#and the game is slightly different to what it was in the past

[cellophaine]

Chapter IX: GAME

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: The big three – fluff, angst, and smut.

Author's Note: have fun with this chapter :)

GIF Source (I couldn't find the gif when they're at the Cincinnati Masters so let's just pretend that this gif is that gif)

2019. New Rochelle.

You drove the rental through the city, your eyes roaming over the unfamiliar scenery with a languorous curiosity. The sun was hung high, its view unobstructed by the cloudless sky, casting harsh blocks of shadow onto the street. Despite the storm warning, the only indication was the strong gusts of wind that fluttered the tree branches, wrapping the leaves in their grasp and blowing past your car window.

The Authors' Exchange conference was the reason you came to New Rochelle, which would begin tomorrow and expand over three days. Afterwards, you'd drive to Manhattan and stay with Sophie for a week before heading back to San Francisco. The event organizer, Jennifer Roux, had sent you a message earlier in the day detailing the tour of the conference area that would take place after you'd settled in your room.

The GPS's alert chimed for a right turn. You took it and found yourself heading towards a big advertisement that scaled along the side of a building, featuring Art and Tashi prominently. You sucked in a deep breath as old emotions threatened to bubble. You hadn't seen Art in almost ten years, and during all that time, the brief sight of his face, the casual mention of his name were enough to make your heart clench. Affliction, indifference, frustration, and guilt. They all fought one another to claim their place when you tried to place exactly how you felt. But you could never get it right. It was a mess, and it was different every time. But you had moved on. The old feelings were here a moment and gone the next. It dissipated just as you drove past the wallscape advertisement, heading straight for the hotel.

/

Jennifer was much more bubbly in person than in formal emails, which was something you didn't expect. After gushing over your books, she insisted on taking you to your room herself despite your polite refusal. With the keycard in one hand and your suitcase in another, you followed her into the elevator. A voice called out.

"Hold it, please!"

You stepped back as much as you could to make room for the strangers, drawing your suitcase and bag closer to yourself. Hurried footsteps followed by two blurry forms. Jennifer asked for their floor, and the door closed. Your breath caught at the sight of the taller silhouette.

Art.

His name was a noiseless whisper on your lips. His mouth parted slightly, and his eyes widened as they drilled into you. The shock seemed to mask the hurt and guilt behind his features, but you used to know him so intimately, just like how he knew you. Your eyes latched onto his face, tracing the familiar traits that had changed slightly over time. He looked good, even though you didn't want to admit it. His hair was shorter than when you saw him last. His face was sharper and more angular, as if time was an infatuated sculptor obsessed with their subject, barely taking away his youthfulness and leaving his beauty whole. Your eyes locked, its pull intense and undeniable. A movement drew your attention away from him to the little girl he was with. Her hand was clasped in Art's, and the other tugged on yours.

"Hi."

Her timid voice broke the spell. You forced your eyes away and looked down to address her. Her sweet, innocent face beamed as you crouched down to her level. She looked so much like her mother, but you could see traits of Art in her as well. You responded with a smile of your own.

"Hi."

"I like your cherries."

She pointed to the charm on your bag.

"Thank you. Do you want to feel how soft they are?"

She nodded eagerly. You held out your bag, and she carefully petted the synthetic fabric. She squeezed the cherries in her hand, and you took that moment to ask.

"What's your name?"

She looked up at her dad, and only after getting a nod of approval from him did she turn to you.

"Lily."

You smiled warmly at her, even though your insides were punctured with a thousand little cuts.

"What a pretty name."

Her toothy smile deepened as she shyly thanked you. You introduced yourself.

"I like your name."

"Aww, thank you. You're so sweet."

"This is my dad."

Lily let go of the cherries, using both of her hands to tug on Art's attention, which was temporarily reserved for you. She craned her neck to look up when her dad failed to respond.

"Daddy, say hi."

"I–"

You stared at him, wondering if he was going to say anything at all. But you'd never know. The elevator dinged, announcing your floor. You stood up, extending a sweet smile to Lily.

"This is my floor. It was nice to meet you, Lily."

You rushed out with your luggage, and thankfully, Jennifer was right behind you. The elevator doors closed, and you looked away, refusing to make eye contact with Art despite him seeking you out.

Jennifer left quickly after walking you to your room and reminding you of the tour. In the quiet room with only the hums of the air conditioner presented, you sat on the pristine full bed, your luggage forgotten on the side. Pressing a hand to your chest, you could feel your heart's frantic beat as the memories of what happened years ago came rushing back all at once.

2009. Stanford.

After the fight, nothing was the same. There was a passiveness in your relationship that you were forced to come to terms with. You could keep yourself suspended in denial or cut yourself free of the entanglement and the exertion to keep up the illusion. And you chose the latter. Art rarely called and texted, and even when he did, your conversations were brief and awkward. You took his lack of contact as a sign for you to step back. You ceased all communication with him, even though you still kept his number on your phone. You even went as far as avoiding places you often went to with him. Art seemed to know not to visit the coffee shop. Eventually, by the end of that summer, you fell out. There was no final explosive fight, no goodbyes. Things just ended.

But your mind always strayed back to him. How you'd been a bother, you'd been too much, and this distance was his way of telling you that. The way you completely depended on him for comfort after Christmas made you wince in embarrassment whenever you thought of it. Perhaps he felt like you were a burden. You took that as the truth, and no matter what Art might tell you then, it could never change your mind.

In the two years that followed, unexpected yet welcoming changes were made. Your story was featured in the Stanford paper as the first-place winner's prize, along with a cheque for $500. The exposure caught the eye of your current literary agent, Avery Clarke, who then showed interest in the possibility of representing you. She was from a small agency that focused on finding new writers. After reading through your collections of short stories and much anticipation, she decided to take you on her team. You spread yourself even thinner across school, work and writing. Your book took form in the dimness of late nights, many of which you were accompanied by your roommates. And the hard work paid off. Three publishers expressed their interests, and after a long conversation and lots of consideration, you decided to go with The Paper House. Now, you were waiting in a nervous yet content state while Avery worked on negotiating the finer details of your first book deal. Life and new purposes took over the place Art used to be. But, eventually, he found his way back into your life, as if there was an invisible thread that connected you, and Art was pulling on it.

/

It was early October. You remembered it so clearly. The air was brisk, and the sun was warm, making the perfect weather that you were looking forward to enjoying. Your shift at the cafe ended in the early afternoon. When you came out from the back, Art was there, standing by an empty table near the entrance. He looked good, as he always did. The soft smile that was one of your many weaknesses played with your heartstrings, making your breath catch in your throat. In a polo shirt and jeans, he looked like he came here just for you, and this wasn't a standard smoothie run. His lips parted, and his throat worked to form what he had planned to say into audible words. But you got to it before he did.

"What are you doing here?"

"I … I just wanted to talk to you."

You responded to that with a discontented hum. Art picked up on it.

"I saw that you got a book deal on the newspaper. Congratulations."

You nodded warily.

"Thank you."

"How do you feel about it?"

You shrugged.

"Just fine. It's just a book deal. It's not like it will define my career or anything."

Art laughed softly at your sarcastic response. The low vibrato reminded you of how much you'd missed it.

"Do you want to talk about it over a coffee?"

His tone was casual, yet there was a deliberate calculation as if he was laying down a chess piece and waiting for your next move. You arched an eyebrow at your surroundings.

"Here?"

"No. Somewhere else."

His smile was endearing, and you found yourself persuaded by its charm. You reluctantly agreed. On the stroll to the all-day breakfast bar nearby, the two of you walked side by side but left a distance in between. Your conversation remained formal, but after you'd sat down for some crepes and waffles, it returned to a liveliness that it hadn't been for two years.

"You'll do great. I read your story in the newspaper."

Your eyes on him were nothing if not skeptical.

"You have?"

Not that your win was kept a secret. You just didn't think Art was keeping up with you after your fallout.

"Of course I have. I read the whole thing in one sitting. You have such a brilliant way with words."

You rolled your eyes playfully, and your cheeks warmed at his compliment.

"Thank you. That's just one story, though. How are you so sure of it?"

"I just know."

His smug smirk drew a chuckle from you. Your talk, just like your food, was piquant and smooth. You missed the conversations you had, the casual flirtiness, the way being yourselves felt so easy, like how it was meant to be. You took a sip of your water, watching Art staring back at you from the other side of the table. You tilted your head, enticing him to speak his mind.

"What happened to us?"

"You know damn well what happened."

He chuckled, but when he talked, there was no trace of humour.

"I know. It was my fault. I'm sorry for acting like a dick to you. For what it's worth, I liked you a lot …"

You stayed quiet at the past tense use.

" … and I would be lying if I said my feelings for you had completely gone."

You placed your fork down and levelled him with a guarded stare.

"What are you saying?"

Art took a moment as if he was giving his words great consideration. And after what felt like an agonizing wait, his voice carried the significant weight of his confession.

"I still like you."

You let it settle in. This moment had passed through your head many times before, but you never thought it would come true.

"What about Tashi?"

"There's nothing going on between me and her."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm being honest. The last time we talked was two years ago. During the summer break, actually."

"Why me? Why now?"

"I was a fool messing up what we had."

And there it was. All that you wanted to hear. Art admitted that there was something akin to love between you, before everything that happened. Your hope was a small ember, and all it needed was the tiniest spark to burst into flame. Your eyes locked with an intensity that nestled deep in your bones. Neither of you could look away.

"Are you asking me for a second chance?"

"No. I'm asking you if I deserve one."

"We'll see."

You continued to see Art after that. It was a second chance at being casual friends, and things almost went back to how it was before. But something was different this time.

You remembered not leaving Art's single room until the morning the night you slept with him for the first time. It had to be his room because, by that point, Ashley and Grace were unaware of your involvement with Art. If they did, they would strongly oppose your reunion, as they knew all too well about the aftermath in 2007.

His skin was soft and warm, and the way he draped over your body made you arch against him for more. Art kissed his way down to your body, worshipping every inch of your skin with fervour kisses, drawing whimpers from your clenched lips. As eager as he was to taste you, the man knew how to tease you until you begged for it. And when he did, your body shuddered in response. He worked you up with his tongue, swirling it over and over on your dripping lips and sensitive clit before dipping it into your entrance. Your hips bucked into his mouth, seeking for release, but he had none of that. With one hand over your belly, holding you down, the other was two fingers deep into your cunt; he was relentless. You came quickly after that, and all you could think of was how much you wanted him. You pulled him up to meet your lips in a sloppy kiss. Your hand skimmed down the length of his torso, and when you almost reached what you wanted most at that moment, he stopped you with a hand on your wrist. His flushed face tinged with a little embarrassment, and the stickiness under your calf told you what you needed to know. You shared an awkward laugh, and you pulled his face down so you could kiss his forehead. Pushing him back onto the bed, you took over by crawling down the length of his body until you reached his leaking cock. You touched him with tenderness, and it didn't take much coaxing and sucking until his cock became hard again. Art was gentle and took his time with you, slowly working you up to your climax with his thickness pushing all the way in and out. In the final moments, your bodies worked in tandem; your hips were pressed flush against each other. The fervorous thrusts, the barely contained moans and the creaky sound of his twin bed helped create an obscene sound in the small room. You came just moments before he did. Afterwards, as you basked in the afterglow and the sweat of your bodies, you chuckled to yourself.

"If we did this two years ago, we wouldn't have broken up at all."

That drew a laugh out of him. You found yourself falling for Art again. He felt the same. Your lives were better with the other in it, and that was enough. You didn't put a label on your relationship, but you mutually agreed that you were exclusively seeing each other. The ever-evading title wasn't a cause for concern, especially now that Art hadn't talked to either Tashi or Patrick in a while. You were surprised when you found out about the latter but didn't inquire further. All you cared about was Art, and how good it felt to have him back.

2010. Mason, Ohio.

Art had been on a good streak during the Cincinnati Masters tour. He was heading to the next rounds with ease. And you were there to cheer him on for every match. You graduated with honours back in May, and now that your first book was on its way to the production stage, your life finally felt like it was under your control. The water was still and peaceful, but you should have known better than to blindly believe that nothing could disturb it. The ripple came in with shoulder-length hair and a slim body, the object of your deeply rooted self-contempt, of the haunting idea that you weren't good enough for Art despite telling yourself that you weren't the same person anymore. You had changed.

But some things were harder to forget and forgive.

You were watching Art and his coach practicing from the outside of the fence when Tashi came in. When you noticed her, she waved, her languid pace undisturbed, as if she was in control of everything and everyone around her. Helplessness surged as you thought about how Tashi was too close to Art for your own comfort. You put on a smile, hoping that it didn't look strained.

"Hey Tashi."

"Hey. It's nice to see you again."

"You, too. How have you been?"

"Oh, uh, I've taken some time off tennis to recover."

You thought it was strange how Tashi seemed to think of herself as a tennis player first and a normal person second. But since she mentioned that, you asked.

"When can I see you back in court?"

Tashi went quiet at that. She briefly looked down at her shoes before answering.

"I'm not sure yet."

There was a kind of pensive sadness in her eyes, and you found the Tashi in front of you now were miles away from the Tashi you often watched on the tennis court a few years ago. Your heart broke for her. Tennis seemed to be her whole life, and from the sound of her answer, it was now something that would always be out of reach.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were here to compete as well."

"No, I'm not. I'm just Katerina's hitting partner. She's the one who's competing."

Tashi looked over to Art and waved at him. You craned your neck to see that Art had seen her as well, his hand lowered from reciprocating her. She then turned to you.

"Anyway, I'm here because they told me that Art was here. And I wanted to talk to him."

You nodded and looked at your watch.

"I think he'll be done soon."

His practice ended five minutes later. You walked to him, and your innate need to stake your claim compelled you to put on a show. You pulled Art into a hug despite the playful protest he put on because of his sweaty shirt, and when you pulled away, you kissed his cheek and whispered.

"Looks like you guys need to catch up. I'll leave for the restaurant and get us a table. I'll see you there?"

"See you there."

You left the court, but not before looking back to see them talking. You turned away as old insecurities threatened to resurface.

/

After that day, Tashi sat in the audience for Art's matches. You knew because she often opted for the bottom row while you went for the higher view. During Art's semi-final, you couldn't be there as you had a meeting with Avery and The Paper House in Norwood. You made it to the court as the match had ended; some people were waiting around for Art's signature and photos. You weaved your way into the court and stopped dead at the entrance. Even though they were only talking, your jealousy and insecurities coloured it into something else. They looked good together. Her height almost matched his. The way Art listened to Tashi, his attention was fully wrapped in every syllable she uttered and hand gestures she made. You stayed quiet for most of the ride back to the hotel, even though you should've put on a smile, a show, anything because Art made it to the final. Later that night, during dinner, the weight of your thoughts had become so unbearable that you surrendered yourself to its whim. You didn't even look away from your plate when you spoke.

"It's nice to see Tashi doing so well."

"Yeah, it is. She had a tough time after her injury."

"Oh yeah? How do you know?"

"She told me."

"Oh, right."

You fell into silence again. What Art had to say next drew your attention away from the dinner that you had no appetite for.

"I'm thinking of asking her to be my assistant coach."

You angled your head to look at him fully. Apprehension filled your tone.

"Why?"

"I think … she can make me a better player."

"But you're already great. You're in the final. You've beaten so many guys to get here."

"I want to be better than great."

You leaned back on your chair.

"And you think Tashi can help you with that?"

"Yes, she gave me some helpful tips after the match. She really watched the way I play and gave me corrections and they were things I didn't even notice."

You looked away from Art, your voice verged on bitterness with sarcasm as its coat.

"Right. To me it sounds like you want to spend more time with her."

"We were friends."

"Just like how you and I are friends?"

"That's unfair. It's different with us. We're seeing each other."

"But we're not exactly dating, are we? You're not my boyfriend, and I'm not your girlfriend."

"Isn't that what we both agreed on? That we would take it slow?"

You didn't like it, but he was right. Your answer was only a whisper.

"Yes."

"I guess we can both agree on that, then."

Dinner ended in an uncomfortable silence. It stretched on as you ignored Art on your walk back to the room. Tension brewed and bubbled, and it was only a matter of time before it exploded. You dropped your bag on the desk with a heavy thud, and Art couldn't stand your deliberate shun anymore.

"Could you please tell me what I did wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong."

You shrugged, pretending to be busy with unloading your bag.

"Can we not do this, please? Can we just celebrate my win tonight?"

"You can celebrate with Tashi."

Art was taken aback by your words if his brief silence was an indication.

"Why would you say that?"

"Go ahead, and call her. You have my permission."

He touched your arm, which was still moving as if you suddenly needed to empty everything.

"Please, stop. Can you please look at me?"

You jerked your arm away from his touch and whirled around to face him.

"Be honest with yourself. Don't you want to spend more time with Tashi? Don't you wish that she was here right now, in my place?"

"Is this because I talked to her? You can't possibly condemn me for that."

"Yes, I can! You basically ignored me when she came around three years ago after her break up with Patrick, who was your best friend, by the way. Sorry if I'm still sensitive about it."

Art stepped back as you leaned onto the table. It felt nice and awful at the same time, being able to say what you'd thought about.

"Tashi's just looking out for me. She sees who I can become, and I can become so much better."

"What about me? What about what I think? I think you're great already."

Art's face was flushed with a simmering anger.

"If I'm so great, why have I never won a game against a nobody?"

It took you a moment for it to click in. He was talking about Patrick. It renewed the anger inside of you.

"For fuck's sake! Is that all you guys talk about? Fucking tennis?"

"It's what I do."

"You know she's just using you to get back to tennis, right? It's all she's ever talked about."

"It's what we're both passionate about."

Art's willful ignorance irked you, and you exploded.

"Can't you see it? She wants to get back out there as a player and she can't and it's making her miserable. One day, you'll realize she has never seen you more than a mean to live through."

He pointed an accusing finger at you, and you felt like you were pinned down under his gaze.

"That's cruel, and you know it."

"It's the truth."

Despite the nonchalance in your tone, your voice said otherwise. You didn't even realize the tears that had run down your cheeks. Art's red-rimmed eyes stared back at you. His jaw ticked, working to put the thoughts in his head into words. And they cut deeper than a knife.

"This relationship will never work if you can't trust me."

"I'm sorry that I have trust issues. It's not like you've never given me any reasons to doubt you, right?"

"Are you talking about Tashi again?"

"Of course I am. She's always been a problem to us."

"No, she's not."

"Yes, she is."

Your name formed on his lips, a beautiful sound in the gravel of his voice.

"I love you."

The argument that poised on your lips held itself in place. You felt like the air in your lungs was sucked out of you in the three syllables that Art uttered. The world slowed, and you could hear the thunderous beat of your heart. If this was a perfect world, you would be over the moon. You would kiss him until neither of you could breathe and whisper those words back to him, and everything would be fine. But this was the real world, and you were a creature of pragmatism and self-destruction. Your voice shook, knowing that this would be the end of you and Art.

"Do you really love me for me, or do you love me because Tashi wasn't there?"

"How could you say that?"

"Let's be honest with ourselves. You know it, and I know it. You've always loved Tashi more. For as long as she is around, I will always be second. And I really, really, don't want to feel that way again."

Art shook his head. You closed the distance in between and held Art's face in your hand. You caressed his jaw, smudging the wetness on his cheek and whispered.

"You can love more than one person, Art. I just don't want to be put second to someone else. I don't want to wait around for love and, approval and affection. I'm tired of having to beg for it, like I did with my parents."

Art held onto your wrist, squeezing it softly.

"Please don't leave me."

With an equally shaky voice, you forced yourself to say it.

"I need you to make up your mind. Or else, I will do it for you."

"I can't."

"I know."

The finality of your situation settled in, and deep down, you knew that it was for the best. You wouldn't be able to support Art like Tashi would. Tennis was everything to Tashi, and you, on the contrary, were only an outsider looking in. She would be able to help Art achieve his professional goals. What would a writer like you have anything to offer to an athlete like him?

"Can you hold me until I fall asleep, please?"

You nodded, kissing his forehead. You settled in the softness of the bed, with his head on your chest. He slept soundly next to you while you were wide awake. Morning came, and you quietly packed your stuff and left. No note, no goodbye. There was nothing else you could say that could change the situation. Even though you blocked his number, you still looked out for news of him. You convinced yourself that you were okay with your decision. You were selfish; you couldn't share. You'd rather have none than half of him. In the end, you were unable to come to a compromise. You left Art, knowing that he loved you, too, and that somewhat soothed the ache that seemed to be a permanent attachment to your heart.

The news of his engagement to Tashi was everywhere in 2011. Your heart shattered all over again. Even though it caused you so much pain, you still tried to be happy for him. You truly loved him with every fibre of your being. But from then on, you avoided news from Art, hoping the physical and virtual distance could heal you.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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[mono-dot-jpeg]

your strongest potions, shopkeeper! - blue lock

summary; in which you (the reader, not y/n) learn of the tales of rafta

genre/extra tags; scenarios?, heavily inspired by potionomics (great game), characters as potionomics characters, fluff, comedy, modern fantasy au (technically), lots of potionomics references and fantasy talk, y/n a little stupid but it's fine.

a/n; hi, i've been playing potionomics nonstop lately and it's been on my mind and I already miss my silly baptiste. he's so babygirl. and naturally, why not smush my current interests together now since I got the idea in my mind already. i wont be discussing all the characters in the game and matching them with bllk boys unfortunately as im having a hard time wondering who would be who. tbh, a lot of them could probably apply to one character KHDJDKDJ

the ingredient merchant is a teasing one. he's dry, calculating, and more than willing to add fuel to a fire during a heated conversation. but he would never do that with you. but he does live to tease you with his dry remarks and his smug grin. but he's the one who helps supply your potion ingredients, though. you don’t really know how... but you decide not to question it.

karasu tabito is a clairvoyant. he has his large all-seeing orb, which he's told you that it's how he finds all his connections to get all these ingredients. and then he's got his little chest mimic. maybe not that little.. it's bigger than a chair. and he can sit on it like a large ottoman.

he's kind of mysterious despite being one of your first friends you've made in rafta. he doesn't talk a lot of his past, and he appreciates that you don't press hard about it.

he's probably been by your side since the start, watching your growth to defeat the competition in the potion-making industry.

you fell for him first, but he totally fell harder.

"you know i've been getting a lot of visions of a person lately. from my orb." he started. "i see your...stupid face in them." he looks away from you, the large brim of his warlock hat covering the subtle blush on his cheeks. he curls in on himself slightly, resting against his floating all-seeing orb. "you.. see me? wait, does that mean i'm gonna die soon?!" you panic, flinching back at the possible implications of him seeing you in his visions. "god, you're such an idiot. i mean, yeah, we all die someday, but this.. is different. it means.. that i like you." he grumbled. "so, what are you gonna do about it?" "hm.. can i kiss you then?"

the guild master is a man of the people... despite being born with a silver spoon in his mouth. he means well. he strives to make the blue lock guild thrive! he wants to support the amazing adventurers who supply and give their recent monster loot to the potion makers who keep them alive with their adventure commissions. but it's been hard for him, really. he's been so disconnected from the normal life that he doesn't understand low class or middle-class struggles as well as most would.

mikage reo is a man who wishes to experience what most people already have. he's sick of the cushy rich life of having everything (though his mother still sends him a care package of out-of-your-budget hair care). he's a sight for sore eyes, catching plenty of attention from anyone and everyone. he's a gentleman whilst being a little.. passionate (is passionate the right word?) about his experiences and his goal to improve the guild to its rightful peak. he's also the announcer for the potion contests in rafta! he's never biased in those. i promise. (/gen)

like how he's watched you grow to be a masterwork potion maker, you've watched slowly shed free of his insecurities of the past and worrying over not being a great guild master.

he's sweet, a little eccentric, and more than an open book than he realizes. he's loyal to his goal even if the seasoned adventurers give him side eye about his past and lack of proper qualifications to handle a guild.

you fell for each other just as hard as the other.

"lately, i've been going through quite a lot as i learn how to navigate this new life. it's been stormy skies and rough seas..." he said with a sad smile, but it turns into something more softer and happier, "but you've been there for me and had so much faith in my plans." "some days i want nothing more than to go back to luxury. to relax and be free from work." he said with an annoyed frown. "luxury and riches are nice." you nodded. "but you helped me and showed me things i have never experienced." he smiled brightly. "and for that, i found myself falling for you." he pulls out a bright red rose, handing it to you. "do you want to hear the love my heart has to offer to you?" you gently take the rose with your fingertips, "i already hear it loud and clear."

the excitable new hero that was part of the guild was a fun one! he was a hero enthusiast, wanting to become a hero himself because of it. and he made it all the way to rafta! and now he helps gather new ingredients for you, ready for any dangerous adventure. he's absolutely an excited puppy. he loves doing anything as long as it was adventurous! sometimes if he was feeling really crazy, he would try the flavor of the day in the local ice cream parlor. (he cried the day he got his least favorite flavor, mozuku)

he's been kind of hung up on wanting a trophy or large weapon. so many heroes had them, so he should get one! he has to be a great hero after all! but in your eyes, he was already rather great at what he did. he's swifter than a bee and stung like one too. he seemed to have this innate talent for fighting and being adventurous. he just didn't seem to believe it when he was surrounded by hero legends or higher ranked heroes.

he's been your most supportive customer, often visited for plenty of potions or maybe a quick large order. sometimes he gives you a discount for his commissioned work out on the field.

you didn't fall for him at least, but boy, did he fall for you hard.

"it's silly, wanting to have a trophy or weapon to show off for your success." he said softly. "but i really did want one. i wanted to show that i was a great hero, you know?" he laughed sheepishly. "you might not have found one, but you really did prove yourself along the way. you're pretty high ranked, aren't you?" "yeah, it just feels weird to not have anything to show for it.." he smiled wistfully before it melts into a softer grin. "but hearing you say that i proved myself, it makes me feel so much better!" he groaned childishly, "but still! believing in yourself is hard." "well, it's easy for me to believe in you. it's probably the easiest thing i could do." he goes quiet, looking at you with adoration before blurting out, "can i kiss you?"

the succubus currently living in your literal hell of a basement is certainly a character. you had beat him in the potion-making competition and he outed himself as a demon. which wasn't much of a shocker to you, considering his less than savory scams he did with his potions. but even so, he was considerably skilled in charms and illusions more than potions. he just needed some cash.

but now that he's lost, he had found solace in your unfinished cave basement.. that had a whole river of lava running through?! you curse your uncle ego for having such an odd home that's left for you to handle. so, you unwillingly take in the damn demon before he runs amok ruining other poor souls. he's charming. you'll give him that much. he often sells you illusions and charms that would help your potions sell better. and he even gives you some pointers on how to charm the customers into letting their guard down for a great profit. he's been looking for a place to belong in a while, and your home seems to fit that bill as much as he hates to admit. he's rowdy, flirty, invasive, most things that you don't really want to have around (especially since he unsealed the magic barrier that was keeping you safe from the heat of the lava).

but overtime, you seem to find yourself liking the odd presence of him. or maybe he had unintentionally put a charm on you. you may never know.

you fell first, he fell right after.

"you know i really saw you as a threat to my business and all." he said. "it really wasn't love at first sight." he laughed. "but you're still you, even after all your big decisions to change. still the same wrecking ball that crashed into my shop and right into my basement." "i was petty about a lot of things for a long time. many many years probably. when my own home got destroyed. i was just surviving to the next day." he said, frowning slightly. "but i changed. i changed to find my way to you." "now, you're thriving." "i really am thriving. and now, whatever i decide to do with my life. i want you by my side." "i want that too." "then show me, dear."

[masterskywalkers]

While I feel that games like Pillars of Eternity can't really compared to Baldur's Gate 3 in terms of playstyle, I will say that Baldur's Gate 3 - like other games such as Dragon Age: Origins and Knights of the Old Republic - work well as a good introduction into the older, more strategic isometric genre.

Pillars of Eternity is a love letter to the isometric style of the 90's - 2000's, and one of the gaming inspirations it borrows from is the original Baldur's Gate games and Icewind Dale. These types of games borrowed a lot from tabletop games (Baldur's Gate is obviously a D&D game built in the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons system - or second edition, for ease.).

Isometric gaming was something that was on the way out a few years ago, and Pillars of Eternity began life as a Kickstarter project. It gained interest and, while being of a rather niche interest in the wider gaming market, sparked enough of a buzz that it woke up others who took inspiration from the isometric style and brought more games back to that style. Pillars wasn't alone in restarting this resurgence, but it damn certainly helped it.

Baldur's Gate 3, to me, is more of a return to what RPG's used to be back in the late 00's. Its gameplay is far more reminiscent to Dragon Age: Origins than it is of its original two entries - so much so that when I first spoke of BG3 to friends, I actually compared it to DA:O in the styling of it.

You have to remember that when isometric games were big in the 90's and early 00's cutscenes weren't as big a thing as they are in games now - they were there, but the technology wasn't like it is today so the cutscenes would either be filmed or have to be much shorter / or silent (think original cutscenes in Final Fantasy from entries 6-9 that had no voice acting, or old titles like the Wing Commander series - hey, didn't Mark Hamill film for those?). CRPG games had to rely on the story - both visual and through actual reading on the player's part. Baldur's Gate 3 is quite amazing to me because it gets to take influence both from its original routes through the gameplay, but it also gets the luxury of having cutscenes and showing scenes where characters can talk and interact face to face. Because of this, Baldur's Gate 3 is actually a nice introduction for a new RPG gamer to find their footing in the genre. Harder difficulties lend a strategic process that can open doors to players wanting to explore the more challenging games that isometric gaming opens (especially when BG3 introduces those legendary actions in the later part of the game on harder difficulties). The RPG genre is always evolving and changing, and we'll continue to see how it adapts as the years go on and more ways to tell a story develop and grow. Isometric gaming is just another variation of how to tell a story, just as RPG's like BG3 and DA:O and 2 are another version of the genre. I would also argue that games like Dragon Age: Inquisition are slightly different from both of what came for, as they brought with them the open-world element. In a way, Inquisition is unique to its own franchise in the way BG3 is, as it borrows pieces from its past, but grows with what's new also (even if I still feel Origins / Awakening is the strongest entry in the entire series).

So, yes. I don't really like/agree with comparing these games in accordance to gameplay and style as they are all products that reflect the differences of how the genre itself grows. Pillars was always a love letter to games of the past, whereas BG3 is a story that pushes the boundaries of what we have available to use with today's resources. RPG's will keep changing, but we'll always see those special games that come out to celebrate a different era of the genre.

[fragmentedblade]

The "Dan Heng is Dan Feng" dogmatics annoy me a lot. It entirely brushes off one of the most interesting and prevalent questions posed by the game, incarnated by several characters and stories that give the question different hues with different potential answers, and a constant also in HI3, like a thread waving the two games together

[aquilamage]

[Image Description: a set of five edited bug fables screenshots from the pre-battle zommoth encounter. The first is the same as in-game, Kabbu saying "W-What is that!? Something's coming!" The second is of zommoth appearing on screen with its sprite edited to be various shades of pink and yellow, wings the same pattern as Leif's (but still with the purple blight magic stuff in the chest area.) The next three images have the sprite edited in the same way.. The third image is of Leif's saying "...Wh, Rkejrm-m-Muse!? Kjdrira, mebsrgr...!!!" The next is Kabbu saying "Muse!? Leif, that's..." The final is Vi saying "T-That doesn't make any sense!" End ID]

I thought about one of my fucked up and evil au ideas for five minutes again, so I decided to spend like fifty hours making a thing about it. Basically what if Muse went back into Snakemouth later to try to rescue Leif or at least bring back his body and got caught by the roaches.

Putting just the edited sprites under the cut if you wanna see those without the lab mood lighting:

[todayisafridaynight]

through all the practice sawashiro fights ive done this morning ive decided he has a really weird grudge against eri for whatever reason

[mantisgodsdomain]

The greatest curse of Us, without a doubt, is the... us-centrism of the fact that we are Us and no one else. Our view on the world is limited and we are frequently subject to the logical fallacy of The Curse Of Knowledge and we're even more frequently beset upon by the fact that some people, like, are Genuinely Averse to depictions of things they've Dealt With themselves.

Like, what do you mean you're talking about this thing as a reason that this media sucks? What do you mean you actively avoid media that depicts things you went through? Do you not gain that feeling of connection from watching people go through something similar to what you did? Do you lack the feelings that are so easy to conjure up in a strong way from seeing a character dealing with the Same Damn Shit? Do you not look at art to feel things?

[ifeelfreewithoutmyshoes]

I kinda wanna go on a rant but I honestly just think I need to sleep

[bluelockmaniac]

˖⋆࿐໋ "PLEASE, COME BACK."

★ ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, michael kaiser, alexis ness, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, don lorenzo, oliver aiku, isagi yoichi & otoya eita (honourable mentions). synopsis. your ex-partners are desperate for you and need you back.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 content warning. general: pet names (princess, baby, etc). sae: suggestive. ness: mentions of stalking, obsessive, creepy ngl. reo: parental humiliation, mother reader. oliver: cheating (duh), he gets slapped lmfao.

notes. total word count: 3.3k !! , angsty ? fem!reader .

୨ৎ 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍

rainy days were the worst, you mused bitterly, recalling how rin had chosen a stormy day, much akin to this, to break things off with you.

you sneezed into your elbow, feeling the tiny droplets of water cascade down, peppering your bare skin relentlessly. you shivered as you sat on a random bench in the nearest park, regretting your decision to skip checking the weather app today.

wrapping your arms around yourself, cold and damp, you anxiously waited for a certain someone to pick you up.

suddenly, the freezing, stinging sensation of the raindrops on your skin ceased. you noticed a pair of legs in front of you and tilted your head up, meeting the familiar gaze of the man you had once called yours. his arm was outstretched, holding an umbrella above your head.

“y/n…” rin's voice was quiet, barely audible over the splattering rain.

your eyes widen, quickly darting down to stare at your empty lap. your fingers gripped the bench tightly. "hi," you mumbled, the word barely escaping your lips. this was probably the first time he had ever initiated a conversation with you; in your past relationship, that had always been your role. what was he doing here, anyway?

as if reading your mind, he spoke up awkwardly, “i just finished my afternoon jog…” he paused, shuffling his feet slightly. “do you want a ride?”

you finally looked up at him again, shaking your head subtly. “no, thank you... i'm waiting for someone right now.”

“ah, i see.” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. he internally cursed himself for his clumsy attempt and for possibly making things worse by asking in the first place.

a few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between you, but when the tension was too unbearable to handle, he broke the silence.

“i'm… fuck, i'm sorry, okay?” he lowered his head, biting the inside of his cheek in frustration. “for everything in the past. for always ignoring you and neglecting you... if you want, we can–”

the loud honking sound of a car in the distance caught the attention of both you and rin. his brows furrowed in confusion as you stood up and walked a few steps towards the car, throwing him a faint smile.

“ah, it seems like my boyfriend is here.”

୨ৎ 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐄

by no means was your relationship with sae horrible; in fact, it was quite the opposite. he consistently spoiled you with gifts and favourite snacks, treated you better than his teammates and the public, and always made you feel like the only girl in the universe.

so why had you both mutually agreed to call things off? the challenges of a long-distance relationship became overwhelming.

his frequent travels abroad for football games and the substantial timezone difference made regular communication difficult. every time you called, he would be asleep, and by the time you woke up, you’d see numerous missed calls from him.

nonetheless, it was safe to say that there were still lingering feelings between you both.

you sat down on your plush couch, turning on the television. immediately, the exclusive football channel that your tv always seemed to be tuned into appeared, and this time, it featured a live interview with your ex-boyfriend.

“sae…” you whispered softly upon seeing him.

it seemed as though the interviewer had already wrapped up the important questions, and was now delving into more personal topics.

“thank you, itoshi-san. next question, is there anything in particular that you enjoy doing?”

the football prodigy rolled his eyes and sighed audibly. with a blank expression, he replied, “my girlfriend.”

you felt your face heat up at the suggestive implication, pressing your hands to your warming cheeks– he had never had a girlfriend besides you and had promised he wouldn’t date anyone else. he was talking about you.

to make matters worse for your fragile heart, sae stared right into the camera lens with a subtle smirk, as if he knew you would be watching. the shallow stirring in your heart has confirmed what you already feared: you hadn’t gotten over him, and you knew you never would.

silence louder than a roaring engine filled the enclosure, before the interviewer broke the awkward stillness. “... s-sorry?” the lady was clearly caught off-guard, blinking at him once, twice.

sae scoffed impatiently, “did you not hear me the first time?”

“a-ah, yes, of course.” the woman stammered quickly, trying to recover her professionalism. “you... enjoy doing your girlfriend, yes.”

“used to,” he muttered under his breath, but the interviewer caught it.

“oh, i'm sorry,”

“yeah.”

unfortunately, the lady decided to press on, pushing her luck to pry more information from him. “so, itoshi-san, why did you break up with your girlfriend? could you provide your fans more information regarding your love li–”

he frowned deeply, shoving his hands into his pockets and abruptly standing up to leave, his manager pathetically following behind him. “shut up. you're annoying, leave me alone, ugly.”

later that day, you received a text message from sae.

'i need you back asap. i can help you settle here in spain and i'll pay for the plane ticket and shit.'

you would have never responded so quickly to a single text message had you still been in the long distance relationship. but, you still had a life here– your family, your childhood memories. you hesitated, leaving him on read for now, until you could think of something to reply with later.

a few weeks passed.

୨ৎ 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑

in a way, you blame yourself for thinking you could play the ‘i can change him,’ game. despite this, your efforts, though minimal, were somehow significant. he became increasingly dependent on you, seeking your comfort whenever he was upset over a game or haunted by memories of his harsh past.

he particularly loved resting his head on your comfortable lap as you raked your fingers through his blond hair, or when you kissed the tattoo on his neck, assuring him that everything would be okay.

but it had become exhausting. too repetitive. irritating, even. his daily venting sessions had taken a toll on your mental well-being, and you simply could not bear it any longer. 

unfortunately, the breakup ended on bad terms, with both of you hurling insults and belittling each other.

you happened to run into him at the airport. quickly, you shifted your gaze away, hoping that he had not taken notice of you. but luck seemed to mock you, and you could already hear his distinctive footsteps approaching.

"hey," he said nonchalantly, tapping on your shoulder to get your attention. “look at me, talk to me.”

your expression wavered as you hesitantly met his gaze, pursing your lips unsurely. “hi, michael,” you muttered softly.

a shallow line etched between his brows. “michael? you know that's not my name. say it properly.”

“it's not micha anymore, though,” you retorted, turning and walking toward the airplane boarding aisle as the passenger announcement was made.

“tch,” he scoffed, quickly making his way to his team, who were boarding the plane from the exclusive gate reserved for the elite football team of bastard münchen.

it was unfortunate that he had to board the same plane as you, but this was just a layover for you- you still had another flight to take before reaching your final destination.

closing your eyes, you leaned your head against the circular window, drifting off to sleep. when you slowly opened your eyes, however, you were not met with the kind gaze of the old lady who had been sitting next to you.

instead, you found yourself staring into a pair of cerulean eyes. he rested his chin on his hand, his elbow propped up on the armrest, watching you intently.

instantly, your eyes flutter fully open and a hurried gasp escaped your lips. “m-michael, you scared me,” you stuttered.

he rolled his eyes, turning his gaze away. “the old hag was more than happy to sit in the exclusive seats section,” he muttered simply. 

“i still haven't forgiven you,” he added, his eyes darting back to you. “but, fuck, come back already. stop being so stubborn.”

you sighed softly, taking his hands in yours. “michael, your rants aggravated my own anger issues. it literally wasn't good for my mental and emotional health.”

he mumbled something incoherent under his breath. when the plane finally descended one minute later, kaiser stood up, opening the overhead compartment above your seat, and handed you your two small suitcases.

placing his hand on your cheek, he leaned down to press his forehead against yours. “...don't block my number. i still want to see you. and talk to you.”

you nodded reluctantly, thanking him for the suitcases. as you looked at him once more before walking away, you spoke softly,

“please, consider going to therapy, micha.”

୨ৎ 𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒

what's better than returning home, exhaustion from work gnawing at your bones, only to find your ex-boyfriend lounging comfortably on a couch in your living room as if he owned the place?

you froze mid-step, breath catching in your throat. “alexis, what the fuck?” you spat angrily.

“y/n!” he immediately sprang up, his face lighting up alarmingly as he flashes you an innocent smile.

he casually strides towards you– as if he had no concept of personal space– and holds up a familiar DVD case. “schatz, remember this? i thought we could watch it, since i remember it was your favourite…”

your pulse quickened, instinctively stepping back. but, ness intercepted, possessively coiling his arms around you and enveloping you in a firm hug. his grip tightened slightly as you attempted to withdraw– but he was careful not to hurt you.

ness buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. “you'll watch it with me, won't you?” he smiled, his warm breath grazing your skin.

"alexis, how the fuck did you even get in?" you demanded, mustering the strength to break free and pry his arms off, snatching the remote and turning off the television.

he pouted, "i had the spare key you gave me! now won't you—"

“you're just as creepy and obsessive as ever,” you shot back, feeling intruded and unsettled, “there's a reason i broke up with you.”

his expression crumbled and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “d-don't say that, remember all the good times we had? we belong together!” his voice quivered with desperation as he leaned pathetically against the wall.

“yeah, i thought so too,” you countered, “until i caught you, lurking in the corner of my eye, watching me with a friend at the mall.” you gestured towards the door. “leave, now, and give me back the damned key.”

tears formed in his eyes, threatening to spill over as he reluctantly handed back the key. his fingers lingered against yours for a moment longer than necessary. he stepped out of your apartment and threw a weak smile at you over his shoulder. he whispers, “i love you, and i always will.”

you slammed the door shut.

୨ৎ 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐎

you heard the doorbell ring as you were occupied with chopping tiny pieces of carrots for your young daughter. with a sigh, you set down the knife on the cutting board, wiping your hands on your apron and reluctantly heading towards the door.

there was no need to check the peephole; you instinctively knew it was your ex-husband, reo.

his monthly visits to hand over the child support had become a begrudgingly predictable routine. you swung the door open, and immediately, his desperate gaze met yours.

“y/n—” he started, but you cut him off with an uninterested glare.

“she's on the play mat in the living room. put the check on the table.” you said indifferently, already turning back toward the kitchen. before you could take a step, his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist. it's nothing you didn't expect, however; it happened every single month.

“reo, let go,” your voice was firm yet tired.

“baby, please,” he insisted, pulling you towards his chest and embracing you tightly. you felt the warmth of his body against yours, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. “i miss you. i really do. do you know how painful it is for me to slowly watch you become a stranger?”

you remained motionless for a moment before shaking your head, gently pushing him away. “no... just no,” you asserted softly, “your parents always humiliated me during our marriage— whether it be in front of guests at social events or large family dinners. i've never felt enough. and worse, you've always ignored it.”

his face twisted into one of guilt as he attempted to draw you back into his embrace. “i promise i'll–”

“reo!” your strangled voice accidentally yells out. “put the check on the table and leave!” the words leave your mouth impulsively in frustration.

you quickly brought a hand to your mouth, then clutched your chest, taking a deep breath to calm yourself as tears welled up in your eyes. in a quieter tone, you pleaded, “reo, please, just leave…”

albeit reluctantly, he complied, retreating with a heavy heart. but, as per the habitual routine, he returned the next month, pleading for your forgiveness and begging to be taken back.

୨ৎ 𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎

dating nagi was tedious, and even that was an understatement.

"seishiro, i'm seriously considering blocking you if keep calling me every single day, begging me to take you back."

you exasperated, frustration clear as you sat on your bed with the phone on speaker, going through your nighttime skincare routine. you could hear nagi exhale deeply on the other end.

“... 'mm, angel, please,” he whined, his voice growing louder and more desperate. “i miss you, i'm all alone, my apartment's a mess and—”

you scoff, tossing the moisturizer tube onto your bed as you swabbed some onto your face. “your apartment's a mess? i wonder why that is… almost like your girlfriend was doing all the work around the house for you?”

a soft, frustrated groan escaped his lips at your sarcasm. he swallowed hard, his voice cracking, “listen, baby, 'm sorry for takin' you for granted, i want you back in my arms, i want to cuddle w'you like we used to. please, forgive me.”

a long pause hung heavy in the air, his breath hitching in his throat as he waited for your reply, hoping that you'd use what's left of your love for him–if any–to forgive him and return. with a tired sigh, you finally spoke up.

“... no, seishiro. i'm tired. being with you felt like a chore, to be honest. i was the one looking after you– making sure you ate your breakfast and lunch, doing your laundry that's scattered everywhere in your apartment, even reminding you to get off your video games. i'm not your mother...”

you let out all your pent-up frustration once and for all, hoping this would finally put an end to his persistent calls. it was clear you had reached your limit, knowing deep down that you deserved someone who appreciated your time and effort. 

“seriously, why don't you get yourself a maid? dating you was a hassle.”

you stated firmly before hanging up on him.

“dammit, angel…” nagi sighed defeatedly, his slumped body flopping down onto his bed. he lazily tossed his phone aside, feeling drained and overwhelmed. “i'm too tired for this.”

୨ৎ 𝐃𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐎

“pleaase, come backkk,”

great. the last thing you had wanted today was to run into your ex as you stood in line at the popcorn stand. you wished the ground below you would rupture and swallow you whole as he clung onto you shamelessly, drawing the attention of those around you.

“please, baby, i need you!” he whined. you felt the embarrassment from his dramatic display heat up your cheeks, shifting uncomfortably as you mouthed apologetic words to the vendor lady.

“stop it, get off me, you're embarrassing me!” you hissed softly, trying to push his head away. his grip was too strong, maintaining his hold on you as his grin widened, revealing his shiny set of golden teeth.

“only if you get back with me?” he bargained, stepping back anyway as he sensed your growing irritation (and embarrassment).

you crossed your arms, shooting him an accusatory glare. “no way in hell. and you don't need me— you were after my money all along, weren't you?”

“t-that's... come on, don't be like that,” he stammered, his face paling as he avoided eye contact.

“you've only ever seen me as your personal walking credit card, hm?” you continued, “thank you, you've drained me of all my money.”

he watched as you received your medium-sized popcorn bucket, thanking the vendor with a polite nod before turning to leave. the lady called out his name, his own popcorn waiting on the counter, still unpaid for.

his head snaps back to you, that absurd, signature smirk curling on his lips, “wait, y/n, aren't you going to p–”

without turning to face him, you muttered under your breath, “no, i'm not paying for your popcorn.”

୨ৎ 𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐔

you felt a large pair of hands gently rest on your shoulders, giving them a slight squeeze. you stopped swirling your glass of wine, tilting your head up to meet a pair of beautiful, heterochromic eyes.

unfortunately, those eyes belonged to your fucking cheater of an ex.

“don't touch me, jerk,” you spat, cocking your head back down as you brought the glass to your lips and took a sip of the crimson drink.

he chuckled lowly, patting your head before shamelessly taking a seat beside you. wrapping his arm around the backrest of the sofa, he pulled you closer.

“c’mon, princess, don't be like that,” he winked, taking a sip of his own drink. he paused as he took in your irritated expression. “...are you really still mad at what happened a year ago?”

you shot him a dirty glare, and he immediately raised his hands in front of him in mock surrender. “sorry, sorry, i was only kidding.”

you finally downed the wine, standing up from the soft comfort of the sofa. before you could move away, his fingers encircled your wrist, pulling you back onto the couch, causing you to lean onto him with your hand on his chest.

“okay, but seriously, baby,” he said, delicately gripping your chin between his fingers and leaning in until his lips hovered right above yours. “i really messed up, i'm sorry, i swear she didn't mean anything, you're the one for m–”

“what the fuck do you think you're doing?!” you yelled, slapping his cheek hard enough to whip his head toward the dance floor where numerous women in skimpy outfits were dancing. his gaze lingered on their movements for a while before he felt you pulling away from him.

“yeah, i'm sure you're toootally torn up about it, huh?” you scoffed sarcastically, “keep your eyes wandering, i can see you're overflowing with regret.”

“baby, i only care for y–”

“your sincerity is blinding.”

˗ˏˋ 𝗛𝗢𝗡𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 ˎˊ˗

𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐈 would never push you to the point of discomfort or pressure. instead, he’d approach you casually, genuinely apologizing for any past incidents that might have upset you enough to end things. if you both decided on a mutual break up, then he would definitely try to preserve your relationship to at least that of friends. his main focus would be rebuilding trust between you two, hoping that time and space would allow you both to reconcile in the future. overall, it would be very unlikely for him to verbally express how desperate he is for you, but subtle physical touches are a different topic.

𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐘𝐀 would literally show up at your doorstep, begging on his knees for you. he'd be desperately pleading for your forgiveness– he really didn't want to reveal that he had initially been dating you because of a dare, or rather, a bet from his friends. it just slipped out forcefully. he just really, really, really needed that ps5. despite the bet, his feelings for you had genuinely developed over the five-month dating period. however… to earn that prize, he was required to expose his original intent, resulting in heartbreaks, tears, insults, and many “i hate you”s from your side.

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform !

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 4th — virginity loss / corruption kink.

PART ONE | kinktober masterlist. | 2024.

pairing: mattheo riddle x berkshires!sister

summary: mattheo’s conscience can only hold him back for so long.

warnings: 18+, hogwarts uni (putting this even tho it’s obvious), jealous mattheo, flirting, tension tension tension, “we can’t do this” type of vibe, “your brother is right over there” type of vibe. bestfriends lil sister trope. part one of two.

Morality—what is it, really? How is it measured? Is it a linear scale? Could someone be morally sound yet sometimes make an exception when the situation called for it?

Perhaps it's subjective. Anything that falls outside of the law, that is.

Mattheo forced a breath from his lungs, the drink in his hand was tasteless, some watered-down excuse for a cocktail. But that didn't matter, not really—what mattered was the way you kept laughing, the way your hand lingered a second too long on that random bastard's sleeve. The sight made something concerning coil tight in his chest, but he stayed where he was, back against the wall, sucking down drinks like he'd been tasked to it.

God, this was stupid. Morality. Right and wrong. He knew the difference, of course he did. Just because he was a Riddle didn't make him a monster. Not yet, anyway. But that line, the one between you and him—the one drawn so clearly in the sand—was practically mocking him with its absolutes and daring him to cross it. Forbidden, off-limits, the one thing he shouldn't want.

His best friend's little sister. The good girl. A virgin, no less.

"Riddle—you coming?"

Mattheo's head jerked slightly, but his mind was miles away.

He waved a hand. "I'll catch up in a bit.”

Malfoy and Zabini nodded, slipping into the night, leaving him behind in the dim, crowded ballroom. Spring dance. Hours past dusk. He didn't even know why he was still there. Normally, he was long gone before the clock struck twelve, but tonight the room pulsed with bodies and the music hummed under his skin. His drink was half-forgotten in his hand, and his gaze was fixed on a group across the room.

Or, more specifically, on you.

You were standing, black dress to your mid-thighs, half-listening to boys from your year drone on about quidditch tryouts and the usual chatter that filled the space between your breaths. But your eyes—your eyes weren't on them. You were looking at him. A soft smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, like you knew something he didn't.

His heart kicked against his ribs. Where was that line again?

You winked, and he sipped his drink. He'd always said bad decisions made good stories—but even if this (unnameable thing between you) was a story worth telling, the people to hear it would be few.

The tension grew suffocating and he finally looked away. You took that as a win, but you weren't about to let the game end there—not after you noted the tense of his fingers around his cup. You excused yourself from the group, your body moving through the crowd like water, fluid and unhurried, weaving your way toward him.

You knew the line well, the one Mattheo pretended so hard to respect. Restraint wasn't his nature—it never had been, not in the decade you'd watched him take whatever he wanted without a second thought. He wasn't made for holding back, and it showed every now and then—every time his lips crashed against yours in some hidden corner, whispering confessions of how badly he wanted more, how he ached for what he couldn't have.

You loved pushing him to that point. You loved knowing how bad he wanted you. Your brother would lose his mind if he found out. But that didn't matter, not even a little. Not when Mattheo looked at you like that.

"Having fun?" He asked upon your approach, his voice a shade too flat.

"A little." You leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your skin, your presence seeping into the space between you. "What about you? You seem a bit...tense."

"Tense." The word came out bland, barely audible, and he took a slow sip of his drink, like he needed it just to find his voice. "Why would I be tense?"

You wet your lips, slow, deliberate, studying him with that sidelong glance that made his pulse skip. His jaw tightened, and his eyes—those beautiful, dangerous brown eyes—scanned the room with something too close to desperation.

"Good question." You tilted your head, gaze playful, curious, like you were dissecting him right there in the half-light. "Maybe it's because you've been watching me like a hawk. Like you're waiting for me to do something...wrong."

"Maybe I'm just looking out for you," he muttered, his gaze sliding to your brother across the room, lips locked with some brunette. Mattheo's eyes flickered back to you, just for a moment. "Your brother's a little...busy, after all."

You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into an amused, almost wicked smile. "Ah, so that's it. You're just being my big, overprotective babysitter."

"I don't need to babysit you," he grumbled, though his gaze betrayed him, darting over to the group of boys you'd been talking to. "Just keeping an eye on the company you keep."

It was almost amusing—the way Mattheo stood there, sizing up your guy friends like they were targets in a lineup, probably mentally noting who he'd hit first if any of them dared to step out of line. He was different tonight—and you could have brushed it off, could have let that flicker of vulnerability slide, but that wasn't how this game was played. Not with him. Not with you. There was no room for naivety here.

You turned to face him now, full-on, shoulder resting against the wall as you raised a hand, fingers brushing lightly up his arm.

"Keeping an eye," you repeated as you traced the hard line of his shoulder, then down, lower, over his chest. "Ever my hero, Mattheo Riddle."

When your fingers grazed his abdomen, his breath caught and he grabbed your wrist—hard—the suddenness of it making you gasp. Then, he turned to face you, and his gaze finally met yours—really met yours—for the first time since you'd crossed the room.

"Don't." His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself as much as you.

Your eyes widened in mock surprise, that innocent look you'd perfected like a sport. You wore it like a halo you knew you didn't deserve.

"Don't...what?" You damn-well knew what.

His grip tightened, just enough for you to feel the heat of it, pulling you closer, so close you could feel the tension radiating off him. He wet his lips, and you melted—remembering how it felt to kiss them.

"Don't play games with me." He said. "Not tonight."

The warning was clear, but instead of pulling away—heeding his words and letting that heat simmer down—you leaned closer, defying every unspoken rule. The thrill shot up your spine, into your brain, turning everything hazy, electric. You were drunk on it.

"Why not?" Your free hand traced up his other arm and his gaze followed the movement, lips parting ever so slightly. "...afraid you'll lose?"

Before you knew what was happening, he had you spun around—so fast you barely registered the movement before your back hit the cold stone wall. His drink found the table beside him, his focus entirely on you.

"Don't to this to me. Not here," he whispered. "Your brother is right over there."

You glanced toward Enzo, still too preoccupied with the brunette to notice a thing.

"He's a little distracted, don't you think?" Your fingers on your free hand resumed their path, this time up toward his collarbone. But his other hand found them, too. You looked down. Two large hands, wrapped tight around your wrists, like he could stop the fire running through your veins if he just held on hard enough. Your thighs shook. "Gods, you really are tense tonight, aren't you?"

Mattheo's eyes narrowed, two embers gleaming in the night— his lips twitching in a way that made your pulse stutter. There was need in him now, a raw, visceral energy that vibrated between you. Untethered.

He leaned in, closer, his breath brushing against your skin. "You're impossible."

"Impossible..." you echoed, the space between you shrinking with every second. There was no choice in it. It was magnetic, inevitable. He leaned closer, and you—against all reason—matched him, drawn by a force you couldn't name. "Impossible to...resist, Matty?"

Your lips were so close, you could almost taste the flavours lingering on his breath. The heat of him drew you in like gravity, pulling you into that dangerous space where everything blurred—boundaries, rules, reason. His eyes flickered down to your mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a way that felt instinctive—

And then, the world snapped back.

Cheering—loud, raucous—followed by the sharp crack of glass splintering against the floor. It cut through the moment, pulling you both back to reality. Mattheo's gaze jerked toward the sound, and in an instant he took a step back, his hands releasing your wrists like you'd burned him—like you were the danger here, a fire he'd gotten too close to.

"We can't," he whispered, and it sliced through you. It hit harder than the crash of glass, harder than the noise around you. "You don't want this. I promise you don't."

You stared at him. You knew what he meant, what he was trying to say, the warning etched in every tense line of his body. The two of you had been over this before. You knew Mattheo Riddle was not the man who would love you, not the man who would stay, who you'd call your forever. You weren't that naive. You weren't looking for forever—you just wanted a beginning. A first. A first that would teach you the edge of desire, with someone who knew what to do.

Someone experienced.

"I do," you whispered, barely holding steady under the weight of it all—the realization that you'd almost kissed him, right here, where anyone could've seen, where your brother wasn't far. "More than anything, I do."

His jaw clenched, that flicker in his eyes darkening. He ran a hand through his hair, curls falling messily back into place, his face twisted in thought, already calculating the fallout, already seeing the inevitable consequences.

"Your brother will kill me," he muttered. "He'll kill you."

"He’s not my dad, Mattheo. I’m an adult. He doesn't have to know." The words came out firm, too firm for how fast your heart was beating. You didn't dare move closer, but the tension between you was still electric, still alive. "No one except us."

For a heartbeat, his eyes locked onto yours, and you felt it—that gravity pulling you both back to the brink. It was visible—the weight of his indecision, the way he was measuring the risk, the pull of you against the walls he was trying to keep intact. It'd been months of this. You were relentless. His scowl deepened, but he didn't pull away. He let the silence stretch, your words simmering between you like a match lit, waiting to catch fire.

And then, a nod.

Barely there, just a sharp dip of his head, almost as if he didn't want to acknowledge it himself. You couldn't tell if it was for you, or some silent permission he was giving himself, a final surrender to the pull that neither of you could fight.

"Room of Requirement," he said, vibrating with the tension that still hummed in the air. "Ten minutes."

Your stomach leapt into your throat, every bone in your body suddenly weak. After a moment that felt as though it went on forever, you nodded, and he took another step back.

"Ten minutes." You repeated.

"Ten minutes." He confirmed, before turning and heading out of the ballroom.

[yuwuta]

CAN’T KEEP MY HANDS TO MYSELF (I MEAN I COULD, BUT WHY WOULD I WANT TO?) — JJK BOYS + TOO HOT

featuring. gojo, okkotsu, choso, itadori, fushiguro

content, warnings. playing too hot with the jjk boys—(too hot is a party game in which two people kiss while keeping their hands to themselves; the first person to touch their partner loses), making out, tongue sucking, uhhh slight predator/prey in yuuta’s oops, they’re a bunch of losers to be honest, there’s a word for the thing yuuji does but i don't know it lolol

word count. 1.6k

SATORU GOJO Satoru is prideful, but you also know that he is nothing if not handsy, borderline clingy on his worst days. The concept of personal space is foreign to him, he’s rarely not touching you when you’re in his proximity, and when you aren’t, he closes that gap—so you’re confident that he’ll lose this game. 

And he does. It takes ninety-two seconds for Satoru to put his hands on you; his palms cupping your cheeks, forcing your jaw open for him to lick at your tongue. You yelp in surprise, try to take in your victory, taunt that you’ve won, but Satoru’s playing an entirely different game now. “I know, I lost,” he pushes his thumbs at the corners of your mouth, parting your lips and staring at your open mouth. Briefly, his eyes flicker to yours, drinks in your pliant expression, the soft touch of your fingers around his wrists, the feel of your body sinking below him, and he smiles, “But I want something else right now. Indulge me?” 

You tap at his right wrist and he moves his thumbs away from your lips, stroking against the soft skin of your cheeks instead so you can speak, “You lost, you’re not supposed to make demands.” 

“Take pity on a rookie like me, won’t you?” Satoru hums, tilting his head to kiss your cheek, then closer, just below your bottom lip, “Please, sweets?” 

“Depends on what you want,” you pout, but your words are strained against Satoru’s kisses. He grins, guiding a thumb back to your lips, this time pressing past the barrier of your lips until they’re wrapped around his digit, smile turning cheshire when he feels you sucking, “I have a different game we can play instead.” 

YUUTA OKKOTSU “Ah, ah—” you pull away from Yuuta, much to his dismay, pulling the hem of your shirt from his grasp, “That counts as touching. You’re not supposed to touch, Yuuta.” 

He’s looking at you intensely, gaze bordering on predatory, slow blinking with blown-out pupils. He nods shallowly, moving his hand from where it was to your side, palm pressing into the couch next to your thigh; it lets him that much closer to you, the tip of his nose grazing yours, you can feel his laborious breaths tickle your lips. Yuuta tilts his head ever so slightly and pauses, blinks, waits—for you to make a sound, for you to tell him no again, for you to run. 

You don’t. He shifts his weight and positions his other hand to rest at your side, caging you between his arms, slotting you underneath his gaze. You curl underneath him, backing up until you’re pressed against the arm of the couch, until Yuuta’s crawled to slot his knee between your legs. You crane your neck away, but you’re still within his reach, and now you’ve presented the perfect canvas for him. He dips his head into your collarbone, leaves a deceptively soft kiss there before nosing up the expanse of your exposed skin and sinking his teeth into your neck. 

Yuuta feels you tense underneath him, body going rigid in a moment of surprise, and then slacking with an exhaled moan, like a bitten bunny. Reflexively, your hands find purchase in his hair, and Yuuta nips over the tender skin, and smiles, “Caught you.” 

CHOSO KAMO “You’re nervous,” you conclude, pulling away from the shallow kiss Choso gave you. 

Beside you, he’s flushed, a hand coming up to reach at the back of his neck as he replies, “I don’t know why,” he exhales, “It’s just... weird to not touch you. I have to think about not touching you, and that means I have to think, which tends to make me, you know... nervous.” 

You giggle, leaning in closer to him, careful not to touch; careful to keep your hips raised above his, even as you straddle him, keep your arms and hands at your sides even though the instinct is to wrap them around Choso’s neck. He doesn’t pull back, even though he should; you like that he doesn’t. “You don’t like to think about me?” 

“No—no! Not like that,” he’s too loud for the proximity, sighing in embarrassment shortly after; you’re too close, way too close, and he’s not supposed to touch, but he wants to—Choso doesn’t like this feeling of restraint, of constriction; it’s too close to when he had a hopeless crush on you, to when he was pining and praying you’d spare him the time of day. Isn’t the point of dating that he gets to have you? To touch you, to hold you—to not hold back? 

“Because I like to think about you,” you admit, leaning in even closer, pressing a kiss to the base of Choso’s neck—and he whines, “I think about you a lot, Choso.” 

The sound of his name from your lips is sweet torture, as is the way you trail your kisses up his neck, up his jaw, behind his ear. Choso’s certain he’s going to rip a hole in his jeans with how taut he’s pulling them between his fists. This isn’t fair—nothing about this is fair. “I don’t want to play anymore,” Choso whines, eyes screwing shut when you suck a hickey onto his collar.

“But we’ve only just started,” you giggle against his skin, “And nobody’s won yet.”

Choso bites his lips, his knuckles are sore, his resolve is weak, and you smell good, you feel good—and he can’t do this. Pathetic, maybe, but he doesn’t care; he didn’t make you yours to try and stay away from you. So, Choso gives in, unwinds his fists, places one hand on your waist, and the other against your back, pulling you flush against him, and burying his face in your neck. 

“There, I lose,” he grumbles, not caring for your laughter reverberating against his chest, “Now I can touch you as much as I want.” 

YUUJI ITADORI “Th—this isn’t fair,” you tremble, attempting to move away from his kisses, but you’re caged in between Yuuji and the wall. There’s nowhere for you to run, nothing for you to grab purchase onto but Yuuji—nothing to do but lose. 

“I didn’t hear any rules against this,” he feigns innocence, suckling at your skin, “Think it’s fair game.”

You close your eyes, trying to focus on something, anything else, but it’s hard when all you can see, all you can feel is Yuuji, Yuuji, Yuuji. Kissing up your neck, at your cheek, then your lips, and you find yourself sighing into his touch, balling your hands into fists to avoid the temptation of cupping his face. 

Yuuji moans when he feels your tongue against his, kisses you back fervently, swirling his tongue across yours and into the cavity of your mouth. He inhales all your breaths, makes it impossible for you to do anything but succumb to his kiss, to swallow his moans, to take everything he gives you. You didn’t expect Yuuji to have this much resolve—you’d anticipated a short, cute round of a silly party game, but you should have known better; Yuuji has never lost a challenge before, and you were naive, at best, to think otherwise.

Predictably, it’s you that lets go first, whining when Yuuji sucks on your tongue, hands trembling and reaching to hold him, to cling to him as some kind of recourse, unable to squirm or move anywhere else. That doesn’t stop him—Yuuji only sucks harder, only forces more moans out of you until you’re digging your nails into his shoulders and bending your knees, weak. 

Then he pulls back, leaving you breathless, tilting his head up to kiss your forehead and flashing you a grin that’s equal parts boyish and wicked with intent, “I win.” 

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO It’s the kind of thing he usually turns down; cliché, fruitless, and unnecessarily time-consuming; but it’s you, so he makes the exception. You’re too eager, positioning yourself to sit on your hands, your legs folded under your knees, peering up at him from where he’s sat slack against the couch, and he thinks you look awful cute on your knees for him.

“Okay, ready?” you smile, “Three, two—” but Megumi already knows his plan, already has his lips on yours before you can say “one,” drinking in your surprised yelp and greedily licking against your tongue when you part your lips to kiss him back. He turns his body towards you slightly, taking advantage of his height and position to bully you into chasing him upwards, to push his tongue into your mouth with ease. 

He indulges in the back and forth for a while, sighs into your kisses, groans when you nip at him. It’s when you pull away, that Megumi decides he’s played along long enough; when he can see your chest swell with heaving breaths, see your hands in your lap, neck craned and spit-slick lips that drive him to reach for you. He’s less than gentle, hands finding purchase on your hips, and forcefully pulling you into his lap, ignoring your yelping, choosing to turn them into moans when he sinks his teeth into your neck. Megumi licks, and bites, and bites, and bites, until he’s certain he’s left a mark, until he feels your hands tugging at his hair and giving him permission to splay his palms against your back and buck you forward.  

“I lose,” he hums, soothing over raw bitten skin with open-mouthed kisses, “So, how do you wanna punish me?”

[inbarfink]

One common Undertale misconception that really frustrates me is when Sans is portrayed with a strong innate sense for RESETs and alternative timelines. Like, that he remembers the RESET timelines better than the other characters who only have occasional feelings of deja vu or even that he can sense when a timeline is RESET.

And that’s, like, almost the opposite of the actual text of the game. While pretty much every main character can have slightly-different dialogue in a Not-True-RESET, especially if the Player had previously befriended them, based on the idea that they have lingering memories/feelings from before the RESET - 

Sans has no real dialogue changes based on this conceit. All of his changes are based around noticing Frisk has different reactions based on their memories of the precious timelines. 

Other characters do also make observations like that about Frisk, like Mettaton and Toriel. But Sans is distinctive because this is the only way his comments change between RESETs and there are a lot of them from him.

Because that is what really frustrates me about this misconception. People mention it as one more thing that makes Sans cool - but the actual truth is far more badass. Sans is one of the people in the Underground who remembers RESETs the least. I think memory-resistance to RESETs is probably tied to Determination. Flowey, the second-most Determined person in the Underground after Frisk, can remember everything perfectly.

Everyone else has some vague feelings and deja vus. And Sans, he’s the least motivated person in the Underground - both in the sense he’s lazy and in the sense he’s fucking depressed.

That probably means he has very little Determination. Thus, he doesn’t remember anything that happens between RESETs.

And yet, he is still the character most aware of them. Because he has the technological know-how to read and analyze timelines.

And because he has the observation and analytical skill to notice a RESET from other people’s reactions and behavior. Whatever it’s Papyrus thinking he recognizes someone or Frisk’s behavior implying that they know something they shouldn’t have. Sans main RESET-related skill is just being able to identify these moments and come to the correct conclusion about them. And with that he manages to be the most aware character in the entire Underground.

Like, the one point where it might seem like Sans remembers something from a previous Timeline is the Fake Spare scene during his boss battle. 

But it’s all pretend. Unlike the previous lines from other characters that I mentioned, this dialogue plays even if the Murder Route is the first time the player touched the game. Sans isn’t remembering anything in this scene. But he makes an educated guess that the Immoral Time God probably tried using their powers for good at first, so they were likely ‘friends’ in a previous timeline. And in most cases, his guess is right on the money - tricking many players into thinking this is another case of the game actually reacting to their past actions.

And as always, Sans can only tell if his lil’ trick worked or not based on the expression of the Player Character.

Arguably, Sans even uses his lack of Determination and cross-RESET memory to his advantage in his boss battle. After all, the whole point of this fight isn’t to kill the Player - Sans understands this is impossible. This is a war of attrition, trying to get the Player so frustrated and annoyed with the unfair fight that they just ragequit or RESET the Timeline. And this war of the Player’s patience versus Sans’ stamina and will is infinitely easier for him when he doesn’t actually perceive all the Player’s previous attempts against him.

Like, for the Player this might be the billion time they go up against him, they’re aware of some of his patterns and tricks now but they’re probably also frustrated and angry and exhausted. Meanwhile, from Sans’ POV, this is still the first time this is happening. He knows it’s not from the Player’s behavior and Frisk’s expression - but he doesn’t feel it like the Player does. 

He doesn’t feel the frustration and repetition of the endless stalemate. So he’s always as fresh as a daisy no matter how rugged the Player is getting.

And that’s part of why Sans is so cool in the first place, like, in general. He’s technically the weakest person in the Underground, lacking in every standard evaluation of power in the setting - no ATK, no DEF, no HP, no DETERMINATION. But he’s darn clever enough to overcome these weaknesses and even use them in ways that make them into strengths, enough to be one of the most dangerous and most aware guys in this whole setting.

Sans can’t remember anything, and that makes him awesome.

[buck-star]

Cowboys preference| B.B

>> Little did you know that the break up with the cowboys son would lead you toward the cowboy himself who always had a liking in you. <<

Pairing: Cowboy!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 4.186 Words

Warnings: Minors DNI, 18+, ex-boyfriend’s dad, possessiveness, age gap, smut [fingering (fem!rec), semi public sex], bit angst, lots of fluff

Authors Note: Dividers made by me.

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky’s smirk falters the moment he hears the door cracking open and two voices. He isn’t surprised to hear two different ones — he’s surprised that the one isn’t the person he assumed would come over today. His eyes narrow as the girl laughs — she isn’t supposed to laugh and giggle around his son like that. She isn’t even supposed to be at their house.

“Brock?” Bucky asks, growling as he sees the girl standing next to his son. She is snuggling into his side, holding Brock's arm.

Bucky’s ocean blue eyes roam over her, then toward his son. Both of them have swollen lips and messy hair. He doesn’t even want to know in which corner they made out to look like that, but he knows what else his son's little bitch means.

“Where’s she?” Bucky says in a calm voice. His heart is thrumming against his ribcage, and he needs to use all his willpower to not pin his son by his throat against the wall. Or to pick up that girl next to him to throw her out of the house. “Where’s my Y/N?”

Brock flinches when your name slips past his dad's lips. The girl next to him pulls at his arm — uncomfortable around Bucky and especially to have him staring at them with such an intense expression.

“S-she… we broke up,” Brock mumbles. His eyes dart to the girl next to him, and he lets slightly go of her hand. She looks offended, taking a step to the side while she looks between Brock and his dad. “W-we had some differences and decided to break up.”

“Ya had some differences, or do ya have a different?" Bucky raises an eyebrow. He knows exactly what’s going on, but he wants his son to say it; he wants him to say it in front of the girl he just took home. “A different little toy for ya games? I told ya that my babydoll is special, and if ya ever dare to treat her badly, I will take care of my babydoll, and you can fuck off here.”

Brock's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “N-no. It’s not like that! Y-you know I- she…” He stutters, his eyes widening as he takes a step to the side, further away from the girl. “It’s all… It’s just a big, really big misunderstanding. I made a mistake; I-i don’t think..."

The moment you took the first step into their house, Bucky was head over heels in love with you. You’re the most precious and sweetest girl he has ever met. He knows about Brock's liking to play with girls, but he made sure that Brock would be better with you — which he definitely isn’t. Bucky’s blood boils, and his heart rate increases while he inhales deeply.

“A mistake? It’s a mistake to treat ya girl like that? She fuckin’ loved ya and ya threw her — ya relationship away — for a girl that wets your fuckin’ cock?” Bucky asks, his voice dangerously low.

Brock backs away; he knows that his dad is protective about you. Your soul is so precious, so soft, and he only wants to protect it from being broken. He doesn’t want your soul to get hurt; he doesn’t want you to get hurt. And his own kid hurt like no one ever should do it.

“Did she see ya kissing her?” Brock's eyes widened at his dad’s question. You didn’t just see them kissing; you saw much more than that. And it wasn’t the first time — you kept it for yourself; another time you talked to him, and he told you he wouldn’t cheat on you again. And here he is — standing in front of his dad, having to explain that the girl next to him — who isn’t you — is the one he cheated on you with.

The look on Brock's face told him everything he had to know. Without another word, he pushes his son to the side and stomps through the floor toward the door. Bucky slams the door shut behind him; with a smooth movement, he takes on his cowboy boots and takes his hat from the door handle.

At some point he started to place his hat at the door handle. He places it firmly on his head, huffing. He can’t believe his son — an immature little boy who doesn’t even know how to take care of such an amazing and sweet girl that you are.

Bucky knows where you are; he knows you better than everyone. Whenever you’re feeling stressed or sad, you’re sitting in the barn on his farm with your favorite horse in the box. You named him, and Bucky can’t help but love the horse just as much as you — maybe it’s because of you, but maybe it’s also because you named him. You named it.

“Babydoll?” Bucky calls you when he enters the barn. The familiar smell of the hay immediately comes to his nostrils, but there is that scent of something so sweet — something he remembers so well. “Babydoll, I know ya’re here. It’s smelling like ya sweet perfume, smelling just like ya sweetness, babydoll.”

You wipe the tears immediately away as you hear Bucky’s voice and his footsteps coming closer to where you are. You should have known that he knows where you are and that he will look for you when Brock comes home alone or maybe even with the girl that just sucked him off.

How stupid you were. Thinking that he would change for you, that he would stop cheating on you. You thought that when Bucky can be such an amazing person, his son could be too, but you were wrong. Brock is the opposite of his dad. And even though things weren't as perfect anymore and your feelings for Brock faded away, you tried to make it work — but Brock didn't, and one-sided just doesn’t work.

“Babydoll, don’t ignore me. Come on, know ya’re in the box with him,” Bucky chuckles as he stops in front of the box and looks into it. He’s seeing you sitting in the corner of the box in the hay. Your eyes are red and puffy, and a low groan escapes his throat.

Bucky hates to see you like that, knowing that his son did this to you. He can’t help the clenching of his heart when he sees you pressed into the corner, your legs close to your chest and your arms wrapped around you. No one dares to hurt his babydoll, no one without consequences.

“Hi, babydoll,” he says softly, walking closer before he lets himself fall into the hay next to you. There is still some distance, but he can smell your sweetness even better now. “Ya know, he’s a dick. He doesn’t deserve ya if he doesn’t know how to treat ya right. Ya’re such a pretty girl, with a beautiful soul.”

You smile softly, turning your head to look at Bucky. His eyes are focused on the horse in front of him, which eats and doesn’t bother to have two guests in his box. You have the urge to grasp his hat and put it on your head; you always do it.

The first time you did it, your ex-boyfriend looked really shocked, while Bucky smirked at you. He loves to see you with his hat; it’s so intimidating and cute. When you asked him why they were staring at you like that, he explained it, and your reaction was the most funny but most adorable thing he has ever seen.

“Ya know, if ya wear a cowboys hat, it means ya his,” Bucky explains with a huge grin on his plump lips. Your eyes widened, and you thought about taking the hat off again, but it felt just so perfect that you didn’t want to take it off. “So, when ya wearin’ my hat, it means ya mine.”

Brock huffed, rolling his eyes about the glistening that sparkled in your orbs. He couldn’t understand the bond you and his dad had; you couldn’t either. At least for a while you couldn’t.

Around Bucky, everything feels just perfect; you feel safe and protected, even loved. You first thought it’s just a typical “girls your age like someone who’s nice and willing to protect them,” but at some point there wasn’t anyone else in your mind when you were alone.

Brock turned more and more into an idiot, and you found comfort in his dad. When Brock started to cheat and you found out your world broke into pieces, Bucky was there. He didn’t know why you were crying when you were suddenly standing in the door; you just said family problems, and he offered you comfort.

Little did you know that Bucky felt loved and happy by giving you comfort. You just sat there, watched the most cheesy movies, baked, or you just were in the stable.

“Ya lookin’ at my hat; do ya want to wear it, babydoll?” His voice interrupts your thoughts, and you feel your cheeks heating up. You should know now that this man notices when you stare at him.

Bucky doesn’t need an answer; he shuffles closer to you and takes his hat to place it on your head. His smile grows as he runs his rough fingers down your cheeks to your chin. He turns your face toward him, his ocean blue eyes staring intensely into yours to see any sign of discomfort.

When he doesn’t see anything but the softness and affection he has with his touch, he keeps his fingers where they are. “He already did it before, didn’t he? He cheated on ya and ya knew it. Did ya see him cheating?”

You swallow thickly as the memories of Brock with the other girl come back to your mind. The way he kneeled in front of you the first time you found out he cheated, his expression pleading that you forgive him for cheating because he didn’t even know why he did it. And you accepted his apology to find out he did it again — he cheated on you so often, you don’t even know how often he cheated with some girls on you.

“H-he…” You trail off, trying to find some more comfort in Bucky’s soft touch. His thumb moves toward your cheek, and he caresses it softly while his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. “He cheated on me really often. I thought he would stop after I found out, but he said he would. But he didn't, and today I saw him getting his… you know, sucked by her.”

Bucky smirks softly when you avoid using the word “cock” or “dick” in front of him. He nods, knowing what you mean. "That's why ya were here so often?”

You nod, then you shake your head. You earn a confused, slightly amused look from Bucky. You run your tongue over your bottom lip, wetting it slightly before you clear your throat to speak again. Bucky’s eyes follow every little movement, his eyes darting from your lips to your eyes, and he chuckles.

“Not just because of that. First yes, kinda. But then there was another reason,” you say softly, leaning more into Bucky’s gentle touch. “But then... with the time I-i lost feelings for Brock after I noticed that he’s still cheating on me. But you… you’re my safe place; when I’m around you, I can be just myself without judgment.”

Bucky grins at you, scooting closer until your legs touch slightly. His softness sends shivers through your body, and you look away with heated cheeks. Those words mean so much more to him than you can imagine. He has dreamed to hear them out of your pretty mouth; he has wished to hear them one day. As much as he’s mad at Brock for pushing you away and fucking another girl, he loves that at least he himself is more for you than just your ex-boyfriend's dad.

“Ya know, ya got my attention the moment ya stepped into our house. But when ya just took my hat, my heart started to beat for ya — it was always a taboo thing since you were with my son. But I got an eye on ya the whole time, babydoll.” Bucky confesses, smirking at you. He can't help himself anymore — he wants to tell you everything he feels for you. He wants to be honest with you, and maybe... Maybe the two of you will have a chance as a couple.

You giggle, then you inhale deeply. You feel guilty, not because you don't feel like Bucky but because of the words you're going to say next. At the same time, you're happy that you can finally say it out loud.

“I stayed with Brock because I thought we could fix it. I thought it at the start, but then it changed. The truth is, I stayed with him because it was the only way to be close to you. I'm just your son's little girlfriend, so you know,” you mumble, looking down at your fingers.

Bucky moves next to you slightly, his face suddenly in front of you, and you notice that he moves to kneel in front of you. His fingers find their way underneath your chin, and he lifts it up. “Ya were never just my son's little girlfriend. Ya were always my babydoll, and ya will be exactly that forever. I love ya more than ya know.”

He opens his arms for you, waiting until you crawl into them. His warm embrace lets you relax immediately. You sigh softly, leaning your back against his broad chest, enjoying the feeling of his fingers trailing up and down your sides. Bucky lowers his head to your neck, his lips just inches away from your sensitive skin, and you shiver in his arms.

“There ya go; do ya trust me? Do ya trust me and let me make ya feel good?” He asks, his voice way lower than before, and you nod, hypnotized by his presence. Bucky chuckles, his warm breath all over the side of your neck and causing goosebumps. Bucky's hands trail lower to your thighs, rubbing and squeezing them carefully. “If ya want me to stop you say it, do ya understand?”

You nod again, earning a harsher squeeze of your thigh. Bucky loves the effect he has on you, but for the moment he needs a proper answer to make sure you understand him. “Y-Yes, I understood, but please...”

Bucky chuckles, his lips finally touching your neck, and you lean even more into him. His soft lips brush over your skin, and you can't help the small whimpers leaving your lips. He slides his metal hand underneath your shirt, caressing the soft skin of your tummy, while he strokes your thigh with his fleshy hand.

“But please, what? Use ya pretty mouth and tell me what ya need." Buck groans into your ear, his fingers sliding further up to your covered cunt. His thick cock is pressing hard against your back, and you can’t help but squirm in his embrace.

“Need you… Bucky, I need you, please,” you whine, throwing your head against his shoulder, looking deep into his blue eyes.

Bucky grins, his lips trailing over your neck, leaving soft kisses all over your skin. You whimper, fingers digging into his thick thighs on both of your sides. He brings his big hands further up your thighs, kneading your soft skin, making you gasp when his rough hands get closer to your pussy.

“That’s what ya need? A man who can take care of ya, don’t ya?” He asks, sucking blue and purple marks into the sensitive skin of your neck. Bucky brings his metal hand to cup your cunt through the pants, massaging you through the fabric.

A soft moan slips past your lips, and Bucky didn’t know he could become more obsessed with you. But after the sweet sound you just made, he can’t help himself but falls even more in love with you.

With his other hands, he opens your pants, his hand sliding into them and underneath your cotton panties. Bucky groans into your neck, kissing along your pulse point. You whimper softly; his fingers are not really cold, but they aren’t as warm as your covered skin either. You shiver under his touch once again. Bucky guides his thick fingers through your folds, humming when he feels the wetness against his rough fingertips.

“Already so wet for me, babydoll.” His voice is low, rougher than usual, and you can’t help the moan that slips past his lips. This man is just too hot for his own good, finger-fucking you in the hay while everyone could walk in and could hear and see the two of you. “Fuck, love ya so much, my precious girl.”

Bucky pushes one of his digits into you, moaning when your tightness sucks him deeper into your warmth. Whines and moans fall from your parted lips, turning Bucky on beyond belief.

You throw your head back; your eyes widen slightly when he starts thrusting into you, immediately hitting your sweet spot. “Fucking shit!”

“No one's ever fucked ya probably?” He asks, earning a shake of your head. He chuckles, increasing his speed slightly while he hits the spot over and over again. “And I’m just fuckin’ ya with my finger. But don’t worry, got ya now, babydoll.”

You nod, whining when he pushes a second digit into you. The stretch is almost more than you ever felt. Brock wasn’t too bad either, but Bucky’s fingers are just so thick — muscular and perfect. Bucky chuckles against your neck, kissing your skin and sucking even more marks into your neck, making sure they are visible.

Pumping his fingers in and out of you makes you see stars already, but when he starts scissoring his fingers and curling them upwards to hit your sweet spot, you feel the look in your stomach tightening.

Your mouth drops open, saliva runs down your chin, and you don’t even try to hold back your moans. Your hips move in the same rhythms as Bucky’s fingers, bringing you closer to your orgasm.

“Mhm-B-Bucky…” you mumble, arching your back. The pleasure he causes with just his fingers is so much better than you have ever experienced before. He grunts, letting you know that he listens to you. “Please, d-do— s-stop.”

Your words don’t even make sense anymore, but you don’t care. Bucky laughs behind you; his free hand placed itself around your throat, pulling you further back until he could look into your face. “Ya want me to stop?”

Before you can answer him, he stops the movements of his fingers, earning a whine. You move your hips, trying to get some friction, but it doesn’t feel as good as before. His fingers don't curl; they don’t hit the spot that makes you see stars.

You lean your head back, causing the hat to almost fall down, but Bucky holds it on top of your head with his shoulder. “Don’t want the hat to fall off ya head, huh. Shows who ya belong to, babydoll. Mine, all mine, aren’t ya, babydoll?”

“Y-yes… y-yours… please— fu-fuck, Bucky,” you moan while you try to form a proper sentence with his fingers still deep inside of you. Bucky grunts once again, his digits moving and pressing against the spongy spot inside of you. You almost scream as pleasure shoots through your body, making it impossible to concentrate on something else but his fingers.

Bucky laughs, kissing your cheek before he moves his fingers again. He just wanted to hear you say that you’re his and that you belong to him. His cock is painfully hard, pressing against his pants, but he doesn’t care; he wants to see you fall apart on his fingers before he thinks about his problem.

“Yeah, come on, babydoll. Come all over my fingers. Can feel that ya close,” he mumbles, bringing his thumb to your clit. He runs his thumb through your folds before circling your clit.

Without another thought or word, you moan his name loudly, your fingers digging into his thick thighs as you come all over his fingers. Your body is shaking, but Bucky doesn’t stop his movements; he thrusts his fingers in a steady but slower rhythm into you, making sure that you can ride your orgasm out.

Your pussy is hugging him tightly; the imagination of how good his cock would fill you comes to his mind, and he groans, thrusting against you from behind.

“Do ya feel that? Fuckin’ hard for ya, babydoll,” he mumbles. Bucky smirks when he sees the soft smile on your lips. You look fucked out, but the smile makes his heart flatter. “Fucked ya so good, can’t even form proper words? It’s okay, I’m gonna take care of ya.”

You nod, breathing still heavy, and sweat is covering your forehead. Saliva is still dripping down your chin, and Bucky tilts your head so he can lick away your spit. A groan leaves his plump lips as he swallows. His tongue darts out once more, licking away more of your saliva.

“Tastin’ good. Now lemme taste ya sweet pussy…” he mumbles more to himself as he removes his fingers from your cunt. A soft pout forms on your lips, and Bucky can’t help but chuckle at your sweet expression. “Jus’ being fucked by me and already wantin’ more? Such a good girl, my good girl.”

Bucky brings both of his thick fingers to his lips, pushing them between his lips as a low, pornographic moan leaves his lips. “Fuckin’ shit, could eat ya out all day.”

“What—“ an almost high-pitched voice comes from the entrance, and Bucky turns around, looking at his son. You’re still sitting between his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder and your hat on your head. Bucky still has his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them while he stares at Brock.

His son's face heats up, an expression between disgust and anger on his face while he looks from Bucky at you and back at his father. It’s not hard to find out what the two of you just did, especially not since Brock heard some of your talks and then moans.

“Did you just— fuck, take your fingers out of your mouth. You just fucked my girlfriend!” Brock growls at his dad. He rolls his eyes, annoyed, and waits for Bucky to do as he’s told.

Bucky slowly pulls his fingers with a plop out of his mouth, stroking one of your sides with one hand while he glares at Brock. Bucky didn’t pull his fingers out of his mouth because his son said so; he did it to smirk at him before speaking.

“Ya girlfriend? My babydoll isn’t ya girlfriend. Ya pushed her away and fucked around. Ya think I will let anyone touch my girl who isn’t me?” Bucky asks in a dangerously calm tone. “I don’t even let ya touch her unless she wants ya to. But do we want to ask her?”

You shake your head, not wanting Brock to touch you. “I’m yours, Bucky, all yours, cowboy,” you giggle and look at him. Bucky’s attention is all in you when you speak, his ocean blue eyes glistening with love and affection when he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then down over your nose until he pecks your lips softly.

“Don’t ya worry, ya get lots of kisses. And then I can make ya feel good all night,” Bucky smirks at you, then he turns his face toward his son again. “‘Cause ya planned to be with ya girlfriend anyway, right?”

Brock looks down, nodding. Bucky smirks, shaking his head — he never thought his son would be that stupid to push you away, but he’s happy he did. Because Bucky loves you, he really does, and you will show you in every way possible. He doesn’t care what Brock says about Bucky’s loving you. As long as he has you, as long as you’re happy and get everything he can give you, he will never care about anyone else but you.

“My babydoll, I love ya,” he mumbles and gets up, lifting you after Brock walked back to his car to meet his girlfriend like he had planned to do anyway before he caught the two of you.

“I love you too, my cowboy,” you giggle. You can’t help the way you carve your lips, so you lean your head closer toward his and press your lips against Bucky’s plump ones. He groans, massaging your ass and deepening the kiss, letting your tongue dance with one another's. His babydoll with his hat, you made him crazy the first time he saw you, when you first wore his head, and now you belong to the cowboy, and you couldn’t be happier. Not when you have the sweetest and most caring man you can ask for, your Bucky, your cowboy.

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Taglist: @pono-pura-vida @sergeantbarnessdoll @rogersbarber @kimmie113080

[itneverendshere]

ex!reader who loves the game and wants to support her team but hockey captain!rafe is on the ice. he thinks she’s there for him but when she comes in with a date? and when they get put on the kiss cam? rafe slams into the glass to scare them? hate sex????

someone who lets you break them twice - hockey!toxic!rafe x ex!reader (+18)

warnings: veryyy long and 99% smut🙂‍↕️ the things i do for you...

The cold air inside the rink always made your skin tingle. Your breath curled in front of you like smoke as you moved uncomfortably on the bleachers, pulling your jacket tighter around you. This is why you hated fall. It was too cold to be outside, too early to be winter. But tonight wasn’t about the weather—it was about hockey.

Hockey and, well, the fact that you hadn’t missed a game since… well, since Rafe and you broke up.

“Everything okay?” The voice beside you pulled you back to reality.

Elijah, the guy you’d been seeing for the past couple of weeks, smiled at you, oblivious to the bullshit taking over your mind, and you gave him your best smile back.

“Yeah, just cold,” you said, trying to focus. You weren’t here for Rafe, not anymore. You loved hockey. You loved watching the boys skate across the ice, their power and grace.

Or at least that was what you kept telling yourself.

Elijah wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to him, and you leaned in, feeling his warmth. The game was just about to start, and the arena lights dimmed slightly, casting shadows over the rink. The roar of the crowd drowned your thoughts for a moment as the players took the ice.

And then, as if the universe was personally trying to screw with you, you saw him.

Rafe.

Of course, he looked good.

God, why did he always have to look so fucking good? His broad shoulders filling out his number 17 jersey, that stupid confident smirk as he skated out with the rest of the team. His dark blonde hair peeked out from under his helmet He was captain this year, and it made sense—he’d been working his ass off since…ever. You couldn’t think of anyone more deserving than him. 

He always had to be in charge, on and off the ice.

He still had that same cocky swagger that made you wanna scream… for entirely different reasons now.

You knew better than to be here, yet somehow you ended up courtside anyway. Probably because you’d never let him run you out of your favorite game. Not even if he was captain now. This was your team, the one you’d been coming to see since before Rafe even knew what a slapshot was.

You sank further into Elijah’s side, forcing your eyes away from your ex. But it wasn’t until you caught the dark blue of the jersey you were wearing in the corner of your eye that you realized… You’d put on Rafe’s jersey. 

His number. The one you’d always worn to support him when you were together. Out of all the team merch you owned, of course you had to wear his.

“You really like hockey a lot, huh?” Elijah asked, glancing down at your jersey.

“Yeah,” You mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I’ve been following the team for a while.”

Lies. You loved hockey, sure. But you loved Rafe a little more. Or, you used to. Or, well, maybe that was still complicated.

The puck dropped, and the game started. For a while, you tried to focus on the action. Rafe was all over the ice, playing like the goddamn superstar he thought he was. You couldn’t help but notice how his gaze kept darting up toward the stands, like he knew you were there. And maybe he did

Halfway through the second period, he slammed into an opposing player, sending him crashing into the boards. The sound echoed through the arena, and the crowd went wild, but you could feel your stomach knotting up. That had always been Rafe—intense, aggressive, unable to hold back. On the ice or off.

You tried to focus on Elijah, laughing at something he was saying, but your heart wasn’t in it. And then, just when you thought you’d survived the worst of it, the kiss cam flashed up on the big screen. Your laughter died in your throat as you realized what was happening, your face heating up instantly. You weren’t exactly embarrassed, but this was... awkward. 

“Aw, how cute,” He said, grinning as he pointed to the screen.

You followed his gaze, heart dropping. They were zooming in on the two of you. You could feel the crowd around you start to cheer and whistle as Elijah leaned in closer, clearly getting ready to kiss you.

You could see him coming toward you, could see his lips getting closer, but all you could think about was—

Bang!

In the span of a second, a body slammed into the boards right in front you, the sound so loud it made you jump. The entire section gasped, and you turned your head just in time to see Rafe standing there, glaring up at you from behind the glass. His eyes were locked on you, jaw clenched.

He looked like he was ready to tear Elijah apart, or you, or both of you. His chest was heaving, eyes blazing, standing mere inches away from where you sat. He had skated right into the glass.

Your heart was practically in your throat, and it wasn't from Elijah being close. The look on Rafe’s face as he stood on the other side of the glass?

That was what had your pulse racing. You could barely focus on Elijah anymore. The way he laughed, oblivious, made your stomach churn because Rafe—Rafe—was staring like he owned you. He always had this way of making you feel like no matter what, no matter who else was around, you were his. 

And you hated that you still kind of liked it.

Then, still staring at you, he mouthed the words, "I dare you."

Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

Those stupid words. Silently mouthed, but somehow loud enough to hit you like a punch through the glass. I dare you. God, what was wrong with him? He knew exactly how to push your buttons. And of course, it was working. He wasn’t just playing hockey—he was playing with you.

You could feel Elijah shifting next to you, still oblivious to the whole freaking drama unfolding right in front of him.

He was so sweet, too sweet, and it was almost infuriating right now because Rafe was standing there, with his stupid intense eyes, all but daring you to move on. Why did he have to look at you like that—like he knew you were still his.

The breakup had been brutal, the kind of messy, loud explosion where neither of you were willing to be the first to walk away. You were both too stubborn, too prideful. And now here you were, months later, still dealing with the fallout. 

Elijah finally leaned in, lips brushing yours, and you kissed him, but your heart wasn’t in it. All you could feel was Rafe’s stare burning into you. The kiss cam lingered for a few seconds, and the crowd cheered, but all you felt was... empty.

When the kiss ended, you forced a smile at Elijah, but your mind was a mess. Rafe’s eyes were still on you, and you could practically feel anger radiating off him, even through the thick glass.

You glanced down, avoiding his gaze, and tugged at the hem of his old jersey, suddenly feeling like you didn’t belong in it anymore. You leaned into Elijah, mostly out of spite at this point. You could practically hear Rafe’s teeth grinding from across the glass. Good. If he thought he could just walk around, acting like he owned the place—and you—then he deserved to stew in it a little.

But, of course, he wasn’t the kind of guy to just let something like that go. You watched as he skated back into play, but his eyes kept flicking up to where you sat, like he couldn’t stop checking to make sure you were still there. Still with Elijah. His shoulders were tense, movements a little too aggressive, like he was about to snap.

You tried to focus on the game again, but your mind kept drifting back to him. You hated this. You hated that he could still make you feel this way, even now, after everything.

After the fights, after the breakup, after swearing you were over him. Why was it so hard to let him go?

The third period started, and Rafe was everywhere, throwing his weight around like he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Every hit was harder, every pass sharper. It was like he was playing angry. And you couldn’t help but feel a little satisfied, knowing you’d gotten under his skin.

But then, with less than five minutes left in the game, things escalated. He slammed into one of the opposing players so hard that the guy went down, and the whistle blew immediately. The crowd was roaring, but Rafe didn’t back off. He stood over the guy, glaring down at him like he was ready to throw a punch.

"Jesus," Elijah muttered beside you. "What the hell’s his problem?"

You didn’t answer. You knew exactly what his problem was.

The ref skated over, shouting something at Rafe, but his eyes weren’t on the ref. They were still on you, even as the other guy on the ice slowly got back to his feet. The arena was buzzing, the crowd getting rowdy, and for a second, you thought Rafe was going to lose it right there. His fists clenched, jaw set—he looked like he was ready to drop gloves and start swinging.

And then he smirked.

It was that same cocky smirk you knew so well, the one he always flashed right before doing something reckless. The ref sent him to the penalty box, and he skated off, still with that fucking look plastered on his face. Your heart was racing, your body tense. Elijah had leaned back in his seat, totally unaware about everything.

“Man, that guy’s intense,” Elijah said, shaking his head, eyes still on the ice.

You didn’t answer. Intense didn’t even begin to cover it.

Rafe was sitting in the penalty box now, helmet off, running a hand through his hair like he didn’t just about murder a guy on the ice. You could feel his eyes on you, even from all the way across the rink. You hated it. You hated that he could still get to you like this.

The last few minutes of the game passed in an instant. You weren’t really paying attention anymore, not to the score, not to the plays. You were too busy trying not to think about Rafe, about the way he had looked at you. About the way it had made you feel.

When the final buzzer sounded, the crowd erupted in cheers. Elijah stood up, stretching, turning to you with a smile.

“Ready to head out?” he asked.

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, let’s go.”

As you made your way toward the exit, weaving through the crowd, you could feel the tension building in your chest. It wasn’t over. It never really was with Rafe.

And you knew—somehow—you weren’t getting out of here without seeing him again.

You reached the bottom of the stands, where a crowd had gathered near the exit. Elijah was still chatting about the game, still clueless. But you were distracted, scanning the crowd without even realizing it.

And then you saw him. Of course, you did.

Rafe was leaning against the wall, still in his gear, helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes locked on yours the second you stepped into his line of sight. He didn’t even pretend to care about the people around him—his gaze was dark, intense, like a predator waiting for its moment.

You hated how your heart skipped.

Elijah noticed you freeze and followed your gaze, his smile faltering when he saw Rafe standing there.

"Isn’t that the captain guy?" he asked, glancing between you and Rafe, confused.

You swallowed hard, forcing your feet to keep moving. “Yeah. That��s him.”

As you passed by, Rafe pushed off the wall, stepping right into your path. Elijah, sweet, unsuspecting Elijah, paused beside you.

"Leaving already?" Rafe’s voice was low, casual, but his eyes were locked on yours, ignoring Elijah completely. "Didn’t even stick around to congratulate the team?"

You clenched your jaw, fighting to keep your cool. "It’s late, Rafe. We’re heading out."

But he wasn’t letting you off that easy. He took a step closer, his towering frame making Elijah shift uncomfortably. "You didn’t used to leave so soon," he said, voice dripping with that familiar cockiness. "Used to be the last one out."

Because you’d always let him fuck you in the locker room.

Elijah cleared his throat, trying to stand his ground. "Uh, yeah, we’ve got plans after this."

Rafe’s eyes flicked to him for the briefest second, before landing back on you.

"Plans, huh?"

Your pulse was hammering, and you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks. Why did he always have to do this—why couldn’t he just let you go?

“Rafe, we’re done,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to hold on to the last shred of your composure. “You don’t get to pull this shit anymore.”

He glanced at Elijah briefly, his gaze cold and dismissive, then back at you. “You sure about that?” he asked, “Because it doesn’t look like it.”

You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms as you tried to calm yourself. You didn’t need this right now. Not with Elijah here. Not after everything.

“Let’s go Elijah,” you said, tugging at Elijah’s arm, desperate to get out of there before things escalated. But Rafe wasn’t having it.

He stepped in front of you again, blocking your path like he had some kind of claim on you. And God, the worst part was—you weren’t sure he was wrong.

You glanced at Elijah, who was staring at the two of you like he had walked into the middle of a conversation he couldn’t quite follow. “Look, dude,” he started, awkwardly laughing, “I don’t know what this is, but—”

“It’s nothing,” you cut him off quickly, your voice tight. “Let’s just go.”

But Rafe wasn’t about to let it go. 

“Yeah, Elijah,” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “It’s nothing.” His eyes flicked to you, dark and daring, and before you could stop yourself, you met his gaze with the same fire.

Elijah’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, frowning.

“Shit,” he muttered, distracted. “I’ve gotta take this call real quick. Give me a sec?” He stepped away, leaving you and Rafe standing there in the middle of the hallway, your body practically vibrating.

He was on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the locker room door. 

“Rafe, what the fuck—” you hissed, but he wasn’t letting go.

You tried to resist, but something inside you broke down—the anger, the unresolved pull between you two. And maybe it was the way he still had that stupid hold on you, the way your body responded when you shouldn’t want it to.

Or maybe it was the fact that you’d never fully closed the door on Rafe.

He shoved the door open, pulling you inside the dimly lit hallway that led to the locker room. The second the door closed, you spun around, shoving him in the chest hard. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?”

Rafe barely flinched, his gaze smoldering as he crowded you against the wall. 

“Yeah? You didn’t seem to think so when you were wearing my jersey tonight.”

“That was an accident.”

“Bullshit,” he growled, leaning in closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Bringing a date with you. Do you want me to kill someone?"

Your heart was pounding, and not just because Rafe had you pinned against the wall like he always fucking did— God, why did he have to be so damn close? The scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat from the game, sending your mind spiraling. He was overwhelming, and you hated it. You hated him for still making you feel like this.

“Get off me,” you snapped, but it came out weaker than you intended. The way his blue eyes were boring into yours, like he could see through all your bullshit, wasn’t helping.

Rafe’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it grew.

“C’mon, baby, don’t act like this wasn’t what you wanted. You show up, wearin’ my number, sitting there with some random guy like I don’t still own you.” 

He stepped closer, caging you in completely. You pressed your hands against his chest, but it wasn’t like you were really pushing him away. And he knew it.

“You don’t own shit,” you spat, glaring up at him. But even as the words left your mouth, you knew you didn’t believe them. The truth was, part of you had always been his.

Rafe’s lips curved into a smug grin as if he could read every thought running through your head.

“Really? ’Cause from where I’m standin’, you’ve been thinkin’ about me all night.” His breath was hot on your skin, and you hated how much you wanted to close the distance between you.

Your jaw clenched as you tried to muster the strength to tell him to fuck off, to leave you alone, but he was right. As much as you tried to convince yourself otherwise, he was still in your head, under your skin. The way his body hovered over yours—it was like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t spent the last few months trying to forget him.

His hand found your hip, fingers pressing into your skin through your jeans, and you felt your body betray you. You cursed yourself silently as heat pooled low in your stomach. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, didn’t want him to know how much power he still had. But damn it, he knew. He always fucking knew.

“I hate you,” you muttered. It was a weak defense, and you both knew it.

Rafe leaned in, lips brushing against your ear. “Yeah?” His voice was a low rasp that made your knees weak. “Funny, you never sound like you hate me when you’re under me.”

Your breath hitched, and you swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened.

“Don’t—”

But he was already kissing you, hard and rough like he owned you, like you were his and his alone.

And the worst part? You kissed him back. His hands were on you, grabbing at your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together. You wanted to shove him away, to slap that stupid look off his face—but your body had other plans. 

This was so wrong, on so many levels. 

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, but Rafe didn’t back off. He was staring down at you like you were his next meal, like he’d been starving without you.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you bit out, trying to cling to some sense of control.

Rafe’s grin widened, wicked and knowing. He leaned in again, lips ghosting over yours. “We both know that's a lie.”

You clenched your fists, frustrated beyond belief. Frustrated at him, at yourself, at how easy it was for him to pull you right back in.

“Fuck you,” you hissed, but the breathless tone in your voice told a different story.

Rafe’s eyes darkened, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly sexy way he always did.

“Oh, you will.”

And God help you—you knew he was right. That fucking arrogance. It crawled under your skin, set your blood on fire in ways it shouldn’t.

You wanted to punch him, shove him, do something to wipe that smug expression off his face. But instead, you grabbed his shirt, pulling him back toward you, kissing him with all the fury you felt.

His lips crushed against yours, and it wasn’t gentle—there was nothing soft or sweet about this. It was all heat and frustration, months of unresolved anger bursting out in one chaotic, messy kiss.

His tongue slipped past your lips, and you bit down, hard, just to remind him you weren’t going to make this easy. He groaned, low and rough, pulling back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark. "You always did like it rough."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, and you yanked him down, kissing him like you needed to get all of this out of your system. His hands roamed your body, possessive, rough, and you hated how much you craved him, like you were still his.

You weren’t his. You couldn’t be.

But every heated breath you took, every desperate movement your body made, was telling you otherwise.

When his lips moved down your neck, teeth grazing your skin, you gasped, tilting your head back as your resolve crumbled to pieces. He knew exactly what to do, how to make you fall apart, and it pissed you off that he still had that power.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you with ease, pressing you harder against the wall. Your breath hitched, the cold tile behind you making you gasp. His mouth was on you, hot and demanding, and for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered.

Not Elijah, not the fact that this was so damn wrong, not the months of hurt and anger you’d been holding onto.

There was only Rafe. The way he touched you, the way he kissed you like he was trying to stake his claim all over again. Like you hadn’t been apart at all.

"Tell me you don’t want this," Rafe muttered against your lips.

You bit down on your lip, trying to stop the words from spilling out. You did want this. You hated that you did, but fuck, you couldn’t lie—not to him, not to yourself.

“I—” You choked on the words, eyes meeting his, and for a split second, you thought maybe you’d find some kind of resolve, some way to pull yourself back from him.

But he wasn’t having it. His grip tightened, his mouth capturing yours again in a kiss so raw, it was borderline filthy. And that was it. Your last piece of control vanished, and you were lost in him all over again.

“Fuck,” you gasped, head spinning as his hands explored your body like he had every right to. Like you hadn’t spent months trying to break free of him.

Rafe pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, breathless and flushed. “Yeah, baby. That's what I thought."

His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave bruises, you let out a frustrated, muffled groan, your fingers still tangled in his hair. It was a lot longer than the last time you’d seen him.

You could feel every inch of his muscle through the thin fabric of your shirt. It was suffocating in the best way, and you hated yourself for how much you wanted it.

How much you wanted him.

“You’re such an ass,” you gasped between kisses, your breath hitching when his mouth moved down to your neck. You felt him grin against your skin, the bastard.

“You say that like it’s supposed to stop you.” His voice was rough, low in your ear, and it sent a shiver down your spine. “But I don’t think it is.”

You were about to fire back, but his hands slid under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, and whatever you were going to say was swallowed by the heat rushing through you. You hated that he still knew exactly how to get to you—how to pull you apart and leave you helpless against him.

“Rafe, this—” Your words were cut off when he bit down gently on your collarbone, sending a shockwave through your body. You clutched at his shirt.

“This what?” he taunted, pulling back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes intense. “This a mistake? Because I don’t think that’s what your body’s saying.”

You just glared up at him, trying to catch your breath. You hated that he was right. Again.

Always.

“I told you,” you managed to say, though your voice was shaky, “this doesn’t mean anything.”

Rafe’s grip on you tightened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Your heart was racing, and you could feel the heat of his breath on your skin. There was no denying it—you were here, and you weren’t leaving. Not yet.

Maybe not for a while.

And Rafe knew it.

His hands moved lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your jeans, and your breath hitched. This was dangerous territory. You knew that. 

“Last chance,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours. “You want me to stop?”

You should’ve said yes. You should’ve shoved him away and walked out of there with what little dignity you had left. But instead, you kissed him again—harder this time, angrier, like you needed to prove something to yourself. And maybe you did.

He yanked your shirt over your head in one rough motion, and you weren’t gentle either, tugging at his jersey until it was off and tossed aside. His hands were everywhere—on your back, in your hair, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, pulling them down with the same reckless urgency you’d been feeling since you laid eyes on him tonight.

“I hate you,” you whispered as your nails dragged down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake.

Rafe just laughed, “No, you don’t,” he growled, his hands grabbing your hips as he settled you onto one of the locker room benches. “But keep telling yourself that.”

Your jeans hit the floor, and he wasted no time, his hands gripping your thighs as he positioned himself between your legs, pressing you down on the bench, his body heavy against yours.

Everything was messy, and rushed, like neither of you could get enough. Like you were trying to erase the months of distance, of frustration, in the way you kissed him back, bit his lip, tugged at his hair.

 You hated how much you needed this. 

“Still think this doesn’t mean anything?” Rafe rasped, his voice hoarse as he pressed his forehead against yours, breathless and wild.

You could barely think, let alone speak, but somehow, you managed to gasp out, “Positive.”

Rafe’s mouth moved down your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks you knew would still be there tomorrow. “You’re such a fucking liar.”

It was wrong, it was toxic, but fuck—there was something about the way he touched you. And body, traitorous and weak, responded like it always had.

You were furious with yourself, with him, with everything, but the anger only made it all hotter, more intense.

His fingers brushed against the seam of your panties, teasing, barely touching you, but doing enough to have you drenched. 

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, almost amused, slipping one finger under the fabric to run along your folds, barely dipping inside before pulling back out, "Was this all for Elijah?"

Sonofabitch.

“Stop talking,” you spat, but your voice was shaky, showing him the way you were falling apart under his touch. Rafe chuckled low in his throat, his finger moving back, this time slipping inside you, deep and slow.

You gasped, your head falling back as he began moving his finger, curling it inside you in just the right way. Your body responded immediately, hips jerking against him, desperate for more, but he took his time. He added another finger, stretching you out as his thumb rubbed slow circles over your clit, making your legs tremble beneath him.

He sped up, his fingers thrusting deeper, faster, hitting that spot inside you that made your mind go blank. “You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you? All those nights pretending you don’t think about me, but look at you now.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, legs shaking as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, his fingers driving you closer and closer to the orgasm you so desperately needed.

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, sending shocks of pleasure through you. “Tell me how bad you need this.”

“Rafe—” you gasped, your hips bucking wildly against his hand. The tension inside you was coiled so tightly, so close to snapping. You hated him, hated yourself, but the words slipped out anyway. “I need it.”

He groaned, pleased, and that was all it took. He thrust his fingers harder, faster, until your body gave in completely. You hadn’t had a proper orgasm in months. Nothing could get you off properly. Your walls clenched around his fingers the pleasure tore through you. You cried out, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his skin as you trembled beneath him, lost in the sensation.

But he didn’t stop. He slowed down just enough to draw out every last bit of pleasure, his fingers still moving inside you as you rode out the aftershocks. When you finally caught your breath, he pulled his fingers out, his hand moving to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

He shoved his pants down, not bothering to take them off completely, just enough to free himself. Your breath hitched when you felt him against you—hard, hot, and ready—and every rational thought you had left disappeared in that moment. He lined himself up, teasing you just enough to drive you crazy.

Before you could respond, he pushed into you in one hard, deliberate thrust. Your gasp turned into a low, breathless moan as your back arched, your hands gripping his shoulders for something to hold on to. The sensation of him stretching you, filling you, was overwhelming, almost too much, but exactly what you needed.

Rafe didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed into you again, setting a punishing rhythm that left you breathless, gasping for air. 

There was nothing gentle about it, nothing tender.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he fucked you like he was trying to remind you who you belonged to.

And you hated how good it felt.

“You’re mine,” Rafe growled, his voice rough as he thrust into you, each movement deep and brutal.“Doesn’t matter who you’re with, doesn’t matter how much you try to deny it—you’ll always come back to me.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, but your body was betraying you as you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. 

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this every night since we ended.”

You couldn’t.

The words were right there, on the tip of your tongue, but instead, a moan escaped your lips as he hit that perfect spot inside you. Your body arched against his, and you cursed yourself for being so weak.

“Fuck,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built, every nerve in your body on fire.

“That’s what I thought,” Rafe growled, his pace quickening, the force of his thrusts making the bench creak beneath you.

The sound of the bench, the way his body pressed into yours so perfectly, the heat of his breath against your neck—it all made it impossible to think straight. You should have been disgusted with yourself for letting it get this far, for letting him have this kind of control over you. 

“I fucking hate you,” you managed to gasp out between breaths.

Rafe chuckled, “Yeah? Then why do you sound like that, huh?” His voice was taunting, filled with the arrogance you hated, “This pussy still mine, huh?”

You loved the way he grabbed you like you were his, even though you’d sworn, sworn, you were done with him.

You were still in love, weren’t you? Even after all the shit, all the screaming matches, the nights spent crying because of him. That was the part that pissed you off the most.

Before you knew, his hands were flipping you over so fast your knees hit the bench before you could react.

“Rafe—mmh,” you gasped, but your words died in your throat when he shoved you forward, pressing your chest flat against the cold wood of the bench. You barely had a second to brace yourself before his hands were gripping your ass, spreading you open for him.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. He was already dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, teasing, knowing how much you wanted it, even if you wouldn’t say it.

You squirmed, hating how desperate you felt, hating how your body responded to him like this. “Fuck, Rafe, stop teasing—”

“You want more?” he cut you off, voice dark and dripping with arrogance. He slapped your ass, just enough to sting, and you yelped, your back arching instinctively. “You’re gonna have to beg for it.”

"Like hell," you spat back.

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth right by your ear.

 “You can act tough all you want, but I know how much you want this,” he gritted out, his cock sliding against your folds again, torturously slow. “I know how much you need it.”

Before you could snap back, he thrust into you hard, filling you completely in one brutal stroke. You cried out, hands gripping the edges of the bench, and Rafe didn’t even give you a second to adjust. He pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, faster this time, deeper.

The angle had you seeing stars. The bench was narrow, forcing your legs closer together, making everything tighter, more intense. You couldn’t stop the way your body responded to him, hips moving back to meet his thrusts even though your mind was screaming at you to get a grip.

His hands gripped the fat of your ass, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, and the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room, mixing with your moans and his ragged breathing.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Rafe groaned, his voice low and rough as he thrust into you, each movement hitting that perfect spot inside you, making your legs tremble. “So fucking tight for me.”

He pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that had you on the edge in seconds. You couldn’t stop the moan that ripped from your throat, your hips bucking wildly against him as the pleasure built, higher and higher until you felt like you might break apart.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He rasped, his voice thick with lust. “I can feel it. Fuck.”

You tried to hold on, tried to keep some control, but it was useless. He knew exactly how to break you.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whimper as you felt the pleasure rising fast, threatening to consume you.

“Do it,” Rafe growled, his fingers rubbing harder, faster. “Come for me, baby.”

And you did.

Your orgasm crashed over you so hard your vision blurred, your body shaking as the pleasure tore through you. You cried out, your walls clenching around him, and Rafe groaned, his grip on you tightening as he fucked you through it, relentless, brutal, until your entire body was trembling.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out suddenly, and before you could catch your breath, he yanked you up, turning you around. You barely had time to register what was happening before he lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the cold locker. His cock was back inside you in seconds, filling you again, and you moaned, the new angle sending jolts of pleasure through your already overstimulated pussy.

He pounded into you, his grip on your ass bruising, and you clung to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he fucked you against the lockers. The sound of metal creaking under the force of his thrusts only made it hotter, more desperate. You could feel another orgasm building, and you hated him for it—hated how easily he could pull them from you. 

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin. “You’ll always be mine.”

And you hated that some twisted part of you wanted it to be true.

Your legs tightened around him, pulling him impossibly closer, deeper, as if you couldn’t get enough of him.

And God, you couldn’t.

His grip on your ass was rough, bruising, but it only made you moan louder. You were on the verge again—your body still tingling from the last orgasm, but the way he moved inside you, the way his teeth grazed your neck, it had you spiraling toward another one, faster than you thought possible.

“Look at you,” Rafe groaned, lifting his head just enough to lock eyes with you. His pupils were blown wide with lust, a wild look on his face that sent a thrill down your spine. “Fuck, you love this, don’t you?”

You did. Because no matter how much you hated him, how much you wanted to hate him—there was a part of you that still belonged to him. A part of you that couldn’t walk away.

His lips were everywhere—on your neck, your collarbone, your jaw—and you couldn’t stop the sounds escaping your throat as he kept driving into you.

“Say it,” he growled, “Say you’re mine.”

You bit down on your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to fight back, but every nerve in your body was betraying you. The way his body fit against yours, the way he moved inside you, it was all too much. You were coming again, and you hated it.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. “Say it.”

You wanted to spit in his face. But your body was telling a different story, hips bucking against him, legs tightening around his waist again.

“R-Rafe,” you whimpered, hating how weak you sounded, how desperate.

His smirk was infuriating, but fuck, it was hot.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his pace quickening, each thrust deeper than the last. “You’re mine. Always have been.”

And then he slammed into you one last time, hitting that perfect spot inside you, and the orgasm tore through you, leaving you gasping and trembling in his arms. You cried out, head thrown back against the lockers as your body shook with the force of it, your nails raking down his back.

Rafe groaned, his grip on you tightening as he rode out your orgasm, his movements growing sloppier, more erratic. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Fuck, baby,” he moaned, his hips jerking against yours as he finally let go, his release hitting hard. You felt the warmth of him spill inside you, as he held you against him, buried deep.

The second his breathing slowed and his grip on you loosened, reality came crashing back in. 

What the fuck had you done?

You pushed at his chest, trying to put some space between you, but he wasn’t letting go that easily. His arms stayed wrapped around you, his body pressed against yours like he still had something to prove.

“Get off,” you muttered, your voice weak, but sharper than before.

He chuckled, that low, arrogant sound that drove you crazy. “That’s not what you were saying five minutes ago.”

You shot him a glare, shoving at his chest again, harder this time. “I’m serious, Rafe. Move.”

Reluctantly, he let go, stepping back just enough for you to slide off the locker and onto shaky legs. You stumbled a bit, and Rafe’s hand shot out to steady you, but you jerked away from him, pulling your jeans back up with shaky hands.

He leaned against the locker, smirking like he hadn’t just torn your world apart all over again. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You wanted to scream at him, to throw something at his face. But instead, you grabbed your shirt off the floor, yanking it over your head as you tried to steady your breath.

“Good luck finding your date.”

Elijah. You’d come to the game with Elijah.

You shook your head as you zipped up your jeans and ran your fingers through your hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. You avoided looking at him, knowing that if you did, you’d see the smug satisfaction on his face that would only make you feel worse.

He pushed himself off the locker and took a step closer to you. You flinched, stepping back instinctively. “This can’t happen again.”

His smirk slipped for a moment as he looked at you. H e closed the distance between you in two strides, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist, pulling you toward him before you could react, “You’re choosing him?”

You yanked your wrist out of his grip, your heart racing as you forced yourself to take a step back, putting distance between the two of you, “You’re the one who chose yourself.”

His eyes darkened, searching your face, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. Maybe he thought he still had you wrapped around his finger.

“You’re the one who walked away,” you added, hating how your voice trembled, “So don’t act like I owe you anything.”

Rafe’s hand hovered like he was about to reach for you again, but he didn’t. “That’s not how I remember it.” 

Your stomach twisted, “I’m not doing this anymore. I can’t—” You glanced at the door, feeling the weight of Elijah waiting for you. The one person who was good for you, who actually wanted to be with you.

But the worst part? You were still thinking about Rafe. Even after everything, you were still here, breathless, a mess because of him.

He took a step closer, his eyes locked on yours, and for a second, you thought he might apologize. Maybe say something real. But Rafe Cameron didn’t do apologies. 

He raised an eyebrow, “Really?” His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair out of your face in a gesture that was far too intimate, given everything that had just happened. “Then why are you still standing here?”

You flinched, stepping back. Why were you still standing there? You had no good answer, at least not one you were ready to admit.

“Go back to your date,” Rafe continued, his voice mocking now, “Pretend like he’s enough for you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the tears at bay. You couldn’t give him that satisfaction, not again. “You’re wrong.”

Rafe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t think I am.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, throat tight, trying to push back the tears. This was all wrong. It was always wrong with Rafe, “Stop.”

It sounded like a plea—a plea for him to stop talking, stop looking at you like that, stop making you feel so small and yet so overwhelmed all at once.

Rafe sighed, stepping back just a fraction, and for a second, his gaze lifted. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, his voice softer now, like that made a difference.

“You always do,” you shot back, finally meeting his eyes. The truth slipped out before you could stop it, and there it was.

His jaw clenched, "I don’t mean to," he muttered, his voice low. "You know that."

"Does it even matter?" You felt the bitterness rise in your throat, along with something else—something fragile and painful. "You still do it. Whether you mean to or not."

Rafe stayed quiet, and you hated that silence. He didn’t have an answer. He never did, not for this. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of your jacket, something to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t say something you’d regret. But regret was already everywhere, suffocating you both.

“I thought we were past this,” you said finally, barely more than a whisper. “I thought I was past this.” But clearly, you weren’t. Clearly, some part of you was still here, with him, in the wreckage you’d both created.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated, torn. “It’s not that simple.”

"It should be." Your voice cracked. You hated how much this hurt. How much he could still hurt you.

It wasn’t fair. You weren’t supposed to still care this much. You weren’t supposed to still feel this.

Rafe sighed, taking another step back, giving you space. But it wasn’t the kind of space you wanted. It wasn’t the kind that would make things easier. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he admitted quietly, his eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t find.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. "I don’t want anything from you." 

That was the truth, or at least it was supposed to be. You didn’t want anything he had to offer, not anymore. Not when every time you reached for it, it slipped through your fingers like water, leaving you emptier than before.

But there was still that ache, that feeling between you two, the one that dragged you back here even when you knew better. You wished you could kill it, cut it out of you like some infected part, but it was tangled too deep. And maybe a small part of you didn’t want to.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, his voice almost tender, like he was seeing right through you. “But you’re still here.”

“I don’t know why,” you whispered, blinking back tears. Fuck, you hated this. Hated how vulnerable you felt, how easily he could unravel you, even now. “I shouldn’t be.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, watching you, like he was waiting for you to make the next move. Like he wanted you to figure it out on your own.

But you didn’t know how. You never did when it came to him.

"I’m sorry," he said, and this time, it felt real. There was no arrogance. Just Rafe, standing there, as broken as you felt. "I don’t know how to fix this."

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “There’s nothing left to fix, Rafe. We’ve already destroyed it.”

His face twisted, like he didn’t want to believe it. Like he was still holding onto some small piece of hope. "We could—"

"No," you cut him off, shaking your head. "We can’t."

You couldn’t keep doing this. The push and pull, the endless cycle of hurt and apologies that never really fixed anything. You couldn’t keep pretending that something would change, that he would change.

Because you both knew he wouldn’t.

He took a breath, exhaling slowly, and you could see it—the realization sinking in. 

He knew it too. "I never wanted to lose you," he admitted quietly.

You swallowed hard, your chest tight. "You already did."

[girl-in-the-chairs-void]

May I say just Tyler pulling you close to him while you’re staying safe from a tornado hmmm

A lil protective moment with him is all I want 🫠🫠. Ask and you shall receive, my dear.

Pairing; Tyler Owen’s x reader

Word count; 1.2k (I got carried away just a little)

cw; tornadoes, rodeos, idk what else? FLUFFF AND a sprinkle of angst.

“Is this how they do it in Texas too?”

You looked up at the man beside you, his green eyes stilled on you. You were focusing on the rodeo he’d brought you to, men out on horses and bulls, taming the wild animals, riding their fears.

You looked back Tyler, he was still focused on you and not on the game. Heat rose to your cheeks, turning them into a red mess as you rubbed your hands nervously on the fat of your thighs. It was too hot to wear anything but jean shorts and a tank.

“Pretty much, not different from how they originally used to do back in the early days actually. But Texans have their pride.” You didn’t really have the accent to be taken as someone from Houston, but the badges- fabric patches with Velcro- you wore on your jeans at all times were evident enough of how proud you were to be from Texas.

The man chuckled, his eyes getting just a little smaller as crinkles formed around them, his cheeks lifting forming into a beautiful smile on his lips.

“Well ain’t that the right way to do it”

You both laughed, turning back to the rodeo. You tried to get a little bit comfortable in your seat, adjusting yourself before deciding to just sit a little bit straighter. Your hands reach for the arm rests, expecting the cold metal to make contact, but it never happens, instead your met with a warm, calloused palm of Tyler’s. He’s a little surprised at first, you both are, he slowly gathers the courage and weaves his hand through yours, helping you adjust.

You keep a hold of his hand, looking at him wide eyed and he’d say you look like a deer caught in headlights but that won’t do the justice to how beautiful your eyes look right now. The way sweat glistened on your body, your lips parted and slightly heavy breath of yours that fans his face. You’re mere inches away but it feels too far to him. He needs to feel you, feel those lips on his, caress your soft skin under his rough hands an-

A loud siren buzzes through the arena snapping the two of you out of it. A tornado siren. You felt the continuous buzz of the alert through your jeans, looking back at Tyler with the same look in your eyes.

We gotta get out of here.

And so, in a very calm yet hasty manner, you and Tyler take off. Calmly brushing past the crowd and scared civilians to get to his truck. It might not be enough to stay in there but you may have enough time to get somewhere safe.

Think think think, where is safe? And suddenly it hits you.

Your hands are still attached, his hand squeezing yours a little too tight when he feels like you might get swallowed by the rushing crowd.

“I got it!”

You finally get to his truck, quickly getting in and driving.

Tyler is scared, but the way a smile forms at your lips, he almost forgets you’re in the middle of fucking life and death.

“You got somewhere close?”

You nod, giving him the directions as he hits the gas on full. It’s an old bunker you found literally yesterday when you came out to explore the town. Trying to figure out places that could be safe for the people to evacuate to. It is small, enough to fit around two or three people and you hope it’s not jammed up for the two of you to seek shelter.

The tornado is not far behind. Gaining speed and strength as it chases the two of you. You’re not ready, this was not in the plan and you’re certain that today is not the day you’ll die. Not when you’ve just stared to get to know him.

Tyler strategically positions his car, activating the drills as the two of you exit, running towards the patch of metal in the middle of the farm field.

He gets to it first, letting go of your hand mid sprint to open it up for you. Letting you climb down before getting in, the metal trap door a little too heavy with the winds and rain for him to completely shut it. So he leaves it open, letting the cold rain pour down into the bullet as he reaches for you.

You’re holding onto the pipelines, not having it in you to move further because of the wind. You feel his hand on your waist, holding onto you for dear life as your grip on the pipes tightens. One hand holding onto you and the other onto the pipe right above you, Tyler grounds himself on the floor. His feet turned soon as he tried not to move. Your hand comes up to where his rests on your waist, clutching it tighter before he pulls you even closer, chest to back.

You can feel his heart pounding, like your own, against your back. You’re both heaving. Your heavy breathes turning into calmer ones as your eyes closed, trying to breathe in his scent, feeling the way his arm feels around you. Thinking about anything but the giant tornado above your head. The smell of him engulfs you and you find yourself thinking and wanting to feel is him, him, him, him.

It’s enough. The sheer skin to skin contact, the smell of your hair right under his nose, the feel of his hot breath on your neck. It sends shivers down both of your spines and in no time the sky clears and the wind and rain passes over. The tornado moved or completely died, you’re not sure.

But you’re sure about the man that is still latched to you. Holding onto for dear life. The way he’s nuzzling his nose into your hair, his lips brushing against your scalp and leaving tiny kisses you can barely make out.

“It’s gone” your voice is nothing but a whisper. You turn in his arms, his hand still attached to your waist as you look up at him through wet lashes.

He has this wild look in his eyes, concern, fear, and love all moulded into one. You feel them dart to your lips, and back to your eyes before his other hand comes up to brush some hair from your face.

“Thank you for that” he whispers, “if you hadn’t known about this place, I’d probably be dead”

You give him a smile, squeezing his arm before snaking your way out of his grasp.he reluctantly lets go of you, wanting to keep contact with your soft skin and that close proximity that kept you warm. But he lets you go, you’re shaken, just a little bit. This wasn’t your first tornado, but god it felt like you both were about to die there.

He helps you get back up, climbing up the ladder just behind you.

The walk back to the truck is quiet, you’re only half an arm length away from him but it feels too far.

He opened the door to the passenger seat, letting you in before getting into the drivers seat himself. Letting out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in before deciding to break the silence.

“So, you know anymore rodeos that end like that?”

A/n; The ending feels rushed, idk? I hope you liked it!! Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated, lovies🫶🏻🫶🏻.

[kookslastbutton]

what love feels like ༓ myg (m)

✑ Summary: Being a mother to a beautiful baby girl and wife to an adoring husband is the most rewarding feeling in the world. But you also work a full-time job, are overtired most of the time, stressed, don't have any alone time, look very different than eight years ago, and sex? Well, that hasn’t happened in weeks. The gravity of the situation weighs on you until one day, all of your deepest insecurities rear their ugly head–that your husband might not love you as much anymore and someone could take him away from you.

Pairing: husband!yoongi x reader

AU/genre: angst, fluff, smut, marriage au

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 6.7k+

Warnings: swearing, both Yoongi and oc are in their 30s, mom and full-time worker!oc, reserved!dad!yoongi, lack of intimacy, mentions of body insecurities post-pregnancy, mentions of fear of abandonment, mentions of jealousy. irrational worries, built-up stress, light fighting, silent treatment, stubbornness, lots of reassurance, nightmares, cute backstory of how they met, a lot of ily, Yoongi and oc being good parents 🥹, Yoongi calls oc doll, and explicit sexual content

sexual warnings: swearing, kissing, neck kisses, pleading, banter, dirty talk, doll petname, asking for consent, b**b squeezing & sucking, hair threading, penetration, f*ngering, big d*ck!yoongi, growling, missi*nary, eye contact, tearing up, c*ming together

Now Playing: Breathing by Anne Marie

a/n: Okay this was for Yoon's bday. Based on the poll, husband!Yoon won. Was intended to be a Drabble but well...heh 😅 Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing this fic and Yoon is just such a good hubby for responding well to these very relatable insecurities. (Low-key love this couple...) I'm sorry for any typos or warnings i missed! I checked and double checked but a few might have slipped. Enjoy! Anyway please enjoy! 🥰

“So, you're Jia's father, huh? I don’t think I've seen you here before, and I’m sure I would have recognized you.”

With his back straight and arms folded, Yoongi gives the woman in front of him a quick once-over. Mid-40s, freshly single, and definitely in need of some companionship. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out; she’s been talking his ear off for the past twenty minutes like he’s some kind of remedy to all her problems.

Honestly, he just swung by to pick up his four-year-old from daycare after another grueling day at work. But the moment he walked in, it was as if all the single moms latched onto him like a flock of hungry geese. This one’s name is Sandra in particular.

It reminds him of his college basketball days, how the cheerleaders all too eagerly swarmed around him after sinking the winning shot at the championship game. Shame he was too busy eyeing the girl in the stands to care, her face buried behind a book twice as big as her head. Who reads an 800-page novel during the playoffs anyway?

Fate, as one may call it, intervened about a week later when his best friend became said girl’s lab partner. Yoongi didn’t make any sudden moves at first, but well, he did make her his wife three years later.

“It’s just so nice to finally meet the father of such a sweet child. Especially considering how many dads tend to take a backseat in their child's early years.” Is she still going on? Yoongi does his best to stay present, though it’s proving unsuccessful. “And Jia truly is an angel! It’s clear you’re doing a wonderful job raising her, even with a full-time job and all.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows knit together at the somewhat odd choice of words. “Thanks,” he drawls out, noticing her pupils dilating with every breath. “Most of the credit goes to my wife though. She’s a great mom to Jia.”

“Jia’s m-mom?” Sandra stutters, her mouth slightly agape. Yoongi senses the gears turning in her head as she struggles to process the unexpected presence of his wife. Tempting as it is, he holds down a smirk. Of course, he’s a happily married man–for nearly eight years now.

“Yeah,” he replies simply. “She’s usually the one to pick up our daughter from daycare, but she’s been working a lot of overtime lately. I thought I'd come instead so she can get some rest."

“Oh, well that’s very–“

“Daddy! Daddy, you’re here!” The sound of a familiar high-pitched voice, along with a light pattering of feet, diverts both adult’s attention.

“Hey kid.” Yoongi effortlessly lifts the small child once in front of him, securing her in his arms. “Have fun today?”

Jia gives an enthusiastic nod, bright red ribbons in her hair bouncing cutely as she does. Proudly, she shows him the drawing she made.

“See? It’s me, you, and mommy!” She makes sure to point to each part of the picture with her pointer finger.

Yoongi gently takes the artwork from his daughter’s hand and lets out a soft chuckle. “Now this is what I call a masterpiece! Mommy’s gonna love hanging this one on the fridge. How about I hold onto this and you go grab your backpack, okay?”

As soon as Jia’s feet touch the carpeted floor again, she races off to her cubby in the far corner of the room. Yoongi shoots Sandra a final glance before slowly following behind. “We got to get going, but nice meeting you.”

“You…too.” Sandra’s response is more than disappointed as she watches the father-daughter duo make their way out of the building. Evidently, Min Yoongi isn’t the single dad she originally assumed. Funny, she swore there wasn’t a wedding band in sight. Maybe she missed it.

“No, I’m sorry but I’m certain we haven’t used any of your services in the last six months. My husband canceled it in late October.”

With one hand, you grip your cell phone up to an ear while the other pops open the dishwasher. You’ve been on the phone with the cable company for half an hour, trying to make sense of an unexpected charge that appeared on your bank account this morning. You consider yourself more patient than most, yet after working all day, a pile of laundry waiting to be washed, and dinner threatening to burn on the stove, the last thing you have time for is arguing with your old service provider.

“I understand, ma’am, and I apologize for any confusion. I’m taking a look at my records and they’re all showing me that—oh wait a second.”

The young man on the opposite end of the line interrupts his own thought, piquing your concern in the process.

“What did you say your last name is?”

You answer and in an instant, you’re met with a thousand rushed apologies; something about getting the account names mixed up in their system. It’s difficult to decipher everything you hear with the front door being thrust open that very moment.

“Mommy, where are you? We’re home!” Your daughter not so subtly announces her presence from the foyer. She kicks off her shoes, hangs her backpack on the designated wall hook, and then rushes to the kitchen upon catching a brief glimpse of your shirt.

“It’s alright, these mistakes happen.” You hang up the call and turn around to find Jia only steps away, a big goofy grin on her face. Infectious, you break out into a smile yourself and swoop her up.

“Hey honey, I missed you so much!” You kiss the side of your daughter’s head as she wraps her small arms around your neck. “You look so pretty with all these ribbons in your hair! Daddy did a good job, didn’t he?”

Being that you were called into work earlier than usual this morning, Yoongi was the one who got Jia dressed and ready for daycare. You’re delightfully surprised by the results.

“Mmhm,” Jia nods, twirling a couple of strands of hair between her thumb and forefinger. “But Daddy pulls too much!”

“Maybe if someone had listened and stopped fussing when I told her, I wouldn’t have accidentally yanked on her hair when I was reaching for her favorite Hello Kitty scrunchie.” Yoongi joins you both in the kitchen, walking over to press a quick peck on your lips while tenderly caressing the small of your back. The gesture soothes you of your earlier frustrations. “Who was that on the phone? Cable company?”

“Yeah, they canceled the charge. Wrong account.” As you reiterate the entire mix-up, your eyes wander all over your husband. He’s especially handsome tonight, given his perfectly tousled black hair and navy blue blazer flowing over his body. It’s tastefully oversized with a clean, white top paired underneath. You, on the other hand, are sporting a raggedy old t-shirt and stained sweatpants.

There was a time when you used to put a shit ton more effort into your appearance. It was before you got pregnant with Jia, back when you and Yoongi were going out on weekly dates. Neither of you has that kind of time anymore, or energy for that matter. You didn’t believe the other moms when they told you the romance takes a nose dive after you have your first kid. Yet here you are, proven wrong again.

Being parents to a beautiful baby girl is likely the most rewarding feeling in the world for you and Yoongi. You don’t remember the last time the two of you got real quality alone time though. And sex? Well, that hasn’t happened in weeks. The gravity of the situation weighs more on you with each passing day to be honest. Sure, you’re not the same person you used to be eight years ago, but shouldn’t you and Yoongi still make time for at least a little intimacy?

“How was picking up Jia by the way?” You look at Yoongi who merely shrugs nonchalantly in response.

“It was fine. Nothing too out of the ordinary,” Yoong gives you another peck before heading up the stairs to your bedroom. “I’m gonna go get changed. Why don’t you show Mommy the drawing you did Jia?”

“A drawing?” You shift your attention to your daughter whose eyes sparkle like diamonds upon mention. “We should put it up on the fridge then. Let’s take a look hmm?”

“It’s in my backpack! My new friend and I were drawing together. Her name is Mi-Sun.” Jia continues telling you all about her friend Mi-Sun as you make your way to the front door where her backpack hangs. You’re fully engaged until the very end. “Daddy made a new friend too!” she joyously claps her hands together, not realizing the depth of her remark.

“Oh, who’s Daddy’s new friend honey?” You ask, staying as calm as possible.

“Ms. Cho! They were talking for a really long time today.”

Ms. Cho? You think back to all the moms you’ve met at daycare. Somehow you can’t recall ever hearing or meeting a Ms. Cho. She must be a single mom, you deduce. Was she new? What did she look like? And why didn’t Yoongi mention her when you asked?

This has to be nothing but a little small talk, an acquaintance at most. Besides, the moms at Jia’s daycare are quite a chatty bunch and Yoongi wouldn’t dare overstep any boundaries.

“Do you know what they were talking about?” You don’t enjoy asking your child for details about your husband, yet you can’t seem to help it this time.

“I dunno,” she shrugs her shoulders. "Daddy was laughing a lot."

Suddenly, the self-assurance you gave yourself earlier slips away; seemingly useless given the queasy feeling building in the pit of your stomach.

For the remainder of the night, you purposely dodge every attempt your husband makes to kiss, touch, and hold you. You’ve even begun responding to his questions in one-word answers and at times, with nothing at all.

Yes, you’re being petty; more than usual. The silent treatment frustrates Yoongi to no end and it isn’t very mature of you, but neither is refusing to tell your wife that some single mom was flirting with you in front of your kid! Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration. Maybe it all sums up to a harmless conversation, but it’s not like you know either way with Yoongi being as reserved as he is. It brings you back to your early dating days when he wouldn’t think to tell you about various aspects of his day; who he ate breakfast with that morning or the one classmate of his that wouldn’t leave him alone for two semesters.

Truth be told, you're simply hoping that your husband will bring up the topic first, without having to be the classic nagging wife. You’re a jealous person by nature so it’s not a simple task. Even now as you fold the first batch of laundry on your shared bed, him on the other side doing the same, you struggle to keep from blurting everything out.

“So,” Yoongi fluffs up a clean pillowcase before sliding it onto one of the bed pillows. “How was work?”

What a basic question, you grumble internally. Is that all he’s got? “Was okay,” you reply. “The usual.”

“You must be tired from the day. Did you get to lie down at all?” Yoongi picks up another pillowcase, repeating the process as before. When he glances your way, it’s clear something’s on your mind. You’ve started pairing Jia’s socks far more aggressively than normal and you’re holding back your responses. “Did you hear me, doll? Or am I going deaf here?” The sarcastic chuckle distracts you from your task, forcing your attention.

You’re about to respond when your eyes briefly flicker down to his hands, his left one in particular. Where's his wedding ring? Yoongi always wears it no matter what. The same sick feeling from before returns tenfold. No wonder that Ms. Cho was all over him–she must have thought he was single.

“No, I didn’t get to lie down Yoongi. I worked all day, came home and made dinner, called the cable guy to get that stupid bill figured out, and now I’m doing the second load of laundry. I’m really just not in the mood to chat.” It comes out a blur as you snatch the empty laundry basket and head for your washer and dryer, your eyes welling up with tears.

“__, wait.” Yoongi tosses the last pillow near the headboard and stops you in your tracks, his hand firmly gripping one end of the laundry basket. The intensity of his stare softens as he speaks. “I'm sorry if it seems like I'm forcing you to talk. I know you've been losing a lot of sleep recently between work, Jia, and upkeeping the house. We just don't get a lot of time to see each other anymore and I miss you…I miss talking to you."

With every ounce of self-control remaining, you hold back any tears that risk spilling out. You don't know why you're acting like this, why you're crying over something that seems so small and insignificant to the rest of the world. Yoongi loves you. He's said it a million times and proven it to you over and over again, for eight years now. He wouldn’t cheat on you, yet you still get so worked up about the idea that someone could take him away from you. Someone half your age, more attractive, or hell even the opposite sex if it means fewer dark circles under their eyes.

"Why- why aren't you wearing your ring?" Your naturally confident voice dwindles to the whisper of a mouse. It's completely out of character, nevertheless, here you are.

"I..." Your husband's voice wavers. His gaze flickers to his left hand, where his ring should be, but isn't. "Shit...I took it off in the shower this morning," he confesses, frustrated by his forgetfulness. "I was in such a rush to get Jia to daycare, and me to work, that it completely slipped my mind. I'm sorry—I fully intended to put it back on." He pauses, then perks up. "It's still in the bathroom. I'll be right back, okay?"

You watch as he makes a beeline for the master bathroom, eager to rectify the situation as soon as possible. You should have kept silent what you say next, but you don't.

"No wonder the moms at Jia's daycare were so drawn to you."

"What?" Yoongi stops in his tracks. The dumbfounded expression on his face tells you that you've caught him off guard again.

"Jia told me about someone named Ms. Cho," you reluctantly continue. "The two of you were laughing and talking and–"

"Baby, don't worry about that." Seizing his chance, your husband walks back over to you and sneakily pulls the laundry basket from under your arm. He sets it on the ground after, then reaches to take your hand in his, but stubbornly you cross your arms.

"Her name's Sandra," he starts explaining. "She's a new mom at the daycare and she didn't know anyone, so she started talking to me. I got the sense she was a little overly friendly but it was all small talk, nothing more."

Still largely unsatisfied, you remain unmoved. "If it wasn't a big deal then why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because nothing serious happened. The majority of the conversation was her venting about her ex-husband and me wishing you were right there next to me. Please believe me. All I could think about was finally being able to come home to you after a long week with Jia in our arms."

"Really?" Well, now you're feeling guilty for avoiding him in nearly every way tonight. Guilty for believing such wild assumptions that he'd leave you for someone else over one measly conversation. Guilty for letting yourself get so worked up over a situation you, quite frankly, knew few details about.

"I mean it doll." This time, when he reaches out to grasp your wrist, he succeeds. He intertwines his fingers with yours and leads you to the edge of your bed, gently pulling you down to sit on his lap. "Do you really think I could look at anyone else the way I look at you? Or think about you the way I have for the last eight-plus years we've been married and known each other?"

You hesitate your answer, averting his eye contact. "I know but…"

"No, don't finish that. Look at me," he intercepts. "You and our daughter are the only women on my mind–24/7. I can't get either of you out of my head and I don't want to. I'm so sorry I forgot to put my wedding band back on this morning, and again tonight. I feel awful about it and I'll be more careful from now on. And another thing, when Sandra and I were talking I mentioned you multiple times. So, it's clear to her that I'm a happily married man."

The last bit of information manages to perk your ears. "You talked about me?" Your eyes widen as you finally shift your full attention to him. Yoongi eyes widen with you, amused by your sudden change of heart to look at him.

"I said my wife is an amazing mother, works too hard for her own good, and needed to rest today. Give or take a few words."

That's all? You huff to yourself. Would it been nice if your husband also thrown in that you were beautiful or stunning in that mix of compliments? Yes, yes it would have–again, you're pettiness clouds your better judgment. You're not as pissed off as before, but rather semi-irritated.

"Okay…well I guess it's fine then. I'm sorry for being short with you earlier. I shouldn't have made those rash conclusions about the ring and that woman from the daycare. It wasn't reasonable of me." You get up from his lap, yet Yoongi isn't entirely convinced that you're okay.

"There's still something you're not telling me. I can tell."

"No, there's nothing else." You waive him off, placing your hand on your bedroom doorknob "You told her you had a wife so it's fine. I need to switch the second load of laundry.”

"Come on, doll. Let's not leave things unsaid now."

Sighing at his plead, you find yourself giving into all your repressed thoughts and emotions. It swallows you up, like a tidal wave you can't stop. "Look at me Yoon. I'm sweaty, I have dark circles under my eyes, stretch marks, love handles, my hair's a mess, and all I wear are old sweats covered in stains. I'm nothing like I used to be! No wonder we aren't intimate anymore."

Yoongi rises from the bed at once, offended by the sudden digression. "Is that what this is all about? It’s not even about that single mom from daycare is it?" The truth of the matter sinks in as he speaks.

"I guess maybe so…though I'm still annoyed about that too." Great, you're back to square one again.

"Come with me, I need to show you something." Your husband gestures you to follow him, which you slowly concede to.

"What are you doing Yoon?" You both walk into the master bathroom, stopping in front of the large mirror above the sink.

"I'm showing you the woman I'm in love with and have been in love with for nearly eight years now. Sweats and all." Yoongi makes you face the mirror directly, hands around your shoulders. You have trouble stomaching the sight.

"Yoongi please, I can't. The laundry ringing off." You avoid looking into the mirror and make a move to leave the bathroom.

"Just stay with me a minute, please?" Your husband refuses to loosen his hold on you, turning your body so you're looking eye to eye. "No, you're not the same person as you were and neither am I. We're parents to a beautiful daughter now, who we love and adore. We're also overtired 90% of the time, juggling a million things at once. But there's one thing you can count on to always stay the same–my loyalty to you. I'll always be in love with you __, no matter what age you are or however way you look. There's nothing you can do to change that, so why fight it?"

Dammit. A single tear rolls down your cheek as you take in his heart-melting speech. It's not his words alone, it's the sincerity behind them. How he's repeated similar countless times before throughout your entire relationship.

"I love you, Yoon..." you choke out the words, composure fleeting.

"I love you so much, doll." He wipes the wetness of your tear with his thumb. "As far as us not being as intimate anymore, that's my fault. I don't ever want you to feel like I don't desire you every day. Why don't we send the kid to my parents this weekend and let me start making things right hmm?"

"I don't know if we can this weekend. Jia has a playdate on Saturday."

"So, I'll ask Mom to take her. She'll be happy to, trust me. We can finally watch that movie you've been dying to show me since what? December?"

"You're serious?" Your eyes light up at the mention of what is essentially a movie date. The show Yoongi's referring to is one you've been craving to see for months, yet neither of you has found the time to watch. "I've been talking about it for so long, Yoon."

"I know you have, it's why I suggested it. I've been wanting to watch it too with all the trailers you keep sending me. Plus, I'll be able to keep my beautiful wife in my arms for over two hours. That's a lot for us, especially with you being such a busy bee. I can never get you to light in one place! What's up with that, huh?"

Feeling your natural self re-emerging, you throw a playful swat to his arm and scowl at his teasing comment. "You're one to talk! You're basically a workaholic! Besides, you knew who you were marrying when you met me."

Yoongi chuckles and brings both hands to cup your cheeks, squishing them slightly. "A cutie who reads 800-page novels at a basketball game?"

"Stop babying me!" You pull his hands off your cheeks and rub them, trying to regain some composure. "I don't regret my choices, I like books. It's why I'm such a boss at work!"

"Okay, boss," he laughs. "What about what I suggested before then? I can call Mom tomorrow and ask her if she could watch Jia for the day. She'll take her to her playdate, then they can spend the rest of the day together."

It does sound nice, having the whole day with your husband.

"Okay," you agree. "Let's try."

"Good." Yoongi slides his hands down to your hips and pulls you flush against his chest. "How about we seal it with a kiss now?" You nod and he leans his head down, pressing an amazing, tender kiss to your lips. It makes you both giddy on queue.

"Read one more story, Daddy!" Jia leaps off her small, twin bed and bounds for her bookshelf. She lets out a series of giggles when a large pair of hands catch her, lifting her high into the air.

"I already read you three books kid," Yoongi says, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Bedtime." He then tucks her into her fluffy comforter, plugs in her teddy bear nightlight, and closes her bedroom door.

The next second, Jia comes running out of her room, latching onto his right leg. "I don't wanna go to bed. I wanna play!" Figures she'd be hyper at this hour.

Yoongi sighs and picks her up. "Daddy told you to go to sleep, it's not playtime. You'll have lots of time for that tomorrow when you get to see your friend." He then carries her into her room, yet she fusses in his arms; thumping her tiny fists into his chest.

"No, no, no, Daddy. I want to play!"

Sighing, Yoongi looks at his child with sharp eyes. "Jia–"

"Hey," you interrupt, entering your daughter's bedroom upon hearing the commotion down the hall. "What's going on?"

"Kid doesn't want to go to bed."

You give an empathetic look and saunter over to the pair, gently taking Jia into your arms. Yoongi places his hands on his hips as he watches you reason with your daughter.

"Jia, you know tomorrow's a big day right? You and Sana are going to go to the playground together." The child nods. "You don't want to be tired when you're playing do you?"

"No..." She shakes her head. "I want to be awake!"

"Then you need to listen to Daddy and go to sleep. That way you'll be full of energy tomorrow when you and Sana go on the swings or slide down all the big slides." You smile as Jia starts rubbing her drowsy eyes, yawning in the process.

"But I...okay," she slowly concedes, eyes fluttering shut as she gives into her sleepy state. Unsurprising to you and Yoongi, she was tired all along. But like most kids, hated going to bed.

"See?" You lay Jia in her bed and pull the covers up near her chin, giving her a light kiss on the side of her head. Yoongi bends down and does the same after you. "You just gotta talk to her a little, she'll typically fall asleep on her own."

"But I read her three of her favorite books." Yoongi shuts off the overhead light, along with the door to Jia's room, and follows you to your bedroom.

"That's different Yoon," you argue back. "Books excite her."

"She takes after you that way then." Yoongi pulls his t-shirt off, leaving him bare-chested, and climbs onto his side of the bed. You join him shortly after with your head resting on his chest and an arm thrown around his waist.

"I'm so exhausted," you yawn.

"Go to sleep, baby. I'm right here." Your husband places a hand over your wrapped arm, sending you off into a deep slumber.

Well this is just ironic. Almost 2 A.M. and you're wide awake.

What initially started as a nice, relaxing dream quickly turned into a terrible nightmare. In the dream, you woke up alone. Yoongi was gone. Jia was gone too. You can't exactly make sense of it, except for a vague memory of Jia calling another woman 'Mom'. You couldn't see her face very well, so it could've been anyone. You couldn't speak either, so even when you tried approaching the three, they couldn't hear you. You've had nightmares plenty of times, but this one is new. It's a clear projection of all the underlying concerns upheaved from earlier; insecurities, abandonment, loss, and it has you unsettled.

You glance over to your husband's side of the bed. He's fast asleep, no longer cuddling you due to you both flip-flopping in your sleep. You decide to slide closer to him, needing to watch him for a while. It might sound weird, but you love watching him sleep. He's so handsome and you feel a great deal of comfort doing so. Maybe if he was awake, you'd tell him about what you dreamt. Then again...maybe not.

"I love you Yoon," you whisper as quietly as you can, tracing his every facial feature with your eyes.

"'m, I love you too."

Is he-was he awake? As if caught red-handed, you quickly flit your face away in favor of the blank ceiling above. You weren't expecting him to answer at all, and in such a hoarse voice too. You're a little turned on by it to be honest.

"Can't sleep?" he speaks up again, eyes still closed.

"No, I''ll be okay though. You can go back to sleep. Don't worry."

He grunts, a tad unhappy with your dismissal of him. "Do you want to talk about it? Your dream?"

You whip your head in his direction. "How–" You pause, seeing his eyes blink open.

"I didn't meet you just yesterday, doll. I know they keep you up. Just know, I'm always here okay? Always." He reaches for you with delicate fingers as he continues. "Now, come here. Seems we got separated in our sleep."

You accept the offer and cuddle into him again. This time your noses nearly touch and his arm wraps around your lower waist. You feel the growing urge to kiss him, wanting to forget your nightmare entirely. But perhaps silly, you ask permission first, seeing as he's close to drifting off again.

"Yoon?"

"Mm."

"Can we kiss?" Your cheeks flush a little at the request. Why are you acting like this? You've been married for years.

"Sure, 'm tired but I could go for a make-out right now." A small smirk graces his lips as he teases you. You give him a classic 'Yoongi!' in reply. "I'm kidding. You don't ever have to ask me that," he finishes.

"Hmm, maybe I don't want a kiss anymore." You feign stubbornness, just to see his response. And a response he gives you, more than you're prepared for.

"You're ridiculous," he grumbles, capturing your lips in one fell swoop. He moves his lips against yours as the hand on your waist grips tighter. The tiniest of moans escapes your lips.

You attempt to break the kiss first, thinking it will only last for a few seconds. Yet Yoongi slips a hand behind your neck to bring you into another kiss. One that's deeper than the last. You feel your breath being taken away little by little, especially when his tongue licks into your mouth. God, you haven't kissed like this in an eternity. A wetness soon gathers between your thighs.

"'m, Yoon," you gasp when his cool fingers sneakily make their way under your shirt, tickling your bare skin. They travel the expanse of your waist, stomach, and up along your back. "So cold."

Yoongi pulls away from the kiss and retracts his fingers. He then lazily moves his body until his chest hovers over your own, rolling you on your back in the process. He's a bit of a blur due to the dimness of the room, yet you can see the whites of his eyes a bit better than before.

"Help me warm them then," he says, folding his hands on top of yours from where they rest on your stomach. "You're really burning up, doll."

His observation is right. Ever since you woke up, you're body's been hotter than normal. The stress is clear and it's only increasing due to the unexpected turn of tonight's events; your husband seemingly wanting to make love to you in the middle of the night.

"So I am," you reply, staring straight into his eyes. "Must be because of all the sudden surprises today. My body's finally responding to it all."

Yoongi nods, following your implication. "Well let's do something to calm it down, shall we?" He waits for your final go before making any abrupt movements.

"But...you haven't seen me–"

"Naked in a while?" he predicts your next words, unfazed. "I've seen it all, each time better than the last because I love you. You're beautiful to me, no matter what. Let me love you __. I've missed you. I've missed us."

"Okay...please," you sigh, desperately needing his touch. "It's been so long since we've been this close."

Neither of you has it in you to delay another second as you dive into another fiery kiss, your hands wandering up and down each other's bodies. You love his hair the most, so you run your fingers through it repeatedly. Your husband's soft grunts remind you that it's as pleasurable for him as it is for you, and as if to counter, he latches his lips to the curve of your neck.

"Yoon," you moan, shivering at the feeling of being peppered in open-mouth kisses. Your eyes automatically roll up as well.

Yoongi nips at your jaw next, featherlike, yet deadly to you nevertheless. He doesn't allow himself to linger more than a second, though, preferring to keep you on your toes. So with careful fingers, he begins lifting the bottom of your shirt.

"Can I?"

You hum in approval and lean forward for him to remove it.

With your nipples now exposed to the brisk air, stiffening due to arousal, Yoongi brings both his hands up to caress your boobs. He's incredibly gentle, telling you how beautiful you are once again until his thumbs start circling your peaked nipples. A rush of sensation shoots up your spine as he rolls them harder, flicking them once in a while.

"Fuck," you swear.

"Feeling good?"

All you do is nod fervently in response, which Yoongi takes as his signal to lower his head to your chest. He squeezes both breasts in his hand before wrapping his mouth around a nipple, licking and sucking relentlessly. He repeats the same to the other.

"Yoongi, I need you. Please." You're core tightens, thighs struggling not to rub together, as you plead with your husband to relieve you. You are so wet and getting wetter.

"I'm here, doll, I got you. Fingers first hm?"

He pushes part of the comforter towards the foot of the bed, then gestures for you to raise your butt. Any shred of mystery of how worked up he's gotten you slip away as he pulls your underwear and pants down your legs. They both get tossed on the floor, per usual.

Bare pussy exposed, Yoongi guides your legs further apart and brings a hand down to your entrance. One of his long, slender fingers traces up your folds so smoothly that you buck your hips upon the touch. He smiles lightly at the subtle response, pleased that you're finally enjoying yourself; too often you put your needs last. His finger slowly sinks into your well-lubricated pussy, velvety walls clenching around it.

"Oh, g-god," you give a shaky moan as his finger pumps and curls in you, stimulating your g-spot. "Need you now, Yoon, so bad."

"Mm not yet, we need to stretch you out. You haven't taken me for a good three or four weeks," he smirks at your eagerness, sliding a second finger next to the first. "This pussy is drenched but not enough. I need you to come. Can you do that for me?"

Fast, quick movements follow suit as your husband works you up to an orgasm. Oh fuck, oh fuck, you chant in near whines. Your pussy is spasming around him, walls tightening with each push and pull. You know when he draws his hand out that it's covered with your come. Messy, sex is messy and both of you are too far gone to care; the pleasure sweeping over you.

Finally, in what feels like an endless tease, you have your first orgasm of the night. You feel your body relaxing into the mattress again, yet your breath remains short. Yoongi, on the other hand, groans seeing your release dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets. For a split second, there's a slight darkening in his eyes while he takes in your post-orgasmic form. The two fingers that had been inside you are sensually brought to his lips, slipping between the seam before being cleaned off.

You're taken aback by the action, though you've witnessed it before. Something about watching your husband willingly follow through with a gesture so lewd makes your head spin–you want him to fuck you right this instant. He must share the same feeling because you don't even need to sound the words due to his hands already making quick work of his pants.

"You drive me mad, you know that? Can never get a break with how sweet you taste. Your lips, your come. All of it makes me go mad." His full length comes in view, hard and tip leaking with pre-cum. You try not to let yourself stare at the thickness but hell, you must've forgotten the extent of your husband's size. You don't remember it being this big before.

"Well," you gulp. "You're not making it easy on me either, looking like this."

Yoongi climbs over to you again, settling into a straddled position, and looks deep into your eyes. "Who's fault do you think that is?"

"It's your fault." You bend your legs and wrap them around his mid-section. You can feel the tip of his cock tease at your entrance. The anticipation is beyond grueling.

"No," he says, aligning himself up to your weeping hole. "it's yours." He then thrusts his hips forward, his length sinking into you so perfectly it has you completely satisfied.

"Y-Yours," you whimper out, unable to form a steady sentence.

"Fine." He picks up his pace. "Let's just agree we both fuck each other up on a daily---ah fuck!" Yoongi growls and gives you a suspicious look when he feels your pussy suddenly clench around his length.

"I didn't do it on purpose this time! You're fucking me too good is all."

"Really? You're not just teasing me?"

Yoongi is slow to believe since you've purposefully clenched countless times before, simply out of playfulness. Tonight is different than those nights though because you're telling the truth–he's truly fucking you so good.

"What the hell," he concedes. "You feel so fucking fantastic, I don't even care." He continues his movements, thrusting into you with deep groans and labored breaths. His fingers grip the mattress harder with the veins in his neck bulging out.

Both your bodies move in sync as the familiar sound of skin slapping on skin echoes off the walls of your bedroom. You do your best to keep your moans low, not wanting to risk waking up your daughter.

"Yoon, fuck! I need to come, it's gonna-fuck-happen soon," you swear, pussy throbbing at the feeling of being so full after weeks of abstinence. You can tell you're reaching your high with the bundle of nerves in your core threatening to snap at any given moment.

Of course, you're wet too, extremely wet.

"I'm. Nearly. There." He barely sounds the words out, jaw clenching. "Just another minute, and we can finish together."

Your eyes, which haven't left his since he entered you, begin to glass over with tears. It's overwhelming; his love for you. No matter the doubts that tell you the opposite, you can't give in to their ugly lies. You'll continue to struggle, naturally, but you won't ever let them win. Yoongi's never once given up on you, and neither should you.

"I love you, Yoon...I love you with all my soul," you choke the words, falling apart all at once. "I'm sorry for today. How jealous and irrational I got."

"Don't apologize, doll. I shouldn't have let it go so far, our lack of intimacy and alone time. I promise we're going to make it all right okay?"

Giving you one last thrust, you both have your release at the same time. Yoongi helps ride your orgasm out by lazily continuing to grind into you. Yeah, you might need to shower and switch out the sheets after tonight, but you don't regret it one bit.

"In all seriousness baby," Yoongi speaks up, guiding your legs back on the soft mattress until you’re comfortable. "Don't feel like you have to apologize for everything. I understand your feelings and where you were coming from. I will say, the silent treatment kills me though. I'd rather you yell at me than not talk to me at all."

"It's not easy for me to raise my voice like that, Yoon." You throw your arms around his neck and sigh softly. "But I can try talking to you more, or at least tell you I need some time to process before I'm ready to have a conversation. I don't know, am I making sense?"

"Plenty of sense. I'll share more about my day with you and who I'm talking to as well. We'll also carve out time to have together. I love our daughter, but I don't see the harm in reaching out to our friends and family to babysit once in a while."

"Well, this sounds good to me," you hum.

"Me too." Yoongi smiles wide and goes in for another warm kiss. Your eyes flutter shut in unison.

This is what love feels like.

a/n: LMK what you think 🥰

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