#there have been things in the past yeah and it was deserved. but that was a while ago and these people weren’t around for it or stuck -

[itneverendshere]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or at least that was what you kept telling yourself.

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

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

Rafe.

Of course, he looked good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bang!

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

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

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

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

And you hated that you still kind of liked it.

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

Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he smirked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready to head out?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hated how your heart skipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Plans, huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Rafe wasn’t about to let it go. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was an accident.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t—”

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

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

This was so wrong, on so many levels. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you will.”

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t his. You couldn’t be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much you wanted him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always.

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

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

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

Maybe not for a while.

And Rafe knew it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 You hated how much you needed this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sonofabitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was nothing gentle about it, nothing tender.

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

And you hated how good it felt.

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

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

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

You couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like hell," you spat back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you did.

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

But he wasn’t done.

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

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

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

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

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

And God, you couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck had you done?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good luck finding your date.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you both knew he wouldn’t.

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

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

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

[ethereal-blossom]

Deep dive on Victor and his possible past + curse

This man is as attractive as he is mysterious and the curiosity is killing me, so I just need to let out some thoughts.

** I'm going to be referencing some translations and posts so I'll link them and their OP's (I'm too afraid to tag hehe but they deserve all the love and appreciation🩷)

Be aware of JP and EN spoilers

First, what are some things we know and are safe to assume when it comes to Victor? He's the co-founder of Crown and the Queen's Aide. I think it's safe to assume Victor is the oldest in Crown; Harrison calls him an old goat, he acts like a mom, and I believe in the Valentine event the dynamic between Harry and Victor was labeled child-parent. Through this detailed post that @/kurishiri made we can guess that Victor is 30/32+ years, which I have to subjectively note is very hot. William was 14 when he was invited to the castle where he met Victor, meaning that Victor has been associated with the castle for at least 14 years. Was he already the Queen's Aide back then? High-likely, yes.

But how long exactly has Victor been the Queen's Aide? And how did he become one in the first place? One thing that stands out to me is this dialogue in Victor's Wicked Little Secret event:

For context, Victor is sharing why he started doing magic tricks. He explains it's traced back to the queen and how she does them as a reminder of how difficult but precious it is to get someone to smile.

Of course, it can be that Victor simply didn't go with the queen to the slums that day or that she told him about it, but I like to think about the possibility he didn't know the queen at this point but knew about it anyways because he was a kid in the slums. It might explain why he doesn't necessarily pay attention to status and why he treats people such as the villagers and Kate as his equals despite being the most powerful man in the country. Does he stay humble due to perhaps having experienced the lack of power, money, and status to a severe degree? And is the Victorian slums the reason why he suffered enough pain for a lifetime?

@/Reccyls translated an event in which the suitors are meant to win over Kate's heart by having her give the suitor a heart-shaped necklace. Jude, Roger, and Alfons are being very proactive while Elbert, William, and Victor are drinking tea. The nobles team points out there's no rush because it's the end of the day that matters. Victor agrees but then suggests they're also probably laid back because they are rich. It might be nothing but if you ask me, that's pretty self-aware and honest for a rich person. Not every rich person will realize having money does influence you, and not everybody loves to point out the frowned upon behavior that comes along with money, especially when it applies to yourself. So, it's a very small thing to say and I might be reading too much into it, but I think the people who know the affect of money better than anyone are the people who weren't born first class.

Victor continues to point out what makes William and Elbert rich, but right when he wants to talk about himself he cuts himself off (🖕/affectionately) . It confuses me because sir, you are the Queen's Aide. Why is it a mystery that you're rich? Elbert asks if Victor comes from nobility but we never get a yes or no answer to that. So is there still a chance he might have been born in a rich family? Yeah, but I'm not a strong believer of it. Victor is known to cook and sew, and I don't remember where or when but I believe he said somewhere that if he can do it himself he won't let the maids do it. Does that sound like the skills and the mindset of a man born in nobility during the Victorian age? Not to me, so here comes my next thought: what if queen Victoria has taken young Victor under her wing?

I don't know how it would necessarily end up like this, though. But I was thinking: it didn't go unnoticed by us that Victor and Victoria's names are scarily similar to each other (it's like yeah whatever we're a bit like Sherlock ourselves yknow💅). What if his name was quite literally inspired by the Queen's name in the story itself? Maybe Victor chose it or Victoria gave it to him.

Because @/shatcey recently made a post pointing out that William said "the man who calls himself Victor." I heavily agree with her that the phrasing is suspicious, mostly because of Victor as a character.

If he is from the slums then perhaps he's an orphan who doesn't know his actual name, or maybe he took up another name? If Victor is not his actual name, it might explain why we don't have a last name in the first place. Also, @/otomefiend translated the Black Wedding event when it came out in JP. While the official English translation uses "business smile" to describe Victor wearing a smile to bury his dark comment, I like her translation saying "Victor, the Queen's Aide' expression" much better. I genuinely could go into depth about this but I sadly digress. It makes me think back on the summary reccyls did for the first christmas event wherein Victor was wondering if he should give a "Victor-like" response.

Naturally, it can also mean he just has different persona's connected to his masks as this is a reoccurring theme and topic in his content. Victor said in the Between Villains' epilogue (translated by otomefiend) that he wants to be seen as the gentle Queen's Aide by Kate, so after showing a bit of his darker side it's natural he goes back to his gentle side that still implies distance to ease Kate. However, that doesn't make any of his masks a lie or someone he is not. Important disclaimer to put out there because this doesn't have to be proof that Victor isn't who he says he is. The phrasing just reminded me of this.

So, it wouldn't be a deep dive if I didn't talk about the theory that Victor might be the queen. Harrison has pointed out twice that Victor lies a lot. I think it'd be so funny if Harry is going to be like "stay away from Kate you old goat >:(" in Victor's route and then William is going to be the complete opposite like "listen to your desires and get a room already :)"

I think we might have seen the queen once, but it's canon that people have cosplayed her so who says it doesn't happen all the time? Victor only has to say the Queen's safety is in danger and then someone will fill in. I think it's safe to assume Cybird is making us doubt whether the queen is alive on purpose and what does that say about the mystery? You don't create mystery when there's nothing to reveal.

In Wrapped in Wicked Romance, something broke from the Queen's tea set only for Victor to reveal that, surprise, it's his own set! During the first anniversary epilogue (talked about by shatcey here) Kate gets told the queen is waiting for her in Victor's office and surprise, it's Victor! Or how in Between Two Villains it's mentioned how Victoria doesn't seem human because of the dedication she has as queen but then the doubt of humanity is a theme in Victor's events as well. Or how in Harrison's route Jude is reading the morning's newspaper and it mentions a criminal situation and surprise, Victor shows up from behind and says the queen ordered a mission related to it... almost like he overheard the news and decided on the spot it had to be dealt with.

To be honest, I don't know what to think when it comes to the queen. If she's actually dead, I think she might have died from an illness and then the veil + private persona might have been crafted to make it easier to look like she's alive (a bit like this one thing in Ikemen Prince). Why she should give the impression of being alive? I don't know, there's a high chance I am reaching. Maybe the queen is very healthy and happily living her introverted life.

Going back to another translation by reccyls, here Victor ends on the note that even if he has feelings for Kate he can't offer anything as "I belong to her majesty/ Victor belongs to Victoria." Ignore that you can call me the wicked witch of the west with how green of envy I turned, but this stood out to me a lot.

I think it shows an incredible amount of dedication and loyalty, and I read it in two ways. If Victor was saved by Victoria, it might be that he feels like he owes her himself, or perhaps a deal/promise was made? But, in a way, I also read it as Victor belonging to England. His loyalty towards queen Victoria is loyalty towards the safety and well-being of England, a land he's passionate about keeping safe.

The relationship between Victor and Victoria is lowkey fascinating to me because if she's still alive, they have been together for so many years. Victor always talks so positively about her so even though we barely interacted with her, I became to really like and admire ikevil!Victoria. Victor is also the only one who we know speaks with the queen directly. For the tea set mentioned earlier, Victor said he replaced them with his own because he is known to break them when he and the queen are drinking tea. Victor braids the queen's hair and helps her with fashion. William even said in this event translated by @/judesmoonbeauty that the queen knows everything about Victor.

We've almost reached the end but the last thing I want to talk about is Victor's birthday event translated by @/archiveikemen. Victor murders a bunch of criminals with what I assume is his curse or something in that direction. He commands them to succumb to his wickedness and the people essentially kill themselves with a peaceful expression. William makes a comment about it, saying these men look as if almost possessed by a God. Victor thinks to himself it's like saying "Her Majesty The Queen" was no God, and then he says humans can never be God. To be honest, I'm slightly confused because I feel like this can mean different things. When Will makes his comment he's speaking about the peaceful faces, so I don't think he's talking about how the criminals were unhealthily worshipping the queen but I assume he's talking about Victor's ability.

One of the reasons why I think it's a curse is because of this post Shatcey made. One of the screenshots translates to Victor saying he doesn't want Kate to end up lying at his feet with a happy face. It sounds an awful lot like what happened to the criminals in the event. Victor worrying about Kate's fate like that makes me believe it might has something to do with the fate of his possible curse. Think about it: Kate essentially gets dragged in every cursed fate of the suitors and if Victor is another cursed individual, it's high-likely his curse is related to death.

There must be something special going on, though. Is Victor's curse like any other but kept a mystery because something about Victor's identity should stay a mystery? Or is there actually something special about his curse or whatever ability he has? Because his birthday event convinced me he's not an ordinary human. However, something special must be going on for this to be a mystery.

Funny story but for a while I thought that if Victor is cursed it might be Ursula from The Little Mermaid. Sometimes you can see Easter eggs of the suitor's curses back in the outfit designs so when I looked at Victor's outfit, I saw he has scrubs on his jacket (reminding me of fish) and something that looks like knots/ropes (reminding me of sailboats), plus the deep blue and black aesthetic still reminds me of the dark sea. There is also a part in the christmas event where Victor thinks to himself he has sacrificed his human soul to death in order to get what he has now, and who has a song about doing business with poor unfortunate souls?

In this flashback translated by reccyls, I think we are witnessing the moment he's sacrificing his soul. He has a choice that'll impact him as a person greatly and I feel like it's safe to assume he's close to dying, so it'd make sense if this part of his life triggered a curse related to death. Also, his flashback says "the path of becoming the dust of history" which is another reason why I think Victor might have come from the slums, or at least not nobility. It sounds like Victor himself thought he had left no footprint on the world, which actually aligns with his character if you read the translation of Will saying Victoria knows Victor better than anyone till the end.

But I got sidetracked a lot. I think the comment Victor made about the queen in his birthday event is another micro-hint. I sometimes feel like I'm reaching like a clown trying to figure out if Victor isn't keeping up the idea the queen is still alive. It almost feels like having a gaslighting lover; am I picking up clues or am I picking up clowns makeup? Wouldn't it actually be a possibility for Harry to help Kate unreveal the mystery that is Victor? Because while they're not the most interactive dynamic, I feel like Harrison will at least have a little role in Victor's route. As I mentioned before, Harrison pointed out twice that Victor lies a lot: one time in his own route and the second time in the Christmas event. He goes a step further in the latter one, saying that if Kate takes the first step towards Victor's darkness, he'll open her eyes to the truth. Plus, Harrison already had his "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth" moment in his route so I think it makes sense for the Sherlock lover who is a walking lie detector to play a role in the most mysterious suitor who is a walking liar's route.

The actual last thing I want to talk about (guess I'm a liar like Victor) I notice that in events wherein Victor and Kate are together, they declare their love in an interesting way. Since death seems to be a huge part of Victor that possibly is connected to a curse, the two put focus on loving each other even after death. I'm curious if this is part of Victor's possible fate or if this is just a romantic way of thinking that fits Victor's theme. Either way, I think it's perfect to end on this note.

So, I think this is mostly what I wanted to get out. Thank you for having read all the way through and please share any theories you have! And spread love for the people mentioned in this post because I'm eternally grateful for everything they translate and post🩷

[malfiora]

I'm rewriting Jason's resurrection and reconciliation with the fam for my own sanity:

Jason dies tragically and horrifically at age 15

A year later, Superboy Prime punches through universes, collapsing two realities onto each other: one where Jason dies, the other in which he survives. Jason comes back to life but is semi-conscious. Talia finds him and takes him to the League

Jason regains full consciousness after a dip in the Lazarus. For two years, Jason trains and slowly regains his memories. Once he's 18, he decides to return to Gotham, despite Talia's wishes

Quickly becomes clear that Gotham hasn't changed much, which disappoints Jason. He decides to put his League training to use and control crime as a harm reduction tactic, and he goes back and forth on contacting Bruce, especially after he hears rumors of a new Robin

Joker pops up with a new scheme, and this is the last straw. Jason concocts a plan to kidnap and finally kill Joker and confront Batman about all the ways he's failed him and Gotham. When Batman refuses to kill Joker, Jason feints like he's going to kill Tim to "save him the trouble" since Batman clearly cares so little for his sidekicks. ("Hey, kid, at least I'll make it painless.") This gets a reaction from Batman, who incapacitates Jason and rescues Robin. Jason retreats to lick his wounds and reconsider everything

Jason takes time to ruminate on all of this. He's still hurt that his death meant nothing in the grand scheme of things but thinks about Batman's reaction to Tim being in danger and has to wonder if that's how he acted when Jason was in that warehouse

Out of morbid curiosity and a little bit of fanboyishness, Tim monitors Jason. Jason knows this and eventually confronts him. He feels bad for scaring Tim but has to maintain his edge so he tries not to be too scary. At some point, Tim speaks his mind and tells Jason that he has no idea what things were like while he was dead. "Batman was a mess, he almost killed people. That's why I became Robin. I had to put him back together, so you don't get to act like you know everything that happened the past 3 years because you been back a couple months." Jason takes this in. They part ways. (Jason: "Don't die." Tim: "Don't change.")

The Chemo incident happens. Jason rushes to Blüdhaven to make sure Dick is alive and okay, thus revealing he's alive to the Titans. After the dust settles, he and Dick talk privately so that Dick can react properly. (Dick: "No, Batman didn't tell me." Jason: "Yeah, he has a habit of doing that.")

Jason gets to ask if Tim's claim of Batman being a mess is founded. It is. He asks Dick if it's worth doing things the same way. "It is." That doesn't help.

Eventually Jason and Bruce have their equivalent of a heart to heart. Basically they both go, "I love you even if I think you're wrong."

Jason forms the Outlaws, but the moment he gets the distress call from the fam, he comes rushing back to help. He's offended that Bruce is surprised (Tim is hopeful, Dick isn't remotely shocked)

When Dick "dies," Jay comes back to take his place as Eldest Son. He sticks around through the end of the Robin War

Other important events that definitely happen but just don't fit neatly into a timeline:

Barbara and Jason team up on a mission shortly after Bruce tells Barbara that Jason is back. She's happy and immediately falls into big sister/mother hen mode and chides him for not seeing her sooner and makes him promise to stop by the clocktower regardless of whatever is happening between him and Bruce. She promises to help him upgrade his tech if he does. (Barbara has always been more lenient with killers and believes wholly in second chances.)

Cass stops Jason from killing someone who "deserves it," resulting in them fighting. Cass is better trained but she refuses to kill Jason, who won't stop. Eventually, they call a ceasefire and talk a bit. "All life has meaning," Cass says. Jason scoffs. "Even the Joker's?" "All life," she insists. Jason quietly disagrees but he respects Cass's determination. This starts a back and forth of him testing her anytime they're grouped together. ("Even this lowlife, Cass?" or "She's worth your own life?" or "They wouldn't spare you, why bother?") Each and every time she sticks to her principles.

Jay and Steph grab food together after a patrol one night and bond over being the family outcasts (i.e. the ones Bruce doesn't implicitly trust). Jason vows to make Steph his Robin if he ever becomes Batman. She laughs but is secretly touched

***I can never decide what to do with Damian. On the one hand, it's hilarious if Jason knows about him and keeps quiet about it. On the other, I don't see why Jason wouldn't tell Bruce about Damian's existence. Maybe once he's on speaking terms with Bruce again, he does tell him about Damian, which then prompts Jason to encourage Talia to let Damian meet Bruce. This is accelerated by Talia discovering Ra's' plan for Damian and wanting to get Damian away from the League

[tapewormsoda]

breakups are so fucking weird. three years and just like that it's gone. huh

[brutalmasks]

currently thinking about how, since bunny mask's head / sort of by extension her neck ( yeahhh, i'd say that, because she is NOT immune to decapitation ) are basically her achilles heel in the way that they heal muchhh slower than the rest of her body does + there have even been times where she didn't heal properly at all in those areas... that most of the scars bunny has are concentrated around there.

thus, if your muse is intimate with her in any way, then they'll most certainly be seeing those on her skin and i just 😭 it kind of hits me RIGHT in the feels — and i say this because there has to be a lot of trust there for bunny to feel safe enough to expose what is literally the most vulnerable spot of her body to them, you know? so yeah. that is one surefire way of knowing that bunny mask trusts your muse with her life ❤️

[einaudis]

This is so scary and exciting at the same time.

[skitskatdacat63]

The hate nando is getting right now is lame. Even moresp when ppl are doing anti tags.

Aaaahh yeah it's really annoying :/ I've not seen too much hate on here, because I really try not to go looking for it bcs it makes me rly annoyed. And that's like, probably one of the only things that will get me to actually block someone(which I rarely ever do.) However, I do frequent reddit and there was some post abt his comments after the sprint and UGH the comments bothered me so much. Sometimes I'm tempted to look at the anti tags, but from what I've seen already, ik it's gonna piss me off. I already blocked some people yesterday bcs of it.

I've talked abt this a lot with people but. Ik rationally that there's some people out there who don't like him, and don't enjoy his antics. But it sucks to see people hate on the traits that you like best 😔 Like people saying "he's a really good driver BUT his off track antics ruin his career, and he should never win a race." And a lot of antis, it feels like they're always waiting for some tiny thing like this to validate their opinion that Fernando is genuinely a terrible person who doesn't deserve anything. People want drama, and then they hate it when he gives them drama 🙄 anyways I have a lot of thoughts on the comments he made, but idk if I should say on main haha, not that I really care. Also, people now calling him a terrorist for accidentally being at the scene of the crime for several crashes, when he's one of the cleanest drivers ever 😔 rude.

[pissfizz]

I don’t understand

[infizero]

i may get shot for this but personally i dont think theres really anything wrong with death note's female characters

[dogearedheart]

the thing is, coming down from that episode (whatever it was) has definitely happened at the right time

[aspacewar]

I am,,, feeling so incredibly normal today, about my imaginary D&D dude and their train-wreck of a life

Sorry mutuals & followers I’m gonna be Worse than normal today I swear I’ll shut the fuck up soon

Need a separate blog for D&D shit honestly

[laikahh]

i wanna go to sleep so bad but my throat is sore as fuckk and its making me feel like shit

[mrfoox]

I'm kinda glad I can keep my opinions to myself but man

[intoxicated-chan]

angsty fight between miguel and wife!reader

and then they make up yayayayay

Give Me Reasons We Should Be Complete

✿ฺ Paring ➳❥ Miguel O’Hara x F!Reader

✿ฺ Summary ➳❥ Miguel has been pushing you away for some time now. After a talk with a friend, you and Miguel try to sort things out.

✿ฺ (A/n) ➳❥ Inspired by “DANCING IN THE DARK” by Joji. Writing this made me think back on past crushes/lovers. But thank you for your request! I am also holding back on writing smut because it keeps getting labeled and it takes me longer to write.

✿ฺ Word Count ➳❥ 1.4k

✿ฺ Content Warnings ➳❥ Female reader, angst-to-fluff, swearing, Miguel is kinda a dick head, mentions of sleep deprivation…

Want more Miguel content? Check out my MASTERLIST!

You stood in his cold and dark office. The best source of light was his laptop but his huge frame blocked most of the light. You managed around the crumbled paper and thrown desk objects with a plate in hand.

“Miguel?” You peer over his shoulder, “I made you dinner.”

He nods.

“You know you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

He nods again.

“And you know that you’ve been here for a long time. I think it’s best for you to-”

“Take a break?” Miguel interrupts you, “I don’t have time for that.”

“Miguel, I’m sure whatever it is, it can wait a few minutes. All I’m asking is for you to eat something.” You try to set the plate down.

“I thought I made it clear that I do not want to be bothered. You’re distracting me. Leave.”

He didn’t mean it like that… He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean it like that…

“But Mig-”

“I said go.” He growls, his eyes turning its blood red from anger, “You’re becoming a nuisance.”

He didn’t mean it like that.

“Okay.” You tried not to let the crack in your voice show. You didn’t even bother to leave the plate behind because you knew it was going to be wasted.

“And don’t bother me again.” You heard him say as you left his office.

You took deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down before you burst into tears. But your hands shook, nearly dropping the plate.

You choked down your sobs and let your tears fall, the plate was left in the fridge, and you pushed yourself to your bedroom. It was basically yours now since Miguel was sleeping in his office.

The sheets no longer lingered on his cologne and any sign of his presence was gone, other than his clothing and a few photos. The room has become a mess of discarded clothing, old plates and cups, and candy wrappers.

How long has it been since Miguel showed affection? Or even looked at you?

This was normal behavior for Miguel, right? You should know, you’re married to him. You’re his wife. But he experienced loss, unlike you. You didn’t want to judge him for how he deals with his emotions, he’s emotionally distant. You knew that from the start.

And because of this, you felt like he deserved more than what you could give him. It’s what kept you going through the many times Miguel tore your heart, how it squeezed in pain at his actions and words. How you look the other way and ignore his hurtful words.

You couldn’t sleep. You left the still cold bed and dressed in something warm and headed up to the roof.

You sat on the edge, looking at Nueva York. How beautiful it looked during the night, which is one of the reasons why you liked sitting up here.

“Sitting all by yourself?” You tense up only to relax when you know that voice, “At this time? All alone?” Peter B. lands next to you, his daughter in his arms.

“I would ask my husband to join me but he’s too busy.” You respond truthfully.

“Again? He’s been at this all week.” He sits next to you.

“Yeah.” You huff.

“And… how are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really? Because it doesn’t look like it.” He offers Mayday who reaches out to you.

You take her and set her down on your lap, “I just don’t know what to do, everything I do seems to bother Miguel. Checking up on him, bringing him food. It feels like he’s doing this on purpose.”

“Miguel’s always been difficult and from the time I spent with him… He’s different, not like the rest of us. He’s accepted his fate as Spider-Man and believes he’s destined for bad things 24/7. But good things do come along, like you. I think… I think he’s trying to come to terms that he can get it because he deserves it.”

Mayday coos, pulling at your hair, “And I think Miguel is scared. He puts on his tough act because he has to, yet he’s afraid to admit he’s scared. Normally, people would’ve given up on him. Why haven’t you?

“Till death do us part. I don’t want to lose him. I don’t give up on him because when you love someone, you love them every single day as who they are.”

“Talk about romantic.”

“Oh please.” You look down at Mayday, “Plus I think-”

“There you are.” You jump and this time, you remain tense, “I was looking for you.”

“Now you’re looking for me?” You respond, refusing to turn your head.

“It’s late, (Y/n). It’s dangerous.”

“I’m here, she’s alright.” Mayday jumps into her father’s arms.

“I’ve already had enough of you. Please, (Y/n).”

“It’s fine.” You tell him, following Miguel inside.

You head to the bedroom, “Where are you going?”

“Bed.”

“(Y/n)-”

“I’m tired and I do not want to be bothered. That includes you too, Miguel.”

“Excuse me?” He follows you into the bedroom.

“You heard me.”

“Please, (Y/n), talk to me.” Miguel begs.

“I’m sorry, did you just say talk? Like I have been trying to do for the past week?”

“(Y/n)-”

“You know what? No, no. You do not get to try to get me to talk after all of this. I have been trying, I have been all in. All I asked of you was to look after yourself.”

“I know.”

“You know? You KNOW?” You scoff rather loudly, “Did you know that Lyla has even talked to me about your behavior? I’m worried about you Miguel. All the damn time, even more when I see you not eating and staying up all night. All I ask is one minute, one bite of the damn food.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“Is sorry all you have to say? Not even a half assed excuse?” You see Miguel trying to form a sentence but nothing leaves his left and his head hangs low, “I need to be alone.”

You walk past him but he grabs your arm, “Please don’t leave.” He says, “Please don’t walk out that door.”

“I’m sleeping on the couch, you could have the bed.” You look up at him.

“I love you, (Y/n). I know I don’t say it as much but I fucking love you. He’s right, you know. I am scared. Scared of everything. Because at first, I didn’t think I could have that, have you. You let me hurt you and that is unforgivable.”

He’s crying. Looking right at you, letting himself be bare right in front of you. His grip on your arm loosens and his hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks. You could hear his staggered breathing, trying to keep himself composed.

“But I wasn’t lying when I said I love you, I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted a family, and I wasn’t lying when I said that you make me believe in love.”

“I’m always here for you, Miguel. You don’t have to go through things alone, but when you want to, I’m here.” You take one of his hands into yours, pulling it away from your face but keeping a tight hold on it.

“It’s not that easy. I hurt you, I understand why you don’t want to.”

“I love you, Miguel. We’ll work on this. I promise you.” After a moment, Miguel practically tackles you, nearly falling to the ground. The hug is tight and warm, and you could feel your shirt become wet with Miguel’s tears.

“You’re okay, right?” His voice cracks as he speaks through his sobs, “Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I promise you, I am okay.” You whisper.

“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“You can start by getting some rest. But you’ve got a lot of apologies O’Hara.”

You don’t know how long you and Miguel stayed like this, nor did you care. All you cared about was Miguel and he felt complete at last.

© 2023 Intoxicated-Chan, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform with permission.

[moonlight-prose]

taste me on your tongue

a/n: guess who's gonna go see deadpool and wolverine again. last night i was battling a migraine, but at around midnight it finally fucking disappeared. so i wrote a small drabble that i'd been dreaming about to make myself feel better. it's short and spicy and i'm actually obsessed with it.

summary: the taste of him became an addiction you couldn't ignore. especially when he was adamant on sharing it in multiple ways.

word count: 0.8k+

pairing: logan howlett x reader

warnings: semi-explicit, shotgunning, cigar taste, make out sessions, dry humping, his hand makes a pretty necklace, good girl usage, logan is messy with it.

His grip is loose on your neck—fingers splayed across soft skin he'd bite later. Heavy enough to keep you in place, remind you what he wanted, but with enough leeway for you to move. To slide into his lap with ease—hands braced on his leather clad shoulders. A smile painted across your heavenly face; one he tried to burn behind his eyelids in the hopes of replacing his nightmares with visions of you instead.

The cigar was set between his teeth, smoke curling past his lips that mumbled your name. He half expected you to remove it—toss it into the ash tray and leave it to smolder for the rest of the night. You surprised him by pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. A pleased sigh escaped you when he pulled you closer—the evident bulge on his jeans gave enough information about what he wanted.

"Ain't you pretty tonight," he said, thumb running along your collarbone. "Get all dolled up for me baby?"

You nodded. "I wanted to meet you at the door."

"Mm." Whatever plans the two of you set flew out the front fucking window the second he saw you prancing towards him—a soft smile on your face and hearts practically reflecting in your eyes. "Prettiest fuckin' thing I've ever seen."

Your teeth dug into your bottom lip, hips shifting over his with a whine. And Logan felt his body beg him to move this along. To strip you of your clothes and drop them to the ground. He merely spread his thighs a bit wider, forcing your legs to stretch over his hips—your fingers a sharp dig through the layers he wore.

"I missed you today."

"Yeah?"

What he wouldn't give to see that look in your eyes every fucking morning. Soft enough to break his already damaged heart. Yet filled with enough love to put it back together.

"This place is empty without you Logan."

There'd never be anything sweeter than knowing he held a spot in your life. Days without him left you longing for his touch—his voice whispering in your ears. Logan felt like an anchor. A reminder that you belonged right there with him; you weren't lost in your place in the world when he existed to find you. Although whether you knew it or not—Logan felt the exact same about you.

"'M gonna try somethin'," he said, voice hoarse as he pictured what would come after this. "Hold still for me bub."

His calloused palm slid up your throat until he gripped your chin tight enough for your lips to part. Heat pooled in your stomach when he tugged you closer—his nose barely nudging against your cheek. You thought he'd kiss you like this. Still puffing on a cigar and lips tinged with the taste of it.

You almost wished he had.

The sight of his lips closing around the end, sucking in a mouthful of smoke, before he pulled it free caused your stomach to drop—the throbbing in between your legs suddenly unbearable. You wouldn't have been able to ignore it if you tried. And thankfully Logan was always adamant on giving your body the attention it needed.

The attention he claimed you deserved.

Pushing your cheeks together, he brushed his lips over yours in a kiss. A whimper climbed its way up your throat and nearly broke free. If it weren't for the smoke he blew into your open mouth—the taste of his cigar now a part of your sharp intake of breath.

"That's a good fuckin' girl," he groaned.

Giving you no chance to respond, his lips clashed against yours in a messy kiss. The smoke that remained now escaping between the two of you—disappearing into the air within seconds. His tongue licked across your teeth, spit a wet smear along your bottom lip. For the brief second he pulled away, shifting to cup the back of your neck, a string of saliva left the both of you connected.

You took it all. Each rough grunt and deep lick he gave you. And you met him with soft sighs and moans of your own.

"Can I have another?" you asked against his cheek, hips starting a slow grind against his lap.

Logan's whole body jolted at the sound—his breath, a hot pant against the skin of your neck. He was lucky he didn't finish in his pants at your question. Yet before he could give you a straight answer, he was shoving the cigar back in his mouth—pulling in another long drag to gather as much smoke as possible.

How could he deny you something so sinful? When you asked like an angel.

"C'mere," he muttered around a mouthful of smoke. Careful to keep it from escaping.

You smiled, fingers tangling into his hair, and met him halfway for the kiss. Logan felt a piece of himself settle deep into your chest—forever now a part of you.

don't look at me okay. i just want him to blow smoke in my mouth.

[slytherinslut0]

mattheo riddle. let me fuck you.

PAIRING: Mattheo Riddle x Gryffindor!Reader

SUMMARY: worried that mattheo was just going to use you for sex and leave, you had him agree to courting you first until you felt you were ready to take it to the next level. after months of this, mattheo finally can’t take it anymore, and lands himself on his knees at your feet.

WORD COUNT: 4.1k.

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, Degradation, Praise, Absolute Feralism, Begging, Exhibitionism, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasm, PIV, Semi-Public Sex (implied cloaking charm), Dirty Talk, Swearing, Oral (f receiving), Body Worship, Slight Breeding Kink.

Courage. Bravery. Honesty--all traits that your house, Gryffindor, valued and honoured.

However, conspicuously absent from that list, was stupidity. A trait that you certainly seemed to posses a fucking abundance of these days.

To delve into the specifics, you possessed stupidity in the form of pure idiocy that took root when you began messing around with a certain curly haired Slytherin boy. This curly haired Slytherin boy just so happened to come from a group of assholes who seemingly detested your friends as well as your own bloody existence, having been nothing shy of full blown enemies for majority of your time spent at Hogwarts.

And yet, somehow, one thing led to another with this certain boy, and before you knew it you'd found yourself in a certain situation you'd never have imagined in a million damn years.

A courtship.

Securing Mattheo Riddle's commitment to court you exclusively, with a firm agreement to abstain from sex until you felt unequivocally ready, baffled your understanding. This arrangement was meticulously crafted out of a deep-seated concern that, left unchecked, he might merely try fuck you and then vanish without a trace.

He was known for doing that.

The rules of the courtship were a safeguard for your heart, a decision rooted in self-preservation, rather than any preoccupation with your virginity or lack thereof.

The harsh reality was simple – you desired Mattheo Riddle, despite every instinct screaming that you shouldn't. To shield your heart from potential wreckage, you implemented a set of rules governing the extent to which Mattheo could advance in your relationship. The decision to progress to the next level, if and when you deemed him deserving, rested solely in your hands.

It was a fool proof plan. No way for you to get hurt.

However, to absolutely no one's surprise, Mattheo wasn't a fan of this plan –not when he reluctantly agreed to it, and certainly not now. Not as you were seated across from him in a dimly lit corner of the library, the top buttons of your white button-up uniform shirt straining against the curve of your tits, your tie a loosened mess around your neck, and your burgundy pleated skirt way too fucking short for any bloody blokes sanity to remain intact.

Mattheo had counted the fucking days since the two of you started messing around, each instance of shared intimacy without crossing that final threshold chipping away at his restraint like relentless erosion. He wasn't fucking sure how much he had left in him.

"Did you finish this one, Matt?" Your voice rang out as a soft whisper, the hum of it snapping Mattheo from his wandering thoughts.

Forcing himself to meet your eyes and not linger on the buttons of your shirt just begging for fucking relief, he nodded. "Yeah. This one too."

Mattheo lifted a divination book, a testament to the exhaustive night the two of you had spent cramming for tomorrow's exam. Weary, you gave a nod, pushing up from the desk.

"Let's put these away, yeah?" you suggested gently.

Mattheo's throat parched as he observed you tugging down your skirt, a belated realization of how perilously high it had inched past your hips. With an innocent effort to conceal the expanse of those enticingly thick thighs – the same thighs he enthusiastically found himself nestled between every damn night – you fueled a growing heat within him. Mattheo cleared his throat awkwardly, giving a nod before pushing himself up as well.

As the two of you retreated into a dimmer, more secluded section of the library, you bent at the hips to return your book to its shelf. Unmindful of Mattheo's intense gaze, exhausted yet persistent, you began chattering. "I think there might be one more we can skim through, if you're still up for it-"

That thought abruptly dissolved as two sizable, calloused hands sought out your body, gripping anywhere and everywhere they could. An instinctive flinch involuntarily escaped you, but the sensation of those hands delicately tracing your thighs swiftly eased your tension. A trail of burning flames surged up your torso, and you instinctively straightened against him.

"For fucks sake." Mattheo's voice resonated as a low, deep growl in your ear, so intense you questioned whether he meant for you to hear it. His fingers clawed at the buttons of your shirt, nearly tearing it open in a frenzy. "What the fuck are you doing to me."

"Matt-" your hands came up, finding his. The two of you had certainly messed around in a lot of questionable places, but the library? At midnight on a weekday? "W-what are you-"

That sentence was abruptly cut short as Mattheo's lips attacked your neck at the same exact moment he slipped a hand through your now unbottoned shirt and roughly cupped one of your tits, twirling his thumb over your nipple. An entire body shudder rumbled through your limbs and the softest of moans escaped your lips, filling the charged air between you.

Music to Mattheo's fucking ears.

"Let me fuck you." It wasnt necessarily a demand but more of a plea. The desperation in his tone was fucking palpable. He sunk his teeth into the side of your neck as he pressed his hips against your ass, the entirety of his erection jabbing into your back. "Let me fucking fuck you."

You gasped, lids fluttering in an involuntary response as his hand switched to your other breast now, kneading and groping and squeezing with just as much fervour, more even. When you moaned again, he growled against your neck, pulling off you momentarily just to spin you around to face him.

His hands seized your hips, pressing you back against the shelf. "What is it, princess? What the fuck do you need from me?"

You scarcely had a moment to absorb the question, accompanied by the raw, desperate vulnerability in his tone, before he surged into action again. Long fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt, while the other hand ascended to your jaw, gently tilting your head back to meet his intense gaze.

"I've been so fucking good, have I not?" His fingers inched excruciatingly slow over your mound, taking his time to tease you for all he could, watching every subtle ministration of your face as he went. "I've stayed out of fights. Haven't partied. I've been so fucking loyal..."

You swallowed, acknowledging the sincerity in his words. Yes, all those things were undeniably true. Mattheo had transformed into a different man in recent times. While you were drawn to him for the chaotic soul he was, the fact that he willingly opted out of party nights to spend time with you hadn't escaped your notice in the slightest.

Mattheo noted your silence. "Was it the drugs? Because you know I quit those."

Long fingers crept toward your slit, one finger gliding along and coating itself in your slick. Gods, if you weren't already fucking dripping for him.

You tried to shake your head. "No, Matty..."

His hold on your jaw tightened as he felt how fucking wet you already were. He snuffed a groan in his throat. How a little fucking Gryffindor could manage to have him in such a chokehold was beyond his comprehension.

"Is it the smokes?" He tilted his head, watching your eyes. "Because, fuck--I'll light every last one into flames right here in this fucking isle. I'll use the ashes to sear your fucking name onto my skin--just give me the goddamn words."

As his finger connected with your clit, drawing quick frantic circles over it, you mewled, your hands squeezing his biceps as your brain could only muster the comprehension to say one fucking word.

"Mattheo-"

"Mhm." Mattheo groaned, pressing his lips to your temple, his hand on your jaw slithering down to clasp a firm hold around your neck. "Yeah, baby, that's my name, fuck...say it again."

His pace on your clit increased, your head spun with carnal lust. Intoxicated. "Mattheo-"

"Yeah, good girl. Fuck--so fucking good." The reply came within seconds, along with the release of your throat, his hand gliding back to tangle in your hair. "Come on, baby, you know I'm not in this for the sex...you know I want way more than that."

If you hadn't already been rendered helpless and speechless from his relentless pace on your clit, you would have scoffed at that. But instead, all you could do was attempt to breathe the words out between your moans.

Your lids squeezed shut, fingernails digging into the fabric of his uniform. "I-I don't know that, actually."

"Fuck." Mattheo dipped low, his finger thrusting into your cunt before you could even realize it had, his thumb continuing the pace on your clit. The way your wet walls gripped his finger as he pumped it in and out of you was enough to send him into pure fucking desperation. He sucked in a deep inhale, gathering himself. "How do you figure that, hm?"

"Because-ah-here you are practically fucking begging me to let you fuck me." Your back arched, your legs trembling. If it wasn't for Mattheo's looming frame practically pinning you against this shelf, you were certain you'd be a pile of limbs on the floor at his feet. "You're just...t-telling me what I want to hear, Matty."

"I'm not." His pace increased, his brows knit tight. He didn't like that response. Not one fucking bit. His lips found your ear, his grip on your hair intensifying. "You don't understand how fucking bad I want you--how fucking bad I want every single last inch of you. Your laugh, your smile, your wit, your heart, your fucking soul. You haunt me every moment I'm awake. Even when I'm asleep you're there, fucking torturing me. I dream about waking up next to you. I dream about growing old with you. I dream about worshipping you, pleasuring you. I dream about pumping this perfect cunt full of my cum. No woman has ever fucking done this to me. I'm insane for you. For fucks sake please let me fucking fuck you princess. I need you so fucking bad. All of you."

"Gods," was all you could say, not a single shred of coherence left in your brain, not as those words bounced around inside your head in rhythmic hums synced with the movement of his fingers. You were right there. "Matt--fuck, I'm gonna cum-"

"Mhm, go on baby," he cooed with a softness that seemed to fray against the edges of desperation, his voice nearly shredding against his vocal cords. How he was keeping himself together was truly fucking impressive. "You're so fucking good for me. Such a pretty fucking pussy, hm?"

"Yours," you breathed out just as your vision blurred, your entire body shuddering around his fingers. "It's all yours!"

A choked gasp slipped from your lips, swiftly muffled by the plush entirety of Mattheo's mouth. His tongue invaded past your teeth, meticulously exploring your gums as if etching the details into memory. The sound of his groan reverberated through you, but it soon became a mere echo as your ears rang and your orgasm charged, coursing through every inch of your being, leaving your head spinning and your body trembling against the shelf.

Mattheo withdrew his lips from yours, sensing the aftershocks of your orgasm rippling through you, sure in the fact you had regained enough composure to remain quiet without his help. He grazed his teeth along your jawline, warm breath bathing your skin as both of you panted in unison, bodies pressed and fighting for breath as he slowly pulled his finger from your cunt and teased over your clit with slow, sensual swirls.

"Let me fuck you," he repeated again, softer this time, his voice a whisper as light as a feather in the air. "You said it's mine...you said this pussy belongs to me."

"Yes," you panted, squirming against his hold as he continued his slow teasing strokes over your clit. "I...I did say that...it does..."

"Mm," his dark eyes lingered over your lips before he leaned in slightly, resting his forehead against yours, erratic breaths intermingling. "Please. Fucking please, let me take what's mine."

Mattheo Riddle had gone by many names over the years; an asshole, a delinquent, a rebel--but a man with manners? A man who'd ever had to beg and plead for something he wanted? That was not something you would have ever included in his description. Seeing him like this, completely and openly vulnerable, did something to you. Something you knew you could no longer resist. This was a man you knew you were willing to take risks for, willing to risk getting hurt for. It'd been fucking months. You wanted him. Just as fucking badly as he wanted you.

"I dunno, Matty," you grinned, unable to fight it off even if you tried. "Maybe you should say please again...maybe you should say it on your knees..."

Mattheo huffed, a groan accompanying it.

"Dirty, dirty little thing..." he whispered, pulling his hand from your cunt entirely now, both hands shifting to your hips, gracing them with a feral squeeze. "You really fucking are mine, aren’t you?"

As Mattheo Riddle dropped to his knees at your feet, you were certain the entire world had faded away. You were certain that time no longer existed and that there wasn't a single other living being in the entire expanse of the universe--all there was, across all existing planes of reality, was you and this messy, curly haired boy at your feet, looking up at you with dreamy chocolate eyes, poised to beg and fucking plead for release from his torment.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," his hands trailed a steady path from your hips down your thighs, squeezing and grabbing every inch of flesh he could. "You know that, right?"

You pulled your lip between your teeth, unable to peel your eyes off this boy before you. He was mesmerizing, In all his glory. Every last fucking molecule of him.

"Yes, Matty..." you breathed, your hands clutching at the wooden bookshelf behind you, steadying yourself. "You tell me a thousand times a day."

"Only a thousand? I was aiming for way more than that." Mattheo hummed, wetting his smirk-adorned lips as he brought his mouth to your inner thigh, softly nipping at it. "Guess I have to step my game up, huh?"

You blinked, pulse pounding in your ears. “I-“

“Please, princess…” Mattheo shifted, snapping himself back to the task at hand, nipping at your other thigh now, his voice so soft you almost missed it. His eyes never left yours. “Fucking hell.”

In one swift movement, his hands gripped your thighs and spread them apart, one leg slung over his shoulder as he brought his lips to your already dripping cunt, placing a vulgar kiss to it, tongue delving into your slit, a trembling groan echoing in his throat when he swallowed your wetness.

Your lungs sputtered, head falling back against the shelf--his eyes, in the pits of perversion, watched you, soaking in your speechless delight while he explored each tiny crevice of your cunt. Bliss built inside of you for the second time, blocks of white hot energy, stacking with every second those velvety, full lips massaged your folds. Your mouth fell in an open pant, your hips rocking into his face--his hands moved, sticking your wrists to your hips as he gripped you there.

You struggled to find your breath--oxygen had left the room--and you squeezed your eyes shut, desperate to keep your moans quiet. Your previous orgasm still had you tingling, the stimulation almost, almost too much--but you found yourself climbing toward your second with little effort. Your eyes rolled back, pleasure crashing over you, tiny moans leaving you while he sucked slowly on your clit, engorged and throbbing at his lips.

"Fuck, Mattheo-" you whined, your nails digging into the flesh of your own thighs as his strong grip kept them pinned there. "I'm gonna-fuck-"

Your core thumped with a demand to cum--Mattheo was reining you to a cliff, your desire a wild animal, bucking with abandon and ecstasy.

"Mhm, that's it," he muttered into your flesh. "Let me fucking taste you."

His tongue swirled over your nub, slipping wet circles around it before he groaned and sucked it hard between his teeth. You wailed, cracked, orgasm gushing through you, a geyser, a cascade of ecstasy that left you quaking, your walls spasming at his chin.

There was no more holding back your moans. "Oh--f-fuck!"

Mattheo swallowed your release hungrily, releasing your wrists and clutching your hips to his head, as if the evidence of your pleasure sustained him, laving at you until you squeaked and jerked from sensitivity. With a satisfied gasp, he released you entirely, slowly rising back up to his full height, watching with tethered emotion while you descended from your high.

Without even giving you the chance to process it, he reached down and swiped two fingers along your slit, collecting your cum before bringing it up to your lips and urging it past your teeth.

"That's what I do to you, baby," he cooed, his eyes far less intense than they were before. His free hand brushed the sweat dampened hair away from your forehead, watching as you wrapped your lips around his fingers and worked them clean. "You like that?"

You nodded, heat flashing your face, and Mattheo groaned appreciatively, slowly pulling his fingers from your mouth. His gentle grip found your chin now, drawing your eyes to his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, "you don't have to-"

You cut him off. "Fuck me, Matty."

Mattheo blinked, and you reached for his belt.

"Please, Mattheo," you clenched, body quaking with need. Even after two orgasms you still wanted more, needed more. You needed him, and now you were the one willing to beg for it. "Please, fuck me."

Almost immediately, Mattheo's eyes darkened, his gaze glossing over with a hunger that spoke volumes far louder than any words ever fucking could. He leaned in slightly, your scent still lingering on his breath.

"You want me inside you? Hm?" He purred, lips grazing over yours. "You want me to fuck you here? Open and exposed for anyone to see?"

You smirked knowingly. The cloaking charm he had cast didn't escape your notice. This boy always had a knack for thinking one step ahead. Yet, the exhilaration of the prospect was just another facet that had initially drawn you to him.

You nodded. "Yes, Mattheo...I need you..."

Mattheo pressed his lips to yours, not wasting another singular second of time as his hands moved to the clasp on his belt, fumbling with it, a low groan escaping him as he pulled his throbbing cock free, gliding his fist over it a few times as his tongue hungrily fought with yours.

Mattheo's hands shifted to your shoulders, spinning you around, your own hands grasping at the shelving in front of you. You felt the warmth of his thick length gliding between your thighs, teasing you, slicking himself in your wetness.

"You're sure you want this?" Mattheo's voice was a soft growl in your ear, his hands grasping at your hips with enough force to bruise. "Fuck, princess, please be fucking sure."

The reaction was immediate. As though he asked you if you needed oxygen to breathe. "Gods, I'm fucking sure, Mattheo. I'm so fucking sure."

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, fingernails digging into your flesh, pulling your skirt higher up your torso. "You've got me so fucked up, princess..."

As he slicked his length over your core once more, teasing your entrance, you whimpered. He was so smooth and silky and fucking big...you knew this was going to sting, even after two orgasms, even after he had you dripping down your thighs. Just that thought alone made your pussy clench, you'd do fucking anything to get him inside of you.

"Mattheo..." you whined, your body tensing with each false thrust. "Stop teasing me."

"Shit,” he breathed, easing the head of his length into you now, before slowly pulling out. "I'm teasing myself, baby...I don't know if I'm going to be able to control myself-"

You groaned, shuddering. "Please!"

Mattheo matched your groan with one of his own, and with one smooth movement, he tightened his grip on your hips, tugging you closer before he drove his dick into your cunt, splitting you open with one deep, slow thrust.

"Oh..." he moaned, paused, froze, entire body seemingly turned to stone. The only outward sign of his consciousness was his rapid breath washing over your neck. "...fuck."

You gripped the edges of the shelf with such intensity your knuckles were pale, doing everything within your power to keep quiet. The feeling of him seated inside you like this was everything you'd fucking imagined it to be. Better even. Your entire body was tense with bliss, your walls moulding around him.

Mattheo's lungs sputtered. "Relax...fuck-relax around me, baby..."

"I-" You weren't sure what he meant, your body trembling, your heart pounding in your throat. "Matt-"

"I'm not going to fucking last," Mattheo growled into your ear, the strain in his vocal cords more prominent than ever. "...if you keep squeezing me like that."

You mewled, head falling back against his shoulder as you fought to suck oxygen into your lungs. Mattheo finally began to move inside you; slow, easy strokes in an effort to give you a chance to adjust, feeling your tight walls relaxing around his thick girth, before he pulled out entirely and slammed back in, stuffing you full, groaning as you pulsed around him with each brief pause.

"Fuck...tight fucking pussy...so fucking wet..." he whispered, lips pressed against your ear. "All fucking mine."

Any ounces of restraint Mattheo had managed to maintain prior to this clearly had now been entirely annihilated as he increased his pace, fucking into you like a savage, as though he'd never get to fuck you again. He panted into your ear, groaning, fingernails bruising your thighs while he hammered your cervix with thrust after thrust after thrust. Sputtered curses left him under his breath and he attempted to silence himself with your neck, biting and nibbling at your throat. You stifled every single noise that threatened to leave your lips, body bouncing with the power of his hips, air hiccuping in your lungs as he pounded you.

"This little pussy is mine...you're mine..." he growled, fingers snaking down and brushing over your clit. "Fuck, you feel so good...I can't believe you kept this from me for so fucking long..."

Rapture numbed you, at the edge of your skin, a typhoon ready to wreck you witless. Your lids fluttered, teeth biting your lip with enough force to draw blood. He was going to make you crack. Make you fucking scream. There was no way you could continue being quiet when he was fucking you this good.

"M'sorry, Matty-" you weren't even sure what you were apologizing for. "So good...so deep...I-"

"Cum for me." Desire had consumed you both, his pace embodying complete desperation, a frenzied, urgent need to bring you both to orgasm. "Cum so I can fucking breed you...pump this little cunt full of my cum like I've dreamed of doing for months..."

Mattheo increased his pace on your clit, thrusts deepening even further--which you didn't even think was physically possible. He was slamming you deep, panting with every snap of his hips, your pussy hot and slick and pulsing with your oncoming climax.

You couldn't hold it back anymore--"Oh Gods-Mattheo!"

You shattered, exploded into flames, spectrum of colour blazing through your mind, a string of sobbing wails fleeing you as pulsed and spasmed on his dick, third climax shuddering through your veins. Mattheo groaned, clamping his palm over your lips as he continued to drill into you, holding off his own climax for as long as he could until he was physically unable to control himself--and he cursed, lungs sputtering as his hips slowed, cock twitching inside you as he poured his cum inside your cunt.

The room itself seemed to shudder, a tremor rumbling in the hardwood until he had finished and slowly pulled out, a deep, satisfied sigh leaving his chest.

After you collected yourself enough you spun around and watched as he tucked himself away, brushing his dampened curly hair back from his forehead. He straightened out, tucking the soft white fabric of his uniform shirt back into his pants before doing up his belt.

The second his eyes met yours, you reached for him. "I'm sorry for making you wait-"

"Don't ever be sorry," he cut you off, pulling you into him and placing a soft kiss on your forehead. "You were more than worth the wait, baby."