#Post-Breakup | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fateisfiction · 1 year ago

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Okay, ok, I write little original fiction/no character mentioned, reader-insert blurbs too. I swear I saw a prompt on my dash that inspired this yesterday, but now I can't find it. If I do, I'll link it (or if you know what I'm talking about, please drop a link for me).

Angsty with a bit of fluff. You broke up 6 months ago but he keeps finding reasons to drop by.

~2100 words

You broke up six months ago, but every week, like clockwork, he stops by your apartment on date night. First it was his phone charger. He spent at least an hour going through your bedroom trying to find it, but in the end, he came up empty handed.

He apologized and offered to order takeout for bothering you. When it arrives, you're both sitting on the couch engrossed in whatever was on TV. You don't even look at him when he hands you your usual, chopsticks already in the container for you to eat and settles back down on the far side of the couch.

When he's done, he leans in to give you a kiss on the forehead before heading for the door and letting himself out. You don't think anything of it at first. Just old habits.

Then he comes back the following week looking for his watch. He needs it for some work event. Normally he would have asked you to be his date, but you broke up. He's a little heartbroken when you don't even ask who he's going with. He's going alone, of course, but he expected you to at least ask.

Another week passes and he's at your door again. This time he brought you dinner from your favorite restaurant. "Habits," he insists. You really don't mind. He watches you sit down on the couch to eat, all wrapped up in a blanket. Now that he thinks about it, it's kind of cold in here, isn't it? He checks the thermostat and it's definitely colder than it should be.

"Heat broken or something?"

"Yeah. Called the landlord yesterday and he hasn't fixed it yet."

"I'll stop by tomorrow morning with my tools."

As promised, there he is, bright and early with a bag of tools over his shoulder and a couple of hot coffees and pastries from the cafe on the corner that you used to beg him to take you to. He takes a look and a few hours later, your heat's back on. Only he forgot to grab the hoodie he left you with the night before to keep you warm.

This time you have to reach out to him. He just fixed your heat, didn't he? You're standing in front of his apartment door, deciding whether to knock or just leave his hoodie and head home. Before you decide, he opens the door. His shock quickly turns into a smile and he invites you in, even though he's clearly heading out. He tells you to make yourself at home, taking off his jacket and making you a cup of tea.

"Heat still works?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Let me know if it happens again. You still have my number, right?"

He teases you, leading you over to the couch where the two of you have spent many nights entwined in one another's warm embrace. Talking about your plans for the future; dreams a little house of your own someday, publishing your first book, and then your second, getting a dog or a couple of cats. The memories come flowing back and you can't do this. It hurts too much. He's not entirely surprised when you run for the door, just a little sad. He cancels his plans and ends up staying in that night, holding his hoodie, the hoodie that now smells like you.

He figures you need a little time after that, so he doesn't stop by the following week. Instead he sends you a text to check outside your door, and you find a little box of cupcakes. You look for him, but he's nowhere to be found. You almost miss his weekly visits, but then you remember you broke up. It's over. That this isn't normal for him. This only started after you broke up with him. You start stewing, left alone with your thoughts. Do you really miss him? Or do you just like how he's treating you now?

The next week when he stops by for a forgotten baseball glove, he catches you on your way out the door. He has to stop himself from staring. Where are you going? A date? You look nice, all dolled up in that little black dress and kitten heels he couldn't wait to get you out of that time you wore it to your friend's engagement party. You leave him there without a second glance, telling him to lock up when he's done getting whatever it is.

When you return a few hours later, more than a little tipsy, with a guy from the bar, he's waiting there for you. The guy's hands are all over you, inching your dress up as the two of you barely manage to make it in the door. The guy you took home is confused, slurring out a “Who the fuck is he?”

“Her boyfriend.”

“Shit, dollface. Thought you said you were single.”

“I am. He’s my ex.”

You give your ex a pointed look, eager to get back to what you were doing. He’s having none of it though. He kicks the guy out helping you get undressed, showered and ready for bed.

“Damn it, babe. You should know better than to take trash like that home with you.”

“I'm not your ‘babe’ anymore,” you mumble, beginning to doze off.

He spends the night. You wake up the next morning in his arms, both fully clothed with a small bit of drool on his chest where you were resting. It doesn't dawn on you until a few minutes later that this isn't the man you took home, but instead your ex and you promptly wake him up and kick him out.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm going.”

He’s at your door once again the following week looking for something yet again, this time carrying an oversized duffel.

“What's that for?”

“Camping.”

He's still hurt from you rushing him out the week before. You didn't even let him make breakfast.

“With who?”

He pauses. Are you jealous?

“Friends.”

You watch him this time. For having broken up with him a couple of months ago now, he sure did seem to leave a lot of stuff behind. He asks you to check the closet by the door while he sneakily scatters a few more reasons to come back around your room.

The next week when he comes by, you’ve already ordered pizza. Interrupted from the movie just starting, you joke that he probably should have just kept his key since he spends so much time here. There's a bit of a bite in your words, because he knows you don't mean it.

He takes his place on the couch, chatting with you through the movie as the two of you eat.

By the time the credits roll, you're asleep, curled up beside him. He contemplates carrying you to your bedroom, but decides against it. It didn't go over well the last time he spent the night, and he knew that if he sets for in your room, he’s not going to be able to leave. He misses waking up beside you, and his insomnia has been acting up lately. Sleeping next to you was the only cure he ever found for it.

You open your eyes as the door clicks shut and you realize that maybe you do miss him.

The next week, you expect him again, but he doesn't show. You have half a mind to text him to see where he is, and you have to remind yourself that he's not your boyfriend anymore. Scrolling through social media to keep your mind off of him, you see a mutual friend posting pics of a night out and you see your ex there with him.

Your ex is in the background, drink in hand and that flirty smile on his face that convinced you to go home with him that first night. Three photos later, you find that same smile directed at a girl and you have to put your phone down. This was not how you saw tonight going. Cold takeout on the table, you end up throwing out his usual order. You can't believe you were actually considering giving him another chance.

He pops by the next morning with coffee and pastries and you don't even answer the door.

“Go away.”

“Was just bringing you coffee. What's wrong, hun? That time of the month?”

You could kill him. Stomping away to your bedroom, you slam the door behind you. He knows he fucked up. Forehead pressed to the door of your apartment in resignation, he leaves the coffee for you and sends a text in apology.

Coffee’s outside. Let me know if you need anything else.

God he was infuriating sometimes.

There's flowers and chocolates on your doorstep the next day. He didn't even knock. Just a text.

Got u smthn.

The next week he brings you dinner again. A new place you had told your friend you wanted to try. You couldn't be sure she didn't tell him, but he did get your order right at least. And he brought wine.

This time he asks if you want him to stay and you reluctantly let him in the door. He picks the movie while you grab glasses and silverware.

By the time you finish, the movie is still going strong, not even halfway through. You're well into your second bottle of wine and he's joking around. He always gets a little touchy when he's tipsy.

You stop him when his hand rests a little too comfortably on your thigh.

“Did you take her home?”

He has no clue what you're talking about.

“Last week. The girl at the bar giving you ‘fuck me’ eyes.”

He visibly pales. Of course he didn't take her home. He spent most of the night trying to turn her down. But how did you know?

“What, were you there or something?”

He chuckles uncomfortably, trying to pass it off as a joke. Wrong choice. You're clearly upset.

“What, so when I bring someone home it's a problem, but it's totally fine when you do? For fucks sake, we broke up.”

“Woah, there. What are you-”

“I brought a guy home and you were here waiting to scare him off when I got home!”

You're yelling. He’s trying to calm you down but you're not having any of it. You're on some rant about having needs of your own, and he’s such a hypocrite, and maybe he should just and he stops you with a kiss.

“Of course I didn't bring anyone home. I spent half the night turning her down and the other half wrangling our drunk friends. Just ask, I was the designated driver.”

“But you were drinking in the photos!”

“Virgin daiquiri. You're the one who made me try them, remember?”

You're far from calm, but at least you're not kicking him out. And now he knows why you were so upset the week before.

“You should go.”

And he does, but not before making sure everything is okay between the two of you.

The pattern continues, week after week. He stops by with an excuse, takeout is ordered, movie is watched, he leaves. It’s been six months and you feel, for the first time in your entire relationship, that you’re actually dating. The only problem is that this is your ex.

Ever since the incident where you tried bringing someone home from the bar and he waited to scare him off make sure you got home safe, you haven’t been tempted to seek out a companion for the evening. And ever since you called him a hypocrite, he’s started enforcing his own little policy of only going out with friends if you’re going to be there. Maybe there were a few murmurings within your friend group about how neither of you were ever going to move on if things continued. Maybe neither of you really cared.

And all that led to tonight.

Dinner still in the bag, cold on the counter. You under him. Chests heaving.

He sits up, pulling you forward to fall into his chest, holding you close as you catch your breath.

“So.” You draw out the word, letting it hang in the room before finishing your thought. “What was it this time?”

His brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“Your excuse. Every week it’s something new. What did you forget this time?”

You feel more than see the soft smile spreading across his face. He leans back into the couch, arms holding you a little closer to him. “You.”

#reader insert #fluff #angst #post-breakup #unnamed partner #quill writes #x reader #x your name #x y/n #Oh and there's actually dialogue in this one #comments/reblogs appreciated #afab reader implied

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itneverendshere · 9 months ago

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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. Except tonight wasn’t about the weather—it was about hockey.

Hockey and, 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 anymore. You loved hockey, 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 about to start, and the arena lights dimmed, casting shadows over the rink. The roar of the crowd drowned your thoughts for a moment as the players took the ice.

Then you spotted 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 smirk as he skated out with the rest of the team, dark blonde hair peeking out from under his helmet.

He was captain this year, and it made sense—he’d been working his ass off since…ever, you genuinely couldn’t think of anyone more deserving than him.

You knew better than to be here, yet somehow you ended up courtside anyway. As painful as it was watching him, you’d never let him run you out of your favorite sport. 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, but you loved Rafe more. Or, you used to.

The puck dropped, and the game started.

For a while, you tried to focus on the action but Rafe was all over the ice, playing like the goddamn superstar he was. You couldn’t help but notice how his gaze kept darting up toward the stands, as if sensing you were there.

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 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 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, his lips getting personal, 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.

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. You could hardly focus on Elijah, but the way he laughed, oblivious to the scene your ex was causing...it made your stomach churn because 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.

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 how to push your buttons. And of course, it was working.

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 infuriating right now because Rafe was standing there, all but daring you to move on.

The breakup had been brutal, a messy, loud explosion where neither of you were willing to be the first to walk away. You were both too stubborn, too prideful.

Now, here you are 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 you felt was... empty.

When the kiss ended, you forced a smile at Elijah although your mind was a mess. Rafe’s eyes were still on you, and you could 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. If Rafe thought he could just walk around, acting like he owned you—then he deserved to stew in.

Except, he wasn’t the type of guy to let something like that go. You watched as he skated back into play, but his eyes kept flicking up to where you sat, he couldn’t stop checking to make sure you were still there. Still with Elijah.

His shoulders were tense, movements too aggressive, you knew he was about to snap. You hated this, 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.

The third period started, and Rafe was everywhere, throwing his weight around like he had something to prove. Every hit was harder, sharper.

You felt sickly satisfied, knowing you’d gotten under his skin.

With less than five minutes left in the game, things escalated.

Rafe 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, ready to throw a punch.

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

You didn’t answer, knowing exactly what his problem was.

The ref skated over, shouting something at your ex boyfriend, but his eyes weren’t on the ref, they were back on you, even as the other guy on the ice slowly got back to his feet.

The arena was buzzing, the crowd still rowdy, you thought Rafe was going to lose it right there. His fists clenched—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.

Elijah leaned back in his seat, totally unaware.

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

Intense didn’t even begin to cover it.

Rafe was sitting in the penalty box now, helmet off, running a hand through his hair, too casual for someone who was just about murder a guy on the ice.

The last few minutes of the game passed in an instant.

You weren’t paying attention anymore, not to the score or the plays. You were too busy trying not to think about Rafe, how 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.”

You made your way toward the exit, weaving through the crowd, tension building in your chest.

It wasn’t over. It never really was with Rafe. 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, but you were distracted, scanning the faces around without even realizing it.

Then you saw him. Of course, you did.

Rafe was leaning against the wall, helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes locked on yours the second you stepped into his line of sight.

He didn’t bother pretending to care about the fans around him—his gaze was intense, a predator waiting for its moment.

You hated how your heart skipped.

Elijah noticed you freeze and followed your eyes, 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 casual, but his eyes were locked on yours, ignoring your date completely. "Not gonna stick around to congratulate the team?"

You clenched your jaw, fighting to keep your cool.

"It’s late, Rafe. We’re heading out."

He stepped closer, his towering frame making Elijah shift uncomfortably.

"Used to be the last one out."

You'd always let him fuck you in the locker room.

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

Rafe’s eyes dropped to him for the briefest moment, before landing back on you. "Plans, huh?"

Your pulse was hammering, 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, holding on to the last shred of your composure. “You don’t get to pull this shit anymore.”

“You sure about that?”

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

“Let’s go Elijah,” you said, tugging at his arm, desperate to get out of there before things escalated.

Rafe stepped in front of you again, blocking your way 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, ignore him.” you cut him off quickly, “Let’s go.”

“Yeah, Elijah,” Rafe's voice dripped with sarcasm. “It’s nothing.”

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.

Shit.

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 unresolved pull between you two, he still had that stupid hold on you, your body responding when you shouldn’t.

You’d never fully closed the door on Rafe.

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

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

Rafe didn't so much flinch, his eyes 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, Rafe had you pinned against the wall like he always fucking did before— God, why did he have to be so damn close? 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.

His eyes were boring into yours, he could see through all your bullshit.

“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 caged you in completely. You pressed your hands against his chest, but it wasn’t like you were really pushing him away.

“You don’t own shit,” you spat, glaring up at him.

Even as the words left your mouth, you knew you didn’t believe them, part of you was always gonna his.

Rafe’s lips curved into a smug grin as if he was reading 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 despised how much you wanted to close the distance between you.

Your jaw clenched, trying to muster the strength to tell him to fuck off, leave you alone for good, but he was right. As much as you tried to convince yourself otherwise, he was still in your head, under your skin.

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 panties. 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's lips brushed against your earlobe.

“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. “Don’t—”

He was already kissing you, like he owned you, you were his and his alone. You kissed him back, like the fucking idiot you were.

His hands were pawing at you, grabbing at your waist, tugging you closer until your bodies were fully pressed together. You wanted to shove him away, 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, Rafe was staring you down.

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

His pretty grin widened knowingly. He leaned down, lips ghosting over yours. “We both know that's a lie.”

You clenched your fists, frustrated beyond belief, 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.”

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 needed to punch him, shove him, do something to wipe that smug expression off his face.

All you did instead was grab his jersey, pulling him back toward you, kissing him with all the fury you felt.

His lips crushed against yours, it wasn’t gentle—there was nothing sweet about this. It was all months of unresolved anger bursting out in one 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, pulling back, his gaze dark. "You always did like it rough."

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

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 as your resolve crumbled to pieces. He knew exactly what to do, how to make you fall apart.

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. Nothing else mattered.

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

There was only Rafe. How touched you, the way he kissed you like he was trying to stake his claim all over again.

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

You bit down on your lip, you did want this. You couldn’t lie—not to him, or to yourself.

“I—” You choked on the words, eyes meeting his, hoping you’d find some kind of resolve to pull yourself back from him.

His grip only tightened, his mouth capturing yours again in a kiss so raw, it was borderline filthy, your last piece of control vanishing with it.

“Fuck,” you gasped, head spinning as his hands explored your body like he had every right to.

“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 lost in his hair.

It was a lot longer than the last time you’d seen him.

It didn't help that you could feel every inch of his muscle through the thin fabric his jersey. It was suffocating in the best way.

“You’re such an ass,” you gasped between kisses, breath hitching when his mouth clamped 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 low in your ear, sending shiver down your spine. “I don’t think it is.”

You were about to fire back, but his hands slid under your shirt, fingers teasing your skin, whatever you were going to say swallowed by the heat rushing through you. 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.

“This what?” he taunted, “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.

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

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

There was no denying it—you were here, and you weren’t leaving.

Maybe not for a while.

And Rafe knew it.

His hands moved lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.

This was dangerous territory.

“Last chance,” he murmured, “You want me to stop?”

You should’ve said yes, shoved him away and walked out of there with what little dignity you had left. But instead, you kissed him again— angrier, needing to prove something to yourself.

He yanked your shirt over your head in one fast motion, and you weren’t gentle either, tugging at his jersey until it was off and tossed aside. His hands were on your back, in your hair, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, pulling them down with the same rushed 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 them, pressing you down on the bench.

Everything was messy, neither of you could get enough. A silly attempt to erase the months of distance, of frustration.

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

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

His mouth moved down your neck, biting and sucking again, 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. You were furious with yourself, with him, with everything, but the anger only made you want him more.

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

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

Sonofabitch.

“Stop talking,” you spat, but your voice was already 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, properly. You gasped, head falling back as he began moving his finger, curling it inside you in just the way you taught him to.

Your body responded immediately, jerking against him, desperate for more, but he took his time. He added another finger, stretching you out as his thumb rubbed circles over your clit. He sped up, fingers thrusting deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made your mind go blank.

“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 your hips following the rythm of his hands, driving you closer and closer to the orgasm you so desperately needed. Damn him.

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

“Rafe—” you gasped, hips bucking wildly against his hand. You hated him, hated yourself, but the words slipped out anyway. “I need it.”

He groaned, pleased, and that was all it took. He always delivered when you begged nicely.

Rafe thrust his fingers harder until your body gave in completely.

In your defense, you hadn’t had a proper orgasm in months, nothing could get you off properly.

Your walls clenched around his fingers as the sweet pleasure tore through you. You cried out, leaving half-moon marks in his skin as you moaned beneath him, lost in the sensation.

He slowed down 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 them out, his hand moving to cup your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

He shoved his pants down, not bothering to take them off completely, only enough to free himself. Your breath hitched when you felt him against you and every rational thought you had left disappeared in that moment.

Rafe lined himself up, pushing into you in one hard thrust. Your gasp turned into a breathless moan as your back arched, hands gripping his shoulders for something to hold on to. The familiar sensation of him stretching you out was overwhelming to say the least, 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 stupid in seconds, gasping for air. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing tender.

His fingers dugg into your skin as he fucked you, reminding you who you belonged to.

You loathed how good it felt.

“You’re mine,” Rafe growled as he thrusted into you, each movement 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 you still wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He dropped his forehead to yours, “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this every night."

You couldn’t.

The words were right there, on the tip of your tongue, but a moan escaped your lips instead, as he hit that perfect spot inside you. Your body arched even further against his.

“Fuck,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built.

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

The sound of the bench, his big toned body pressing into yours so perfectly, 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 f-fucking hate y-you” you managed to gasp out.

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 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.

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

“Rafe—mmh!” you whined, but your words died in your throat when he shoved you forward, pressing your chest flat against the cold wood, hs hands were gripping your ass, spreading you open for him.

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

You squirmed, despite how desperate you felt, “Fuck, stop teasing—”

“Want more?” he cut you off, voice dripping with arrogance. He slapped your ass, hard enough to sting, and you yelped, your back arching instinctively. “Gonna have to beg for it.”

"Like hell," you spat back.

Just like that, his chest was fully pressing against your back, his mouth right by your ear.

“Act tough all you want sweet girl, I still know how much you want this,” he gritted out, fat cock sliding against your ruined pussy again, torturously slow. “Know how much you need it.”

That's when he slid back inside, filling you completely in one sweet stroke. You cried out, hands gripping the edges of the bench when he didn't bother giving you a moment to adjust, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in.

The angle had you seeing stars.

The bench was narrow, forcing your legs closer together, making everything tighter. You couldn’t stop the way your body responded to him, hips greedly moving back to meet his thrusts.

Rafe's rough hands gripped the fat of your ass, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Rafe groaned, head dropped back as he thrust into you. "So fucking tight for me.”

He pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing in deliberate circles that had you on the edge again in seconds. A embarrassing whimper ripped from your throat, your hips bucking wildly against him as the pleasure built, you felt like you might break apart.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He rasped. “I can feel it. Fuck.”

You tried to hold on, but it was useless when he knew exactly how to break you.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whimper as you felt your second orgasm rising fast.

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

This time around your vision blurred, your body shaking as the pleasure tore through you. You cried out, walls clenching around him, milking him for all he had.

Rafe groaned llike a pornstar as he fucked you through it, relentless, until your entire body was in an entire different dimension.

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."

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