s going through another episode.”

You hum. “You care more about people than you think. You noticed when I was upset on my birthday and you didn’t make fun of me even though you had the perfect opportunity to do so.”

His next words punch you in the gut. “Despite what other people may think,” he whispers, “you deserve a lot more than you’ve been given.”

The confession slips from your mouth before you can stop it.

“You have pretty eyes.”

Rafe’s breath hitches, and then his eyes blink rapidly, as if he’s realizing something devastatingly important. He squeezes your hands a little tighter, more firmly and certain than before, opening his mouth to say something else, to spill his confession that he’s been bottling up for so long now.

He says your name slowly.

But then Amelia clears her throat.

You blink out of your trance, losing eye contact as the masseuses’ hands aren’t even on your bodies anymore and instead gesture you to lay back down.

How long have they been done?

“Now, we will move into the third and final segment of the session,” Amelia instructs gently, darting her gaze cautiously between the two of you. “If you’ll please lay down on your backs, please.”

The rest of the day is…weird.

After the spa treatment, you feel even more wound up than before, a newfound tension easing its way to your shoulders as the weight of the confessional rests upon you.

The things you said to each other, the rawness of it, make your head spin in a way that’s not solely from the hangover. It’s something else entirely, something more than just spewing out lies to get through the session, something that both of you conjured. 

Something real.

You shake the thought away.

Because, no. No.

This isn’t real. This is simply forced hormonal proximity that makes people say things they don’t mean. Rafe, the King of Sleeping Around, is incapable of such feelings or even the mere thought of being with one person. He said it himself last night, he doesn’t know how to date, and even if he did, there’s no way you’d be able to fulfill anything of what he needs.

It wouldn’t work. 

Guys don’t like you. They don’t harbor crushes on you, because you’re not that kind of girl that grabs attention like that. You don’t command a room, or turn heads, or make people believe that you want more than just a hook up.

All your life, you’ve been rejected by the one person whose approval would mean the world, constantly being tossed aside by your mother and regarded as a thing, not a person, not a daughter.

And the thought of being rejected romantically too makes you utterly nauseous.

Given that, you don’t even allow for the opportunity to come, kicking guys to the curb when they show an ounce of emotion beyond merely sex, nipping that chance for rejection right in the bud. It's simple: you leave before you can be left.

So, no. It wouldn’t work between you and Rafe.

Because you will never let him, nor anyone for that matter, get the chance.

It’s devastatingly hard to concentrate on anything for the rest of the day, especially when your immediate family plus Yara and Grant pile on a yacht to ride around the cove for a few hours. The boat is ridiculously big, and normally you’d roll your eyes at the blatant flaunt of money that your family loves to parade around, but for once, you’re grateful because the ship’s giant size allows for you to sneak away from them without anyone noticing.

Well, anyone except for Rafe.

You and Rafe lounge silently on the pull-out hammock that juts out the side of the yacht, dangling directly over the clear water.

Despite the tumultuous emotional exchange earlier, you lay opposite one another, your legs bending as your calves rest against the side of his ribcage as his legs stretch long beyond your head, your temple resting against his calf.

The position is alarmingly inclusive of the best of both worlds: you’re still close enough to him, practically on top of him, which is where you like to be as of late, but that this position gives you a perfect vantage point of his face since you face each other, and looking at him after that spa treatment makes your cheeks flush. 

You both nurse cold glasses of water, the thought of drinking again nearly making you yack off the side of the boat. 

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t realize he’s speaking to you until he taps your thigh with his hand. 

“Hmm?”

“Tired?”

You nod shyly. You could sleep for twelve hours if you were allowed to. “What’d you say?”

Rafe smiles gently. “I said that someone’s having fun.”

You quirk a brow. 

He elaborates by nodding his head to something behind you. You look up to see the view upside down, which is Yara drunkenly dancing with Jessa and squealing obnoxiously loud over the music.

What’s worse is that no one seems to be annoyed with it, maybe except Grant, but surprisingly Paulette watches the blonde with an endearing smile, sipping her drink with a proud gleam in her eye. 

Something foreign pulls at your chest at the sight of your mother flashing someone else - Yara, for that matter - a smile like that.

She’s never smiled at you like that.

You force yourself to look away and turn back to Rafe, knowing if you continue staring that you will, no doubt, spiral.

Instead, you rest your head against his shin and shut your eyes, cradling the water on your tummy. The coolness of it does nothing to settle the kettlebell in your stomach.

“I hope she has a horrible hangover.”

Despite the bitterness in your tone, Rafe laughs boyishly, a sound you have grown to love and hate. “Baby, I wouldn’t wish this hangover on anyone. That’s evil.”

“Maybe I am evil.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Sure, alright.”

“I don’t appreciate your sardonic tone,” you huff. “I could be if I really wanted to.”

Rafe’s hand absentmindely traces up and down your shin, going as high as your knee and as low as your ankle. “You wanna know what Elliot told me a few weeks ago?”

You hum in instigation.

“He told me you went over to smoke with him, Marianne, and Ian, and cried like a baby when he was telling the story of when he lost his virginity. Like, totally inconsolable. Mare had to bring you back to the dorm.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory. You’re going to kill Elliot. And based on the wide grin adorning his lips, you’re also seconds away from throttling Rafe as well.

“So?”

Cocking his head to the side, his tone is low and mocking. “That doesn’t sound like something someone evil would do.”

“Whatever. At least I wasn’t the one who cried when their shoulder popped out so they couldn’t play video games for two weeks.”

Rafe’s jaw slacks, his teasing demeanor gone.

Oh, he’s going to kill Elliot for that. “Hey, it was the day the original Fornite map came back. I was looking forward to it for weeks.”

You simply raise a quizzical brow at him as he attempts to defend himself.

He says your name seriously. “They brought back the double pump.”

“I have no idea what that means,” you deadpan. 

Rafe scoffs. “You know, I oughta throw you in the water.”

“Oughta?”

“Yeah. I oughta. You’re being a brat.”

“Me?! You’re the one who started it.”

He then sits up on the hammock, the bed dangerously swaying at the movement and for a moment, thinking you are about to flip overboard. But the precariousness ceases, but a new problem arises as Rafe is now directly above you, leaning forward to rest his arm on your bent knees and caging you into your laying position. 

All Rafe does is stare at you for a few moments, and you forgot your train of thought as you look into his pretty blues.

You have pretty eyes.

Heat rushes to your neck as you remember what you said to him in the soul ties treatment, nearly cursing yourself for your big mouth that has to always ruin a moment.

But you remember how he said your name, as if he wanted to say more after you complimented him.

You need to know.

Before he can say anything snarky, you peer up at him with a newfound curiosity. 

“What were you going to say at the end of the soul ties treatment?”

The question catches him off guard, eyes widing slightly at the audacity of you to ask.

Rafe pauses, reaching up to push the hair off his forehead as an anxious tick. But the nerves go as quickly as they came, that sly smirk reappearing on his face as he gazes down at you.

“Probably something stupid,” is what he settles on.

Yet you yearn to know more, to know if your thoughts were truly irrational and delusional. “You don’t remember?”

Please say it, you think desperately. Don’t make me look like an idiot.

Your chest constricts when he shrugs nonchalantly, brushing the whole thing off. 

“No. I kind of blacked out during it, if I’m being honest.”

The confession knocks the wind out of your lungs as you nod slowly to mask your disappointment, your embarrassment.

Unfortunately, it’s not a surprise he chooses to forget the exercise that exposes deep emotional vulnerability, the only part of the entire treatment that you wish was longer so you’d know more, you’d know what he was about to say. 

Wow. You want to scoff.

You really believed every word that came out of his mouth during that, and now you’re not so sure about his genuinity, probably faking his way through it so the time would pass quicker than if he said nothing. Embarrassment pools in your tummy, because you were being truthful in your admirations. 

Of course he didn’t take it seriously. Why would he? 

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Right,” you find yourself saying.

Suddenly, you feel trapped here on this hammock with him, anxiety bubbling in your chest as the need to leave augments.

You sit up so abruptly that it startles him, scrambling to get off as soon as possible. “I’m gonna…uh… I’ll be back.”

Despite his confusion, he helps you get off the hammock with pinched brows. “Are you good?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Rafe hates the distance in your tone. “Alright, well, do you want me to come–?”

“No,” you respond immediately, noticing your harsh tone and then reeling it in. “I’m just…I’ll be back,” you repeat before turning tail and leaving him alone. 

Sitting alone with his thoughts, Rafe replays the past five minutes in his head and tries to come up with things that would warrant that kind of reaction.

But he genuinely comes up short as he watches you mingle with your family, knowing he must’ve done something incorrigible to have you wanting to spend your time with them instead of him.

It makes Rafe spiral.

He thought you were on the same page about the spa treatment, since he could hear you muttering how stupid it was under your breath when you left the hut.

…Unless, you were calling something else stupid, maybe your hangover, or the fact that you were immediately carted to the yacht without a moment to catch your breath.

That makes him recoil. Maybe you weren’t on the same page, and you think he was calling your moment stupid. 

Rafe wants to believe it was stupid and a complete waste of time. He really does because it would save him from the amount of spiraling he’s done. But no matter how hard he tries to make himself believe that, he simply can’t.

He can’t because you said his eyes were pretty. 

Not oh, you have nice eyes or your eyes are really blue. No, you called them pretty.

Pretty.

No one’s ever said that to him before and meant it. Or at least he thinks you meant it. You looked too damn pretty when you uttered it, your eyes boring into his with such intensity that it – literally – took his breath away. 

But now you won’t even look at him. 

For the entirety of the yacht ride, you avoid his eyes, the ones you called pretty.

Sure, you curl into his side when you chat with uncles and aunts, and play the hell out of the doting girlfriend part, but never once look up at him.

It drives Rafe nuts, and he tries to add ridiculously fake anecdotes into the conversation that’ll get you to do so, like how you popped his shoulder back into place one time or how you heroically helped him save a cat from a tree on campus. One after the other, he tries to one up himself, to get you to acknowledge him – even if it’s out of confusion – but you don’t.

You don’t even look at him when Paulette pulls you aside, berating you about something he can’t hear.

He hates the dejected look on your face, the far off gaze in your eyes as your mother goes on and on about stuff, occasionally pointing to parts of you you or towards certain people – Yara – on the yacht. Paulette even gestures to Rafe at some point, no doubt saying something about him, and it only makes your shoulders sag.

Rafe can only imagine what she said to you.

When you return by his side, he gives your waist a gentle squeeze and asks if you’re alright, to which you only nod.

Still not looking at him.

And it pisses him off. 

It’s torture. This whole week has been slowly killing him, because he has no idea where he stands with you.

Everyday throws Rafe for a whirlwind, because sometimes in the mornings it seems like you want to lay in his arms forever and you smile at him involuntarily, like it’s the only thing you’re meant to smile at.

But then by lunchtime, you’ll be distant, detached, so far removed as if you’re going to burn your hand from touching his skin.

Then, maybe, by dinner you’ll be back to caring for him, smoothing down the ends of his hair that stick up or the wrinkles in his shirt. It’s almost as if you catch yourself playing the girlfriend role in private, knowing you’re not supposed to be acting like that if it’s not in front of your family. 

He hates it.

Rafe wants you to act like that all the time.

But he doesn’t know how to ask you to let your guard down. He doesn’t know how to ask if you trust him, because it doesn’t seem like you do, or ever will. Not to the extent of trust that should be between a boyfriend and girlfriend.

You keep yourself at arms length away, revealing breadcrumbs about yourself but always leaving him wanting to know more. 

Rafe hates rejection, and won’t pursue someone if he knows he’s not going to get what he wants.

But with you, he has no idea.

Sometimes, he thinks you’re on the same page. But other times, like on the hammock, you push yourself away from him, as if you’re repulsed by him.

Who’s he kidding? You probably are.

You know of his history, his tendencies, his reputation on campus. Why would you want to be with someone like him for real?

He wants to be the one who holds you at the end of the day, the only one who gets to fuck you, the only one who knows your secrets. 

And he’ll never be able to tell you. 

You arrive back at the resort around five, giving you about three hours until the rehearsal dinner. You and Rafe silently agree to go back to the room, exhausted after standing in the sun all day while trying to actively fight a hangover.

His touch on your back lingers a little longer than it should while you walk to their door, and you don’t acknowledge the gesture in the slightest.

Instead, the only time you make an effort for conversation is when you sigh once you step foot into the room, immediately kicking off your sandals. 

“You mind if I shower first?” is all you ask, and all he can do is silently nod and watch you retreat into the bathroom, shutting the door and leaving him in silence. 

Rafe sits on the balcony attached to the room, the view overlooking the coast and all of its beautiful scenery. He snaps a few photos but there’s no muse behind it, no parts of you sneaking into the photo that give him an excuse to look at the photo longer than he should. 

Scoffing to himself, Rafe shakes his head.

He feels pathetic, and he hates losing control of things he should have easy control over. For starters, he should be able to dictate his feelings and not have to worry if he’s going to involuntarily do or say something that he has no control over.

It scares the shit out of him.

It almost happened today during the spa treatment, he was seconds away from spilling chained up secrets to you, feelings that he isn’t sure should reach the light of day. 

But the ache in his heart weighs him down. 

Everytime he looks at you, hears you, even thinks about you since all he sees when he closes his eyes is you, it’s as if his breath is being stolen from him. And it pisses him off.

He’s supposed to be the untouchable Rafe Cameron. He doesn’t grovel. He doesn’t submit. And yet, he finds himself completely at your mercy.

Rafe takes a quick shower after you’re done, leaving the bathroom to discover your sleeping figure on the bed.

He stops and stares at your body curled in on itself, arms hugging yourself tight as your wet hair cascades over the pillow, and realizes that you’re probably cold. Or, at least, you look cold.

But he doesn’t want to move your body to put you under the covers, so he simply takes the one crewneck he brought and drapes it over your figure. 

A voice in the back of his mind mutters pathetic.

Instead of joining you and providing the warmth himself, Rafe goes back out onto the balcony and simply sits in silence.

He doesn’t trust himself to lay down with you, thinking about the last time he did that where it turned into a fuck. Not that he doesn’t want to sleep with you right now, but today carried an unusual emotional weight that spooked him, and he doesn’t want that to translate to how he sleeps with you. 

Minutes turn into hours and, before he knows it, it’s about to be seven. 

Rafe sighs, knowing he should start getting ready or at least look in the mirror and pray his hair dried semi-presentable. But when he slithers back into the room, his heart lurches when he sees you still asleep, lightly snoring, with his crewneck pulled snug against your chest as if you’re cradling it. 

He can’t help but gravitate towards you, hating to wake you but knowing you need to start getting ready before Paulette barges in again.

Kneeling on the floor right next to your sleeping figure, he places a gentle hand on your shoulder, shaking very lightly.

“Hey, you need to get up.”

You don’t budge at first, still knocked out cold.

Rafe moves his hand to cradle your face, his cool ring brushing across your jaw to push the stray hair that falls in front of your face. 

Whether it’s the gesture or the cold sensation of his ring, it makes you stir ever so slightly, pinching your brows and nearly pouting. He tilts his head so he’s looking at your face straight on, continuing to push the hair back from your eyes as if he’s petting a kitten.

God, the act is so soft that part of him wants to scoff at himself, but another part relishes in it. 

You groan quietly, trying to nuzzle yourself deeper into the mattress.

“Sweet girl.”

“Mmrph.”

“You have to start getting ready.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if you’re in pain. “‘M so tired.”

Rafe’s chest pulls at your tone, so much smaller than he’s used to hearing.

It makes him frown. “I know, baby. But you can’t sleep any longer.”

“Mhm. No.”

He continues smoothing down your hair. “You can’t.”

You sigh deeply, getting more comfortable. “Five minutes.”

“No.”

“Please?”

The word sends a shiver down his spine. He wants to curse, knowing that’s his weak spot, how much he loves hearing you say that, how he knows you hate using it. Rafe doesn’t understand why you don’t say it more often, why you don’t ask for things, because he’ll give you anything you want, with or without the please. 

But he needs to hold his ground. You’ll be scrambling to get ready if you don’t start soon. 

Rafe says your name gently.

The use of your name makes you open your eyes slowly, blinking to adjust to the lamp light.

Finally, after all day of nothing, you look at him sleepily, rubbing the bleariness out of your eyes with the back of your hand that once fisted his crewneck. The smallest of smiles ghosts his lips at the sight of you, how pretty you look even after just waking up with your face bare and half dried hair.

As if you temporarily forget the grudge you’ve been holding against him all day, you sheepishly match his smile. 

“Can I get five more minutes if I call you Rafey?”

The nickname makes his heart skip a beat, and he tries to mask how fucking sweet it sounds from your lips by rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief.

God, you really know all the steps to get him to back down. 

Rafe hums, despite the stupid warmth blossoming in his chest. “Nice try, sweet girl.”

You groan, closing your eyes again but seceding, stretching your legs and arms out like a cat and flipping onto your back. Eventually, you slowly blink to wake yourself up, subconsciously grabbing his crewneck to throw it back over your chest. 

Rafe ignores the flare of possession in his chest.

“What time is it?” You ask softly.

“Seven,” he answers. “We need to be downstairs for eight.”

You groan again, dreading the rehearsal. 

It takes longer for you to mobilize and get out of bed than it does to do your makeup, deciding on a simpler look tonight and saving the grand makeup for the actual wedding tomorrow. 

Obviously, Rafe takes less than five minutes to get ready, simply lounging on the bed and watching you do your hair, offering a few quips to fill the silence. It pisses you off, rolling your eyes at his lazy smirk as he gets to lay around and watch you work. 

Ten minutes to eight, you slip on a plain green dress he’s never seen before and wear the heels you originally brought, not the ones he bought you, and he almost has half a heart to ask you why you aren’t wearing any of the stuff he got you on your birthday, but bites his tongue at the possessiveness of it, and wordlessly ushers you out of the room with a clenched jaw and closed fist. 

When you emerge from the elevator into the lobby, Rafe doesn’t slip his hand into yours as he’s been doing, instead pretending to fidget with his button down to keep himself from doing so.

You don’t make an effort to grab his, so you silently walk side by side to the resort ballroom where your family waits, some still trickling in and others already seated. You politely greet some of them, offering tight lipped smiles for others, all while Rafe trails quietly behind you, tucking his thumb through the belt loop of his dress pants to refrain from putting a hand on your back. 

Approaching your assigned table, you curse the gods above when it consists of the two of you, your parents, Patrick, Yara and Grant, and one of your other degenerate cousins that your brother is close with.

No wonder, because they’re both pricks. 

You internally groan. You don’t even know who’s the best person to sit next to, but don’t get the choice because your mother is nodding to the seat next to her, which ultimately translates to you’re sitting here and don’t even think about complaining about it.

So, begrudgingly, you saunter over and sit next to your mother, Rafe following suit and sitting in the vacant seat next to you. 

“You’re practically wearing a nightgown,” Paulette seethes under her breath to you. “Have you no decency?”

You only shrug, too tired to put up with your mother. Too done.

Plus, you don’t need to face Rafe to know he’s staring at you, instead looking down at your hands that pick the ends of the tablecloth. Paulette continues to whisper in your ear, on what you should’ve done with your hair or how you could’ve put more makeup on. Frankly, it goes in one ear and out the other. 

“If you don't put effort into your appearances, your boyfriend is going to find someone who will,” is the last thing she says before Jessa interrupts her with the microphone on the grand stage. 

Paulette turns her scowl into a bright smile, as if she wasn’t just visceral berating her daughter into the next dimension. 

You half listen to Jessa’s speech to the family, and you’re sure that it’s nice and wonderful as expected, but you’re just so damn tired that you can’t seem to care.

It doesn’t help that everything your mother has said to you today has been ringing in your ears, a constant thrum that you can’t get rid of.

Would it kill you to smile? Notice how Yara smiles at people, like that. Where’d you get that bathing suit? Honestly, angel, whoever told you that fit wasn’t being a very good friend. If you went down two sizes it would look much better, if only you listened to me when I told you to start that diet over the summer. 

It’s taken years for you to learn how to not let your mother’s words get under your skin. Now it feels like you’re in high school all over again, constantly reminded of your deepest insecurities by the one person who should be lifting you up. You’ve grown to learn how to defend yourself, to feel compelled to go back and forth and set it in stone that you’re healthy, but you can’t seem to get back up.

At least not today. 

All you want to do is grab Rafe’s hand, to ground yourself to something, but you don’t.

He doesn’t want you. Pull back. 

It isn’t until Paulette gets up to do a speech where you truly feel like you’re losing it. 

You listen to your mother drone on and on and on about absolutely nothing, how privileged she is to be standing here, to have organized the backbone of the wedding, to have a blatant excuse to flaunt her bottomless pit of funds. She gives a big thanks to Jessa for how open she was to all of your mother's ideas, though you assume she didn't give Jessa much of a choice considering how much money she was putting towards the itinerary.

“Last but not least,” your mother says into the microphone after eons, “I need to thank a very special person tonight.”

Your heart skips when Paulette looks at you.

"It's no secret we occasionally butt heads from time to time," she says, earning a few chuckles throughout the crowd, "but truthfully there's no easier way to express gratitude than through tough love."

You can’t remember the last time your mother looked at you with such…warmth.

Paulette continues humbly. “I'm incredibly honored to share this room with her today, to share my life with her. It's been a privilege to connect with her after all this time. So, let’s raise our glasses and toast–”

Then your mother’s eyes shift beyond you.

“--to my assistant, Yara.”

Applause and chatter falls onto deaf ears, because your ears start to ring and, suddenly, you can’t hear anything besides the rapid thumping of you heart.

You absentmindedly notice Yara standing two chairs down from you, waving away the claps and blowing kisses to your mother as if she’s won the greatest honor. 

Then there’s the sight of your brother clapping excessively while staring directly at you with a wicked smile etching his lips, as if he’s been waiting for your reaction all night. The blatant joy in his expression engraves in your brain, as if he’s getting off on seeing you upset, especially when it comes to the lack of your mother’s love, something he gets so easily without needing to try. 

Suddenly, you're fuming.

You aren't sure whether it’s out of anger or embarrassment or humiliation, but regardless your cheeks flame bright red, your heart beating faster and faster as your gaze darts from your mother on stage, to Yara wiping away her tears, to Patrick’s obvious laughing at you. 

It’s not fair. 

Paulette likes to reel you in just to cast you aside at the last second, a common act she’s done to you all throughout your life.

And the worst part is that you never expect the rejection. There's always a small part of you that hopes it'll be real, it'll be you that she chooses. But it never is, and you falter with every occurrence. Every. Single. Time. 

You don't notice your hands are shaking until a large hand engulfs yours. 

“Hey.” You can hear Rafe’s voice, but it feels far away. “Are you alright?”

It’s a stupid question. It only makes you more embarrassed that Rafe Cameron of all people had to witness that blatant humiliation.

He’s only asking as a courtesy, he feels like he has to. He doesn’t care. He’s not capable of caring, and if you allow him to think you believe his bullshit, then he’ll only keep doing it. He’ll do it until you fall for him, and he’ll have to reject you, too.

You have to pull away first.

You yank your hands away. “Fine.”

But Rafe only says your name. Your name.

If he keeps pushing, you’ll cry.

“Stop.” 

The harshness in your tone makes him pull back reluctantly, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

You hate how mean you sound, how horrible you feel, how nice it was to feel him despite your thoughts telling you that you shouldn’t. All you think about is how you don't want to be here, how you hate the blossom of hope in your chest when your mother looked at you, how stupid you feel now.

Instead, you dig your nails into your palms, no doubt breaking skin at the ferocity of your grip, and say nothing else for the rest of the night. 

Not during appetizers. Not during dinner. Not during dessert. 

Rafe speaks on your behalf on the odd chance you're somehow roped into the conversation, only making your humiliation bloom, that he feels so pitifully bad for you that he feels like he needs to take over.

It nearly makes you scoff, pushing around your kid-like portions with a fork and eating maybe a few bites the entire night. You're nauseous all over again, knowing if you have more you'll probably puke all over the table. 

Ugh. And you just got over your hangover, too.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever until people are getting up, walking from table to table to mingle and catch up since all the speeches and formalities are over. You nearly sigh in relief that it’s all over, willing yourself to stand on wobbly legs and excusing yourself from the table so quietly you aren't sure anyone hears you, nor do you care, really.

But your mother does.

She grabs you by the elbow, ducking her head low to avoid drawing suspicion.

"Where are you going?"

Your mouth opens and closes, unsure if you can trust your voice right now because the waterworks might start if you even attempt to say anything right now.

Paulette says your name quietly, a hiss amongst chatter.

Her talons grip your elbow a fraction tighter, a warning to not cause a scene. "Gemma from Kevin's firm wants to talk to you. Go."

You're frozen, unable to tug away and unable to speak, stuck in the grasp of the worst captor. Tears start to brim your waterline, and you will them to not fall. Not in front of these people, and especially not in front of her.

A flicker of panic rises in your throat, just wanting to get the fuck out of here.

And before your mother can say anything else, a large palm is splaying around your waist, practically yanking you from your mother's talons and freeing your arm. You stumble slightly at the ferocity, but a wave of relief washes over you as Rafe pulls you impossibly taut and completely out of her grasp.

Paulette looks to Rafe incredulously. "We were having a discussion."

"Not anymore," Rafe responds coldly, ice lacing his words unlike anything you've heard before. His grip is tight, grounding, possessive.

You're thankful for it.

"She needs to make connections tonight," your mother says, matching his tone. Then, her gaze narrows on you, "Go see Gemma."

Your breath hitches in response at the proverbial fork in the road, but Rafe side-steps so he's in front of you, blocking you from seeing your mother, as he leans down and cradles your jaw with one hand, so much gentler than what his voice conveys.

He's pissed, you realize.

"What do you want to do?" He asks low, soft but firm in a tone reserved for you. When you can't offer words, he adds, "Room?"

You nod.

He seems to accept your lack of words, brushing the pad of his thumb over your chin as he murmurs a soft, "Okay." Rafe holds you for one more moment before letting you out of his grip.

Instead of heading to the bathroom, or the bar, or the smoke area, you beeline for the exit. 

Rafe, however, lingers in the aftermath of the tension-filled atmosphere, turning slowly to face your mother who still looks offended at his intervention.

Paulette isn't intimidated by him, but rather irritated. "She has to-"

"No."

The ice in his tone makes her freeze, gaping up at him with wide eyes as if to question his audacity.

Rafe doesn't let her speak again as he stares down at her. "She doesn't. Especially not for you."

"I've done everything for her-"

"You've done enough," he spats.

Paulette stares at him for another moment, stunned at his outright crudeness yet completely speechless.

And he glares right back at her, letting her squirm under his intense stare for one, two moments before giving her an up and down glance, and turning heel to find you.

You're in the lobby waiting for the elevator, thinking you slick enough to slip out without anyone seeing.

Of course, not to Rafe, who’s right on your tail and clutching your purse that you left on the table so tight that you're sure he's probably cracked a few of your lip liners in half. 

You aren't sure what’s going on through his head, but he offers nothing.

No lingering touches, no comforting hand squeezes, no words at all. Just his presence, standing broad and tall next to you in the elevator, centimeters away from you. He’s so close, he’s right there, yet he couldn’t be further.

Because you pushed him away. Because that’s what you do best.

When you enter the room again, the door shutting is the loudest noise. Silence engulfs you, and you suddenly feel humiliated all over again as he stands still behind you, waiting for you to move first. Probably waiting to see if you want a quickie to make you feel better.

But you don't move, you can't.

All you can do is simply stare into space and relive the moment over and over again.

How Paulette looked at you. How she called Yara your childhood nickname in front of your entire family. How the split second your mother looked at you in a way you've been yearning for for years, only for it to be a tease, meant for someone else. It’s as if she enjoys dangling it on a fishhook in front of you, so close yet so far.

Before you can register it, Rafe is gently guiding you from the doorway to stand beside the bed. 

Lost in your thoughts, you quietly watch him gather a few things, sighing and straightening your posture to get ready for the night ahead.

There’s no doubt he wants to have sex, probably distracting himself to delay the inevitable and figure out how to ask you at the right moment. You suppose you could get into the mood, as it would be a nice distraction from the weight of dinner.

Although the thought of being naked in front of him right now churns something ugly in your chest.

He bunches clothes in his hand, most likely to change into after you're done.

Your chest constricts when Rafe moves right in front of you, but instead of leaning down and initiating it, he’s tugging his crewneck over your head with such gentleness that it makes you frown.

Why is he putting more clothes on you? Covering you? 

He doesn’t put your arms through the hole, instead pulling the sweater down so that it fully covers your torso before trailing his hands underneath it, gingerly slipping the dress off your shoulders so it falls to your ankles without exposing your bare body, and then assists with getting your arms through the right holes.

Then, he kneels to start unbuckling your heels, patting your calf when you're good to step out of the shoe, further proceeding to get you to lift your foot a fraction so he can slip a pair of his boxer shorts up your legs to rest on your waist.

The whole time he offers no words, no gentle kisses, no nothing. 

Rafe stands, reaching his hands up to pull your hair out from underneath the crewneck and brushing a few strays that fall in your face away behind your ears. His pretty blue eyes search your face, as if he’s waiting to see if you want to say anything. There’s a softness behind them that you can’t discern from pity. 

But you say nothing.

You simply look up at him. And he looks down at you.

And for a moment, it’s just you. No racing thoughts in your head. No insecurities brewing in your chest. No nausea bubbling in your stomach. 

For the first time tonight, you feel like you can take a deep breath. 

Rafe runs his hands up and down your arms with a feather-light touch. Wordlessly, he guides you to the bed, pushing you to lie down in the same place you napped earlier and bringing the covers to you chin, making sure you're all set before tending to himself. 

You watch him quickly change out of his dress clothes, discarding them carelessly as he rounds the bed and slips under the covers. The mattress dips under his weight as you wait for him to press himself against your back.

But the contact never comes.

When you feel him move again, the spark of hope dulls when it’s to turn off the lamp light, not to hold you. 

Then he lays at an arm’s length away, plunged into darkness.

You realize he’s giving you the space that you demanded at dinner. 

Heart aching, you want to reach out to him, to feel him, to thank him for dressing you. But the words don’t come. You can’t move. You're frozen where he left you, curled in on yourself and enveloped in his clothing that smells like him.

God, he’s surrounding you but not where you need him to be. 

The realization only makes your night worse, knowing the end of the trip – and therefore the agreement – is coming to an end, and having to adjust to the reality of not being with him settles a pit in your stomach. You know things will return to normal: you'll go back to sleeping together with no strings attached without any of the romance that’s been infused this week, without the qualities that couples have, and certainly without all the emotions. 

But right now, you're still technically dating. Even if it’s fake.

Even if he says yes out of pity, you don't care. You can’t be alone right now.

“Rafe?”

“Yeah?”

You almost wish he doesn't hear you, as it would make detaching from him much easier in the long run. 

“Can you hold me?”

He’s pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping his arms around you in an instant, as if he was waiting for the green light.

It feels familiar, so much that you feel like you can find sleep eventually. The act is done like a second nature, as if you're meant to be taut against each other at every waking moment, as if it pained you to be apart for as long as you were. 

But you can’t help but feel stupid at your own helplessness, frowning at how much you enjoy being taken care of.

All your life you've been fending for yourself emotionally, closing yourself off to any opportunities to expose your vulnerabilities and shielding your heart from people who act like they want you, but deep down, don’t.

But now, curled up in his arms, you don't realize how desperately you yearned for the chance to be held, appreciated, cared for. 

Even if it’s all for show. 

A thank you rises but dies in your throat, unable to find your voice again. There’s so many things he did tonight that he didn’t have to, selfless acts that he maneuvered all on his own without you asking. 

You're grateful for it, and it’s almost as if he can sense the feeling because he pulls you a little tighter, his hand finding yours in the darkness and lacing your fingers together.

The gesture is so fucking sweet that it makes your heart flip.

But you know you'll need to find your footing come tomorrow. You've been dealing with your family alone for your entire life, so there's no point in getting used to having Rafe shield you left and right.

The only mechanism that calms your rapid heartbeat is the feel of his beating steady against your back, a syncopated thump, thump, thump that lulls you to sleep, hand still holding his.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes sorry this is actual word vomit.

[velvetinks]

Takes One to Know One

Joel Miller x Jackson! Reader

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, dom!Joel, dirty talk, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (in fiction), rough but emotional sex, wall sex, possessiveness, reader and Joel both emotionally repressed and horny, homophobia (called out), protective Joel, minor angst, language.

You and Joel Miller couldn’t be in the same room for five minutes without tearing each other apart.

Not literally. Not yet.

You clashed over patrol routes, rations, radio static, the fucking weather. He thought you were reckless. You thought he was a control freak with a savior complex. The only thing you agreed on was your mutual hatred.

So of course Maria put you on security duty together during Jackson’s annual church dance.

“Try not to murder each other,” she’d said.

You lasted twenty minutes before Joel got under your skin.

“You always gotta fidget?” he muttered, arms crossed as you shifted your weight from foot to foot beside him.

“You always gotta breathe so loud?”

Joel exhaled through his nose. “I swear, you were built in a goddamn factory just to piss me off.”

You opened your mouth to reply but that’s when it happened.

From inside the church, you heard a voice. Loud. Cruel.

“Didn’t know they let d*kes slow dance now.”

The music stuttered. A few people laughed, awkward and mean. And in the middle of it all, Ellie Williams stood frozen on the dance floor, her hand still in Dina’s, cheeks burning red.

Your vision tunneled.

You were already halfway through the crowd before you realized Joel was right behind you.

“Say that again,” you snapped.

The man a smug, soft-bellied prick named Jared raised his brows. “Just surprised, is all. Thought this was a family event.”

Joel stepped beside you. “You run your mouth again, and I’ll make sure you don’t come back to any event.”

“Or walk straight,” you added, voice like ice.

Jared held up his hands. “Touchy, touchy. Damn. Didn’t know y’all were the lesbian defense squad.”

Joel grabbed him by the collar. “And I didn’t know bigots made it past the gates.”

“Joel,” you warned. He didn’t loosen his grip.

“I got it,” he muttered, shoving Jared back. “Get the fuck out.”

When the asshole stumbled off, Joel turned to Ellie. “You good, kid?”

She nodded stiffly. Dina held her hand tighter.

You knelt a bit, lowering your voice. “Ignore him. He’s not worth the dirt on your boots.”

Ellie looked up at you, surprised, then gave a single nod. You ruffled her curls.

As you stood, you caught Joel staring. Not with contempt.

With something else.

Outside, the air was cooler. The music kept playing, muffled now behind stained glass. You sat on the steps, cracked open a new beer, and tried not to let your pulse trip over itself. Joel stood next to you in silence.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you muttered eventually.

“I know.”

“But you did.”

He nodded.

You glanced at him. “You care about her?”

“More than I care about being right all the time.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel turned to you. There was something unreadable in his face. “You think I like fightin’ with you?”

You blinked. “Don’t you?”

“I do it ‘cause if I didn’t, I’d be…” He cut himself off. Jaw clenched. “Forget it.”

“No. Say it.”

His voice dropped. “If I didn’t argue with you, I’d be tryin’ to fuck you.”

The beer nearly slipped from your hand.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He stepped closer. His broad body blocked the lamplight. His voice went low, rough. “You get under my skin like no one ever has. You piss me off, make me lose sleep. And I still wanna taste you so bad it makes me dizzy.”

Your heart pounded.

“I hate you,” you whispered, voice shaking.

Joel smirked. “Yeah? Then hit me.”

Instead, you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him like you were starving for it.

He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he’d been waiting years. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, full of teeth and heat. You bit his bottom lip, he backed you into the church wall.

“Goddamn mouth on you,” he muttered, pressing you hard into the wood. “Always runnin’. Gonna fill it.”

“Promises,” you hissed, grinding against his thigh.

He shoved your coat aside, fingers working your jeans open with practiced ease. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you gasped as his hand slipped into your underwear, two thick fingers finding you wet and throbbing.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re soaked. All that fightin’ just gets you worked up, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head fell back against the wall as he pumped his fingers in and out, curling them just right, watching you come undone like it was his goddamn mission.

When you came, it was sudden and sharp, and he swallowed your moan with another kiss.

But he wasn’t done.

“Turn around,” he said, voice gravel.

You obeyed, hands braced against the wall. He yanked your jeans down to your thighs, grunted as he undid his own belt.

Then you felt him—hot, hard, lining up against your entrance.

“You want it?” he asked, chest pressed to your back, breath at your ear. “Say it.”

“I want it.”

“Say my fuckin’ name.”

“Joel—”

He pushed in slow, deep, a rough groan ripping from his throat as you clenched around him.

“Goddamn, girl,” he muttered. “Tighter than I imagined.”

He fucked you hard, one hand gripping your hip, the other covering your mouth as your moans got louder. Every thrust punched the breath from your lungs. Your fingers dug into the church wall like you were praying.

“This what you wanted?” he rasped. “This what all that attitude was about?”

You nodded frantically.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” He bit your neck. “You take me so good, baby.”

You came again with a choked sob, and that set him off. He groaned your name into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spilled into you.

For a minute, neither of you moved. Just panted. Pressed together. Sweating. Shaking.

Eventually, Joel pulled out and helped you fix your clothes, hands strangely gentle.

You turned to face him, lips swollen, neck marked.

“So,” you said breathlessly. “Still hate me?”

His smile was crooked. “Guess I’ll have to fuck the hate outta you.”

You kissed him again. This time, it wasn’t rough.

This time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, you’d been wrong all along.