#caught me hook line and sinker

[theprinceandthewitch]

Laserblast is so fucking funny though because he'll be like "I HATE heroes so much I love brutally squashing their hopes and dreams lmao" but is still hung up over what Carol, a hero, said about him like a decade ago. You can actually see the moment where his heart breaks into two in the flashback.

He's so hung up on what Carol said he actually internalized the belief he wasn't good enough to be a romantic partner and a father [which carries over to his relationships with Fink and Boxman for most of the series]. He literally chokes up as he's talking to Carol - he sounds like he's holding back tears underneath the resentment. And he cant even look her in the eyes as hes explaining why he decided to fake his own death.

Like... oh my god?? You cannot do this to me... you cannot dangle this kind of drama over my head and expect me not to eat that shit up. You cannot imply that most of his hatred for heroes stems from her, since he believed she was lying to his face since the start their relationship and expect me not to be fascinated by it. Especially since he was the one who made the first move on her like lksdjfsdf

[kerorowhump]

keroro is resolute... but he's naive and easily led... you could probably talk him into anything with enough conviction especially if you press on to something he already feels emotionally involved in

[shikai-the-storyteller]

SHILO AND GREFGORE.........

[foryoureyes-o-n-l-y]

.

[ambersky0319]

me seeing the art: oh this looks cool! and based off an au? guess it's time to go looking for more!

me, after reading the tags: nooooo 🥺😭

The King of the Wilderwest || Hiccup III Queenslayer

"Whatever do they say of that so-called King's character?" "They deem him a most dour young man... who finds joy in naught but his beasts and the havoc they wreck." (That, of course, was but a foul misrepresentation. Indeed, the King was actually deemed to be of a rather pleasant disposition. But why would he ever show his enemies that?)

Hiccup portrait for a little portrait series I've decided to do, based on my AU ::)

[2tarbell]

more trailer park!rafe drabbles i beg

maybe something with crybaby!reader too, like he comes home from a long ass day and she’s crying over the silliest thing ever.

but of course he makes her feel better.

love ur writing smm !!

he knew he was in for it when he came home and she wasn’t waiting patiently for him. if he didn’t know any better, rafe would assume the quaint trailer was empty — but the call you shared earlier on his lunch break detailed your plans around the house for the day, so there was no fuckin’ reason for it be as quiet as it was.

his confusion turned to concern when he heard little sniffles and sobs coming from the bathroom. rafe dropped his keys in the bowl and hurried off further into the trailer, in search of his girl.

pushing the bathroom door open with a rough hand, his mind went to the worst places when he saw her crumpled up on the floor. instantly he scooped her up onto the counter. his voice was a flurry of sounds she couldn’t decipher through her tears. the warm cadence she’s become so familiar with instantly providing some relief.

“hey, hey, baby — look at me, you hurt?” his hands are moving fast, holding her cheeks and checking for any injuries to that beautiful face.

she could only shake her head, hiccuping and trying to speak between sobs.

“rafe— dad— daddy—“

he hums and looks over her body. blue eyes checking off a list of what’s ‘normal’. when he finds nothing bleeding or falling off — that intense gaze finds hers, urging her to calm down.

his voice cooed, low and rumbly in a way that always soothes her, “shh, dad’s here, what happened? hm? someone — someone do somethin’ t’you or—“

“muh — my nails!” she interrupted, voice a petulant mumble.

rafe froze, mouth agape and eyes blinking in confusion. he looked down and took her smaller hands in his. turning them over and feeling the smooth skin. no cuts, no bruises—

the fact that he didn’t immediately know what she was talking about sends her into another spiral. yanking her hands from his and covering her eyes as sobs shook her shoulders.

“okay, okay, can’t help if you’re cryin’. talk t’me— what about your nails, honey?”

she sniffs and thrusts them in his face, rafe now seeing something out of the ordinary — chipped baby blue polish.

“wanted— wanted to paint them f’you. ‘cuz— ‘cuz s’the same color as your eyes but forgot they weren’t dry yet so i tried to make dinner and— and i ruined them!”

everyday the universe was testing his patience.

a sharp sigh out of his nose and rafe let his head fall forward. relief and disbelief pooled in his chest. she was this worked up over nail polish?

a low grumble of her name ceased her tears until they were just little sniffles of sadness. any other person and rafe would’ve been out the door with a specific finger showing his annoyance. but this was his person, his precious girl, and if she was this worked up over nail polish — he was going to indulge her. he picked up his head, eyes tired from a long days work but soft in a way meant just for her. he spoke in that way that makes her all fuzzy for him.

“jesus christ, that’s— yeah, okay. baby, ‘m— ‘m sorry. y’just wanted t’do somethin’ sweet f’dad, yeah?”

hook, line, and sinker. reader huffed and nodded as she leaned forward into his chest. her little gasps punctuated his cooing. within minutes, she was putty in his arms, nuzzling closer and closer. rafe littered kisses over her hair, gently rocking her until her head lifted off his chest. wet cheeks and a red nose greeted him and he couldn’t stop the adoring coo from falling out as he wiped her face.

“thereee you are— my sweet girl… better now?”

she nodded at his words, almost hypnotized by the gentle tone of his voice. a little hiccup fell out when she caught sight of her messy nails, but rafe quickly shushed her.

“shh, no more cryin’. y’gotta be a big girl, a’ight? c’mon, whaddaya need?”

she wished she had a picture of this big man patiently painting and blowing on her nails — that matched his eyes.

[bunny-jpeg]

hear that thump? i can't get enough.

lando norris

cw: smut/pwp, seduction, unprotected sex, the reader seduces lando, zak brown's daughter!reader, dirty talk, missionary position, pregnancy

this bunny runs on comments and reblogs! feed the rabbit!! *thumps foot*

this felt wrong. but in the world of formula one, wrong didn't always mean bad. or at least that was what you were trying to convince yourself as you got ready.

you got on the sheer stockings and the pearl necklace that you had gotten as gift. you made sure your hair was perfect, everything was in place. you had actually redone your make-up twice because you hated how it looked. everything had to be perfect for tonight.

you believed it was the night that would save mclaren.

another look in the mirror, you tried not to hyper focus on perceived flaws. you exhaled deeply, you were getting into your head. you placed your hands on your hips and examined yourself from all angles. you sighed, "he's not going to care, he's a guy your age. they only care about one thing."

yet, you worried.

you felt responsible for helping your father, zak brown, keep his driver's for the 2025 season. especially one in particular, lando norris. there was an uneasiness under the surface, while the tabloids and rumor reddits hadn't caught wind of it yet. you could tell that lando was looking away from mclaren.

and you knew that your father wanted to keep him in that driver's seat for the team. so as you got yourself ready for a dinner with lando, you felt the hammer in your chest. you looked in the full length mirror in your bedroom before you grabbed your purse and headed to the uber outside of your apartment.

lando was waiting outside the resturant for you, one hand in his pocket and the other on his phone as he tried to keep himself busy. you felt a hammering in your chest. tonight was simple, seduce lando norris.

"lando!" you chirped as you walked towards him. your heels clapped against the concrete under you. your arms open in a friendly manner. he looked up and beamed at you. you embraced him tightly, he returned it and even picked you up a little.

"there she is, oh wow. i haven't seen you in forever!" he laughed.

you smiled at him and placed a hand on his bicep, "i saw you you like three months ago! i have been busy with university."

he chuckled, "i know, i know. i'm pretty sure you had to squeeze in getting dinner with me."

you replied, "lando, you're more than worth it. i'll clear a whole day if i had to." then you took him by the hand, "come on, let's eat." the place was beautiful with the food prepared in a way that screamed expensive.

you sat across from him and laughed at all his stories. you could tell that he was enjoying the attention. the smiles, the food, the bit of liquor. he even complimented your laugh when one of his jokes really landed and you got a little louder than normal.

"lando. can you be honest with me?"

"anything."

you pouted a little as you leaned a little bit forward. the low light of the restaurant caught the colour of your eyes perfectly. the way you sat gave him an ample view of your cleavage. you asked softly, "you're not leaving mclaren, are you?"

"no.. i mean... no, no." lando seemed a little nervous answering.

you replied, "good. because i'd hate to see you go. i like our time together and well, i was hoping we'd have more time." you gave a soft smile, "you always were my favorite." then your eyes cast down to you half finished meal.

the sight of you, you almost looked vulnerable. sweet and soft, the kind of woman that lando wanted on his cock. he knew it was wrong, fucking the boss' daughter. but you were both adults. and your sweet words of praise only enticed him, made blood rush to his cheeks. colouring him pink.

you poked at the piece of pepper on your plate as you sighed, "don't leave me, lando. promise?"

he shifted in his seat and nodded dumbly. hook, line and sinker. he replied, "of course, i'd never leave you. who even told you i was thinking about it? because i wasn't."

you shrugged, "you know what rumours are like. hard to tell fact from fiction."

lando placed his arm across the table, palm up so you could hold his hand. delicately you placed your hand in his. he gave it a firm squeeze. not enough to cause damage, but to reassure you.

he said, "don't worry, beautiful. i'm not going anywhere. plus, i think i look a lot nicer in orange." he chuckled. any correspondence he had with the likes of alpine slipped out of his mind and replaced with thoughts of your beautiful smile and soft curves. alpine was nice, but the softness of your pussy was even better.

you ended up back at his place, he drove you both him with his hand on your thigh. every so often you caught him catching a glimpse at you.

"if you're worried about my father finding out. don't worry, he's not an over protective monster. if anything he'd be happy that one of his boys is taking such good care of me." you said.

"right, right. i just keep thinking that this is all a dream and i'm going to wake up with a mess in my boxers." he gave your thigh another squeeze as he went into the parking garage of the building he lived in.

his lips were on yours once you were in the elevator. he had you pressed against the mirrored glass with your thigh up against his waist and his fingers pushing the bottom of your dress skirt. his kisses were hungry, like a man on a mission.

and it made you run hot, this was better than expected. it seemed almost too easy, but you were happy that you got confirmation out of him that he was going nowhere.

you giggled against his lips, tasting the fine dining on them. when the elevator opened to his floor. he took you by the hand and led you out. once in his apartment, you pressed up against the side of the couch with the man's lips on you once more.

"you're something else, miss brown." he chuckled as his lips at your pulse point. he could feel your rapid heartbeat, his hands at your middle, feeling you up.

"and you're boring, mister norris?"

lando pulled away and grinned at you, "of course not. i just never thought someone like you would end up with a driver."

you laughed, "and what, let all the grid bunnies have fun? be for real!" you tried to get the zipper of the dress undone, but lando took over. he watched you undress once the zipper was pulled down.

you looked beautiful in the nude colour underwear you wore. you skin looked softer in the gentle lighting of the living room. you crossed your arms a little, a little embarrassed by your lack of clothes.

but lando took your arms away and said, "hey, nothing to be ashamed about. you're beautiful." then he started to undress as well. before it could go any further, he led you to the bedroom.

you practically bounced on the bed as you got onto it. and lando was quick to get the sheer tights off of you. his hands lingered around you left calf, giving it a squeeze which made you heart race.

you got out of your bra while he got out of his slacks. you swallowed harshly when you heard the jangle of his belt buckle. the heavy metal made you hot.

both of you were undressed and lando had you laid out on the bed. he wanted to look at you while you fucked. the intensity of the need for you made his brain run in circles. he got between your legs on the bed, his cock yearned for the softness of your wet pussy. he felt his heart skip when he dragged his hand up and down his length in anticipation.

you smiled at you, "lookin' good, norris."

he licked his lips, "of course, only for you." then guided his cock into you. he tensed up for a moment at the warmth, but soon relaxed once he got himself inside of you. heat flooded his cheeks further and the stagger in his heart gripped him.

"you look very handsome, lando. were you hoping you were going to get laid tonight."

he replied, "no, no. i just wanted to dress to impress you." he felt the twist in his gut at the sight of you. you looked so beautiful under him. as you pushed hair out of your face and felt him start to move. your mouth opened a little to moan.

you hid your face for a moment and smiled against your wrist, "well, i wanted the same. i just got so worried that you were halfway out the door with the team."

he moved against you, his cock touching some of your most sensitive areas. he hunched over you and groaned heavily. he was a loud one in the bedroom. he licked his lips as he gazed at your perfect form. he said, "i..i thought about it. ya know what it's like. it feels like everyone is dangling something in front of me. but, not you."

you hid your face a little more. while most were danging cars and money in front of lando's face. you were nude under him in his bedroom. as the bed squeaked under you.

"of course not, lando." you giggled, covering up your lie, "you know i'd still hold you very dear even if you went to another team." you gave him the sweetest look you could give him and it made him grin.

a little white lie wouldn't kill lando. not for the sake of the team. plus, his sweet noises only made warmth pool in your gut as he thrusted his hips.

you reached for him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. his face was up against your neck as you two moved in sync with one another. there was a fire burning in you. you cunt felt full in the best was possible.

"you feel like a dream." he admitted.

"and you feel just as nice." you said with suck softness. your little plan was working. you were winding lando up between your fingers. he wouldn't be going far after this.

you two kissed once more, it was less feverish. you felt the pleasure seep through your blood. you felt hot all over and your back felt sweaty against the navy blue sheets. you held onto his hair and softly scratched at his scalp, he moaned lazily into the kiss.

when he pulled away, he really started to work at your pussy. both of you were loud in the privacy of the his apartment. you held onto him tighter and you could hear his sweet praise.

"you're so fuckin' beautiful. i don't know why we didn't take the chance sooner. you look so good under me. the perfect girl. i was stupid for not seeing it sooner, like when we met. fuck. i need you, i want you."

lando's words were honey on your brain. you scratched into his shoulders as he continued to rut against you. your bodies moved in a quick yet steady rhythm. all building to the climax.

even in the depths of immense pleasure, you were patting yourself on the back for getting lando so pussy drunk that he was willing to stay with your father's team. you had concluded that you were a good seductress.

"lando."

"i know. i know. it all feels so good." he panted.

a few more heavy strokes of his cock and you were pulling him into a searing kiss. your legs locked around his waist. the kiss was messy and made a heat run through him. fuck, you felt amazing. you came with his cock stuffed into you and it was a head rush for you.

your heart hammered in your chest as you felt euphoria. lando took it as a chance to continue to drill his cock into you. his words were loose and messy, praise for you. it warmed you even more. he was close behind you and with his own climax it took the wind out of him. when he stopped thrusting, he got down beside you.

he was face planted into the soft covers of his bed, his cock throbbed and drooled a little bit of leftover cum. you chuckled at the sight and rolled over onto your stomach as well to throw an arm over his sweaty back.

you pulled him in for a kiss on the face and he made a sweet noise. he felt perfect and you felt achy in all the right ways. you thought that you had convinced him not to leave mclaren. to stay with the team and stay with you.

-

it turned out that it took more than one night to convince lando to stay. over the course of the summer break, he was constantly at your apartment. your little mission was a success but, also a failure.

a failure in the way that the birth control pill had a failure rate of 7%. lando stayed with mclaren, even signed a nice multi-year contract. it was hard to look at other teams when he was coming home to his beautiful future wife.

while it was a shocker to everyone, the news almost made your father break a blood vessel, it made sense. you two were around the same age, in the same circles. of course, lando norris was going to get you pregnant. but, it was worth it. the team was saved!

"i can feel him kicking." lando said softly.

except now you had a clingy fiance who was currently pressed up against your belly. his large hand across your middle as he practically melted. you had come to the conclusion that you sucked at the art of seduction, and that maybe your line of work should be a little different than trying to make deals with drivers under the table.

because most seductresses didn't end up very pregnant with a future formula one prodigy within a year.

[illusioninfnty]

three's a crowd! ↠ day 21 ; spitroasting

↠ roronoa zoro x reader x vinsmoke sanji

fandom: one piece word count: 2.1k warnings: nsfw 18+, caught in the act, jealous!zoro, possessiveness, spanking, praise, blowjob, face fucking, gagging, fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, squirting, overstimulation, cum marking, cum eating, creampie, aftercare, some unintentional homoerotic subtext if you squint

kinktober m.list || read on ao3

Grunts and skin slapping together are the only sounds in the room as Zoro fucks into you from behind.

Your arrangement with him was as simple as it could be, whenever the two of you were stressed, and whenever the other crew members were occupied, you would fuck. It was a lot easier than trying to pick up strangers from whatever bar you could find everytime you guys docked at a new town. The last time that happened, you may or may not have brought back someone that had a hidden vendetta against Luffy, and it resulted in yet another fight aboard the Going Merry.

Oh well. Mistakes happen.

You moan into the pillow beneath you, doing your best to conceal your sounds of pleasure. You were in Zoro’s bed, as all of the crew were out exploring the newest town

Despite that fact, it never hurts to be too careful. 

And indeed, you were right. Because not even a minute later, you hear the door to the men’s quarters open and you gasp in surprise. You involuntarily clench around Zoro, making him hiss as you both turn to see who walked in.

Sanji stands in the doorway, jaw dropped and suit jacket halfway off his body.

Zoro turns to maneuver the bed sheets in a way that covers your body from Sanji’s eyes. You could tell that the cook was staring at you, just by the way his eyes completely avoid your gaze and he looks upward as a blush rises to his cheeks. He looks cuter than ever in that moment, and maybe it's because you have a dick inside of you at that very moment, but you desperately want to fuck him to see what other reactions you can get out of him.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Zoro growls out. The hand that was splayed across your hip tightens in anger the longer Sanji stands there. “Fucking scram.”

You could tell by his initial embarrassment that Sanji was planning on leaving, but Zoro’s reaction has him heated up, and you know that neither of them will let the other have the last word.

You roll your eyes and get settled in, waiting for the argument to begin.

Sanji tsks at Zoro, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “Putting her in such a degrading position like that, it’s a wonder she stays with you.”

“She stays with me ‘cause I fuck her right every time. Not like she’d have the same experience with you.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never gotten a single complaint about my performance in the bedroom!”

“Yeah, right. Like she’d ever go for you when she has me here.”

“A-actually,” you speak up for the first time during their spat. Both men turn to you, Sanji with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and Zoro, who’s glare seems to scream don’t you dare, as if he knew exactly what you were going to suggest.

“Sanji,” you swallow, hoping you’re not making a mistake, “you should join us.”

“Join—?” He chokes on his spit, and you can see the way his cheeks turn red from his blush. 

“Please?” you put on a classic pout that you know will make Sanji weak in the knees.

Hook, line, and sinker.

He scratches the back of his neck, feigning concession. But you can see the tent in his pants that is clear as day. “If you insist, madam.”

“Madam,” Zoro mutters from behind you, mocking Sanji’s choice of word. You kick at the back of his leg in warning.

Sanji approaches you in the front of the bed (staying as far away from Zoro as possible, you notice) and stares at you hesitantly. You motion him closer, and begin palming his erection through his pants. He moans softly, his hips subtly bucking into your touch.

Zoro, having enough of your attention pulled away from him, begins to thrust back into you from behind. The sudden movement has you moaning, and the force of it pushes you right into Sanji’s crotch.

The ship’s cook grabs your hair by the root and keeps you in place with one hand as he uses his other to undo his pants and free his cock from its constraints. His hard erection springs out, hitting you in the face, and without any prompting you stick it in your mouth, sucking on it furiously.

You bob your head up and down, swallowing him all the way down to the root. You swirl your tongue around the head, and Sanji’s grip in your hair tightens as he groans from the sensation.

“Better not make any noises over there, cook,” Zoro says. “I was planning on finishing.”

Sanji’s response comes back within a second. “I can’t help it when your woman is giving all her attention to me.”

You don’t even need to be looking at Zoro to know what his reaction is to that—you can just picture the glare that he gives Sanji as he slaps your ass and ruts his hips into you more.

The force of his cock filling you to the brim has you moaning around Sanji’s cock as your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your hands grip the sheets below you as you make a feeble attempt to stabilize yourself as you lay helpless between the two men who use your body for their pleasure.

Zoro does his best to ignore Sanji and occupies himself with grabbing the flesh of your ass and spreading you open wider than before. He bullies his cock deep inside of you, and the bulbous head reaches parts of you that have your vision going blurry and your mind going numb, only able to focus on how much he fills you up.

“You see this?” Zoro motions to you, and the way your body shakes in pleasure from his cock thrusting deep with you. “This is all ‘cause of me. You couldn’t make her feel even half as good.”

As you look up at Sanji through your teary vision, you can see the way his eyes narrow at Zoro’s fighting words. Suddenly your nose is pressed up against Sanji’s pubic bone, his cock stuffed all the way down your throat, you cough and gag around him, spit dribbling down the sides of your mouth yet he doesn’t relent.

He has one hand entangled in your hair at the scalp, and the other moves to wrap itself around your neck, gripping it lightly, feeling the imprint of his cock on your throat as he fucks it in and our of your mouth.

You moan around him, relishing in the sensation of fullness that you’re getting inside of you from both ends. Your hands move to grasp onto Sanji’s thighs and you suck down as much as you can on his cock, gagging as his cock reaches as far as it could possibly go within your mouth. Tears start to stream down your face now at the way he pounds himself all the way to the back of your throat.

Sanji looks down at your reaction, and then up at Zoro with his trademark smirk. “Seems like she’s too occupied enjoying my cock down her throat.”

Both men are relentless in trying to prove themselves, and you’re on the receiving end of it. It seems as though you’re never going to catch a break between the two of them. They constantly try and one up each other, with each new action or technique they try on you has you edging closer and closer to your eventual orgasm.

The final straw is when Zoro, through his relentless ruts into you, begins to stick his thick fingers inside of your pussy as well, curling them up in the perfect spots where he knows you’ll fall apart.

And you do. You attempt to pull a hand back and slap him against his arm to warn him or your incoming orgasm, but Sanji’s grip in your hair remains as solid as ever and you don’t have enough strength to pull yourself back.

Your arms flop to your side, weak and useless, the two men being the only things holding your body up now. Your screams of pleasure are muted around Sanji’s cock, but the vibrations from it have him groaning nonetheless.

Your orgasm comes like a colossal wave, crashing down onto you with so much pain and pleasure it becomes too overwhelming to bear. Your whole body goes rigid as you climax. Your pussy clenches like a vice around Zoro’s cock, and your mouth tightens around Sanji. The two men groan in unison as your release washes over you, squirting juices all over yourself and Zoro, who you can hear laughing (and probably mocking Sanji) from behind you.

Neither man lets you rest after your orgasm, though. They both continue to fuck you with intense vigor, as if it’s their dying wishes. It’s Sanji who finally folds first and cums, doing so by holding you by your hair as he smashes your face all the way to the base of his cock. His groans are loud and continuous as you suck down on him furiously, swallowing the jets of cum that shoot out of him. 

A mix of your saliva and his cum leave the sides of your mouth as you do so, causing you to make a mess of his cock, slobbering all over it as he guides your head up and down.

“Fuck, so good for me,” he mutters out with his jaw clenched, just loud enough for you to hear, and you preen under the praise.

After he’s done cumming, you open your mouth wide and stick out your tongue for Sanji, showing him your empty mouth from swallowing all of him. And you’re glad you did so, because based on his lovesick expression alone it looked like he was about to cream himself for a second time that night.

Zoro cums soon after, his cock throbbing harshly as he buries himself to the hilt deep inside your pussy. He tends to be quiet when he cums, save for a few grunts here and there as the jets of hot liquid pour into you. But this time, you can hear him uttering praises to you.

“That’s it baby,” is what you hear the clearest through his groans, his voice gravely and deep. “Fuck, squeezing me so tightly. Could die in this pussy.”

If you literally didn’t just have your orgasm a second ago, you probably would have cum again right then and there.

Zoro always came inside of you whenever you two fucked, insisting on going bare. You never minded it; it felt better without a condom on, anyways. But you always knew that the reason why Zoro truly did it was because he loved marking you with his cum, seeing it drip outside of your pussy whenever he finished.

The swordsman reluctantly leaves your pussy after he cums. He watches the way the excess liquid seeps outside of your pussy, which still clenches around nothing, desperately looking for his cock again. He scoops it up with his fingers, pushing it back inside of you and barks out a laugh at the way you moan pathetically and your pussy walls quiver as they constrict around the shape of him.

He takes some of the excess left on his fingers and wipes it across your ass, rubbing it into your skin.

It takes you a couple of moments for you to finally open your eyes and register your surroundings after all of that. Zoro is wiping you with a wet cloth, and you see Sanji coming back in with a glass of water and a snack he no doubt whipped up quickly, then and there.

Once you’re finally calmed down from the overstimulation and cleaned off from all of the stickiness, you roll back into Zoro’s bed with a sigh collapsing from the exhaustion. Zoro moves in next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and rubbing circles into your skin.

Sanji glances at the two of you. “Room for one more?” he asks cheekily.

Zoro glares at Sanji and his arm tightens around you. “Fuck no. Piss off.” 

He closes his eyes, and within seconds he’s snoring away, dead to the world.

You look over at Sanji and roll your eyes at Zoro’s words. Silently, you scootch over in the bed, making some room for him. You motion with your hand for him to climb in, and he does so gladly, nestling himself into your body. With Zoro’s arm around you and your face resting in the crook of Sanji’s neck, you’re able to fall asleep quickly and peacefully sandwiched between your two favorite boys, not having a single care in the world.

[pshaven]

toxic bsf!sunghoon. WALK WITH ME HERE !! (minors dni, cw oral (m!receiving, f!implied)

"girl... you serious right now?" sunghoon groans, his tone sassy as his body leans back casually, his arms prop behind his head while he gives you a pointed stare.

you narrow your eyes at him, your arms folded across your chest in a defensive manner. "i am. are you serious right now?" you direct his question back at him, a deep scowl taking over your face, but sunghoon just grins at you.

"i am as well. i don't see why you need to entertain those boys," he shrugs nonchalantly, his fangs peeking out from his upper lip as his smirk stretches, watching your face churn.

you scoff, "you're actually the worst. you're scaring all of them off, how am i ever supposed to get a boyfriend?" you complain in a whine, your brows knitted together in frustration from the lack of love in your life.

sunghoon cocks an eyebrow, his head tilted to the side as his smirk remains plastered on his face. "oh? if that's the case, then i can be your boyfriend." he retorts quickly, as if it was the most simple solution in the entire universe. well, to him it was.

your eyes widen, caught off-guard by his words. "uh... no," you quickly shoot him down, your scowl only deepening further but sunghoon isn't at all wavering as his expression remains the same.

"no? you sure?" he taunts, now leaning forward, his elbows propped up on his knees as he gazes at you. "we can play pretend, like when we were little y'know. you can practice on me so that you're prepared for the real thing," he pauses before a snicker leaves his lips, "well, that is, if you ever actually get a boyfriend." he adds on tauntingly, as if challenging you.

and he's got you, hook, line, and sinker.

"i'm kinda upset," sunghoon muses as your lips wrap around his cock, your tongue gliding along his prominent veins that causes him to hiss and throw his head back. "thought you would suck at this. who taught you before i could, hm?" he ponders, his tone is mockingly sweet with a hint of disappointment.

as you take him in deeper, a guttural moan escapes his lips. it serves to motivate you more, your tongue running down the underside of his twitching cock. you shake your head, your lips still wrapped around his cock as you hum in reply.

"fuck-, doesn't matter though, right?" he continues to ramble, asking rhetorical questions that you can't even answer due to your mouth being occupied. "'cause mine is bigger than other cocks you've sucked before, huh?"

you can only moan and hum in response to him, his grip on your hair keeping your mouth on him. he's not forceful with you, but he's making sure you don't pull off too far. he lets out a breathy chuckle at your expression, your brows knitted together and your mouth open with his heavy cock inside it. he could really get used to this, he'll have to 'play pretend' with you more.

an unexpected gasp escapes him as your tongue swipes at his sensitive tip, licking at the precum. "oh, fuck..." he moans, his eyes screwed shut as he enjoys the warmth and wetness of your mouth around him, your tongue working more expertly than he had expected.

"you'll let me cum on your face, right?" he moans out, his free arm now thrown over his forehead as you continue to suck him off. "a good friend would let their best friend cum all over their pretty face..." he muses, his voice now becoming breathless and airy.

with how his cock is twitching and pulsating wildly in your mouth, you can tell he's inching close to cumming. you nod your head, your throat swallowing around his cock that causes him to almost let out a whine. he barely catches your nod but he doesn't care- you won't stay mad at him for too long, right? he's your best friend after all...

sunghoon's grip on your hair tightens, quickly pulling you off of him as his other hand comes down to stroke his cock, your saliva and drool providing lewd squelches to fill up the room. his hips shift, bucking and twitching up as his moans and gasps reach your ears.

he keeps your head positioned right underneath his cock as he continues to stroke it. with a particular harsh stroke, he groans into the air, his cum painting your cheeks and lower chin white, some landing onto your shirt messily.

as sunghoon catches his breath, his chest heaving up and down, he eyes you, clearly enjoying the sight of you defiled in his cum. "so can i pretend to eat you out now or...?"

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓢𝓽𝓻𝓪𝔂

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You always knew deep down that getting involved with the Kook prince himself would result in nothing but heartache. Unsurprisingly, like an absolute sucker you had allowed yourself to get pulled into his orbit, hook, line and sinker.

The two of you were always unlabeled, two people just trying to take the edge off; so it shouldn't have stung when you caught him with another girl on his arm. But it's completely unfair when he comes crawling back as soon as you attempt to move on.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Rafe, 18+ content (so minors go somewhere else), AFAB, fem aligning pronouns, toxic relationships, lack of communication, infidelity if you really squint, stalking, hints of dark!Rafe, Soft!Rafe (because I'm a sucker), Rafe refers to himself as Daddy once (I'm sorry, it's so in character), Oral (F! Receiving), Unprotected sex (reader is on the pill), public sex (they do it in a bathroom at a party), dubious consent (both Rafe and reader are intoxicated).

ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: 25K words (the Lana Del Ray and Chase Atlantic continuously playing in my headphones wouldn't let me stop). Not proofread (as per usual, I'm sorry), Pogue!reader.

You love your life. The simultaneous merge of monotony and spontaneity. Sure, it is boring in certain aspects. The schedule of your job demanding that you wake up nearly every day of the week, pulling yourself out of the warmth and comfort of your bed before the sun has even bled across the horizon in hues of pale gold and soft lavender to begin opening up the restaurant; passing through the door that always squeals sharply on its hinges. No amount of WD-40 has managed to correct the offending, metallic shriek, but Deborah, ever the penny-pincher always brushes off the notion of simply replacing the hinges. Huffing and shrugging it off whenever you suggest it. One of these days you plan to go down to the hardware store yourself and buy a fresh set of replacements. 

The ritual of your mornings is often tedious. The one before it the same as the one that comes after; setting the chairs down from their places tucked upside down on the tabletops to be seated on their designated positions on the floor, turning the coffee machines on to begin brewing a fresh pot for the early risers and regulars that stop in for a quick uplift before they head off to their jobs, checking to make sure that you had properly stocked up the night before you left; that the sliced lemons and creamers and ketchup bottles have all been filled. You sometimes have a habit of accidentally skipping out those tasks when you've been on a double. Sometimes on purpose if you know that you're going to be the opener the very next day. 

Though more often than not it ends up with you cursing yourself out for leaving more unnecessary work for yourself. 

You're at your job more than you're at your own home. But with how high Deborah's turn rates are, and how little people do actually come in to retrieve an application, it's practically been up to you to try and hold down the fort as best as possible. Apart from Charlotte, who does her best to cover as many shifts as she can (though that isn't always possible if one of her kids falls sick or the babysitter calls off), and Rusty. But as the main cook, he practically lives in the restaurant to begin with. So much so, that it has become a joke among the staff that he should just call it quits and put up a cot in the back so that he could takes naps in between shifts. He's always at the restaurant long before you are. Piddling around in the back of the house to get a head start on the day ahead and prepping for what he'll need. 

It's dull work, sure, and the breaks that you get are few and far between, but the threat of oncoming bills always looming overhead like a fucking hydra. As soon as you manage to cut off one head, another immediately seems to grow in its place. Plus, you also have a difficult time in saying no to Deborah. You think everyone does honestly. She could be hard to navigate at times, seeming to seesaw between being almost sickeningly sweet and intimidatingly disgruntled. Skulking around the restaurant with a sharp anger glinting in her eyes, a harsh scowl pulling at the wrinkled corners of her lips as she barks orders and huffs over crumbs and stains that aren't there. 

But you try, like the others, not to hold it against her. You know that she's just stressed. Struggling to pick up the pieces that her son had left behind; to keep his dream alive as best as she can. 

Still, you can't help but to revel in any chance you get to have a day to yourself. Even though the reprieve that you do get is typically spent at your own home. Basking outside underneath the warmth while you soak in the small layer of water contained in the old sun faded kiddie pool, reading one of your unfinished books, or reclining against the lip of the hard plastic while the music from your old Bluetooth speaker drifts down from the steps of the small, worn porch attached to the front of your trailer. 

Every once in a while, if your budget is willing, you might head down to the quaint thrift store that lies just on the outskirts of town. Though calling it a "store" is being quite generous. It's pretty much just a shed that had been repurposed as a business in Metilda Clark's backyard; the walls boarded with shelves for books and DVD's and VHS tapes, and racks filled with garments donated from families whose children have grown out of their clothes or family members that have passed on and they can't bear to look at their personal belongings anymore. 

So you suppose that in a sense, it's a graveyard of sorts. A place for people to bury or move on from their pasts without entirely discarding the items that they need to be free from. Given that that a large chunk of the island's population is in part of the working class, a vast amount of the wares and goods found at the store are a little lackluster. Every once in a while, you manage to find something good. A piece of clothing or shoes that have managed to trickle down from the Eight, like a pair of vintage heels that you were able to snag for twenty-five bucks. But for the most part it's just plain knickknacks, fishing lines and old bodice rippers - many of which are wildly amusing to flip through. 

If only you had a nickel for every time you had seen a man's dick referred to as a "pulsing hot member" or "engorged manhood." It never fails to remind you of Ms. Perky from Ten Things I Hate About You trying to write smut in her office. 

Still, it does sometimes prove to yield some interesting finds. Like the magenta lava lamp that now sits on the shelf posted along the far side of your room or the rooster shaped tea pot that you always use on stormy nights. That purchase might have been a little dumb, just maybe, but you had thought it was cute when you saw it. 

But if you're being honest, you mostly go to the thrift store for the small ceramic bowl full of candy that Metilda keeps along the front counter; always full of strawberry bon bons, Tootsie Rolls, and hard caramels. You always make sure to pluck one up as she tallies up your purchase on her archaic cash register, squinting through her glasses as her bony fingers skitter across the buttons while she shares the latest bit of gossip to you. She's always in the know it seems, like some sort of P.I . . . or maybe Batman. It's almost a talent. But you suppose that being a member of the church, the local book club, and attending bingo every weekend would get you in on a lot of the gossip that circles around town. 

It's how you found out the Janice Morty was cheating on her husband of twenty-three years with his own brother, or that Sammy Kennedy has been breeding and selling exotic reptiles in his basement illegally. Sometimes you'd find yourself standing in front of that little desk long after your purchase had been bagged and paid for, just listening intently as she gives you the scoop on everything. Watching the earrings dangling from her lobes quiver and shake animatedly as she passionately recounts all of the drama she's heard - she's always got a new, fun pair on every time you see her. Many of them are retro, 80's style, but a large majority are shaped after everyday objects. One of your favorites so far would have to be the odd pair of small rotating fans, colored in that vintage mint green shade with pink blades. But the fuchsia gumball machines have to be a close second. 

You love to come in and see what pair she's going to be wearing, to hear all of the local drama. But the sound of a single name had made you regret the trip entirely. 

"- all of a sudden the screen had lit up! Just set alight without any warning." She recounted, tucking a book alongside the others inside of the recycled bag, the wrinkles in the plastic causing the smiley face to become disfigured. "Well, one of my customers saw the culprits - or at least who they suspect to be. They saw a big group of them scatter once the chaos erupted; that Thorton boy, and old Heyward's kid was there. And even Rafe Cameron, that spoiled little nuisance -" 

Your brain had blanked then. Falling flat and somehow chaotic like static filming over a TV screen. It had made it difficult to tell what you were truly feeling in that moment as it all seemed to crash over you into a still hush. But the elements of it all was certainly there: irritation, resentment, and that pathetic sense of longing that never seems to truly go away. It sticks to you like a nasty parasite. Burrowed deep and latched onto your flesh, the disease in it seeping into your bloodstream. 

No matter how much you try, it seems that you can't get away from him. The woes of living in a small community. It feels like a sort of damnation. A limbo that you can crawl yourself out of. You've gotten so close to it too. All but throwing yourself into your work - even more so than usual, if that was possible. It was to the point that your coworkers have begun to notice. You can see the way they all watch you curiously as you talk to your tables and flit about the dining room floor. Charlotte had even thrown away any attempts at subtly and had directly confronted you about your "situation." Claiming that you've seemed distracted as of late. Tense. And shit, maybe you have been a little uptight lately. Forcing plastic smiles and pretending that there isn't a hurt that's aching deep in the pit of your chest. You had promised her that you were alright, while the words felt fake, almost acidic on your tongue. She hadn't looked convinced. 

You had been doing good at pretending that you're alright. For the most part at least. With the distraction of your job and lounging around at home, diverting your attentions with old comedies and comfort watching the same old TV shows, you had nearly convinced yourself that you were alright. Though you mostly owed that to your recent proclivity for eating your feelings with Ben and Jerry's and sunbathing. Cliche, maybe. But effective. Indulging and pampering yourself has become your new means of deflecting the heartbreak that you so desperately want to pretend isn't there. And it had been working so well too. 

Until Matilda had to go and ruin it. The sound of his name leaving her red lips might as well as been nails on a chalk board. You know it was well meaning. There is no way that she would know, not even with all of the tabs and connections she's got running through the island. And that had been the point of it all. There was no label for whatever the two of you had been. The only agreement there was that your "relationship" - friends with benefits or whatever you were - was to remain on the down-low. A quiet, airtight secret lest the population of Kildare become privy to the fact that the Kook prince himself had been fucking a Pogue. 

It had been fine in the beginning. Well, not exactly fine. If someone were to ask you how you had begun seeing Rafe Cameron of all people, you wouldn't have a good answer. You yourself aren't entirely sure. It had sort of just happened. Like a wildfire that had grown out of control. The both of you have always been at each other's throats. The bullshit roles thrusted upon you by the divide of the classes on the island seeming to demand that you be enemies. Though he was more interested in maintaining those characters than you. 

You had never cared much for the Kook vs Pogue ideal. It seems archaic, tired and outdated. An unnecessary dissection that often gets grossly out of hand by the other locals.  Sometimes violently so, with the clashes ending in busted lips and bloodied knuckles. Not too long ago a fight had broken out during an after-storm party, where it was claimed that a gun had been drawn and fired. Just another reason why you found the blatant classism in the town to be entirely too much and downright threatening at times. 

But no one else believed in it more than Rafe Cameron. Topper Thronton might give him a run for his money, but you'd still have to give the victory to the prince himself. That's why it came to a complete shock to your own system when your relationship with had gone from scathing, sardonic quips and passive aggressive remarks to something balancing on almost playful. You had seemed to dangle precariously between that fine line, rocking back and forth between a genuine disdain and a delicate sort of camaraderie. 

It was an explosive mix that was just waiting for the trigger. And the anticipation of it had suspended over you like the humidity that taints the air outside, like the heavy quiet before a great storm before the lashing and booming of lightning and thunder rattles across the sky. Still, the both of you had blindly ignored the signs - the fleeting glances, the jealously that would fester in your gut whenever you saw him with someone else, the way that he would seek you out while you worked to hover over you as you poured sugar into shakers or bussed tables after your customers left. Hiding his interest in the guise of immature taunts and corny insults. And you'd do your best to deny the temptation suspended over you, writing it off as hatred and irritation whenever you crossed paths. 

You would see Rafe sparingly in your day-to-day life. Though he would fleetingly come into the restaurant every now and again. Typically to bring his newest fling in for the slices of lava cake or malted milkshakes. The Backyard Grill - or more simply, the Backyard, is a seafood restaurant first and foremost, but one thing that cannot be denied, even by the likes of the upper class, is that it has the best desserts in the entirety of Kildare Island. People of all walks of life come in to get a warm slice of apple pie, or a rich piece of red velvet. 

But it's the floats and milkshakes that are the most popular. Usually among couples that are trying to have a romantic evening. Or as romantic as it can be while in the ambiance of a ramshackle dining room, with scratched, defaced tabletops that have the initials of lovers etched into the (once) polished wood, and an old A/C unit that hisses as it spits out air. 

It's hardly a place that you'd imagine someone like Rafe Cameron frequenting, but he would still pop in every now and again. Usually with a new girl on his arm, trading them out as just easily as he'd change clothes.

It had made you tempted to speak up about it. To dare to make a subtle warning in the guise of a joke to clue the girls in, but he would always look up at you with a knowing gleam in his eyes. As though he was challenging you to spill and make a scene; to give him a reason to lash out with that scornful tongue of his and somehow pin the blame back on you. It always left resentment bubbling just underneath your skin, hot and angry while you forced yourself to hold your words back, all while a sharp, mocking smile threatened to show on your face. 

You had loathed when he would walk through the door. The infrequent nature of his visits making it feel like a sort of roulette as to whenever you'd hear the squeal of the hinges, and the dainty chime of the bell posted above the threshold - if it would be him passing through the door or not. Each time it was him, irritation would flare throughout you, but some traitorous feeling that you couldn't name would quickly follow; light and almost warm. Horrendously close to what could only be considered affection. You'd always shove it down as soon as you would register it. 

Rafe was unpredictable. A notorious hothead with a proclivity towards handling any offence he deemed against him with violence and hostility. The echoes his past rampages are still frequently on the town's lips despite being old news. Much like the time that he had reportedly attacked Matthew Bailey in the hallway of the private school for accidentally brushing against him. In Rafe's words, Matthew had rudely shoulder checked him and tried to walk away without apologizing. Regardless, the beat down that had proceeded had been a complete overkill, with Matt ending up on the flat of his back on the floor while Rafe pinned him down and repeatedly struck his face with a closed fist. He only managed to deliver two blows from what you had heard before he was pulled back, but the force behind it had been enough that Matthew's nose is now permanently bent. 

Everything about him should have repulse you. From his insistent belief that the less financially fortunate aren't as important or deserving as the wealthy, from the downright volatile way that he behaved. Like a rabid dog on a fraying lead. Morality should have been enough to repel you from him. To get you to steer clear of Rafe Cameron and pretend that he didn't exist. 

But that night on the beach, with bonfires burning high along the shore like blazes and the rowdy scattering of people cheering and laughing around you, everything that had been restrained between you both seemed to finally tear free from the grip you had on it. Maybe it had been the influence of the alcohol in your system, buzzing about your veins in a rush of warmth, or a side effect of the excitement thrumming throughout the air, but when you had saw him enter through the mass of bodies, something - some kind of resistance seemed to break.  

It was pitiful how your eyes had found him through the masses, fastening onto him as though he was the only thing that had mattered. But the way that the firelight had casted onto his skin had been gorgeous, panting him in hues of amber and vermillion and dramatic shadow. The traces of it glimmering clearly in his eyes, still visible from the distance that had separated you. A few strands of his hair dangling above his eyes in a way that you found a little too appealing, the glow of the flames highlighted the traces of brown and red in the strands.

It was almost offensive; how attractive he looked. Even while wearing one of those stupid polo shirts that he's so fond of. The color of it was a soft sort of blue. A shade that you knew would bring out the color of his eyes, gunmetal and baby blue. 

It felt like all of the oxygen had been siphoned from your lungs when the pair of them had flickered over to you and the shadows that you had found comfort in while you watched over Becca as she danced with some random guy, her laughter twinkling over the exuberant chaos letting you know that as of now, he was being respectful and minding his manners. But being under the sudden observations of Rafe had caused the dancing and socializing around you to melt into a dull background until it was nothing but the soft sand beneath your shoes and the balmy glide of the breeze shifting over your skin, slightly damp with humidity and tinged with the salt of the waves crashing along the surf. 

You had expected him then to simply alter his path and seek out some of the other Kook's that were mixed in along the crowd, but he hadn't. He kept on his trajectory, walking straight towards you, unworried as the rest of the people around you were too caught up in their own affairs or too intoxicated to notice. 

There was a determination and intensity in his eyes that had made you feel uncertain. Almost awkward in your own body, leaving you to pluck at the neon glowstick bracelet around your wrist and absentmindedly swirling the mixed drink in your red solo cup, that had long since gone warm. Once he had been standing directly in front of you, the conversation that had taken place was almost delicate as it was playful. Something new was stretching out in front of you both, strange and tricky to navigate. 

"Hey, Pogue," had been his greeting. As though he was trying to remind himself of who - of what you were to him. But it had been said so oddly, not laced with the usual contempt, that it nearly sounded endearing to you. It had been enough to warrant a smile, and the sight of your apparent amusement had been enough to have the tension melting from his posture. The rigid set of his shoulders sagging into something more relaxed and familiar, allowing him to settle into that arrogant stance of his. 

"Hey, yourself," you responded and raised the edge of your cup to take a sip of your drink. You had to fight off the urge to wince as the alcohol went down, sharp and stinging on your tongue from the cutting edge of hot vodka and the sickly-sweet syrup of cranberry and orange juice. "What the hell are you doing here, consorting with the enemy. Try not to get to close, yeah? You might catch our diseases." 

He had seemed then, to take your words as a sort of challenge. Like a raise to a sort of bet. He had stepped closer, crowding himself into your space in a way that should have felt invading, but you had only delighted in it. Free of a shirt, with only a bikini top to conceal your chest, your skin was unprotected from the subtle warmth that radiated from his body. His sudden proximity washing over you with the scent of his cologne and the gel in his hair, that seemed to have come unruffled from its usual slick back style. 

You had felt hypnotized as he pulled himself closer into your presence; engulfed by the ardor in his stare. A like of which you had never seen aimed at you - not so unabashedly, at least. You had only gotten glimmers of it. Small doses given behind the cover of hard glares and snide remarks. But then, the want on his face was bare. Shown freely underneath the cover of the dark while he leaned close enough for you to feel the gentle trace of his breath on your neck. His eyes bore into your own, demanding that you meet his stare and bear the weight of it. 

"Maybe I wanna get close." 

It had all been a flurry after that. A rush of playfully passed words and hushed, almost covetous whispers. You had allowed him to tug you into the night, far away from the illumination of the bonfires and the possibility of seeing eyes to carve a space just for the two of you. Guiding you into the thicket of trees surrounding the festivities, far off until the laughter darting over the air and the calming rise and fall of the waves had dimmed; softening so that your focus was fixed entirely on him. 

He'd taken you against a tree, fucking up into you harshly as though he'd been waiting a lifetime to do it. Splitting you open on his cock and driving his hips forward like he hated you, leaving you to claw at his back through the fabric of his shirt, nails catching and slipping up towards the nape of his neck where they left marks deep enough to have him hissing in pain. You could have felt guilty for it, but the subtle agony seemed to spur him on more. Somehow causing him to pump himself into you with a new vigor, leaving you to hang on and take it while he punched the air from your lungs. Pinned in place uselessly while the bark of the tree he had you pressed against scraped and nicked at your back. It left marks on you for nearly two weeks. 

You had thought that would have been the end of it. A night of regret fueled by alcohol and hatred, but the both of you hadn't stopped afterwards. He had begun to seek you out afterwards. Not too brazenly. He couldn't have the locals of the island finding out about your little trysts. But he would often sneak up to your house, around the late hours, always long after your neighbors had tucked in to sleep and the sun was well past the horizon. 

At first, it was fully apparent what he wanted from you. He'd stay long enough for the both of you to get what you wanted. A simple transaction of the flesh. The boundaries had been clear then. Just two people working out their frustrations and using each other to take the edge off. Put then he had started spending the night. You aren't sure when he had stopped leaving and begun staying over, tucking himself next to you in bed, burrowing under the covers while you watched the shitty action movies that he always requested you put on. 

And pretty soon he began leaving pieces of his clothes. Small things. A shirt or two. Because he liked to see you wearing them; that's what he had told you. But then there had been pants, and the odd sock, and a few pairs of his boxers, all of which you washed with your own clothes and then kept folded in a corner of your closet. 

His toothbrush was placed next yours on the bathroom counter, colored white and blue. And there was a bottle of his cologne tucked in the shelf underneath the sink, right next to some of your hygiene products and rolls of toilet paper. He kept spare shampoo in the built in shower cubby, so that he wouldn't have to use yours. He'd smell too feminine, that's what he told you. 

He'd spend the night whenever things would grow to be too much with his dad. Their relationship was always so strained. So full of resentment and insecurity. He had shared that with you one night, while you were held to his chest, your head tucked just underneath his chin while you stared up at the fairy lights strung up around your room. The scent of sex was still heavy in the air, the sweat from it clinging to your skin while you counted the thrum of his heart racing under your ear, gradually mellowing out to a steady beat as your breaths calmed. 

You had tried to nudge him to stop, promising that you didn't expect for him to share any of it with you. Warning him that it was just the influence of sex and the rush of dopamine and oxytocin thrumming steadily in his veins urging him to open up. You didn't want him to regret it. To regret what you had between you. But he had promised then that he wanted to. That he needed to tell someone. There had been a vulnerability in his voice that you had never heard from him before. A mild tremor as though he was trying to hold onto himself. To keep himself from potentially falling apart while he confessed about his home. How his stepmother was always present and yet entirely absent, how his father saw him as nothing but a failure, how Sarah paid him little mind. A psycho, she had called him once. But he was always sweet to you in those simple moments, when he would scatter kisses up your neck, tender and light while he drew you to him with the wide grip of his hands. 

There were so many lines that had been crossed. Lines that just "fuck buddies" don't cross. Not without a clear conversation at the very least. Perhaps it had been your fault, for reading into things that weren't there. For applying meaning to all the little moments you had spent together. All of the times you had ate leftovers together in your small kitchenette, laughing and playfully insulting each other while you ate away at Chinese food or reheated burgers in between jokes. Childishly nudging at him with your foot underneath the table while he complained or made remarks about his day. 

It's just fuck buddies who ask for you to pick a box of Lucky Charms during grocery runs because it's a quick meal to eat after fucking, when the weed gives him an appetite; it was just being a fuck buddy when he would lay in your arms for hours, molding himself against the shape of you to try and burrow himself along your skin, breathing tiredly into your neck; and it was perfectly casual when he bought you a necklace with a pendant of his first initial - 14 karat gold he told you. He wanted to go for 24k, but it would have been too weak and malleable, and 18k wouldn't be as scratch resistant. He wanted it to last. That's what he had said as he sucked and nipped at the skin on your neck, around the thin, golden chain; turning the flesh tender and marked. 

Maybe it truly was all your fault. So you shouldn't have been at all surprised when he had ghosted you for four days straight and then you had seen him strolling around town with Casey Ellis; her head tucked into his neck while she laughed, her hand placed to his chest. She was a gorgeous girl with highlights in her hair and a body that didn't have so much as a hint of a single stretchmark or a dimple of cellulite, wearing Luis Vuitton sunglasses and an outfit that must have cost a fortune. She was perfect, and she wasn't you. 

You were smart enough to connect the dots. To put two and two together. You had been replaced. Just all the girls before you had, and it made you feel like a complete idiot. How you had let yourself be so blinded by affection, to let the wool be pulled over your eyes and tricked into believing that you wouldn't fall to the same fate. Letting something that feels dangerously close to love delude you into thinking you'd be different. It dug deep. Slicing through you and reaching to grip a hold of a vulnerability that you hadn't even known was there. Still, you hardly even thought it over when you had skimmed through your contacts and blocked his number; doing it as though you had been put under a sort of spell, detached and numb while anger seared underneath it all in a burning undercurrent. You sent him a single message before cutting him off and out of your life. Affording him at least that little curtesy, unlike what he had done to you. It was curt. Cut and dry, if not just a little personal. 

it's clear that you've found another person to cry to and fuck. that means we're done. Dont come back 

Was it a little juvenile? Perhaps. But it had felt good, even if you hadn't done it face to face. But he didn't deserve that much. And it was nice to be so detached about it. To do something as shitty as cutting things off over a text message. It was disrespectful, a slap to the face, and you hoped that it had hurt and confused him. That his brows had pinched in the way that they do when he's bewildered, that he had paced around his room and combed his fingers through his hair while he read those letters over and over again as though it would help him make sense of it. 

You had ignored the curious, perplexed stares of your neighbors when you threw his clothes and toothbrush into the containment of the firepit behind your trailer, dousing them with lighter fluid and setting them alight. It had felt therapeutic to watch it all burn. Charring around the edges and turning black as it melted from the unforgiving heat to turn into an indiscernible pile. You'd like wish that the memories with him would do the very same, but you've had no such luck yet. 

But it's difficult to forget someone when they're determined to be remembered. Skulking about like a wild dog in the shadows, wandering up to your door in the night, pawing to be let in. The first week after you had cut ties, he had shown up at your trailer, forgoing all attempts at being quiet to bang his fist on your front door. Loud enough to all but tear you from your sleep, causing you to jerk up with a gasp, your heart thumping wildly in your ears as his muffled voice bled past the walls. 

"C'mon, baby! Listen - I - I know I fucked up, but we can work past this, alright?" A dull bang had punctuated it, and it left you to wonder if he had dropped his forehead against the door, defeated and desperate. Good. "It's not that - can't we just back to the way things were?" 

You had ignored his please to be heard and turned over in your bed. Drowning out the sound of his voice by turning on the TV and waiting him out until he left, deterred only by one of your neighbors' dogs, agitated by the sound of his shouting. After that he only tried to approach you one more time. Turning up at you job and all but ambushing you once you stepped out into the parking lot. You had done your best to ignore him. To keep the venom and contempt that longed to rise up past your lips as he trailed after you like a shadow, demanding that you stopped and just listened to him while you beelined for your car at the far end of the dirt lot. 

He had only touched you once you clutched your keys and turned them into the lock and reached for the door handle, grabbing ahold of your shoulders to shove your back to the driver side door, caging you in with his body while he clutched at you like a drowning man reaching for a buoy in a storm. You swear that there were tears in his eyes then, glinting in the dim cast of the nearby streetlamps. The emotion in his voice had been so raw. Broken, as though he was hanging on by a thread and just barely holding himself together. It made you feel like you were being dragged under. 

"Just look at me - just let me speak, okay?" His words nearly melded together in a quick rush, as though he couldn't spit them up fast enough. But your heart was in your throat, adrenalin running rampant in your veins while you stared into his eyes. Lost in the desperation in them. The dark of his pupils like hollows, threatening to swallow you whole. All the while your hand remained latched onto the door handle, frozen as he sucked you into the raw emotion that could only be described as a sort of anguish. "I fucked up, I know that, but we can get through this. "

His hands had slipped up to your face then. Cradling you as though it might keep you with him, secure in his palms, a fine porcelain that might shatter if handled too harshly. But you couldn't stand to listen to him. To feel him on your skin, to smell the scent of him after trying to wash the fragrance of his cologne out of your sheets. It had you jerking in his grip like a wild animal, even while a pathetic part of you longed to draw him closer. Before he could fully register it, you had tugged the driver's side door open, slipping out of his grasp and into your car. You had yanked the door shut and slammed your hand down on the main button to lock the entirety of the car down. Keeping him out. 

You didn't spare him a glance as he banged on the window, asking that you step back outside in a tone that was so soft. So broken. But you swallowed down the urge to comply. You fueled yourself with the anger buried beneath it all instead as you twisted the key into the ignition and sped off and out of the parking lot, gravel and dust spewing behind while you left him behind. Standing alone in an empty parking lot with only the dim sound of his voice trailing after you like a wounded, violent howl. 

"Fine! Go on then! I don't fucking need you!" 

It's only been a few weeks since then, but you've done well to move on from it all. It was a simple, few month-long fling. Nothing more, nothing less. And that's all it would ever be. Thankfully, eventually, after a few weeks, he had given up. He stopped coming by your house, he quit stalking around the outside of your job. It was as though he had never even existed. All traces of him were gone from your life. For the most part. Until Matilda had gone and opened up her mouth, accidentally drawing up old memories and picking at a wound that had just begun to heal.  

It had been enough to put a blight on the remainder of your day, looming above like the thick of storm clouds. You're suffocating. Being pulled beneath crashing, tossing waves that threaten to fill your lungs with the sting of water and leave you lifeless and adrift. All of the vibrancy and enthusiasm for life that had been there just this afternoon seems to have fizzled out like a sparkler that's been dropped in a puddle. 

It makes you frustrated and tired with yourself. Exhausted by how much you've paled in comparison to the person you were only weeks ago, and here you are groveling in self-pity and loathing all because of an egocentric, insecure man who runs around town with all of the self-restraint of a rabid dog. He doesn't deserve your heartache or your tears. He never cared about you or your feelings. You had just been a hole to fuck, a pair of arms to run into when his life at home fell into shambles. 

For the first time in a while, you found yourself calling Becca in the hopes of wrangling her into going out. There was a party going on tonight, and an invitation had been extended to you, passed on by Allen Thatcher when he had come into the Backyard yesterday for his usual. You declined then. In any other circumstance, you would have accepted, schedule willing. Then the idea of attending a party, as relaxed as the environment might be, had seemed daunting. Far too much, too overstimulating while you still struggle to grapple with the torrent running rampant within you. But now, with anger and betrayal breaking through it all, bursting between the hurt like a fire spreading through a dead forest, the prospect of blaring music and the sting of alcohol sounds like a relief. 

It had been enough to have you dialing Becca and asking if she was free. She had seemed surprised on the phone, and she has a right to be. She's spent close to two weeks now trying to draw you out of the fog that you had fallen under. Doing her best to be supportive and keep you grounded while you try and weather the onslaught of your emotions, often swinging by your place if your work schedules allow to spend hours talking and exchanging some of the local drama with each other and catching up on the little things. She had also goaded you into bleaching and dying her hair late at 3 a.m., a task that you weren't fully confident in, but now the final result isn't too bad. 

She knows what happened between you and Rafe. She's the only one on this entire island that's aware of the precarious fling that had taken place between you and him and the sudden "break up" that had followed. She was the only person that you had trusted to share your secret with, and once your mood had taken a steady decline after cutting him off, you were unable to deny that the shift in your demeanor was entirely obvious, and she of all people, deserved to know the reason why. 

You received about what you had anticipated. A confused, somewhat disappointed stare in turn, as she no doubt processed why you hadn't told her sooner. The shock clearly written on her face as she wondered just how and why you had chosen to have a fling with Rafe Cameron of all people. But thankfully she had kept (most of) her thoughts and feelings to herself. For now, at least. Once the wound in you heals, you know that she'll be poking and prodding for you to give her all the details. 

For now, you can just bask in the sense of freedom that falls over you. It's like breathing after holding your breath for too long and it invites you to be shameless as you allow yourself to sway and move under the guide of the music's rhythm, taking sips of your drink until you can feel it humming in your limbs, making you light and pleasantly warm. People scattered among the space had greeted the two of you as you entered, nodding in greeting and lifting their solo cups to acknowledge you. It was nice to be seen so unabashedly, to be invited into a space without any strings attached or expectations. It just feels like another reminder that you don't need him in the slightest. With all of his insecurities and expectations for how he's perceived in the world. In his version of society. A place that you didn't fit. 

Here you're liked. You're wanted without having to give hardly anything in return. You're only expected to be present. 

It should be suffocating in Thatcher's living room, crowded by the scattered throng of people as laughter rises and falls across the air, bubbling over the 2000's pop song that blasts through the speakers loudly enough to have the walls vibrating. But the atmosphere is purely electrical, thrumming with an excitement that almost seems tangible, gliding along your fingertips and down your spine. It's lively, but comforting in a space that's decently familiar, having spent many a night in these same walls during parties just like this one, surrounded by many a familiar face. You know the people here. You've grown up with them. Many of which you had played with as a child, exploring creeks for bottles made of green and blue glass, skinning your knees from climbing trees, and breaking into abandoned buildings to explore and decorate with spray paint. 

Even if time has grown you apart somewhat, your lives forking from each other to divert you on your own paths, you can easily scan the throng and find at least ten people who you know. It brings you a sort of solace. You community is small, and your luxuries are often just as limited but there's a genuine connection between the lot of you that the Kook's will never have. 

Their relationships come with a check list. Requirements and demands that rests entirely on the number of digits in their bank accounts or how they're recognized by their accomplishments. It's all purely material. It's not a give or take, but a constant influx of give, give, give. You suppose in that aspect, you can pity Rafe. And all the other Kook's on this island. 

But you don't need to worry about all of that here. You're entirely free to do whatever you want. It could have been hours, or maybe only seconds, time seems to have poured into a blur in the middle of Thatcher's living room. Drawing down into a sluggish glide, like a thin flow of water cascading over the bend of rocks. It had taken you by surprise when a girl had run in from the adjoining kitchen, whooping loudly over the music, and she had nearly sent you and Becca tipping over when she brushed past you, tossing a handfuls of confetti as she went. 

Your irritation is only able to flourish for a breath or two before it's snuffed out when the shifting star-shaped silver begins to fall down around you like a soft scatter of rainfall. You have to cover your drink with your hand to keep it from getting contaminated from the confetti as you shift with the music, listening to the elated sound of Becca's laughter from somewhere beside you. Her attentions fixed on a guy that she's been eyeing all night. He's cute in a way, not exactly you type personally, but what you and Becca find attractive has always coexisted on a different spectrum. 

He seems to be watching her too. Sneaking glances from his place on the worn couch, but he hasn't worked up the courage to part from his friends, remaining fixed in his place as he clutches his beer. Either playing hard to get or too shy to make a move. 

"You gonna go for it?" You ask, leaning in towards her ear to be heard over the energetic tempo. 

Her face pinches like she's considering her option, nose wrinkling slightly. She has a tendency on waiting for guys to make the first move. A strategy that typically pays off in a party setting, with everyone boosted by liquid confidence, but this one in particular doesn't seem to be budging from his spot. If she was going to even attempt to approach him then she wouldn't do it without a little, gentle push. But once she works past whatever is giving her hesitation, she's pretty quick to gun for what she wants. Now you just have to nudge. 

"I don't know." She answers, shifting on her heels to get closer to you. You can hear the uncertainty in her voice, even underneath the cover of the swelling music. It has an amused smile tugging at your lips, and you fight off the urge to playfully roll your eyes at her as you dare to look back over to the guy who's been undressing her with his eyes the entire night. 

"Oh, come on," you urge, meeting her doubtful expression with your own confident one. "You've been watching each other for at least twenty minutes now. "

"Then why hasn't he made a move?" She taps her nails absentmindedly along the side of her cup. 

"Maybe he just likes the chase," you shrug. "But I've seen a couple other people here checking him out. Most notably, the tall blonde in the corner. It's only a matter of time before she swoops him up herself." 

She seems to take a pause, falling silently for a moment as though she's weighing her alternatives, but when you catch the hint of a smirk on her face you know that she's finally made her choice. She silently taps her cup to yours in a salute, and a quick, "Alright, I'm going in," as she heads off in the direction of the couch with an inviting smile on her face and an extra sway in her hips. 

As soon as she leaves, her absence is unignorable. Despite the living room being packed with people, it suddenly seems terribly hollow. There are faces scattered among the throng that you easily recognize. People who you went to high school with. A few only live down the street from you, and you see them nearly every day on your drive to work piddling around in their yards; you talk to some of them while you stand in line at the corner store to ring up the gas for your car a fountain drink. It would be easy, in theory, to walk up to just about any of them and strike up a conversation, but that suddenly seems impossible. 

It's like being in the middle of an ocean, clinging onto a scrap of wood left from the remnants of a wreck to keep you afloat in the tossing waves. The colorful array of confetti casted along the carpet, the music humming along the air like a current, the dispersed chimes of laughter floating up around you, it doesn't seem as lively as it did before. The sight of couples mingling in the corners of the room like they're the only people left alive is a nasty reminder of what you've lost. Of what you've never had to begin with. 

It has you glancing down at the inside of your cup, and it's a little frustrating to see the bottom of it, dark with only a thin sliver of what isn't even half a sip left. It has you making off towards the kitchen. Weaving through the sprinkling of bodies, carefully avoiding in accidentally nudging shoulders or running into someone as they mindlessly dance and wave their arms in the air. Lost in their own worlds. 

It's mostly empty when you pass the threshold, with only two three other people present, two of which are little more than strangers and the other is Thatcher; the small group huddled together near the cabinets. The aforementioned man responsible for the little get together perches on the counter, his head leaned against the cabinets while he talks with the pair between swigs of his sweating beer, laughing loudly with his companions. 

You don't let it stop you from approaching the kitchen table posted in the middle of the room, surveying the multiple two liters of soda and bottles of liquor that are scattered along the top, almost lost among the various chips and junk food. There's a lot to choose from, from Tito's to tequila and Fire Ball - the latter of which you can't help but to grimace at. You liked it for all of one night, and now the scent of cinnamon and overwhelming flavor of syrup threatens to make you gag every time. When you first got here, you had let Becca make your drink. A rum and Coke, you think, but it looks like someone might have finished off the bottle of liquor. 

"There's beers and stuff in the fridge," a voice sounds out, drawing your attention up from the table and across the room. It's Thatcher, watching you from underneath the scattered dark strands of his hair. He points in the direction of said fridge with the hand holding his drink. "Some of those seltzers and uh, fruity beers too - Mike's or whatever." 

"Oh, thanks," you say, crinkling the plastic cup in your hands and turning to toss in the trash can that's been blatantly placed near the table's legs. Probably so that it can't be missed. You see him nod towards his friends in your peripheral vision before slipping off the counter, the three of them exchanging words before he shuffles past them, and they leave the room, passing him knowing smiles as they slip out of the space. 

You can guess what they might be insinuating, and suddenly it leaves you feeling just a bit awkward as you move over to the fridge and tug the door open to scan its contents. True to his words there's a pack of Bud Light, the majority of the cans already gone, leaving the box nearly hollow. But the seltzers and alcoholic lemonade is still fairly plentiful. 

You've always known about the small crush that Thatcher has on you. Granted he's always been more than a little obvious with it, always following you with his eyes and popping into the Backyard on his lunch breaks from the docks, always requesting your section without fail, if more than one server happens to be scheduled. He's never been untoward or suffocating in his pursuit of you - if you could even call it that. It's always been more of a quiet admiration. He's sweet. Kind. A hard worker and boy-next-door type. The sort of guy that you should be able to see spending your life with. Except you can't. No matter how much you've tried to convince yourself, or others have tried to talk you into seeing his potential, the feelings never come. 

You can easily acknowledge that he's attractive. With a light dusting of freckles over his warm skin and defined muscles in his arms from his work on the boats. You can almost be mad at yourself for not having so much as a flicker of attraction for him. It isn't a fault of his own. There isn't some awful thing he had done to you as children, or a comment that he had made in the past that rubs you the wrong way, there's just nothing. Not an ember of want buried down deep or a flicker of consideration that maybe you really should give him a try and maybe you'll discover that he's truly the guy for you. He's patient and sweet, and it somehow does nothing for you. 

Being in his presence has never made you feel nervous before, but with the recent gash that Rafe has left in your life, the prospect of Thatcher suddenly coming to you with the insinuation of his feelings seems alarming. Like a wave that you don't have the courage to try and surf and navigate. It makes you almost regret coming here. Of letting your anger and exhaustion get the better of you to cling to an attempt to try and have a sense of freedom. 

"Have you been doin' alright lately?" He asks, and your suddenly hyperaware of his body beside your own. The inquiry has something unsteady prickling along your flesh. To prolong the silent gap between you, you unseeingly sweep your vision along the fridge and grab at one of the first cans you see before closing the door softly. You try to focus on the atmosphere around you for a few more moments, listening to the hum of the music, the ceaseless chatter echoing around you. The scent of vape fumes and weed smoke piercing the air and making it thick. 

"Uh, yeah, why?" You ask, keeping your voice light and leveled. You only pass him a look when you dig your finger underneath the tab and push it down to pop the can open with a sharp, metallic crack. 

He shrugs then, tilting his head as he considers you from his place leaned along the kitchen counter. "I don't know. You seem . . . Different. Distracted, I guess?" 

You've heard that one before. From Charlotte and the other girls at work. Even Becca herself has said that you've been quiet. Withdrawn. It makes you feel as though you're being put underneath a microscope. It forces you to be conscious of yourself. Of how you hold your shoulders, the way your arms hang at your sides, the posture of your spine. If you're smiling too much or too little, and the line between the two sometimes seem like they're merging. 

"Just personal stuff," you reply, occupying yourself by taking a sip of your drink. "It's nothing serious, honestly." 

Another small stretch of silence extends between you two, and you can see him nodding out of the corner of your eye as you shift to properly face him. 

"Okay. For what it's worth I'm here if you ever need someone to speak to. I know it can seem a little lonely when you're dealing with shit. Especially, personal, family stuff. " He clears his throat then, his eyebrows drawing close. "Sorry, I didn't invite you here to interrogate you. You're probably trying to forget it all, and I'm just reminding you-" 

"No! It's fine," you assure him in a quick rush. And it's the truth. You can't deny that the sentiment of it is nice. To know that he does care. You wouldn't consider yourself particularly close to him. You get on well enough. You've been to several of his parties, and he comes in to see you semi frequently at work, but beyond those cordial meetings, your time with him has never really extended beyond that. He was sort of part of an old friend group of yours when you were young. A friend of a friend. But age had seemed to draw you apart. You outgrew each other, it seems. But from what you remember, he was always one of the most doting. A natural part of his personality brought on from being the eldest brother to three siblings, most likely. 

Despite it all, it's a comfort. You can feel the tension that had pulled your muscle taut beginning to fade, allowing you to relax again. There's the impression of a soft smile on your mouth. A product of the relief that melts through you at the small offering of his support. It's probably not one that you'll actually seek out or indulge in, but the thought behind it is a welcome one. 

"I appreciate it." You offer a smile. 

Something shifts in his expression then. It's tender and subtle, but the implications of it suddenly terrifies you. The sight of it gives you a good idea of what is going on in his head. Of what he thinks might be happening, that an opening has just presented itself to him. It's more than enough to have that delicate sense of unease welling up inside of you again, trembling up your spine like a bolt of electricity. It urges you to make up an excuse, no matter how flimsy or paper thin it might be, but the words in your throat never rise. You feel trapped as you watch him shift awkwardly on his feet, the bottom of his shoes squeaking lowly on the fake, linoleum tiles as he prepares to speak, clearly thinking over how to make his approach. 

"Who the hell is this?" 

At first you consider that one of your earlier drinks had been spiked, and that you're suffering from a hallucination before you tip over and pass out on the kitchen floor. That could be the only possible explanation for the familiar voice that has just cut across the energetic atmosphere and uncomfortable tension. The sound of it seems to sever through you like a hot blade. The tone of it and the subtle, almost tired croak that always seems to be present in the edge its inflections searing through you like a lick of fire. 

It has your head jerking in its direction in a sharp snap and so many different things happen in you at once. Your mouth goes dry, you're certain that your heart stops and plummets down to the pit of your belly; time grinds down to a halt. The air is like static, thrumming over your skin in a way that tingles and hums. It forces you to stare like a deer caught in the headlights. 

Something about him looks rough. You can't tell if it's just the oily hue of the overhead kitchen light that's making the bags underneath his eyes more pronounced, but his face looks ragged. As though he hasn't slept properly in days; body pulled up tight with a nervous energy. His hair tousled and unkempt, as though he's been restlessly running his hands through it, knocking the strands loose to hang above his eyes, which look wild. A little blood shot as they dart between you and Thatcher, sweeping down the length of the other man's body as though he's sizing him up. It makes you worried that he's come here coked up. Fueled by chaotic emotions and drugs. 

It immediately puts you on edge, the way that he's openly evaluating him. No doubt, considering what might happen if he crosses the floor and swings on Thatcher. It's enough to rip you from your daze, the very prospect of it snapping over you like the crack of a gunshot. 

"Rafe," you gasp. "What are you doing here?" 

"I had to see you," he answers, as though it's normal. As though it was the most obvious thing in the world. He creeps forward a little bit then, as though he's attempting to approach a wild animal that might startle and dart at any second. And honestly, you feel as though you might. Your mind is scrambling, whipping around like a storm as a barrage of questions rise and swell. 

"How did you know I was here?" The question tumbles out of your mouth like something molten. Even with the unease seeping at you, you're unable to fight of the irritation burrowing beneath the surface of it all. "Are you stalking me? Do you have someone keeping tabs? What-"

"It was a lucky guess." 

Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, a voice in your mind seethes. He's such a liar. It's like he's allergic to telling the truth. There's no way he had a "lucky guess" for this. There's no explanation as to how he managed to track you down to a house in the middle of nowhere. A place that you know he's never been to before. 

Thatcher stands up straighter beside you, removing himself from the support of the counter to evaluate Rafe. "Ah, do you want me to kick him out? -" 

"Why don't you keep out of this." But it isn't a question or a suggestion. It slips from Rafe's mouth sharp and venomous, a clear command. Nearly a hiss with how much disdain is etched in his words. His vision flickering from you just long enough to pin Thatcher in place. It makes you wonder how he could possibly be so cross with a person that he doesn't even know. But then again, you've seen him snap people for as something as little as looking at him for too long. 

You can practically feel the possibility of a fight in the air. Heavy and charged like the presence of electricity running through the thick of a storm with the promise of a lightning strike. You can see the hypothetical rope that's restraining Rafe fraying and straining by the second. Growing weaker and weaker. Everything about the way that he's holding himself is practically screaming that he's preparing for the possibility of a physical confrontation; shoulders set, and eyes wide and glinting in the glow of the lights in a way that looks feral. 

You hardly think when you step out in front of him, moving yourself away from Thatcher to place your body between the both of theirs until there's little more than a few feet separating you and Rafe. You hardly have time to process how close you are to him. That night in the parking lot feels like a lifetime ago. A murky, faded memory now that he's here in front of you again. You try to shove it all down as you crowd closer, drawing his focus onto you. He watches at you like you're a ghost. Like you might not be real at all. A figment of his imagination. There's a type of wonder in his expression, wide eyed and doused in disbelief. 

"You want to talk, right? That's why you're here?" You ask sharply, in a rapid fire, ignoring Thatcher as he shuffles just close enough to enter your peripheral vision. You have half the mind to warn him to back off, but you don't. 

"Yeah, I just wanna talk," Rafe answers. It sounds like another lie. His eyes are still attentive on you, the joined shades of faint gray and blue boring into you with an intensity that you long to both shy away from and bask under. You can see it now that you have to confront whatever this is. He's made it more than apparent that he won't leave you alone. That he won't back off until he's said his piece. He's a dog with a bone, and he isn't going to relent until he finally gets his way. 

"Fine." You relent, and all but slam the can of drink that you're holding on the edge of the kitchen table, nearly knocking a bag of chips down onto the floor. You swear you can see relief wash over Rafe then, slipping over from his body as though he had been held down by a physical weight. The alleviation burns bright in his stare, and a deep, silent sigh expels from his chest. It's as though you had just saved him. Tugged him out of deep, dark waters and onto solid land. 

It's Thatcher who speaks up next, standing straighter like he might dare to move closer. "Hey, are you sure that that's a good idea?" 

That's all it takes for Rafe to start forward, lunging like a guard dog. "Why don't you stay the fuck out of it, huh? She's not your girl, so do yourself a favor and keep your mouth shut." 

You have to throw yourself in front of him again, smacking your hands onto his chest to try and nudge him back. It's probably by the grace of God that he relents, yielding to the press of your hand and allowing you to push him back a few paces. You're quick to look over your shoulder to pass a glare at Thatcher. A silent signal to get him to keep silent, lest this get out of control. It's a plea and an order all once, and thankfully he complies, even while he looks like he wants to do nothing more than to meet Rafe's challenge. 

"It'll only be for a few minutes," you decide and promise; to Thatcher, to Rafe, but mostly, it just seems like you're saying it to yourself. You can see that Thatcher is uncertain. He has every right to be. You should be as well, but you can't find yourself to be swallowed by your doubt and caution. Instead, you move around him, not even bothering to check and make sure that he's following. 

You know that he is. Like a buried instinct, you can practically feel his presence running down your spine as he trails closely like a shadow. Allowing you to guide him through the living room where some people pause and turn with confused expressions as they see Rafe pass. But you do your best not to pay them any mind. Not even when you can hear hushed murmurs manage to trickle past the wild thrum of music; gossip already taking root. 

You were able to get a glimpse of Becca making out on the couch with the stranger from earlier. You wish you had it in you to be happy for her, but you're currently too busy being attacked by a chaotic swirl of emotions as you lead him down the narrow hall until you come to a door on the right. The knock that you harshly tap against the flimsy wooden panel is loud but rushed, and you hardly give anyone time to answer before you're twisting the knob and all but throwing the door open on its hinges. 

Fortunately, it's empty and you're quick to slip into the compact space, slamming it shut behind you once Rafe steps past the threshold and twisting the lock. It's all done with the sharp pronunciation of anger, quick and heavy as you try to control the absolute flood of insults and questions that threaten to spill past your lips, but you settle for leaning back against the sink, watching him with your arms crossed. 

"Well? Go on then," you encourage tersely. 

His eyebrows crease just the slightest. He shifts back, tilting on his heels while his lip's part. Like he's perplexed. "So that's how it's gonna be, then?" 

"Yep." 

He stares at you for a few beats as though he's trying to process your remark, wiping a hand along his mouth in an annoyed gesture. "Y-you just left. Without hardly so much as a word. One minute we were fine, and the next -" his hands raise up in the air in some sort of a flourish like it'll help him articulate better, " - Gone. Like nothing. Do you have any idea what that did to me?" 

For a long moment you can only stare at him. In disbelief. In complete shock honestly. You can feel your face twisting up in a snarl, but probably does nothing to show the true extent of your anger. "What it did to you? What about me, Rafe?" It comes out scathing. Dripping with contempt and it has you leaning just slightly from the support of the sink - just enough to tilt into his space. "Do you even realize how shitty it made me feel, seeing her clinging to you like a tick? No warning from you or anything. You used to sleep in my fucking bed, Rafe. I would wash your boxers with my laundry. And then what? I'm just thrown away? That easily?" 

A laugh bubbles up from you, full of scorn and mocking. You hate the lost look in his eyes. How he shuffles back a few paces, as much as the small space of the bathroom with allow, just until his back nudges with the wall and shakes the small picture frame hung there. Suddenly, he seems like the trapped animal. A nervous, wild thing that's been cornered and threatened, but you can stop yourself once you've started, and it pours out of you in a rush, talking over him as he tries to speak. Tries to defend himself with more lies. 

"I guess it's my fault though, isn't it? I shouldn't have expected anything different. How could the prince of Kildare Island be seen with someone like me, huh? I'm not rich and perfect. How could a Pogue honestly expect to be with someone like you? " Your mouth shapes into a grimace as you observe as he stands to the wall, shoulders hunching like he doesn't know what to do with himself. "What was I to you, honestly? Just a distraction? A little inside joke with yourself? A quick fuck to take the edge off when life with daddy and mommy got too rough?" 

"That's not it, okay!?" He shouts suddenly, moving forward abruptly enough to send you reeling back into the sink. Enough for the press of the porcelain to sting. "Will you just let me speak? Just - " His face pinches again, lips twisting while he draws in a deep breath as a means to steady himself. "Just let me talk." 

It makes you swallow. Burying down the nerves that prickle along your gut and beneath your skin as you watch him. You move your hands to grip the edge of the of sink tightly enough for your knuckles to ache, but you do keep your mouth shut and he seems to take your silence as the go ahead. 

t

"I didn't sleep with her, alright? I tried. But I didn't - I couldn't. " 

"Like that's any better." You scoff. It's childish, but in your defense, he's entitled. So out of touch with reality and the impact that he truly leaves on things. Unaware of the hurt that he's carved into you. You have to distract yourself by looking off; anywhere but him, and you end up scanning over a half-used bottle of body wash and a bar of soap that sits in the bathtub caddy like they're the most interesting objects in the world. 

"When I'm with you, you make me feel . . . things. Things I've never felt before. Not really." The clunky confession draws your attention to him much easier than you'd like to admit. The way that he describes his feelings is always odd. Detached. Sort of messy, like he's trying to come to terms with being a human being and doesn't know how to fully understand the gravity of his own emotions. "It was a lot to deal with. I didn't know how to. And there was all of this shit with my family and that damned Pogue sticking his nose where he shouldn't - I just needed a distraction. But it couldn't have been you. I wouldn't have been able to keep myself - " 

He seems to catch himself short. Biting his tongue to keep it at bay. And whatever it is you aren't sure. But you have to know now. He's not allowed to backtrack as soon as it gets uncomfortable for him. Not after what he had done. How he had left you and tried to pin the blame back on you. 

"You wouldn't have been able to keep yourself from what?" It surprises even you when your voice comes out soft. Far too light for the conversation you're having and all of the pain that it's digging up. But it must have some sort of effect on him. He seems to lean closer to you then, like he longs to dip into your space and is just barely resisting in holding himself back. 

When he looks at you again there's such bare vulnerability reflecting in his gaze. It nearly breaks something in you, but you hold onto your resolve. Gripping tight onto the heat of your resentment while something pathetically tender yearns to surface. It's dim and weak, but even the traces of it are enough to frighten you. To make you angry at yourself. 

Rafe himself seems to hesitate. Like he's reached a physical barrier and doesn't know how to move past it. Something about his aversion annoys you. The implications that his words have left hang heavy in the atmosphere. Thick and prickling just like the humidity outside, and it seems to cling to your skin just as it would. Uncomfortable and sticky. He looks as though he might back away again. His body curling in on itself, clearly agitated, like he means to hide from your stare. 

"Rafe," you murmur. It sounds like a plea to you; just as desperate as he looks. it almost pains you to be so delicate around him, but you can't seem to force the anger back into your voice. 

He swears lowly under his breath, muttering lowly to himself in a tone that's too quiet to make out. He nearly looks as though he's lost his mind, mumbling to himself with some sort of distress clearly visible in his posture. And then in a blur he's on you. He's crowding you into the sink, his hands cupping your face lightly as though he wants to touch but isn't sure if he can. There's something frantic about it all. Like someone trying to catch water and keep it from slipping between their fingers. And there's a glimmer in his eyes that fervent, full of need and want; pupils blown so wide that they almost seem like chasms. Like they could swallow you whole. 

"I think I love you." He says it slowly and yet it still comes out like a mess. Like he's articulating softly to try and sound out a foreign language. A tongue that he's never heard before. There's a confused edge to it. Almost as though he's in disbelief himself. 

It leaves you more stunned that anything that has left him this night. Or in the entire span that you two have known each other. There's laughter welling up inside of you, but it feels like it might be out of hysterics rather than joy, but all you can do is sit and stare at him in total silence. You think you've lost the ability to speak. Your voice is absent. A dead thing in your throat. 

"Baby, talk to me. Say something." His thumbs sweep along the swells of your cheeks, stroking you tenderly like you're something breakable. 

"That's not true." You will it out of you, forcing your voice from your chest and it rises up a pale comparison of its usual tone. Light and weak around the edges. You hate the hurt look that flickers across his face. As though you had struck him or thrusted a knife into his chest. "You wouldn't have hurt me if you did. You wouldn't have done what you did." 

"I know, but I was scared, baby." He nods in agreement. But there's still an excuse. Because there always is with him. He just can't seem to help himself and cuts you deep, prodding the wound that's already there and bleeding. It has you gripping at one of his arms, to pull him away or keep him close you aren't sure. "I was scared of us." 

"There is no us." 

"But there could be." 

He's clinging onto you with the desperate zeal of a starving man groveling at the feet of a savior. Spewing out praises and pleas to satisfy the unforgiving hunger ravaging his body. In any other circumstance, you would have delighted in seeing him so anguished. You would have gloated over it. But it's difficult to find that delight while he's making promises of you've always longed for. A promise that you know he can't really keep. Not when you're worlds apart. It makes it cruel, the way he dangles it in front of your face with so much conviction. As though he believes in his own lies. 

And you want to trust in them. So badly that it aches. It's almost like a physical agony, and it has you resisting the urge to lean into him for a comfort that only he can provide while he causes your pain. 

"Don't do this, Rafe. Please." You know that you must sound pitiful. A far cry from the rage that had possessed you only moments before, and you hate how powerless he's able to make you. How easily he can disarm you with just his presence, the sound of his voice. You're weak against him. You think that you always have been, long before the two of you had begun to hook up; always sneaking quick glances at him when he wasn't looking. Admiring him when you knew that you shouldn't have been. 

"We can do it; just you and me." He insists, curling his body closer to yours as though he's trying to cage you in; his lips nearly brushing along yours. It has his scent wafting over you, filling up the air and tainting every drag of oxygen you take until he's trapped in your lungs; all dark rum, musk, and a blend of something woody and embellished with a hint of spice. It always blends with the salt of his skin and his natural scent. The same one that had stubbornly clung to your sheets and lingered about your trailer like an unwelcome ghost for days. 

"And what happens then? When the friends you're always so worried about see you with me? How do you think they'll look at you then?" You try to manipulate some strength into your voice, but it still sounds too light, even to you. Nearly wavering. 

"They don't matter anymore. Not really. " He promises. The cradle of his hands becomes firmer in its press, sinking the warmth of his palms into your skin. "It's just you; it's always been you." 

You think that it shatters you and snaps your ire back into place all at once. Striking fire around the molten heat that had just begun to dim. But it doesn't manifest in the nature of more scathing words or a slap to his cheek. You just want him to shut up. To stop talking. Suddenly, your lips are on his, your fingers are threading through his hair as you guide him into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue; fueled by the fire and the suffering in your veins. 

A small, startled sound puffs from his chest. The only indication of his surprise before he's matching your passion with an ardor and need that leaves you just as bewildered and breathless; swept under as though a raging surf has crashed over your body. He nips at your mouth, biting at the tender flesh of your bottom lip like he means to draw blood. His nails scratch at your scalp, his fingers tensing like you might slip away otherwise and he's determined to keep you held against him while he nudges his body flush to yours. 

It quickly becomes a tangle of limbs as you both scramble to get closer, guided by the overwhelming sense of relief that smooths over you like a balm on a burn scar. The taste of him in your mouth seeming to soothe you and tear you apart all at once, but you can't find the strength to stop now that you've started. The mere idea of it seems like a damnation. Like hell incarnate. And now that he's here you can't help but to wonder how you've made it so long without him. You feel drunk on him. Intoxicated by the alcohol on your veins and the scent of him; the desire coiling in your belly like something molten and starved. 

You moan into him when he removes his hands from your face sweep them down the length of your body. Trailing them along your ribs and down to cup your ass, squeezing the shape of it as he hauls you up onto the counter and the edge of the sink so that he can wedge a place for himself between your thighs. It urges your legs to part, and you willingly let him settle between them, rucking your skirt up high on your hips as he presses against you. 

Fitting himself so close that there isn't any space left to separate your bodies. 

He already seems restless, his hips working on yours in slow, almost broken grinds. Like he's not even aware that he's doing it. Mindlessly seeking out friction while he breathes into you. It's like he's been starved, and now that he has something to feed that hunger, he's frantic and wanton. His fingers claw at you. Gripping so tightly that you know the skin beneath them is going to smart and sting later, but you almost welcome the pain. The reminder that it'll leave. 

You've been kissing for so long that it feels as though you're beginning to suffocate. The small gulps of air you've been snatching in between the nips of his teeth and the sweeps of his tongue aren't enough. There's a slight pinch in your lungs, screaming at you to pull away, but you wait only till the last second to do so. Only removing your mouth from his once you fear you could go lightheaded and faint. Still, you can't help but to mourn the loss when you break the kiss to come up for air, gasping softly to soothe the mild ache in your chest. 

Rafe's nose brushes against yours, nudging as though he's tempted to seek out your mouth again. But he grants you the mercy of occupying his own by scattering fervent kisses up the stretch of your neck, removing a hand from your hip to grip your hair instead. Using it as leverage to tug your head to the side to offer himself more of your flesh. 

It all feels so overwhelming. As though all of the nerves in your body have come alight and are burning, flaring like embers at the press of his body and the wet glide of his mouth. His tongue traces over you, lashing out to taste the salt on your skin. His lips close around the point on your neck that turns you soft, and just as easily as if he had pressed a button, your muscles seem to go taut and malleable all at once when he begins to suck. Slightly dragging his teeth over that spot, making your hips jerk against his. He's already hard. The weight of him pressing against your cunt. The motion tugs at the fabric of your underwear, and it could be embarrassing when you notice the arousal soaking the material, making it cling to your skin, but you're too deep in the want the licks up your flesh to truly care.  

He groans lowly in your ear, the noise drawing up deep and heavy from the depths of his chest. Spurred on from the restless drag of your hips as you begin to greedily chase after the bright heat that zips up your spine when you do. 

"Rafe." You moan, clinging to his shoulders like it might keep you from floating away. 

"I know, I know. I got you." He mumbles it on your skin, saying it between sharp bites of his teeth. His fingers flex again, like a physical period on the sentence. Then he's moving again. Shifting his focus down your chest to map out a string of kisses across your chest. Nipping at your collar bone and tracing his tongue over the hint of your breasts that peek from the low cut of your shirt.  Your head thumps back on the mirror as you arche towards him, seeking out the wet heat of his mouth when suddenly he pauses. His lips detach from your skin, just near enough that you can feel the light brush of them, but it's not firm enough to bring you any pleasure. 

Your eyebrows furrow close when he still doesn't move. You can't keep yourself from tilting your head down to glare at him with a frustrated scowl, lightly panting as you as you speak. "Wh - why did you stop?" 

He pulls back then, posture straightening just a bit to meet your eyes, and you can't keep the confusion off of your face when you feel something slip from between your breasts. But then a glint of gold passes into your vision, twinkling lowly in the warm light projecting over the bathroom. Dangling from his index finger and still hooked around your neck is a familiar chain. Thin and delicate, but it's the pendant that hangs from it that really captures your attention. 

Humiliation stings at your cheeks at the sight of his expression. All smug and too satisfied as he suspends the charm in front of your face, faintly swinging it back and forth like a taunt. Forcing you to confront the R and its significance; still safe and secure on your body despite everything. You can see his delight and pride glinting clearly in his eyes, and there's a comment on his tongue. 

"Don't," you warn. But despite your best efforts to sound firm, something soft bleeds around the fringes. It's playful but also sensitive. Reluctantly spirited despite all of the hurt. It dips over the heat that clouds over the atmosphere like the light fall of a delicate, scattered rain. It's frustrating how natural it feels. Like slipping into the comfort of your bed after a long day or falling back into the soothing relief that comes with giving into a bad habit. It's like a second nature. That should concern you. It should make worry and maybe even hate yourself a bit too, but the wave of self-loathing doesn't come. You can't seem to find a place for hatred when being so close to him is like coming home. 

"Don't what?" He asks cheekily. Finally, he drops the necklace. But he doesn't break eye contact as he leans forward to plant a kiss between your breasts over the obnoxious barrier of your shirt. You've never wanted to rip off a piece of fabric any more than you do now. It's almost as though he can read you mind once his hands slip beath your shirt, bunching the short, tight cut of it further up your ribs and past your breasts until its little more than a strip of gathered fabric. And then he's slipping it up around your torso and impatiently tugging it free from your arms, which you lift to aid him. Allowing him to toss it somewhere on the floor. You hear it land with a light thump, discarded and forgotten.

There's only the cover of your bra now keeping your chest from being on display, but his eyes zero in on it regardless. Eyeing the shape of your breasts as they heave against the lace clinging to them and the gold jewelry draped over your skin. That starved look is back again, melting with the smug glint in his eyes; gone dark from lust. 

"I've missed you so much." He speaks against you, speaking the words to your skin like it's a prayer. A declaration and plea for all at once. He drops to his knees then. The bottoms of his shoes lightly squeaking on the tiles as he shifts to trail the plush of his mouth down your stomach, pausing in his trail to swipe his tongue along the divot of your belly button. It makes your stomach twitch when he does it. Lurching at the liquid fire that it leaves in his wake. He playfully nips at the hem of your skirt, nosing at the button keeping it secure around your waist. "What about you, baby? Did you miss me?" 

He already knows the answer to that. You can tell by the way that his eyes fix on the pendant glinting just above the joining strip of your bra, between the cups of delicate fabric. But even with the traces of his ego still present, the desperation that was there before is still clear in the dark of his stare. He looks so vulnerable then, with his head cradled between your thighs, staring up at you like a sinner seeking absolution. You know that he's always craved to be wanted. To be needed and seen. 

You could easily tear him down right now, in the exposed state he's in. To exact the revenge that you had wanted so badly. To finally get ahold of the retribution that has haunted you for many sleepless nights. But the desire to truly do so doesn't come. The sting of anger that ravaged you before has dimmed into a weak ember, set to go dark and cold. 

Instead of lashing out, as though it has a mind of its own one your hands reach down to smooth over the side of his face. Your fingers glide over his skin and cup around the shape of his ear. His eye lashes nearly flutter when he leans into the warmth of your palm, seeking out the press of it like he needs it to survive. 

"Yeah, I missed you," you admit. You swear that he shifts closer to you at the confession. Such a minute movement that you might not have noticed it had your attentions not been so heavily fixed on him. There are the traces of a smile on his lips. But it isn't smug like before. It seems like one of relief this time. Happy and at peace. Like a sentence so small as brought him a kind of solace. 

"Yeah?" He presses a soft kiss onto your upper thigh then, holding his mouth there while a puff of what could be a breath of laughter, or a sigh of elation leaves him. "Let me show you. Can I show you?" 

The fervent pitch of his voice is loud in your ears, your dazed mind sluggishly making sense of his rushed beg. But once it connects, you don't take long to respond. Your head nods quickly in agreement, a jumbled string of yeses pouring from you in a steady stream. Anticipation thrums thick in throughout your body, smoldering and intoxicating as it winds through your veins. You've hardly done anything with him, and you already feel drunk. Like your head has been packed full of stuffing and fumes. You feel like a live wire. Running hot and searing; waiting to light up in a barrage of sparks. 

You swear you could already tip over the edge when he shoves his face between the apex of your thighs, laving his tongue over the clothed heat of your cunt without any warning. Licking you through your underwear. It all but crushes a strangled gasp from you and your hands fly to the edge of the counter to support yourself as your body curls in on itself. Doubling over from the zip of pleasure that skirts through you like the wild crack of a lightning rod. 

"You're already soaked," he groans. The vibrations of his voice doubling with the drag of his tongue and making your hips mindlessly grind into the warmth of his mouth. It feels so good, and yet it somehow isn't enough. The barrier of your underwear makes the swipe of his lips and tongue too dull. A faint comparison of what it could be. Of how good you know it really feels. 

"Ray, take 'em off." You beg, arching as he grinds the point of his nose against your clit. 

The look in his eyes is impish as he watches you from his place between your legs. The look of it is always a sign of trouble from him. Especially in situations like this, where he can easily exercise control over you by keeping you malleable and desperate on the caress of his fingers or the glide of his tongue. He'll keep you dangling on that edge for hours if you let him. Pushing and pulling you like the sway of the tide. Working you up to the precipice of something debilitating only to drop you back from it, until your pleasure ebbs away into a dull, frustrating ache. And he'll do it over and over again until your moans meld into the beginnings of a sob. But you can't do that. Not now, at least, with a hunger and want that feels like it could tear you apart by twisting inside of you. 

"Please, don't tease tonight." You pant, still mindlessly chasing after what little pleasure he gives with the roll of your hips. "Not now, Rafe. I can't-" 

"I won't. I promise," he says, placating you with kisses along your underwear, sucking at the delicate skin at the joining of your hip and thigh. "I'll play nice, hm?" 

It's only then that he's tugging your underwear off. Ripping it from you so suddenly that it would have uprooted you from your place if you hadn't already been clinging to the edge of the counter. You can hear the sharp cry of fabric giving a little as he slips it free from your legs. But you don't have time to mourn or admonish him for the loss because you're pretty sure that he pockets it, taking if for himself like the pervert he is. It wouldn't be the first pair that he's snagged from you. His probably has more of your panties than you do at this point. 

He uses his shoulders to shove your thighs far apart, using his hands to lift and drape your legs over his back as he lurches forward, smothering himself in your bare cunt. He groans into you, dropping his mouth open to swipe his tongue, lapping at you like a man starved. 

A loud, startled moan rips free from your lungs and you only have half the mind to swallow it down, making it trail off in a strangled noise. You can still hear the party living on just outside the thin barrier of the door. The music and chatter from beyond it trickling past in a muffled hush. From deep in the living room there would be no possible way for them to know what's happening, but if someone was to walk past the bathroom it would be more than apparent as to what the both of you are doing inside. 

 Rafe isn't having it. He lands a soft smack on the outside of your leg, mostly just to catch your attention, but the subtle sting of it makes you gasp regardless. It forces you to return you focus to him, looking down at him as he watches you with eyes that seemed glazed and almost drunk. He just barely pulls back, his lips still sweeping over you while his tongue brushes over your clit in soft licks as he talks in a slurred sort of tone: "Don't hold yourself back like that. Let them hear you. I want them to." His voice dies down then, falling into an almost crazed murmur in between the drag of his mouth. But you are certain that you can make out scraps of what he's saying in between the messy, wet sounds coming from your pussy and the pants of breath rising from his lungs. Something along the lines of "especially him - I'll kill him." 

Regardless of who he's referring to (even though your addled brain slowly gathers that it's more than likely Thatcher), it should concern you. The threat that easily slips from him as though he's proposing something as simple as taking a joy ride around the island or making a remark about an annoying coworker. It's supposed to be disturbing, especially when you know that violence comes easily to him. Sometimes as simple as breathing. As though it's engraved in his DNA, part of his genetic coding. 

You know deep down, in the pit of your soul that the remark isn't one to simply pass off. It isn't just a product of his mood or a fleeting result jealousy; it could very well be a promise. He's always been protective over what he deems as his. If anything poses a threat to his happiness or comfort, he's quick to lash out. He doesn't shy away from the possibility of violence, bloodied knuckles or busted noses and broken wrists. 

You had seen the way that he had looked at Thatcher earlier. Like a guard dog staring down a potential intruder through the bars of a fence, eyes wild and locked on. You hate to admit that you liked it a little then too. The glimmer of satisfaction that had zipped through you then had been so easy to ignore underneath all of your confusion and frustration, but here and now, with his head buried between your thighs and his fingers tensing around your skin, it's impossible to disregard. 

His jealousy had been clear as day underneath the warm hue of the kitchen light. Naked for the world to see. Thatcher had to have noticed it then. He would have to be an idiot not to. Rafe came here to find you, trailing after you through the crowd of Pogue's and locals just so that he could speak to you. His reasons for showing up to this party in the middle of nowhere was obvious to everyone, and it pleases some twisted little part of you to know that gossip must already be circulating around the rooms just outside. Whispers about you and the prince of Kildare Island himself that would quickly spread beyond these very walls and make their way to town to be scattered amongst the population. To the two-faced old women of the church on Driftwood Parkway and all the way down to the rich men in khaki's as they cruise across the green in their golf carts. 

Just about everyone on this island would know about you and him by the time that the sun sets tomorrow over the waves and douses Kildare in the dark. Just the prospect of it nearly pleases you as much as the glide of his tongue splitting you open does. Dipping inside the entrance of your cunt like he means to drink your soul from you. The combination of it all threatens to make you double over again, and to keep yourself from writhing off the counter you thread your fingers into his hair. Using the grip of it to grind your hips against his nose and the heat of his mouth. Your head knocks back on the mirror with a dull thump as a cry shakes itself free from your ribs, pitching and ragged. 

"Rafe - oh fuck. God." 

"Mmm, nah, not God - it's just me." Comes his response. It's so cliché and corny that you would have rolled your eyes and scoffed at him were you not too busy trying to gulp down oxygen in between your labored breaths. All you can do is manage an exasperated, playful frown in response, but you can see amusement flicker in his own gaze at the sight of it. 

His apparent delight is enough for you to scramble enough air together to form a sentence, but it comes out winded; slow and choppy around the edges while you force it out. "You're so lame, Ray." 

"Well, you're stuck with me. Now don't interrupt me." Then he's taking your clit into the cradle of his tongue and sucking. Laving it with small licks that turn your thoughts slow and syrupy. You hardly notice that he's pressing a finger against you, gathering the slick of your cum before slipping it inside, stretching your walls around the thickness of it; so much longer and wider than your own. It has your jaw dropping at the added pleasure and your hips twist up when he trusts it in deep. Finding that depilating spot that leaves you a mess with a practiced precision, reaching it so easily, just as he's done countless times before. 

He chases after the jerk of your hips. Keeping his mouth fixed to you while he hurtles you closer to drowning in bliss. The influence of your approaching orgasm starts to crest with a speed that's dizzying, and you feel as though you hardly have any time to brace for it. It has your free hand scrambling across the stretch of the counter, blindly seeking for something else to hold on to, but all you succeed in doing is knocking down a bottle of mouthwash, sending it toppling over the edge to clatter on the floor below. 

You can feel it fizzling at your fingertips and toes. Skirting down your spine like a zip of electricity, like a drizzle of scorching honey. Your body is drawing up tight. The muscles in your abdomen already seizing to mangle the pleasure from your body. 

"Ray-Rafe, I'm gonna cum. You're gonna make me cum." 

He doesn't bother coming up for air. Instead, his free hand slips up your thigh and reaches for your own. For the same one that had been mindlessly clawing for something to reach onto, and it makes your heart ache a little bit when he takes it in his own. Threading his fingers with yours for you to squeeze. It's a gesture that's far too sweet for a person who's currently eating you out in someone else's bathroom, but the pressure of his palm on you, the chill of his ring on your warm skin, the intimacy behind it, is enough to throw you headfirst into the throes of an orgasm. 

You moan his name when you cum. Repeating it over and over again like a mantra that might save you as your bliss rips through you. But it's the support of his hair threaded through your fingers and the weight of his hand held in your own that serves to keep you grounded while you coast through the flood of warm and pleasure. It ebbs away slowly. Slipping from your body like melted sugar being poured down the drain and stubbornly catching in place. But it doesn't stop. It stretches out in front of you and begins to shift into something tainted by licks of fire and shocks of electricity. 

It's too much. Blending between the lines of pleasure and pain. You need to catch your breath. To properly orient yourself but Rafe hasn't removed his mouth or his fingers from you. It's like your nerves have been lit on fire and it only heightens when he slips a finger in along the next, curling them together to stretch you out around them. 

"Rafe, I can't." You nearly sob, your back impulsively bows and twists to try and shuffle your hips out from underneath the constant swipe his tongue but he stubbornly keeps himself in place. 

He parts his lips from you only long enough to speak out a harsh reply, his voice firm and rigid while he pins you with a stare that's equally unwavering. "You can and you will. You've done it before; just ride it out and take it, baby." 

And then he's on you again. Smearing your pussy open with his mouth, which suddenly feels too hot. It's a sweet sort of torture. One that you've never fully gotten used to, as much as you like it. It's like grasping onto a pop of lightning; searing underneath your flesh and ravaging you from the inside out. He's gone down on you for hours before, spurred on by the stresses brought on by his family and the weight of the world on his shoulders. It's a sort of stress relief for him, in some way. He gets a kind of peace out of it. From keeping you underneath his mouth and working orgasm after orgasm out of you until you're a wet, incoherent mess. Even while you benefit from it, it's more than apparent that it's mostly for his pleasure. 

A set of your favorite silk sheets had been ruined because of it. Nothing that a cycle in the one of the trailer park's community wash machines hadn't taken care of, but the point still stands. He had kept you there for hours, pinned down on your bed while he used your body, wringing it of its pleasure and getting drunk on the taste. You had lost count of how many orgasms he had pulled from you after the third one. You can only hope that he isn't that starved for it tonight. You don't think that you'll survive it. Not here at least, while you're held up in Thatcher's bathroom. 

But it seems that a small mercy has been bestowed upon you with how another coil of bliss begins to wind up tight, closely trailing after the influence of your previous orgasm. It's running up on you so much quicker than the first. Zipping through your body at a breakneck pace, spurred on by the curl of his fingers, and strengthened by the traces of ecstasy that still flood your system. 

The movement of his fingers flexing and stroking inside of your send little shocks of static zipping inside of you. Still bordering on something almost painful, but it only serves to tip you that much closer to the precipice. Promising to toss you over the edge as he lightly shakes his head while he drinks down your arousal. 

You gasp as you look down, taking in the sight of him through the rapture turning your mind into mush. He looks blissed out, eyes slipped closed and the worried pinch between his eyebrows has smoothed out. The traces of your cum has smeared across his nose and the corners of his cheeks, glinting softly in the light. He seems just as intoxicated it as you. Soothed by the taste of your cunt and the scent of sex in the air. It's filthy. 

You hardly register being swept under by your pleasure, but it tugs you down ruthlessly. Seeming to snatch you by the throat and leave you breathless as you twitch and jerk beneath his mouth, and you're hardly able to hear his words of encouragement as he thrusts his fingers deeper to help ease you through the thick of it. "There you go. Just ride it out and give it to me." 

Your body bends the command like its gospel; hips twitching to the rhythm that his fingers have set to further chase after the dull flickers of heat biting at you at you and sinking in the base of your spine. It turns your blood into something molten, and your muscles go pliant like melted wax, leaving you to sag against the mirror like dead weight; the sink presses almost painfully into your back but you're too spent to shuffle from it. He lets up only once a sharp hiss escapes you, slipping past your teeth in a thin sigh. He's careful when he removes his fingers free from you, shuffling up from his kneeled position on the floor to stand on his feet. His drags his tongue over his fingers as he does so, cleaning the taste of you off of them as he watches you with an intense stare, releasing them from his mouth with a pop that seems to ring out across the close walls of the bathroom. 

He crowds into your space suddenly, his body now flush with yours. His chest heaving as though he had just run a marathon. "You did so good, always such a good girl for me." He murmurs as he places a kiss to your forehead, undeterred by the perspiration that dampens your skin. It's another soft moment between you both. Like an echo of all the ones just like it from the past, hidden under the guise of an odd camaraderie, always dancing around the emotions that truly lied beneath. This feels so much more natural than that. No longer self-conscious or restrained. 

It makes everything seem light and airy. Probably a side effect of the dopamine now rushing through your veins and the remaining traces of alcohol, but there's no mistaking the soft look in his eyes. The peaceful expression on his face, now free of the clear agitation that had drawn his body tight just earlier. It has you reaching out for him. Smoothing your hands up his arms, feeling the texture of his shirt as they trail up his shoulders - a dark black shade. One of your favorite colors on him. Something that you had casually shared with him once, and it makes you smile to think that he had purposely worn it to come and see you. 

Your fingers thread through the hair at the nape of his neck, carefully scratching your nails along the sensitive skin there. It feels like a reward when a pleased sigh puffs from his chest, and he props his forehead against yours to stare into your eyes. His own hands come up to trail over your bare thighs, messaging the flesh there as he runs them up and down their length, prompting you to lift them to wrap around his waist. Tugging him closer despite the slight tremor running through your relaxed muscles. 

You feel almost impossibly close to him now. As though a pocket has been carved in time and made for the both of you; intimate and private. Even with the dim chatter of the party and the dull hum of music drifting through the flimsy door, and the possibility of people standing just outside, listening in to gawk and recount what they've heard and seen. The Kook prince himself is fucking a Pogue. You'll no doubt get looks once you finally leave this little space. Some will be curious and shocked; others will probably be out of disgust and maybe even horror. But that seems so trivial right now. None of it has a place in this moment. It's secondary. And you can't be bothered to give it any attention while he watches you as though you've created the heavens themselves, the same ones that glimmer and wink above this very island. The striking blue of his eyes seeming to burn with something that seems a lot like admiration. 

"Hi," you breathe. It sounds a little corny. Kind of dumb, even to you, once you fully register what you've said, but it's all that seems fitting. It's like you're meeting him all over again, as dramatic as that may be. Like you're seeing him for the first time. You can only hope that it isn't just from the high of sex - that it won't all wear off and vanish as soon as you both leave this room and face reality. 

"Hey, pretty girl." He returns with a smile of his own. It urges you to lean that much closer to him, drawing your legs up tighter around him to seek out his natural warmth. He complies easily, allowing you to press him flush to you, almost molding your bodies together. It soothes the wounded ache in you that still lies beneath the surface of it all, stinging lowly under the haze of bliss and pleasure. The warmth of him and the pressure of his body smoothing over the hurt like a compress. 

But the press of him against your inner thigh draws everything to a hush, hot and heavy under the material of his pants. It shouldn't be possible, but the subtle weight of it against you has another flicker of lust lashing between your hips. Smoldering and heating up like a handful of embers. And suddenly the scent of him filling the air is tempting, all dark musk and cardamom. It's mouthwatering, settling deep in your lungs with every drag of your breath. 

It's almost instinctual when you slip one of your hands free from the back of his neck to glide it between the press of your bodies, playful trailing your fingers down and past the stretch of his abdomen until you're able to cup him through the material of his pants. A groan rumbles out from his chest, deep and drawn out before bleeding into a low, almost strained "fuck." 

"Still need you, Rafe." You brush your lips over his, gathering the traces of your arousal that's smeared on his mouth onto your own like a vulgar sort of gloss.

"Yeah, shit, okay," he agrees. He nods frantically in agreement, pulling himself back from you just enough to give you the space to start undoing his pants, but your fingers slip on the button, slightly slick from the sweat on your skin and uncoordinated from the zeal of your excitement. Rafe isn't patient enough for you to make a second attempt it seems, restlessly batting your hands away with a somewhat snappy, "Jesus, just let me do it," huffing from him as he reaches to slip the button through the puncture in the material. 

The urge to snap at him rises up, but it's snuffed out just as quickly when the sharp metallic sound of the zipper being tugged down its teeth cuts across the heavy air. It all happens in quick succession after that. He tugs his pants down just enough to free the length of his cock. He doesn't give you the ability to admire him, because he's tugging you forward by your thighs, parting the sliver of space between your bodies to drag the head against the slick entrance of your cunt, still wet and messy from the mixture of your cum and his spit. 

He tilts his face to be able to speak against your lips, gazing into your eyes with a determination and fervency that seems to cut through you, holding your attention hostage even as one of his hands comes up to grip the nape of your neck. All but pinning you in place.

"I want you to scream for me. Don't you dare fucking hold back." 

That's all the warning you get before he's shoving himself inside of you with a single thrust. Burying himself all the way to the hilt, forcing your walls to give and stretch around his girth. Even with the aid of your previous orgasms making you pliant and soaked, there's still a dull ache that zips through you as your cunt clenches around the shape of him. The force of him inside of you all but strikes the air from your lungs, and it leaves your hands to scramble across his shoulders, your fingers gripping and clawing at the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. 

He doesn't waste any time by starting in a slow pace to gradually work up to something greater. He's moving fast and hard from the very start. Thrusting himself in and out of you like he's desperate. All but punching himself into you with enough force to rattle your head back on the glass of the mirror, and with how many times you've knocked against it tonight, you have to send a fleeting prayer up to the universe that it won't shatter and break. 

It's like he's trying to make up for lost time. Like he's trying to drill all of his frustrations into you; all of his pent-up anger, humiliation and regret; to make you feel what he's feeling. Or maybe he's just trying to prove a point. To himself, to you, and all of the people outside. That you're his. It leaves you clinging onto him. Holding on while he drives himself into you with a passion that's almost brutal. You can practically feel yourself going stupid. Going pliant and dumb on his cock at it drags through you, gliding against your walls in a way that makes you feel all of him, every little detail. Every single inch is heightened by the veins that run down his length, starting from the base to trail down near the head. He used to go crazy whenever you would glide your tongue over them, throwing his head back and moaning with the sound of your name or a curse under his breath. 

You almost wish that you could have him in your mouth right now. To see him break underneath something as simple as your tongue and the heat of your mouth, but you think that you could die if he pulled out of you. It would be a horrendous sort of torture. Worse than death. 

"God, you're such a fucking slut, hm?" He almost croons it. Mean and condescending as he grips your cheeks to get you to look at him. Making you get lost in the flecks of cerulean and hints of gray that's nearly become swallowed by the width of his pupils. "Letting me fuck you like this, in some Pogue's bathroom while everyone stands outside. They're probably listening right now; you know that, right? Standing outside while they listen to you moan like a whore." 

It's downright degrading how he's speaking to you. It should hurt you to some degree, or make you irritated at the very least, but all it does is make you clench around him harder. Your pussy seizing up around his length like it's trying to suck him inside to keep him there. And he feels it too. You know he does based on the nasty smile that breaks across his face; teeth baring in what almost looks like a snarl. All arrogant and mean. 

"Yeah, that's right. Not even gonna deny it, are you?" He uses the hand still secure around you jaw to shake your head for you as though you're a doll. Using how malleable you've been reduced to for his own benefit. "That's right. Cause you're mine. " 

You find yourself nodding out of your own volition then, drawing up enough focus to will yourself in moving your head around the grip of his hand to agree. You can tell that it pleases him. His expression is one of pure, arrogant delight, and you know that he'll be riding the high of having you dumb, and cock drunk like this for days. His ego always manages to find a way to inflate whenever he succeeds in turning your brain into liquid and mush; until you're practically mindless and stupid. It used to have him striding around you trailer with a satisfied glint in his eyes. The traces of a smug smirk on the edge of his lips as he'd rummage through your fridge for leftovers or dig through your cabinets for a snack before he'd leave (unsurprisingly, Kildare's most spoiled rich boy can't cook worth a shit - he's burnt eggs black before and left your trailer tinged with smoke that took a good two days to get aired out). 

But you can't find it in yourself to be exasperated or annoyed with him while you're too occupied surviving the white-hot heat shooting throughout your body, drizzling down your spine like a vat of liquid sugar to settle between the cradle of your hips. It's too much. It's like being torn to pieces but in the most delicious way possible; you don't want it to stop. You want to stay here, suspended in this moment with the scent of sex and the musk of his cologne staining the air. With the warmth of his body seeping deep into your bones while he uses you for his pleasure while throwing you headfirst into your own; the sound of his name repetitively falling from your lips. 

So it's completely cruel that he suddenly pulls out of you, leaving you torturously empty and on the edge of something cataclysmic. A confused, annoyed look crosses your face, and a complaint rises to the tip of your tongue as you openly scowl at him. Though you don't get the opportunity to voice it. 

"Turn around. " He commands impatiently, but he doesn't even give you the chance to try and shuffle free from your perch on the counter. It's all an abrupt rushing blur when he tugs you from your spot and forces you onto your feet. His hands settle on your waist, fingers greedily gripping the shape of them as he spins around you on your heels and bends you over with the firm press of his hand. A gasp rattles from your ribs as he pins you on the sink, leaving you exposed to the gluttonous sweep of his eyes. 

Then he's kicking your legs apart, spreading you open to bare you to him and without any warning he's slipping himself back inside in a single, long thrust. It has your jaw dropping open, your lashes fluttering at the sensation of it ripping through you, all liquid and smoke. Now that he has you facing the mirror, it gives you no other option but to watch you both as he begins fucking you again. It's like a magnet to metal, the way that your vision flickers up to him. Seeking out the sight of him as he works you closer to that debilitating end.

Not even the way that the harsh edge of the counter digs into the bend in your hips is enough to distract you from it. The pinch of it fading into a dull ache. He looks beautiful like this. Even as he does something as vulgar as watching the sight of his cock ceaselessly plunging into you. It's as though he's hypnotized by it, his own focus fastened to where the two of your bodies join. Where the smack of your skin meeting his sounds out from; the wet slap of him thrusting in and out of your pussy. 

There's a blush on his cheeks, and a sheen of sweat glinting softly on his skin like a dusting of pale gold. It almost makes him look angelic. That should be impossible for someone as frantic and violent as Rafe, but there's no denying that there's something gorgeous about him, as volatile and unpredictable as he can be. The sounds falling from past the parted shape of his lips are beautiful. His moans and the almost drunken cursing and rambling douse your nerves with heat and rapture every time he speaks; slurred and low like he's falling apart in the best way possible. 

It took you forever to convince him that it's okay to vocal in bed. That the sound of him groaning is a turn on. For the longest time he thought it was a joke, like you were trying to trick him into embarrassing himself. Some odd form of toxic masculinity, you think. But you had finally succeeded in getting him to be comfortable with it, after what must add up to days of convincing him and getting him to moan in bed, he finally gave in. And now it's almost impossible to get him to shut up - not that you would ever dare such a thing. You wouldn't dream of depraving yourself of it now that you have it. 

He finally looks up from between your bodies, and you don't miss the way that his eyes nearly roll in the back of his skull, lashes fluttering. He meets your stare in the reflection of the mirror, and that mean smile makes its way on his face again. But it's gone nearly just as quickly as it had appeared. His mouth drops open in a deep groan when your cunt clenches tight around his girth, a crease pinching between his eyebrows to make an expression that almost looks pained. 

He leans over you then, hooking his chin over your shoulder to nuzzle his nose against your head to speak into your ear, not breaking eye contact with you even for a split second. "You're not allowed to leave me again. You can't this away from me. You're not gonna take yourself away - not again." 

It's structured like a command. Or manic ravings. Regardless, it would enough to send anyone else running the other way and ducking for cover. Someone with common sense, maybe. But the tone of his voice is so desperate. Fragile and a little distraught. Like the very thought of you slipping from him could send him into a spiral. It has so many different things rising up inside of you: a sick type of satisfaction. The hurt in you pleased to see him in just as much pain. To know that you're not the only one who's been scarred. But there's the urge to soothe him as well. To cradle the parts of him that have been broken and kicked - by the world, his family. To nurse the wounds that have been left on him. They all gave up on him, but you don't think that you can. 

It has you tilting your head back to give him access to your neck, and like a moth to a flame he immediately dips his face to tuck it into the junction of your shoulder. Nipping at the skin with his teeth and breathing in your scent like it's a drug. One of your hands lets go of the iron clad grip it has on the edge of the counter to clutch at his hair, threading through the thick of it and grazing your nails close to the nape of his neck. 

It draws his attention back on you, making him tilt his head just enough to meet your eyes again in the reflection, pinning you with a stare that seems to communicate so much. It's a silent plea and a devout order all at once. A beg that you won't slip away from him. 

"Just as long as you don't leave me first," you answer. Your voice is full of conviction, even as it wavers just the slightest. The sound of it weakened by the breathlessness in your lungs and the brutal pace that he's managed to maintain; still thrusting himself into you as though he needs it to survive.

He speaks into your skin then, answering you in a low mutter. Nearly a whisper: "I won't. I won't, I promise." 

One of his hands shoves your hips down flat on the counter. It slips your hand from his hair and forces your spine to curve into a more pronounced arch that somehow makes him feel deeper than before. Hitting that spot inside of you with every single stroke. Forcing a gasp of air from your chest every time his hips meet yours, making your toes curl in your shoes. The position that he's tiled your spine into almost stings. The ache of it licking up your back but can't find it in yourself to complain. Or even really care. Not with the way that it's rendering you completely mindless. Seeming to knock a thought from your head with each grind and thrust. 

One of your hands flies up to the sink. Your fingers claw and grasp around the shape of it, clenching around the cool steel like it's a lifeline, but it does little to offer any semblance of support to guide you through the high that's beginning to overwhelm you. It bleeds along your toes and sears up your fingertips and up your spine like a current. It has your body going slack, muscles falling weak. It's almost as though you've been tazed when your head drops against the counter. The weight of it suddenly too much for your neck to hold up. 

It's like everything's been plucked free from your skull. Leaving it an empty pocket, a vacant space that only Rafe occupies. You can't focus on much more than that now. You're lost in the pleasure lighting you up from the inside out and eating you alive. It's only the vague details that you're still able to register. Like the smear of your arousal slipping down your thighs, pushed out of you each time he pulls out to fill you up again; the sting of the counter's lip digging into your hips; the smack of his balls hitting your clit with every stroke, sending sparks around your cunt, making it clench and pulse around his length. You think that you might be drooling, but you aren't entirely sure; saliva slipping past your lips as your mouth hangs open.

You can hear yourself moaning over the rush of blood roaring in your ears. Breathless, pitchy moans rising in the humid air each time he pumps into you, rolling his hips in a way that's almost mean. The zeal behind every movement would have the crown of your head knocking into the sliver of wall beneath the mirror if it wasn't the secure grip he has on your waist, keeping you held in his grip so that he can control your movements. Practically using your own weight and pliancy to fuck you back onto his cock. 

You try meeting his thrusts on your own, but his hold on you is rigid, and the rhythm he moves in is punishing. At this point he's just using you, and simultaneously using himself to get you off like it's his job. 

"You're so tight," he groans. You can't see his face, not with the side of your own pressed to the counter and your eyes squeezed shut, but you can hear the smug edge in his tone. He's absolutely thrilled with the state he's reduced you to for the second - third time this night. "You're squeezing me, baby. Gonna kill me if you keep doin' that." 

But he quickly contradicts his statement, gripping onto your hair to pull up and off of the counter. Just enough so that he's able to slip his other one past your hips and the fabric of your skirt to glide his fingers around your soaked cunt, just above where he thrusts into you. Gathering your cum on his fingers, and then his slipping them up to circle around your clit. 

You would have doubled over if it wasn't for the hold he has on your hair, keeping you held in place. A flare of pain bites across your scalp, but it's a shadow in comparison to the ecstasy flooding your system. It might be dramatic, but a small part of your brain wonders if you'll survive the onslaught of it all once it finally slams over you. It's hurtling towards you again. A rising tide that's set to drown you and hold you down. It flares underneath your skin, skirting across your nerves and leaving traces of heat behind. 

It has your body winding up tight again. The muscle connecting you and holding you together seizing up in preparation to wring you dry of every ounce of pleasure, and Rafe is determined to get you there. Working himself inside of you in a way that has your eyes threatening to roll back, his fingers sweeping tight figure eights over your clit, making your abdomen draw up harshly. 

"Shit, Rafe - my God." 

"I feel you about to cum again. I know you're close. " He says it in your ear, slipping his hand from around your ear to grip your throat, using the leverage to tip you back towards his chest. His nose nudges along your cheek and you can feel the brush of his lips glide over the edge of your jaw. "Just let go. You know you want to. I want you to cum on it. Give it to Daddy, baby; let me feel you, pretty girl." 

It's like your body was waiting for his permission, and now that it has it, it's caving in and sweeping you under. Time seems to blank out as a field of stars bursts across your vision. All of it flattening and smearing into a distorted blur with your sense of sound dimming into something dull and muffled. The only distinguishable noise is the roar of your heart thundering in your ears like a warped drum. It makes you lost, muscles lax and completely reliant on him to keep you upright. 

It probably only takes seconds for you to come back to yourself, but deep in the throes of it, it feels like years have passed. As though you've been frozen in place and dipped in hot wax and electricity. It bursts in your bones and the pit of your stomach, making your body tremble with aftershocks as it struggles to ride out the waves of bliss ravaging through you. 

It takes a minute for your brain to orient itself. For you to become aware of your limbs and the support underneath you, the drag of Rafe's cock still splitting you open. It's beginning to border on too much again. The pleasure is leaning on too sharp and bright, making you hiss under your breath. But Rafe is close. You can hear it in the groans spilling from him. You can feel it in the glide of his hips. The once hard, smooth rhythm faltering into something broken. 

"Where do you want it?" He gasps in between raged pants. A glimpse in the mirror lets you see his face and the grimace taking up his expression. Like he can hardly stand the pleasure overtaking him - like it's tugging him apart at the seams and might not leave anything of him left behind. His grip is harsh on the length of your neck. His other fingers squeezing tight on your hip. Hard enough that it's going to smart the skin underneath, and it's with a shaky sense of strength that you manage to lift a hand up to slip over his hold on your hip. Your fingers threading alongside his. 

You feel as though you can hardly breath, forcing your lungs to expand and pull in oxygen. Trying to give yourself enough air to form a sentence, and you just barely manage to do that. You practically have to force it out of your throat. "Inside. I'm still on the pill-" 

That's all you get to say before he's doubling over you with a long groan. Driving himself into you a few more final, sloppy thrusts. They're sharp and heavy from the force behind them as he tries to work out every possible scrap of pleasure, a rush of heat spreading throughout you as he cums inside - thrusting his hips into yours one last time and holding himself there. Making you take every possible drop. 

That's how the two of you stay. Pressed against each other and floating in your own euphoria as the high in your vein's flows and ebbs through your limbs and fills your head with an empty kind of euphoria. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, syncing with your own as you try to level out your breathing. You aren't sure how long you stay that way, with Rafe draped along your back just barely holding himself up with your joined hands now splayed out on the counter. The thumb around your throat idly sweeps along your pulse point, tracing over your skin like he means to count the racing of your heart. 

It all feels thick and syrupy. As though your limbs have been left to soak in a pool of warm water. As pleasant as it is and as hesitant as you are to move, the weight of him simultaneously sagging against you and keeping you held up is straining on your spine and shoulders. The desire to shift from your position is dull, but the ache in your body demands otherwise. You lightly nudge him in the ribs with your elbow, reluctantly mumbling for him to move. To which he complies with a quick, alright, alright, I got it, huffed out, but it lacks any real bite as he detaches himself from you. 

It makes you uncomfortably aware of the sheen of sweat that clings to your skin, and when he finally pulls out of you it's even worse. You both groan from overstimulation when he removes himself from you to tuck his cock back into his pants, the metallic cry of the zipper ringing off of the bathroom walls. You can feel his cum trickling down your thighs, smearing across your skin and beginning to cool. 

Now that the high of it is wearing off, you just feel gross. It has you turning on your heels to face him, the bottoms of your shoes squeaking on the floor as you pivot to lean your back against the counter with an exhausted sigh. You let your head thud back against the mirror again, but you can't find it in yourself to care this time. Not while you can barely hold yourself upright; the buzz of sex still pleasant and clinging in your body. 

You hadn't even realized that you've closed your eyes until a sharp clatter has them opening. Your head also turns on its own, leaning to glance over to your right where Rafe stands alongside you, rummaging through a narrow set of cabinets fixed between the sink and the bathroom door, carelessly glancing around the folded piles of towels and wash cloths. 

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch him while your sluggish brain connects the dots. As soon as you come to the realization, you can feel the opposition on the tip of your tongue - ready to say no. To tell him that you can just wad up a pile of toilet paper instead, but he's already plucking a towel up from one of the shelves and gently nudging past you to run the tap, the knob quietly squeaking as he twists it on. 

You don't hide your exasperated look when he shuffles away from your side to stand in front of you, reaching to spread your thighs open. You hiss when he runs the damp cloth over you, cleaning up the mess you both made with the aid of the warm water he's soaked the fuzzy material in. You appreciate the gesture, but you still don't think that he had to ruin someone else's towel to do it. 

"Really?" You ask, tilting your head as you watch him. 

His eyebrows perk up just the slightest when he meets your unamused stare, but he doesn't seem to be troubled by it in the slightest. Once he's finished, he tosses the soiled cloth across the room and into the bathtub without so's much as a glance.

"What? We already fucked in the bathroom; I don't think a towel is going to do that much more damage." He just shrugs, unbothered and nonchalant as he answers. Then that amused, smug smile is on his face again as he casts a look towards the door. "Unless you wanna walk out of here with my cum pouring out of you. I won't complain." 

You can't help but to roll your eyes at him while you reach down to tug your skirt from where it had rucked up, smoothing it back down to cling over your thighs, but the expression seems much more playful and relaxed than it should probably be. His usual brand of douchie, cocky sarcasm is already making a comeback now that the tension has left him. It should annoy you, probably, but it soothes you more than anything. It's a comfort, as odd as it may be, to see him gradually resorting back to himself. Arrogant, and a little obnoxious, but in a way that you find entirely endearing. 

He notices the traces of the smile on your face. You can tell by the way that his own goes from gloating to a little soft. The tenderness of it reflecting in his eyes as he closes the space between you to settle himself close. His lips are on yours then, drawing you into a kiss that's so much slower than the first. The desperation and the anger between you both having settled and died out like a fire. Now there's nothing left but ease and a relaxing calm. It makes it unhurried and languid as he leads your lips to move against his. 

It doesn't last for long though, eventually breaking off for you to come up for air. His eyes are still a little glazed over when you meet them. Dopey from the high of sex, and knowing him, a line or two. He seems so far off from the nervous wreck that he usually is. Free from the aggression and arrogance that usually taints everything he does. 

But he's soft with you. Gentle when he wants to be - gentle with you. Only you. And it's going to stay that way if you have anything to say about it. 

"Don't ever pull that shit again, Ray." You warn, dipping your voice into something stern despite the affection blossoming in the pit of your chest. " I swear I'll castrate you if you do." 

Something like a snicker puffs past his lips, like he finds the prospect entertaining. Or maybe he just likes you being possessive over him. It's probably that. Regardless, he leans closer to you, pulling you closer by your waist and stroking his hands down your hips. "Yes, ma'am, I'll keep that in mind." 

You don't get to respond to him. A knock rattles against the door, slow and light enough that it nearly sounds hesitant. Still it causes you to flinch a little, nearly jerking you out from underneath Rafe's hands but he maintains his grip on you, assisted by the way that the counter keeps you blocked in place. 

"Hey, uh, I'm not trying to . . . interrupt anything, but you've been in there for a minute, so I just wanted to check and make sure that you're alright." The voice that bleeds past the barrier of the old wood is muffled from the thick of it, but just loud enough that you're able to recognize it as Thatcher's. Embarrassment floods you at the realization. Especially when you briefly think back on your old statement you had promised to him just before leading Rafe out of the kitchen. It'll only be a few minutes. That's what you had told him then. It's definitely been longer than that. Probably closer to thirty - if not longer. 

You let your forehead thump against Rafe's chest, a low, defeated sigh leaving you as you consider what to say next. An apology would probably be in your best interest. Just to be polite, for what little it's worth, considering that you and Rafe have all but defiled his bathroom. It makes you wonder how you're even going to be able to walk out of here without cringing underneath the weight of everyone's intrigued - if not disgusted - stares. 

"I just made her cum three times in a row, man, but yeah, she's 'alright.' " Rafe replies, irritation and contempt lacing his words like a venom. You truly wish that the floor would split open to swallow you whole as soon as you register what he said. All you can manage is pulling yourself back enough to shoot him a withering glare, but he doesn't appear to be affected by your look in the slightest, far too busy scowling at the door. 

"Rafe," you snap. You try to collect yourself, mentally shaking off your humiliation as best as you can and dipping your voice into something pleasant and even to be heard through the door to answer Thatcher. "Yeah, I'm fine. We'll be out in a minute. For real this time." You almost wince when it leaves your mouth. The awkwardness of the situation stretches on when Thatcher doesn't answer immediately. There's a pause and silence before an unsure, stiff "alright" rises up from outside before he presumably leaves. 

A relieved sigh leaves you, the breath you were holding leaving you like a deflating balloon as you allow yourself to lean into Rafe once again, finding solace in his warmth to try and detach yourself from the embarrassment of the encounter. His arms slip around you easily. Shifting to take you around the waist in a loose hold that has all of your thoughts settling down into useless background chatter. 

"Want to go to yours?" he asks suddenly. It makes you look to him again, shifting back on your feet to observe him from the containment of his embrace. There's the hint of something vulnerable peeking through the blue of his eyes as though he's partially expecting you to deny him. To pull the rug out from under his feet - turning him away. Like it was all just a cruel joke to get back at him. 

As wrong as it might be, it feels somewhat vindicating to see him still so unsure. Visibly insecure about where he now stands with you. Mostly because you're in the same boat. This is a new territory for you both, and regardless of the previous words shared, there's still the fear that it was all induced on his part by the high of the moment. 

"Then maybe in the morning we can go get breakfast at Merrick's? Just not dinner there though - if we're going out for dinner, then I'm taking you somewhere nice." 

That grabs ahold of your focus in easily. Rafe's been to your trailer a hundred times. Sneaking in in the dark and making himself welcome in your home. Using your shower, eating your food, sleeping in your bed. All of these intimate things done as easily as second nature. But something as simple as walking alongside you, as touching you openly in the stark daylight, was a boundary that had never been crossed past casual conversation. Whenever you had associated it was under the guise of eating at your work, or because you had naturally happened upon each other in your day to day lives. There was never any intent behind it. Especially not while in a part of the Eight. 

Merrick's is right on the docks, settled in the center coast of the Northside of the island, among the wealthy houses and businesses of the OBX. It's a fairly popular spot among the wealthy locals. Being seen with you there would be a public declaration of sorts. Something that the customers, and employees would take notice of. 

"And you're good with that? Being seen with me?" The question leaves you in a pale version of your usual tone. It's hesitant, revealing the fear that begins to pool in your gut. Settling there like a nausea. Now it's you waiting for him to reject you - to backtrack on his promises and leave you standing here in the middle of this bathroom hurting, confused and heartbroken. You could nearly imagine the scornful smile that would tug at his lips, the glimmer of his teeth, the contempt that would burn in his eyes as he pinned you down with an unforgiving stare. You wouldn't survive it. 

But it never comes. 

"I meant what I said earlier. I don't give a shit what anyone has to say; you're my girl now." Some of his usual hostility seeps through his tone then, biting through the sweetness of it. None of it aimed at you. But it's like he's asserting a challenge for himself and others. Stating a threat to anyone else who may try to oppose him - or you. But it sounds like so much more than just the promise of a possibly verbal conflict. That wild glint is back in his eyes, passionate and determined, and you know now that he's prepared to draw blood for your sake. That he'll break bone and start fires to defend your name if he has to.

It's another one of those things that should repel you - a red flag waving vigorously in the air, but you can't find so much as the hint of an urge to turn and run. To escape and from his explosive nature, but you find warmth and comfort in it. He's like a wildfire. Erratic and starved, lashing out and reaching for anything that might burn and feed it, and like a glutton for punishment, you'll always open yourself to be consumed. Willingly allowing yourself to be licked at by the destructive edge of his nature; picked apart and feasted on. But he'll be there to put you back together again. Always eager to hold you up in his greedy palms, to have you safe in the shelter of them. 

Because he's sweet too. Caring when he wants to be. When he's allowed to be - safe from criticism or disapproval. He's been taught to be harsh. A product of his father's love, most likely. But you'll show him a different kind of love if he lets you. Something gentle and nonjudgemental. The sort of affection that he's been deprived of his entire life. 

You're his now, and he's yours; rough, violent edges and all. 

"Okay," you agree. "Breakfast it is then. And dinner." You nudge his nose up with your own, guiding him to angle his head so that you can place a lingering kiss on the plush of his mouth, feeling the shape of his smile against your lips. 

"Alright, and dinner." He nods, raising his hands to cradle your face. Watching you with a gleam in his eyes that looks like he wants to devour you entirely and hold you close. "Just you and me." 

[puma-riki]

AND, BABY, EVEN ON OUR WORST NIGHTS IM INTO YOU!ˎˊ˗

๋࣭ ⭑ Ѕ𝘺𝘯𝓸𝙥𝒔𝓲𝑠: Who in Enhypen I think is most likely to still be super in love with you even when you’re arguing/mad at them

ꮐ𝛠ｎ𝕣𝟈: Fluff ── .✦. ── 𝑾α𝑟𝚗ｉ𝘯𝓰𝑠: None

𝙁𝙚𝚊𝘵𝚞𝘳𝔦𝒏𝓰: Heeseung, Jungwon & Ni-ki

Authors Note: WOW you can really see the bias here, to be honest i have no idea what this is I just started word vomiting

────────────────────────

HEESEUNG

Who else is shocked

he's a simple man, okay?

a simple, weak, pathetic, hopelessly in love man

he doesn't even remember what he was supposed to be arguing with you about because he has never been more into you rn

However, he also can't stand how you'll ignore him afterward and refuse to touch him

You're sulking in the passenger seat of his car, arms crossed, and your legs lean against the door instead of towards him. He keeps sneakily blatantly glancing at you every time he can while he drives.

You won't even look at him and it's driving him crazy. Even though you look super cute sulking in his car and in his leather jacket. He had done something to make you upset during your trip to the mall. You ended up being snappy with him and said some not very nice things before stalking off ahead of him.

You had left him there in a daze and he really wished he remembered what you said to him because he was too focused on the way your alluring eyes narrowed at him, how glossy your lips looked, the way your cheeks puffed up, and how your hair flowed when you turned and left him standing there in the middle of the bustling mall.

You had gotten a few feet away from him before he snapped out of it and caught up to you, only for you to ignore him the whole way back to the car. Now, here you are, sitting beside him, still looking all pouty and adorable, and Heeseung is losing his mind.

He risks another glance at you. Bad idea. The way your arms are still crossed, the way his oversized leather jacket drowns you, the way your lips are pressed together in frustration—he’s never been more in love with you than in this exact moment.

"Baby," he finally says, his voice laced with amusement and something a little softer, a little sweeter.

Nothing. You don’t even flinch.

Heeseung grips the steering wheel a little tighter, fighting a smile. "You're really not gonna talk to me?" He tries again, tilting his head, hoping—praying—you’ll at least look at him.

Still, nothing.

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "You're literally killing me right now," he groans, dropping one hand from the wheel to poke at your thigh. "Do you even know how cute you are when you're mad?"

Your glare shoots to him immediately, eyes sharp and lips parting like you’re about to tell him off—

"Heeseung," A surprisingly soft tone.

"Thats my name,"

"Will you be quiet." The irritation is back in your voice. You turn towards the window again

"Okay, but can I make a deal with you?" he says, glancing over at you again, completely ignoring the way you’re still facing the window, arms crossed tight.

You don’t answer, of course. But he knows you’re listening.

"If I make the next red light, you have to give me a kiss," he announces proudly, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel like this is the best idea he’s ever had.

Your head whips toward him, eyes narrowed. "What?"

Heeseung grins. Hook, line, and sinker.

"You heard me, pretty. A kiss. Next red light."

You scoff, turning away again. "Absolutely not."

"Aw, come on," he whines dramatically, shifting in his seat like a restless kid. "You love kissing me."

No response.

"You do," he insists. "You’re just mad right now, but you’re totally gonna cave. I know you."

Still, nothing.

Heeseung sighs, then switches tactics. "Okay, okay. No kiss. But can I at least hold your hand? Just a little bit? One pinky? A thumb?"

Silence.

Heeseung pouts. "Baby, please."

You shake your head.

He groans like he’s physically in pain. "You're actually breaking my heart right now. Do you want that on your conscience?"

Nothing.

He sighs dramatically again, waiting for the next stoplight. Then, when it finally turns red, he perks up.

"Last chance. Give me a kiss, and I’ll shut up. Forever if you want." he says, already grinning because he knows damn well you won’t fall for that.

Sure enough, you turn to him, deadpan. "You definitely won't."

Heeseung pouts, hand flying to his chest like you’ve wounded him. "You wound me."

You roll your eyes. "You're so stupid."

"And you're so pretty," he fires back, laying his hand on the center console. "Now hold my hand."

You exhale sharply, glaring at him for a second longer—then, with a huff, you grab his hand, intertwining your fingers.

Heeseung beams. Like, full-on, brightest-smile-ever beams.

"You’re ridiculous," you mutter.

"But you're still holding my hand," he teases, squeezing your fingers.

You groan, but you don’t pull away.

Heeseung just grins even harder, bringing your hand up to press a quick kiss to your knuckles.

Mad or not, you’re still his. And he’s never been more into you.

JUNGWON

This man YEARNS to have you angry or annoyed at him

and I am dead serious.

He is a younger brother so it's in his blood to be annoying and you are absolutely no exception.

He loves poking, teasing, pulling at your clothes, following you around, pissing you off basically

and when you get pissed off then that means you're paying attention to him

and that's all he really wants (he also just likes being all up in your business because he's clingy, but he'd never say that out loud)

You're never actually mad at him, of course.

but you do get annoyed with him and that leads to petty arguments that are easily swept under the rug because he's just so cutie how could you ever actually be mad.

"Stop."

"Stop what?" He asks innocently as he leans back on the bed on his hands and tilts his head.

"Stop wasting my highlighter and spreading it on my face." You roll your eyes at him from your seat at your vanity.

You've been trying to get ready to go out for about an hour and the whole time Jungwon has been at your side. He followed you around the house as you went back and forth from the bathroom to the bedroom, to the kitchen. At that point, he was just talking your ear off, and you found it cute that he was following you around much like a meowing cat would.

But now he was just being annoying to get you riled up.

Jungwon grins, completely unbothered. He stands up and returns to his spot next to you at your vanity, looking down at you unscrewing a tube of mascara. “But it looks good on you,” he teases, swiping a bit more highlighter onto his finger before reaching for your cheek again.

You grab his wrist to stop him. “Jungwon.”

“What?” He laughs, feigning innocence as he leans closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m just helping you glow, angel.” with a simple flick of his finger he successfully wipes the shimmery powder on your cheek. The sight of your exposed neck as you try to tilt away from his hand makes his heart skip a beat.

“You’re making me look like a disco ball,” you deadpan, glaring at your now overly shimmery cheek in the mirror. You let go of Jungwon and set the mascara down to trade it for another makeup wipe.

Jungwon hums, dramatically tilting his head. “Mmm… a really cute disco ball, though.”

You groan, turning back to your vanity to finish getting ready—only to realize something is missing.

“Wait, where’s my—” You whip around just in time to catch Jungwon smirking as he dangles your mascara between his fingers.

Your eyes narrow. “Jungwon.”

“Hm?” He blinks innocently, twirling the tube in his hand. “Looking for this?”

“Give it back.”

“I dunno… do you really need it?” He grins, holding it just out of reach as you step closer. “I think you look perfect already.”

You lunge for it, but he’s faster, twisting away and laughing as he runs and flops onto the bed, holding the mascara hostage against his chest. “You want it? Come get it.”

Oh, he thinks he’s so smart.

Without hesitation, you climb onto the bed, straddling him as you wrestle for the tube. “Jungwon, I swear—”

He lets out a breathless chuckle, his hands moving to your waist as he tries to keep you from prying the mascara from his grip. But then, suddenly, he stops fighting.

Because you’re right there.

Hovering over him, lips parted in frustration, eyes burning into his with determination. His heart stutters, and he realizes… he really didn’t think this through. Or maybe he did. Doesn't matter, you're literally on top of him he's living the dream.

Your fingers finally close around the mascara, yanking it free, but Jungwon hardly notices. He’s too busy staring up at you, completely mesmerized.

You pause, noticing his dazed expression. “…What?”

His grip on your waist tightens slightly, a lazy, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “Just… you’re really pretty when you’re mad.”

Your breath catches for just a second—before you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

But before you roll off him completely, you lean down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips—just enough to throw him off before you sit up again, triumphant.

Jungwon blinks, caught between being smug and utterly lovestruck. “Wait—”

“Nope.” You cut him off, hopping off the bed and walking back to your vanity with your mascara in hand. “I meant what I said.”

Jungwon groans dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. “That was definitely getting me somewhere.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you say, applying your mascara with a satisfied smirk.

From the bed, Jungwon watches you, lips still tingling from the kiss, his heart so full it’s embarrassing. Yeah. He definitely won.

NI-KI

he's also a younger brother so yk what that means

he might be even more annoying because he is so smug and flirty someone stop him

he lives for the reactions you give him when he teases you

the way your face flushes, how your touch warms and lingers on his body when you smack him when he says something flirty,

don't even get him started on how you avoid his gaze because he's made you so flustered so then he has to guide your face to look at him by delicately grabbing your chin between his fingers

SOMEONE STOP HIM IMMEDIETLY, I QUIT

which is why he keeps pushing his luck and it's no one's fault but his own when you get fed up with him and present him the most horrible, agonizing, and cruel thing man has ever created

The silent treatment

Truly, it is his worst enemy

He can't think of a worse treatment other than not being able to talk to you.

But it also might be the best thing that's happened to him because he finds out that you are so so so fine when you're mad at him.

"Are you really not gonna talk to me?" Ni-ki asks as he stands in front of you. You're sitting on the small black leather couch in his room. you look up from your phone and give him a look that says it all.

He knew this would happen eventually, but he's not sorry. Like at all. You had gotten back from a trip to the mall almost an hour ago and you've been ignoring him for two hours.

You wanted to get new clothes and just window shop. You looked absolutely breathtaking walking next to him, or just standing next to him really. You were wearing one of his jackets with a cute skirt and a plain top. You were just cute. Especially when you tilt your head up to look at him because he's standing so close to you. He let his cuteness aggression get the best of him and he started teasing and flirting with you shamelessly in public. It was fine at first, he'd poked your cheek, tugged on the sleeve of your jacket, pulled you closer to him.

But then he started getting annoying.

He put his cold hands on the back of your neck, making you yelp. He ruffled your hair and messed it up. He squished your cheeks together and probably smudged some of your makeup. Wrapped his arm around your waist and pinched your side so you squirmed and fell into him. Basically, would not leave you the hell alone for 5 seconds. This man had pissed you off for the last time. Because then he started really pushing your buttons, passing you shamelessly flirty comments out loud in a very public space. They weren't even that crazy, but it still turned you into a flustered mess, while he just laughed.

But he just couldn't stop. Seeing you flustered over things he'd say was way too much fun. The way you’d stammer, your eyes going wide before darting away, how you’d smack his arm but still let your fingers linger for just a second longer than necessary—Ni-ki lived for it. He knew exactly what to say, exactly how to push your buttons, and he had no shame about using that knowledge to his full advantage.

Now he's suffering the consequences.

Two entire hours of pure torture. He hasn't heard you laugh in 2 hours or heard your voice. You'll hardly look at him and he's about to just sink to the floor and hope you'll take pity on him and smother him with affection like he wants you to.

“You’re really still mad?” he tries again, shifting his weight from foot to foot. When you don’t respond, he sighs dramatically and drops onto the couch beside you, his head leaning against the back of the couch “[Name].”

Silence.

“Angel.”

Nothing.

"My beautiful, intelligent, cute, girlfriend who I'm so lucky to have."

A glare.

You turn more towards your arm of the couch and keep scrolling on your phone. Ni-ki sighs and looks up at the ceiling. Then back at you. You're biting your cheek and your eyebrows are furrowed in frustration as your fingers fly across your phone. He can only guess you're dragging his name through the mud to your friends. But he could care less about that, he raises his hand to poke the cheek you're biting on—

"If you poke me one more time today, I will beat the shit out of you."

He swallows. Okay. Maybe he really had done too much this time.

For a moment, he contemplates just admitting defeat, apologizing, and behaving like a good boyfriend for the rest of the day. But then again, when has he ever been able to resist testing his limits?

Instead he moves to quickly pluck your phone out of your hands. You scoff and turn towards him. "Give it back, Riki, seriously"

Ni-ki smirks, holding your phone just out of reach as you reach for it. "Oh, so you can talk to me," he muses, dodging your grab with ease.

"Riki." Your tone is sharp, but he can see the flicker of exasperated affection in your eyes.

"You're still calling me Riki? You must not be that mad." he grins, shifting back just in case you decide to lunge for it.

You narrow your eyes. "Give. It. Back."

"Hmm." He pretends to think about it, twirling your phone between his fingers. "But see, I don't really feel like it."

You lunge.

Ni-ki yelps, scrambling back against the couch as you climb over him, reaching for your phone with determined fury. He barely has time to react before you’ve got your hands on his wrist, attempting to pry it free. But all he can think about—despite the very real threat of you actually hitting him—is how attractive you are like this.

The fire in your eyes, the way your lips purse in frustration, the fact that you're putting your full body weight into wrestling your phone from his grip—his heart is pounding.

Damn, he thinks he's found something better than flustering you.

"You are—" you grunt, tugging at his wrist, "—so annoying!"

"And you—" he flips your phone behind his back, eyes sparkling, "—are so pretty when you're mad at me."

You freeze for half a second, before promptly smacking his chest. Hard.

"Oof—hey!" he laughs, wincing dramatically. "That was uncalled for."

"Well, that's what you get. You are seriously so..." You can't even find the word to describe your fading irritation with him, as he looks up at you with a love-sick gaze. Is he biting his damn lip right now? You raise your hand up to his face, as if you're going to claw his eyes out, and let it curl into a fist and fall to your side. "Ugh!"

"And yet, you're still in my lap," he teases, grinning up at you.

Realizing your position—straddling his thighs as you try to wrestle your phone back—you huff and move to get off him. But before you can, Ni-ki’s arms wrap securely around your waist, pulling you right back.

"Not so fast," he murmurs, tilting his head as he gazes up at you. His voice has dropped just enough to make your breath catch. "You still haven't forgiven me."

Your resolve wavers for a fraction of a second. He sees it, and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

Ni-ki leans up slightly, closing the distance between you two, his face just inches from yours. "Say you forgive me," he murmurs, voice teasing but eyes soft. "Or else I might just keep you here all night."

Your heart stutters, and for a moment, you genuinely forget why you were mad at him in the first place. But then you remember exactly why, and with a sudden burst of strength, you snatch your phone from his distracted grip.

"I'll forgive you never," you declare, pushing off him and retreating to his bed, where you hope he'll leave you alone to sit and think about how he should make it up to you.

Ni-ki just watches you, lips curling into a slow grin. He places a hand over his chest, feeling his own heartbeat racing.

Yeah. He was absolutely done for.

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧!)ᯓ★

Taglist | @jiiyen @yangjungwonnie @amoressb @sugarikiz @stvrriki

[pomefioredove]

HIYYYAAAA

JUST SAW THE FLRITY PROMPTS EVENT!

What do you say about Lilia with "Don't bite your lip, I want to do that."

I would say hgghh💕💖❤️

summary: "don't bite your lip, I want to do that" type of post: short fic characters: lilia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is kinda implied to be yuu but doesn't have to be, not proofread, Lilia is shamelessly flirty thank u a part of this event

There are very few things that still manage to catch Lilia by surprise.

At his age, he's simply running out of new experiences; school, politics, even the wonderful world of the internet have started becoming monotonous and boring, leaving him in a slump.

Perhaps, then, that's why he's taken such an interest in you.

Such an intriguing little creature, he thinks, watching you from the shadows of the Diasomnia lounge.

You'd come by to drop something off for Malleus, the sweet thing that you are, and, once again, Lilia finds himself shamelessly staring.

He knows he shouldn't, but, oh, he truly can't help himself!

He inches closer. Lilia can't help but wonder what sort of noise you'll make when he startles you this time. A gasp? A shout, perhaps? Maybe even a cute little squeak... the thought of that is strangely exciting to him.

Only one way to find out.

He drops out of the shadows, blocking you from the exit just as you turn towards it. "Hello!"

And... Nothing.

You smile. "Ah... hello again, Lilia. Did Malleus tell you I was coming?"

His arms fall to his sides with a pout. Nothing? Nothing at all? You look at him like he has something stuck in his teeth.

"He may have mentioned," Lilia sighs. "You're impossible to tease these days. It's quite disappointing, really."

You smile slightly, much to his bemusement. He hates letting you have the upper hand... "Maybe I've started anticipating your pranks. You'll just need to find some new material,"

New material...? He scoffs. You're not even the least bit concerned about him!

"It used to be so easy to get a rise out of you. Humans change far too fast," he laments.

"Now I'll never get to see that flustered look on your face ever again! Or I'll have to come up with something new to tease you with..."

"Orrrr... you could just not tease me at all?"

He chuckles, shaking his head as if you had just said something ridiculous. "With your precious reactions? Impossible!"

You sigh.

Lilia tuts, tapping his chin as if lost in deep thought. He circles you once, twice, then stops in front of you.

"I can't think of anything," he sighs dramatically. "It'll come to me later... Is that uniform new?"

"Oh, uh..." you mutter, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. You turn around yourself in a circle. How cute.

"Well, it's the same uniform, but I got my measurements taken at Pomefiore, and they they got me a better fitting one."

"I can tell,"

He hums pleasantly, dragging his eyes over your body. "They did a wonderful job accentuating your features,"

You huff and look away, much to his delight, clearly taken by surprise by his change in tone.

"...Thank you,"

"Fufufu. Don't mention it," Lilia says, eyes narrowing. "You don't get complimented very much, do you?"

"Not regularly,"

"I could surmise as much. Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're almost flustered by little old me. Is that right?"

Hook, line, and sinker. Your eyes widen as you realize that you've walked right into his trap. "Oh, no, no. I'm not. I'm fine!"

"Really? Don't get shy on me, now. I'm beginning to like this even more than scaring you,"

He takes a step forward, drinking in the sight of you, your body's nervous reactions to his teasing. "How cute,"

"Tease," you say, biting the corner of your lip.

You back yourself against the wall of the lounge, to his absolute delight, and he takes that as an invitation to get closer.

"That I am," Lilia admits without a hint of shame. "But don't bite your lip... I want to do that."

That long sought-after squeak finally escapes you, music to his ears, and he leans closer. For a moment, it seems like he's about to close the distance between you... then, at the last second, he pulls back.

He chuckles. "Oh, what fun! I haven't felt so young in ages. But I do have other business to attend to,"

And so, Lilia leaves you stunned, trembling against the wall as he merrily walks off before you seem to come to your senses.

"Vanrouge, you little shit! Get back here!"

A slight giggle escapes him as he starts off running, with you not far behind. He was right; this is much, much more rewarding than scaring you.

Maybe, if you make another one of those cute noises, he'll even let you catch him.

[prettymonegasque]

you asked for smut requests and i shall deliver. cockwarming max as he plays video games while streaming and riding his thigh??

Max Verstappen x Reader

A/N: Is this too much to ask for? huH GOD?

Warnings: SMUT 18+ Thigh Riding, Cowgirl, Light Mastrubation, Sexting, Slight Cockwarming at the end, not proof read.

It was a quiet night. Max was streaming with Team Redline and you were watching it on your laptop from the couch with your best mates Ben and Jerry. The stream was pretty calm with Max winning the first few rounds. His ego began to grow so much he started slacking a little on the next round, he missed a few apexes and almost crashed. Yet somehow he won that round as well and started playing with Jimmy, putting the sim on autopilot. You were in the mood for a little chaos. So you decided to comment on the stream from your burner account. You found the perfect quip to comment.

sassierthansassy: looks like the world champion loves to just sit back and watch like a pillow princess 

“Hey, Max. Someone commented, “looks like the world champion loves to just sit back and watch like a pillow princess. What’s your comeback man?” Chris started laughing. Max started searching for the comment on the chat and when he saw it was from your account, he knew exactly what you were doing. But he just laughed it off on the stream. He took out his phone and texted you. 

Max ♥️ : You got a lot of nerve calling me pillow princess when you were the one lying on the bed helpless this morning

You: I wouldn’t call eating me out as a lot of work. 

Max ♥️ : Is that why you were praising me?

You: Well I didn’t want you to know how disappointing that was, first thing in the morning.

Max ♥️ : Schatje careful. You might not like what you get later.

You: What’s a little more disappointment?

Max ♥️ : Such a brat. Come here and I’ll show you how much I love sitting back and watching. 

Hook, line and sinker.

You finished up the last spoon of ice cream and walked to the sim room. You quietly opened the door, letting the cats out and stood near his setup, away from the camera. He turned off his video. “Uh guys. I think there’s some problem with the camera. The game lags when I turn it on so I’m going to turn it off for some time.” You sat on his lap and started kissing his neck but he still refused to take his eyes off the game. He simply smirked and continued navigating on screen. You traced your hands down the waistband of his joggers and started palming him. 

He was quick to swat your hand away. “Not so fast princess” He whispered in your ear and patted his thigh. You knew what he meant and got to work straddling his thigh. You rocked back and forth slowly getting yourself more wet by the second. You shut your eyes and got into a steady rhythm, continuing to ride his thigh. Just when you were about to cum, Max lifted you and sat you on his cock. You hadn’t even seen him free it, so blissed out chasing your orgasm. 

You sank into him and started bouncing on his cock. He was still focused on the game, you could hear chatter from his headphones. You needed to feel Max’s touch. Your entire body was on fire knowing he was so close yet so far away. You started getting whiny. You kissed him and tugged on his hair but he didn’t even blink. You rolled your hips lightly and that caught his attention. He drew in a deep breath and continued gaming.

You knew you were breaking him, so you took off your t-shirt, exposing your breasts. You pinched and pulled your nipples. You couldn’t let out any noises but that didn’t stop you from making pornographic facial expressions. You rolled your eyes and threw your head back as you rode him. Your hand snaked down and started playing with your clit. 

“Fuck schatje. You’re killing me here.” You heard Max growl. Your eyes widened thinking he said that on stream. You craned your neck to find out he had turned off the stream. You finally broke him. Your smirk was quickly wiped off your face when Max started thrusting into you and sucking your nipples. “Such a little slut. So needy, had to sext in front of the whole world huh? Isn’t so fun when I just sit back and watch? Is it princess?” He questioned you with every thrust. 

You were so close and let out all the noises you’d been holding back. Max moaned at your noises and started thrusting faster. “Max! I’m gonna- Fuck!” You screamed as you came all over his cock. He didn’t stop and kept thrusting into you. “Don’t be so selfish baby. Couldn’t even wait for me to cum.” He groaned as he came inside you. The aftershock was insane as you came again. The room fell quiet with only the sound of you breaths bouncing off the walls. 

Max kissed your head and began to pull out of you. But when you made a protesting noise, he just laughed and pulled you in closer. You might be a handful, but you were his handful.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Smooth Operator

Pairing: Warriors x Reader

Warning(s): References to age-appropriate drinking and a few dirty jokes, but this is surprisingly tame compared to my other Warriors works

Notes: Ugh I love Wars so bad, writing him is such a treat.

Masterlist

The tavern was as crowded as it could be; a heavy throng of people milling about the small space, some in time to the cheery music and others to the swirling rhythm of their heart, swaying on their feet as bodies and inhibitions melded together. The atmosphere was darkly carefree, the air thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. It wasn't an ideal meeting spot, but you needed information more than your dignity.

The candlelight flickered as you brought your glass up, wetting your lips with the gentlest sips of red wine, tongue flicking to carefully swipe over the painted curve of your bottom lip, not wanting to disturb Wild's handiwork. You had no idea where the champion had learned to apply lip stain like he had, but you weren't complaining when your eyes caught the rough silhouette of your target, a well-connected merchant rumored to possess knowledge on the whereabouts of a certain black lizalfos.

The music swelled and dipped, filling you with a sort of confidence as you pulled away from the side of the bar, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles of your dress–a gift from Warriors–and stalking forward with the grace of a panther, the deep neckline accentuating the curve of your chest and the tasteful slit in the thigh revealing hints of flesh beneath, though not enough to label you as something... more than you were.

The crowd seemed to part as you made your way forward, the merchant's back to you until the very last second, when your shoulder brushed his and you squeaked in a tone borrowed from Wind himself. "My apologies, my lord–"

The man turned, his disgruntled expression quickly turning into something far more appreciative. "Why, my lady, no apologies necessary," his gaze swept down your body in a way that made you feel horribly exposed, but you covered it up by placing a hand over your mouth, batting your lashes softly. "I can't help as though I've seen you before."

You tensed when his unoccupied hand–the one not holding a massive mug of beer–swept down to rest on the curve of your waist, lightly covered by patterned mesh. His breath, hot and rank, washed over you, and you regretted not taking the fan Sky offered you. "Oh, my lord..." you cooed, putting as much simpering charm as you could manage into those three words.

"But how could I forget a face as delicate as yours," the merchant mused, brown eyes glinting like dried blood on cloth. "Especially not with a body so... enticing."

You were positive you could have thrown up in that moment, bile rising in your throat, bitter and burning. You needed to take control. Now. "You flatter me when I am but a humble traveler."

"A traveler? And where, pray tell, is your destination?"

"East, my lord."

"East," he hummed, and your skin crawled, hands gripping your glass hard enough to shatter it. "Pity, I am returning West myself."

"How coincidental, should we have both headed West," you said, keeping the conversation in motion until you were ready, putting on the best vexed face you could. "After the attacks, I fear..."

The merchant raised a brow. You smiled internally, knowing you had him hook, line, and sinker. "Attacks?"

"Yes," you glanced around the bar, and his gaze followed. "I have heard rumors... of a creature. A lizalfos, as dark as the night itself."

"Ah, and why would a delicate creature such as yourself be concerned with those matters?" The man pressed, eyes lighting up with hunger and lust as he considered his next words. "Unless, of course, you travel alone?"

"I'm afraid so," you confirmed, biting your tongue when his hand tightened around your waist. "If I knew the whereabouts, perhaps I would be more inclined to," you paused for effect, making sure your lips were as pouty as you could make them. "accept companions on my travels."

The merchant's eyes shone in a way that made you want to stab him with the dagger cleverly hidden in the folds of your dress. "Companions, my lady?"

You opened your mouth to respond, and that's when you saw him out of the corner of your eyes, a rogue flash of royal blue among the milling crowd. The hero. Your hero.

Warriors.

Warriors, who currently stalked forward like an apex predator. Warriors, dressed to the nines in his captain's uniform, scarf billowing behind him like the sail of a deadly ship. Warriors, whose gaze held nothing but broiling rage at the sight of you in the arms of someone other than him.

And you, the decoy, not quite able to remove him from the corners of your vision as you used the ticking seconds to simper about the whereabouts of the lizalfos, praying to whatever deity existed that you got your information before the hero got his penitence. Your wishes were granted when you caught sight of a tan scroll in the pocket of the merchant's coat, practically begging to be noticed by nimble minds and stolen by even nimbler fingers.

"Won't you tell me, my lord?" you simpered in one last ditch effort, trying to look as pathetic as possible to tempt him into submission. You didn't notice the way his gaze roved over every inch of your body, so focused on getting that map.

You didn't notice him look over, face falling slightly as he met the hero's glare.

You didn't notice the tension crackle between the two men.

But you did notice the shattering of glass and screams that filled the tavern as the merchant's grip tightened around your waist, turning into something painful and bruising as he drew himself up, attempting to intimidate Warriors with his height.

It didn't work.

You gasped when the Captain's fist collided with the merchant's cheek, sending the taller man staggering back into the wall, before seizing your wrist and pulling you against his side in a protective embrace. "Come on," he all but growled, though it wasn't directed at you, and you hardly had any time to react before he was tugging you in the direction of the exit, the sound of curses and breaking glass following you all the way out.

Warriors practically shoved the door open, gently pushing you into the alleyway before grabbing a stick from the ground and shoving it into the hinges, preventing anyone from coming through. You turned to face him, arms wrapped around yourself as the chill of the night began to take hold, hissing: "What the hell was that?!"

"You looked uncomfortable," the captain said, mirroring your stance with a stern, dangerous look, his tone devoid of its usually flirty cadence.

"I– that's the point!" You pinched your temples. "Or have you forgotten how these things work?"

Warriors' gaze darkened, and you knew you were pushing him. Too bad, because you were pissed, too. "He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat, (Y/n)– and don't get me started on how he was feeling you up. I'll be damned if I sit back and watch you get–"

You interrupted him with a scoff. "Thanks, but I don't need your help, Warriors. I can handle myself just fine."

"It's not about that," he pressed, looking more and more frustrated. "It's about the fact that he touched something that doesn't belong to him."

"And what's that?" You shot back, knowing full well what he was referring to. This wasn't the first time you and Warriors had been at odds like this before, but it was certainly the most spontaneous.

"You."

You made a face at the insinuation. "I never said I belonged to you–"

"Neither did I, but you sure as hell don't belong to him," the hero interrupted with a snarl, cerulean eyes flashing with something vaguely protective. He was pissed, but not at you.

"I don't belong to anyone," you said, willing yourself not to think of the kiss you shared with him under the moonlight a few weeks ago. It happened during one of the rare breaks, with the chain stopping at an inn for a few days to recuperate after a particularly tough series of events, and, being the consenting adult you were, you had taken advantage of the downtime and gone to buy a flask of wine, which led to you and the captain sharing it in the back of the inn like a pair of misbehaving teenagers. You could still remember the chill of the tree as he pressed you against it, kissing you until all you saw were stars.

Nothing had happened since then.

Until now, though you weren't quite sure if the look in his eyes meant he was going to kiss or kill you.

"You don't," Warriors agreed, though there was something in his tone that hinted to something more. "I could have killed him, (Y/n)."

"And ruin that stellar reputation of yours?" You snarked, glad that the mood was lightening slightly. "Besides, I've gotten what I wanted."

His eyebrows shot up. "You–"

"Of course," you reached into the front of your dress and pulled out the scroll. "What, did you think I was flirting with him for fun?"

Warriors gave a noncommittal grunt, arms crossed over his chest.

You clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laugh. "Pfft– seriously? Besides, it was either me or Wild, take your pick."

"Wild could have–"

"Wild would have set him on fire within the first minute," you interrupted with a grimace.

"Good."

For a split second, you were silent, mostly because you agreed with him and partly because the satisfied grin on his face was a bit much for your poor, exhausted brain at this time, but you managed a disapproving tut. "Nope, gotta preserve your reputation, pretty boy."

"Pretty boy," he echoed, trying and failing to look offended. You shrugged, offering him the scroll, which he took with an expression of shock. "You really..."

"What can I say?" you grinned. "I'm a great actor."

"Among other things," said the hero, and you laughed softly, irritation melting away like snow on a summer's day. You had gotten the plans with minimal casualties, so why waste the evening on some smudged feelings? Cerulean eyes scanned the scroll with careful attention, and you had to force yourself not to preen when his gaze turned slightly awestruck. "This is... everything. I don't think you could have done better."

"You think?" You parroted, still wearing a wide grin. It wasn't that he never tossed compliments your way, but this went so much further than your daily encounters. The night hardly felt cold when he was so close, though you wouldn't mind wrapping yourself up in that scarf of his. "Is the night over or am I required to flirt with more merchants to earn my keep?"

Warriors regarded you with a flat expression, looking seconds away from rolling those beautiful eyes of his. "Tch. If you think I'm going to let anyone else disrespect you like that again, you've got another thing coming."

Your smile was good-natured, even as you leaned over to sling an arm across his upper back, nudging him to walk with you, which he did without complaint. "My hero. Let's head back, yeah? I'm starving."

"Starving?" for a moment, you swore there was a glimmer in his gaze. A arm settled around your own back, so light that you hardly felt it. "In that case, allow me to escort you back, fair maiden."

You smacked his shoulder with a snort. "Pfft, save it for the girls back home, flirt."

"What girls?" he joked, but there was something far less teasing in those eyes of his. You tried not to think of that night.

You tried.

And failed.

The feeling of his soft, wine-stained lips was still fresh in your mind, as were the gentle hands holding your cheeks and the warmth of his body pressing you to the tree. There was nothing remotely platonic about that night, and yet, you dared wonder if it was all a fluke, a drunken mishap that he hoped to erase from your minds. You didn't even remember being that buzzed, just hopefully tipsy in a way that made your toes tingle and your heart beat a bit harder in your chest.

There were lines, you knew, but the scariest part was that you had no idea how many either of you were willing to cross.

You were torn from your thoughts when the Captain called your name, soft enough for only your ears to register. His arm drew a bit closer, letting you feel the respectful press against the semi-exposed skin of your upper back. It was such a stark difference from your reaction to the merchant's touch that you would have fallen back into wondering had he not been staring directly at you with... what was that emotion. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," you said on reflex, only to freeze when he unlooped his scarf from his neck, setting the warm, soft fabric atop your own shoulders, deftly adjusting it so that it sat perfectly on your frame, not unlike a great billowing cloak. You were hit with the overwhelming urge to smell it, but held back at the last second, fingers fiddling with the embroidered end. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Warriors responded with a soft smile that you couldn't decide fit his face or not. His cheeks were flushed the softest pink, and you had a hard time believing it was from the cold. You turned a corner, joining a slightly busier street. "You look stunning, by the way... I don't think I ever told you."

He had, but you weren't about to tell him. "You don't look too bad yourself," you nodded to his outfit and grinned. "Do you wear it on all your espionage missions or am I just lucky?"

"Actually–"

"Hey! You!"

Your head whipped around as a shout tore through the street, stiffening when you recognized the merchant from earlier. "Shit," you hissed, a rush of adrenaline shooting through you. The man looked unfathomably angry, four lackeys at his heels, and you really didn't want to fight in a dress and heels. "Run?!"

Warriors' eyes met yours and he nodded. You yelped when the hand hovering over your shoulder clamped down, forcing you to pivot slightly as he scooped you into his arms and took off down the street like a keese out of hell. "Wars–!"

"Stay still," he huffed, turning a corner in a move that nearly gave you whiplash, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for some semblance of stability. There were several gasps from the townspeople as the Captain barreled down a couple of alleys, holding you close as his scarf flapped in the wind like the tail of a bird. After what felt like an eternity, he slowed to a jog, head swiveling to gauge your surroundings. "Do you see them?"

"No," you whispered back, canvassing the street with keen eyes. "I think we lost them."

"Thank Hylia," he breathed. You did the same, too high on adrenaline to register the suggestiveness of the situation. "I think that's enough excitement for today."

"You think?" You asked, somewhat sarcastically before your tone grew serious. "No, seriously, if I don't get out of these heels soon, I might actually ruin both our reputations... and status as law-abiding citizens."

"You? Law-abiding?" he chuckled, eyes glinting with amusement. You wanted to kiss and kill whoever taught him to apply eyeliner like that. "Never heard that one before."

"Because it's implied, you wet rag," you smacked his shoulder, huffing as the breeze hit the bared skin of your arm. "Hylia, it's freezing. Maybe Wild would have been better for this."

The Captain arched a perfectly-manicured brow. "Didn't you say he would have set that merchant on fire?"

"Didn't you say he should have?" you countered without missing a beat.

Warriors grumbled, averting his eyes. He began to walk, and you could say with absolute certainty that you had no idea where you were going. "Are you going to put me down or...?"

"Or?"

"I can walk," you huffed.

"And I can carry you."

Your scowl deepened, eyes narrowing. You were upset, and neither was he, but it was more fun this way. "I will break your arms."

"Kinky."

A long-suffering sigh slipped past your lips as you briefly, seriously considered throttling him. However, he had technically saved you–twice, but you would rather die than let the little bastard know–and you would hate to get blood all over that scarf of his. "At least buy me a drink first, weirdo."

Warriors made a curious noise, not rising to the bait like you expected him to. His gaze flicked to the left, head tilting as a grin split his features. "There's a tavern," he told you; seriously, thoughtfully. "And I promise you won't have to flirt with any old rich merchants to have a good time."

"Oh, so now you're saying I can't have fun?" You joked, and he snorted good-naturedly.

"My deepest apologies, I assumed you were a person of high-standing–"

You smacked his shoulder. "Oh, I'll show you high-standing–!"

Warriors didn't flinch. In fact, he almost seemed to enjoy the banter, if his widening smile was of any indication. Weirdo. "I'll take that seriously when you find a way to be taller than me."

"That is not a problem, I promise you'll be just fine without your kneecaps–"

You cut yourself off when he began to laugh. It wasn't mocking; rather, the opposite, a sound of pure delight that had you blinking in surprise. His hold on you shook withe the force of his chortles, head tilted back, neck bared, adam's apple bobbing. You tried not to look. You really did, chewing your bottom lip in an attempt to remain unbothered.

"Yeah, laugh it up, you weirdo...."

It was a losing battle.

After a few minutes, the Captain seemed to regain control of himself, though it did nothing to quell the dumb grin spreading across his face. "Now, about that drink..."

You rolled your eyes. He was cute, but not that cute. "Don't push your luck, Captain."

"...I can't believe I let you drag me here."

"Hm?" Warriors' gaze, which had previously been focused on the grimy ceiling of the tavern. Cobalt eyes sparked with mirth, and you immediately regretted opening your mouth. "That's funny, because I could have sworn I carried you."

"Tomato tom-mat-o, Cap," you waved a hand and took a perfunctory sip of your drink as an excuse to not look at him. Until he did the same, and you got another eyeful of mug he had been nursing for a solid fifteen minutes. "You look like you're preparing to have your heart broken."

"I'll be fine so long as you're gentle with me," he winked, and while you knew it was suppose to be a joke, there was little you could do to stop the clenching sensation in your chest.

You gulped down the rest of your drink, placing the now empty mug onto the counter with a slightly violent thunk. "You're an idiot," you told him; matter-of-fact, testing. "Or is it the other way around?"

Warriors' gaze sharpened. Suddenly, the tavern didn't feel quite as bad. Suddenly, you were wishing there was a bit more noise to distract you. Suddenly, you wondered what this drink would taste like on his lips. "What do you mean by that?"

This was dangerous, you knew, yet you would be a fool to stop, when it felt as though the stars themselves had aligned to grant you this chance. "I mean," you paused, wishing you had a bit left in your mug to fill the silence. "Is it me or the alcohol, Link?"

His lips parted, then closed. The Captain's eyes narrowed as he leaned an inch forward, expression far too serious for what likely looked like the beginnings of a tavern hook-up to anyone who was watching. "You're not drunk," he said; too pointed to be a question, and too soft to be a statement.

"Not yet," you shrugged. Should you call for another round? Did you need another round?

"Then why," there was a pause; a long pause, one that had your hands fidgeting in your lap, head held high in a manner that felt more exposing than anything. "Did you think it was the alcohol?"

It was as if the scarf around your neck weighed a thousand pounds.

Your sigh was soft as you combed a bit of your hair back. Back-and-forth was exhausting. "I'm not in the mood for games, Link."

"Neither am I," he responded quickly, to-the-point. You readjusted your butt more firmly against the seat.

A beat passed. It was a long beat, one that made the silence only more profound. You were no longer sure if this was a good idea; you had never known time spent with him to be so loaded, so... uncomfortable. Why were you uncomfortable?

From across the counter, your eyes caught with the blonde barmaid. She was watching you, hands frozen on a spotless glass, eyes flicking to Warriors. An eyebrow arched. She waited.

All you had to do was scream–

With a sigh, you let your gaze fall back to Warriors. If he noticed your poignant eyeing with the barmaid, he said nothing. He didn't need to, because you knew he wasn't like the others. Captain Link of Her Majesty's army was a good man.

Cocky, but good.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, no less redder than when Wild sat you down to apply it. "Are you going to finish that?" you jerked your thumb to his mug.

"Depends."

He didn't elaborate.

You let yourself lean an inch forward, hands on the middle of your thighs. It was no one's goddamn business if the action caused your chest to plump under the fabric of your beautiful, terrible dress. "On what?"

There was a light stiffness in his tone. "Whether you'll stay here and enjoy it with me or not."

Ah.

"What?" you could believe yourself, though it remained to be seen whether it was for rising to the bait or how pathetically biting your response came out as. "Trees are too good for you now?"

Your attention was rapt when he took a long-awaited sip. The mug was placed on the counter with a heavy thud. Warriors folded his hands in his lap, somehow managing to look both regretful and pleased. "Everything's too good for me."

You couldn't resist. "Even me?"

Cobalt eyes pinned you where you sat. Was it hot in here or was it just you? "Especially you," said the Captain, and you remembered hands, tangled in the mesh of your hair, and lips, sealed over yours like they belonged. Maybe they did.

That was it. You were done. Warriors blinked, caught off guard, when you reached across the counter, grabbing his mug. You took a long, slow sip, letting the alcohol burn all the way to your heart, as if that would give you the bravado needed to conquer a man like him. "Uh–"

"Link."

He was a bit closer now. You could have kissed him if you tried.

"Yes?"

You swallowed. You licked the plump of your bottom lip. Now or never. "If you don't kiss me right now, I'll find someone who will."

It happened in an instant; a hand shot forward to cup the back of your neck through the scarf, coaxing you forward, as a pair of lips bridged the gap. You grabbed his shoulders, fingernails clinking on the polished metal of his left pauldron, and it was the most perfect sound in the world. Warriors was warm, and a bit wet, but he tasted sweet, a soft undertone of strawberries beneath the lull of mediocre alcohol. When he pulled back, your heart thumped at the rose imprint your lipstick skewed across the planes of his own lips.

He was beautiful.

But he wasn't yours.

"I think," you paused; for breath, for moral support. He was watching you, so carefully that not even a fall could break your heart. "We should get out of here."

Warriors reached into his pouch. Warriors plopped a fat red rupee onto the counter.

You caught the blonde barmaid's approving thumbs-up as you left.

A bit ambiguous, but I'm still proud of this!

[mydearlybeloathed]

── 𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a soft day on the beach for a swordsman and mermaid. they're really not as odd a pair as they sound.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: zoro x mermaid!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: mermaid!reader, continuation of this fic, fluffy shenanigans, requested

Having a human boyfriend wasn’t as hopelessly romantic as the girls in your pod made it out to be. Sure, the idea of star-crossed love was appealing, and the physical nature of human boys was certainly something to admire. But really, you didn't care much for human men in the carnal sense—Zoro was your exception.

Usually, you were nothing but doting on him, flaws and all, and he did the same for you. The pair of you slouched together, brooded together, gossiped together, napped together. You both wore the other’s sensual markings dotting your skin with pride, flaunting them even.

But sometimes, tensions do rise.

You watched as Nami and Robin headed down from the ship to the sandy beach down below, wanting nothing more than to join them, but you would find it much more enjoyable if your swordsman joined you. But all Zoro wanted to do was sleep.

You stood over him, fangs peeking out as you bit your lip. “Everyone’s gone down to the beach.”

He grunted in reply, eyes shut contently. Narrowing your eyes, you stepped sideward and let the rays of sun you’d been blocking hit his face. Zoro contorted uncomfortably, blinking up at you. “Huh?”

“I’d like to swim with you,” you stated simply. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s fun.”

He rolled his eyes and shifted away from the sun. “Hard pass.”

The deck went dangerously silent aside from the far off sounds of the sea, so he wasn’t all too shocked to crack one eye open and find you fuming over him. “Something wrong?”

“Yes!” You huffed and crossed your arms. “My boyfriend won’t swim with me, his beautiful, amazing, awesome mermaid girlfriend.”

He gave you a single sigh, and you knew you had him hook, line, and sinker. A pleasant smile spread over your face as Zoro heaved himself to his feet, barley sparing you a glance even as he slung an arm around your shoulder. He sported a scant grin, so he wasn’t too frustrated. “Can we go on a walk after?”

“Oh, so now you’re contributing?” You nuzzled into his side and stepped onto the soft sand. “Yeah, we can go on a walk.”

Zoro’s cheeks dusted pink, chin ducked like he wasn’t a big romantic under all that muscle. But you knew the truth, even when Sanji pleaded with you to see sense and leave the mossheaded swordsman. Like you’d ever listen to the stupid cook anyway.

“Thanks,” you murmured into his skin, kissing his hand draped on your shoulder. “I could’ve gone without you, but I didn’t want to.”

Your bluntness always warmed his heart, even when your words came out less than tender as they just did. He kissed your temple briefly, Zoro’s attention caught by Luffy and Usopp splashing each other in knee deep water. A bright laugh left you and you were gone, fleeing his side to bound into the ocean. Ten seconds later, you yelped, falling head first into the lapping waves, a vibrant tail flipping up where your feet should be.

Chuckling after you, Zoro waded in to just below his knees, arms folded over his chest. Your soaked form floated through the shallows, arms gliding your way through. He watched with amusement as your ducked underwater and raced at Usopp’s legs, clamping your hands around his ankles and sending the poor guy leaping back to the beach. That’s when he bellowed out a laugh. Your eyes darted to find him in an instant, warmth spreading from fin to face as his smile consumed you whole. 

Laugh fading, Zoro’s eyes fluttered open to your hot-cold gaze. You always bit at him harshly when he said you’re an open book, but it’s the truth—Zoro loved being able to tell what you’re thinking, never having to make complex deductions like he often does with everyone else. And though it made his skin feel warm and tight, he could see now exactly the depth of what you felt for him. Something in that was immensely assuring. 

He shed his shirt in one motion, hurling it back on the sand and trudging to meet you in deeper water. Standing over you, he let slip a warmer smirk than usual. Your eyes peeked up over the water, smile warped below the surface. The water lapped at Zoro’s chest as your hands reached for his shoulders, and you dragged yourself up in his body to hang off his neck, nose inches away from his own.

“Hey, sailor,” you giggled. 

He huffed a laugh. “Hey, fish.”

You swept your tail around his legs, curling around his limbs till he nearly toppled over, your lips a stiff line. “Careful, Zoro-Mine.” 

His eyes took on a darker tone, the name you’d gifted him some months ago capturing his attention wholly. Zoro nosed at your cheek, humming softly. “Walk?”

“I’ve barely cooled off!” You snorted, pushing his face away as you slipped right through his arms, ducking underwater and darting off before his hands could catch you. You emerged at Nami’s side, scaring her out of her skin, a laugh stifled by your pruning fingertips. 

Maybe an hour rolled off your shoulders before you scanned the area for your swordsman, finding him sitting atop the powdery sand with his eyes set on the horizon. Zoro practically glared at the sky, so much so that he didn’t notice you dragging yourself up the shore till your soft grunts of effort met his ears. Jolting to attention, Zoro reached to scoop under your arms and pulled you closer, resting you between his legs. He leaned his head on your temple, your body melting into him as his warmth spread to your cold skin.

“Ready?” he mumbled. You nodded gently, and when the sun dried out your scales and made them retreat into your skin, Zoro clutched your hand to alieve that familiar sting all through your body. Your tail parted down the middle and formed two ever-awkward legs. By some ancient magic neither of you understood, your clothes sparkled to existence along your skin. 

Zoro gripped your hands and rocketed you off the ground, relishing in the little laugh you gave when you landed on your feet. You called over your shoulder absently mindedly, not entirely caring if the others heard you, eyes fixated on Zoro alone. “We’ll be back before dark!”

You faintly heard Nami’s, “Yeah right,” before you led Zoro into the forest with a slight skip.

Having a human boyfriend could be exciting at times. Zoro never frowned at your questions, always ready with a reply whether he really knew the answer or not. He could toss you over his shoulder and race you through the trees (and somehow you always win despite your fawn-like legs). 

You just broke through another low-hanging branch when Zoro caught your hand, swinging you around into his chest. Bubbling laughter, you flashed a fanged smile up at him, gaze swallowing him whole. Zoro traced your cheek with a fingertip, simply admiring your expression as it softened into one of blissful content. 

With a shake of his head and a gentle grin, Zoro slung his arm over your shoulder and started to walk back to the beach. “Let’s just walk back, yeah? I don’t have the energy to lose another race.”

You chuckled into his shoulder. “Sure. I don’t care to win anymore anyways.”

(The fact that he always let you win hung in the air, unspoken and tender on your heart).

Time slipped right through your hands, and soon enough the sun dipped below the treeline up above. You watched it disappear through the dense branches. “Nami was right. We’re gonna be late.”

Zoro’s shrug shook your body. “She’s usually right, but she doesn’t need to know that.”

“So… we should stay out all night to scare her instead?” He cast you a smile. “Read my mind.”

Having a human boyfriend could be annoying too, sure. At times their kind perplexed you, turning you around till you didn't know left from right. Yet the only ones who held you steady were on that crew--Zoro's crew.

Zoro was human, and he couldn't help it, and you found yourself caring less and less with every day that went by, till he was no longer your human boyfriend, but simply Zoro-Mine, who happened to be human.

And with every day that passed, you lost the title of mermaid girlfriend in his mind as well, and became only yourself, who happened to sprout a tail when he took you up in his arms, ran out to the moonlit ocean, and tossed you squealing back into the waves.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭:

@100520s @murnsondock

[seravphs]

sick in the head

Gojo and Geto try marriage counseling because the therapist is hot.

wc — 1.5k

tags — obviously this is not how therapy actually works, imagine clocking into work and these two supervillains show up I’d quit

“You need serious help,” Shoko says, somewhat kindly as she observes Gojo on the phone with his favorite criminal. He’s just started his twenty minute break from tracking his residuals all over the world, trying to minimize the harm he’s causing without actually being willing to kill him. 

She’s either joking or completely serious. It’s hard to tell with Shoko. Maybe a little bit of both? 

“Huh?” Gojo says, a little peeved she’s taking his attention away from Geto. 

“I said, you need serious help. The professional kind. I looked up a therapist for you.”

Gojo’s expression clears with understanding - then annoyance. “I told you I didn’t need a shrink. Nothing wrong with my brain, anyway.” 

Shoko loves her friends, she really does, but sometimes she walks a fine line between healing and the opposite of healing.

“Just try it,” she says. She’s smarter than to try and rationalize with him. “It’s a couple’s counselor. Maybe you could see Suguru more if you sell him on it.” 

Hook, line, sinker. It was so easy to get them to cooperate when it came to each other. They were so convinced that they were unreadable to anyone but themselves, but they always forgot Shoko had been there too. All three years she had been on the outside looking in, watching the glances they cast at each other. Sometimes, she felt like she understood them more than they understood each other. 

She had always been there, silently watching. Just because they didn’t realize it didn’t mean her presence was negligible. She loved them anyway, despite knowing she was a third, and thirds were always the leftovers tacked onto a pair. 

That was how love worked. It didn’t really matter whether or not Gojo would Geto over her, or vice versa. They were her friends. She’d watch out for them. 

“Here,” she says, handing Gojo a business card. “She’s a friend, so be nice, okay?”

Gojo whistled at the picture on the clean, embossed cardstock. “I can be better than nice.” 

Shoko squints at him. “You’re disgusting. You’re going to meet her with your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and?” He smiled wolfishly, with teeth. “I know Suguru’s type.” 

Geto Suguru was in the middle of taking a bath when his best friend and mortal enemy appeared next to him, right when he blinked. Most people would’ve screamed. Geto was not most people. Most people were not that close to Gojo Satoru. 

“I’m showering,” he said mildly. “Get out or pass me the soap.” 

Gojo does neither of these things, because when has Gojo ever listened to anyone. “Look at this,” he said, flapping a tiny rectangle of paper on his face. 

Geto sighed and lifted pruney fingers to the offending object. It had been a long day of scamming non-sorcerers and wreaking general havoc, but of course Gojo couldn’t let him rest, on top of working overtime to undo his work. He only let the bitterness of going up against a natural prodigy consume for a moment before he remembered where he was. 

The epsom salts had been a gift from Mimiko and Nanako. No matter how irritated he was, they worked magic. His muscles could never stay tense while he soaked in the perfumed water, and he relaxed into the tub again. 

The card was nicely made. It was clearly expensive, crisp black ink of thick white paper. What caught his eye, however, was the portrait on the front. The smile was sweet, sincere. He checked the business card again. A marriage counselor - that made sense. 

“Why are you showing me this?” Geto frowned. “Is this a proposal? I’m not accepting this. You can do better.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gojo says. “Isn’t she hot?”

Geto hums in agreement. “Yeah. Nice smile.” 

“Should we…?”

“I don’t have time for games, Satoru.” 

“Think about it,” he says. “It can be like the good old days. You and me, the dream team. When we worked together, no one ever said no to us.”

“She’s a marriage counselor. You shouldn’t be playing these types of games with her.”

“Don’t act like you’re such a goody two shoes,” Gojo said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just me. Drop the theatrics.”

Geto let a smile tug at his lips, feeling strangely pleased that he saw through him so easily. “Say I agree. Then what?”

They hadn’t worn suits in a long time, but Gojo insisted. He wanted to make a good impression and-

“Ladies love a man in a suit,” he said, unbuttoning his top two buttons. 

“Slut,” Geto said lovingly. He leaned over to press a light kiss to the collarbones that now peeked out of the gape of his shirt. 

Gojo flushed, the tips of his ears turning a pale pink. Geto reached up to tug lovingly at them, and then smooth down stray pale hairs. He was more relaxed than Gojo was about the situation, but he still wanted to look nice. 

It had been years since they had done this. There was a part of him that wanted to prove that he still had it. 

Gojo strode into the office like he owned. Geto followed after, trying his best to remember what it was like to look apologetic. There wasn’t much he was sorry for, nowadays. 

You look up, startled. Your patients were sometimes early, but never this early. It was almost enough to make you worry that you’d gotten the time wrong, but you were meticulous with new patients. They had picked a good time - you didn’t have any patients scheduled before them, otherwise you’d have to kick them out immediately. As it was, you were still considering it. 

“Mr. Gojo? Mr. Geto?”

The one with white hair shivered a little. A strange expression crossed his face, almost delighted, if there was anything to be delighted about while sitting on the opposite of a marriage counselor’s desk with your significant other. 

“Suguru is fine,” the dark haired one said. 

“Call me Satoru,” the one with white hair agreed. 

Suguru and Satoru. Even their names fit well together. You tried not to judge anything until you got the fuller picture, but you always tried to be optimistic unless you had reason to believe otherwise. People came to you to save their marriages after all. You hoped you could do the same for these two. 

Satoru sits down in the armchair across from you. He’s the showy one, with that bone white hair and piercing blue eyes. Accordingly, he picks the emerald green velvet, as brilliant as a peacock’s feathers. 

Suguru chooses the left hand chair, a little less eye grabbing. It’s a cool dove grey, the fabric soft to the touch. 

Sitting like this, they look good together. They seem comfortable too, coming in together smiling and laughing. You wonder what they’re here for. 

“There’s still twenty minutes until the session starts,” you tell them. 

“Oh, I know,” Satoru says. “But I thought it would be nice to get to know the woman that’s going to be picking apart our brains. Look, I even brought a peace offering.” 

He presses a box of expensive sweets in your direction. 

“I can’t accept gifts,” you tell him regretfully. “And I won’t be doing anything of the sort to your brains.” 

“I went through all this trouble to get them though!”

“Satoru, don’t be a baby,” Suguru says. “She clearly said no. I told you so, anyway. It’s not my fault you can’t listen.” 

Satoru bristles. “Oh yeah? Why don’t we-“

“Please don’t fight,” you cut in. “I can’t take gifts these expensive, but once we get to know each other better, it’s okay to be more comfortable with me. Is that alright?”

“Fine, fine,” Satoru says with an easy going smile, pleased as if he hadn’t been irate just seconds earlier. 

Suguru’s anger takes a moment to dispel, but the clouds clear from his face nearly as quickly. Scary. It seems like you have your work cut out for you. 

You can already tell they’re the kind of people that’ll be hard to direct, so you accept the extra twenty minutes they’ll get out of you. Satoru seems like a Karen, and you’re not in the mood to deal with a back and forth right now. You’ll just lock your doors next time and let them in when you’re ready. 

Against your will, you find yourself drawn into conversation with them. Satoru and Suguru play off each other so seamlessly it almost feels like they’re working as a team to disarm you, to make you feel at ease smiling and laughing along with them, but that can’t be true. They’re here for marriage counseling - surely they can’t be such a cohesive unit. 

The alarm rings. You sit straight up, startled, and try to ignore the way Satoru laughs like he thinks you’re the cutest thing in the world. 

This is going to be a long session.