#a robot designed to be masculine

[superbbirdofparadise]

I get why some people say that moon.exe confirms Sun x Moon and fem!Sun in Security Breach, but I just don't think that's the case. Yes, they do symbolize the Murrays, but I think it's just that: symbolism. It's possible that SOTM Sun and Moon are actually Fiona and Edwin in some way (this is the ghosts possessing machines franchise, after all), but they are different characters than the Daycare Attendant. No one would say that Fredbear is the same as Glamrock Freddy, and Spring Bonnie is not regular Bonnie, who isn't Toy Bonnie, who isn't Bon Bon, who isn't Rockstar Bonnie, etc.

Also, we know how Fazbear designs female characters. Glamrock Chica and Roxy aren't on the same level as Toy Chica, but if they wanted SB Sun to be a woman, they would've either added glitter and pink paint, or some Grow Up Skipper nonsense, or both. He's just a skinny guy with a higher-pitched voice who's a little bit silly and whimsical.

[the-daily-male]

Today's daily male is Robot 0-1 from Scott Pilgrim Takes Off!

for @roboticoutlaw

[headcanon-territory]

Oh my inner masc2masc still in denial that Argenti is a man

[prokhorvlg]

pulled this masculine remix of @eggnogo's amazing robot design from an alternate timeline

(my drawing is on the right)

done with this i think

[mascrapping]

2023: Upward Bound Trip - Boston Museum of Science

Our last activity in Boston was to go to the Museum of Science, which is one of the best science museums that I have ever visited. The Boston Museum of Science is a hub of innovation and discovery, offering interactive exhibits and experiences that captivate visitors of all ages. One of its most popular attractions is the Charles Hayden Planetarium, where cutting-edge technology brings the…

[wittymumbledon]

I realized that while I've shared one of my robot ref sheets I completely forgot to share the one that is actually relevant to the comic hjdhjdfhjdfhjdfhj (Don't worry - ZZ isn't going anywhere, its the thing that started this whole thing so I'm sure I'll give it a moment to shine at some point lol)

current state of the comic itself? I got about halfway through inking page 6 before deadlines hit and then I locked in on cipher but I will finish it I promise that its not dead just a little sluggish HJDFHJDHHJ

adding both of these to the crosslink so that they don't get lost ✨

[vampiriito]

Cherry bomb ᝰ.ᐟ

pairing: Drummer! Frat boy! Rafe x bitchy! reader who lowkey hates his band. . .

Part one |

–„IN WHICH your roommate starts dating the bassist of a rising college band, dragging you into a world of parties, late-night gigs, and too many eyes. One pair in particular: Rafe Cameron’s. He’s the drummer, the golden boy with a temper, and he acts like he can’t stand you—but you’ve caught him staring more times than you can count. When a rumor spins out of control, you're forced into a fake relationship to save face, and suddenly you’re spending too much time with someone who’s been quietly watching you for months. It’s supposed to be pretend—until the tension boils over, and the line between obsession and affection gets dangerously thin. He says you’re his muse. You’re starting to believe he means it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──---

You

You hated going to a college mostly populated by rich kids. While they spent their semesters coasting on daddy’s money, bar-hopping between frat houses and racking up minor scandals, you were there for an actual future—one that wouldn’t be handed to you in a trust fund. And that was fine. Working wasn’t the issue. The customers were. Specifically, the endless swarm of entitled, bored, Starbucks-obsessed customers.

Saturdays were the worst. Weekend shifts at the campus café felt like serving lattes in the middle of a fashion show. Everyone was overdressed, overperfumed, and somehow still over you. Your hands moved mechanically, scribbling “Have a nice day” on yet another cup, slapping on a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes as a guy scoffed at the flower doodle you’d drawn. “Seriously? A flower?” he muttered, inspecting it like you’d handed him a biohazard. His gold card tapped the reader with a smug little beep—no tip, of course. You had to resist the urge to write fragile masculinity on his next drink.

You weren’t exactly known for your people skills. You were too blunt, too sharp around the edges, too unwilling to suck up to anyone wearing designer sneakers they didn’t pay for. But even you knew better than to start a fight with every customer. So you kept your mouth shut, jaw tight as you watched him walk out, phone pressed to his ear, already complaining about the customer service while barely clearing the door.

Moving on. You turned back toward the register just as a small group of girls approached the counter. Sorority types. All glossy hair, lip gloss, and TikTok energy. Some of them looked vaguely familiar—their kind always did. They weren’t shy about being regulars, though you’d never gotten the sense they came for the coffee. They came for the gossip. And occasionally to remind you that you didn’t belong here.

Their whispers and sideways glances weren’t subtle, and neither was the giddy smirk on the redhead’s face as she stepped forward. You braced yourself.

“Is it true?” she asked, before you even had the chance to launch into your usual robotic spiel.

You blinked, already annoyed. “Yep,” you deadpanned. “We just got the exotic limited edition cake pop. Big moment for humanity.” Your voice was flat, your smile faker than the lashes on her face.

They giggled like you were a clown hired for their personal entertainment. The redhead shook her head, waving a hand like you were old friends. “No, silly,” she said, leaning in closer over the counter like she was about to ask where to score molly. “The thing. You know... is it true?”

You stared at her for a beat, expression blank. “With the way my life’s been going lately, you could be talking about anything from getting evicted to getting hit by a sorority girl's leased Mercedes. You're gonna have to be more specific.”

She leaned in further, like this was juicy. “About you and Rafe.”

Your body stilled. One hand stayed hovering over the register button, the other still gripping the cup you were supposed to be filling. “What about me and Rafe?”

More giggles. Another girl chimed in from behind her, voice dripping with exaggerated innocence. “Are you guys, like... official now? Or is he still pretending it’s casual?”

The question hit you like a slap you didn’t see coming. “What the fuck are you talking about?” you asked before you could help yourself, voice just sharp enough to draw the attention of your coworker at the espresso machine.

The redhead’s brows shot up like you’d just admitted to murder. “Wait—oh my god. He didn’t tell you?” she whispered dramatically, like this was some twisted episode of Gossip Girl and not real life.

The others began giggling again, like this whole thing was just entertainment to them. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your brain was already racing, trying to make sense of what you were hearing. Rafe Cameron had told people you were together? Dating?

You hadn’t even spoken to him in a week. At least not outside of that one text about a show lineup. You’d kissed—sure. But that was... what even was that? And most importantly..

What the fuck had he told them?

The cup in your hand finally cracked slightly under your grip. You quickly tossed it and reached for a new one before they noticed. “Oh my god,” one of them whispered again, voice gleeful. “You didn’t know.” No. You didn’t. But now? Now you had a reason to find out exactly what kind of fantasy Rafe fucking Cameron had been spinning behind your back.

Before you had the chance to untie your apron and storm out with the full intention of strangling Rafe Cameron with your own two hands for spreading delusional rumors that you were dating, one of the girls toward the back stepped forward with an almost sympathetic look. She hesitated like she didn’t want to be the messenger but couldn’t resist the drama, pulling out her pink iPhone and scrolling through something with her manicured thumb as the rest of the girls watched you like they were waiting for a reaction.

After a few seconds of tense silence, she turned the screen toward you.

The sound hit before the image did—bass-heavy party music, some indistinct shouting, and then Rafe’s voice, slurred and unmistakable. Loud. Cocky. Goddamn smug.

He was grinning like he had just gotten away with something unforgivable, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy in the low lighting of whatever beer-soaked house party he was at. He leaned into the camera like it owed him something.

“So sad you didn’t pick me for last night’s show…” someone offscreen whined—a girl, breathy and drunk. Her voice wasn’t totally clear over the blaring music, but the tone was obvious.

Rafe laughed, head tipping back, then looked straight into the camera, like he knew it would eventually find its way to you. “Who was the chick you chose anyway?” the girl asked again.

His smirk deepened, all teeth and zero shame. “Oh, you mean Cherry?” he said, voice thick with fake innocence. You could see it in his eyes—he was enjoying every fucking second of this. “I’m afraid she’s my girl.”

He didn’t stop there this time. He leaned a little closer, eyes gleaming with something more intimate, almost conspiratorial. “You should’ve seen her after soundcheck,” he went on, grin darkening into something filthier. “Cornered me behind the green room—had me up against the wall like she owned me. Said she needed to shut me up and kissed me like she meant it.”

Someone off-screen let out a shriek-laugh. Rafe ignored it, still focused on the camera like it was a live audience. “What can I say?” he added with a cocky shrug, “She’s intense when she wants to be. Best kiss I’ve ever had, not even kidding.”

He gave a lazy shrug, gaze flickering off to the side, then back to the camera. “Sorry ladies,” he added with that infuriating grin, “R.C. is off the market, sadly.”

Then, as if he hadn’t already humiliated you enough, he flexed his biceps into the frame like a jackass, adjusting his backwards snapback with that practiced frat boy flourish, sealing his fate as the most delusional man alive.

The video ended.

You stared at the frozen image of him mid-smirk for a second too long, then wordlessly handed the phone back, adjusting your glasses with the same motion you used when trying not to punch someone in the face.

Jaw clenched, temples pulsing, you blinked slowly as the realization fully settled in. Rafe Cameron had stood in front of a room full of people—while drunk, crossfaded, and dressed like an Abercrombie ad reject—and told everyone you were his girlfriend.

Lied. Casually. Like it was the truth. Like it had been the truth.

What the fuck was wrong with Rafe Cameron?

And more importantly—how the hell were you going to kill him without catching a charge?

“We all saw the kiss, sure. But we didn’t think he went for girls like… you,” said the blonde at the front, her voice all faux sweetness, but her smile dripping in condescension and overpriced Victoria’s Secret perfume. Her eyes trailed slowly, pointedly, over your uniform-clad form, the green apron, the coffee-stained sleeve, the messy low ponytail you barely had the energy to fix that morning. It was the kind of look meant to make someone feel lesser, but all it did was stoke the fire simmering beneath your already paper-thin patience.

“Right,” another one chimed in, twisting a straw between her acrylics. “You know Sofia?” Her tone was conversational, but her gaze flicked toward you like a blade. “His ex-girlfriend? She was, like, the daughter of a runaway model or something,” she added with a light, rehearsed laugh—like the idea of you being mentioned in the same breath as her was a punchline. She didn’t even look at you when she said it. She didn’t have to.

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars ached. Working with customers deserved the same kind of benefits they gave war veterans. And dealing with Rafe Cameron? That was psychological warfare on its own.

“Yeah,” another girl piped in, twirling a piece of hair around her finger as she chewed her gum slowly. “I remember their breakup was bad. Like, explosive. Wonder how she’s gonna take this whole…” she trailed off just long enough to be cruel before landing on the word like a slap, eyes narrowing at you, “…thing.”

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the soft hum of the espresso machine and the blood rushing to your head.

This wasn’t customer service anymore. This was target practice.

You leaned forward slightly, elbows bracing on the counter like you were just a little too calm. “You guys come here for the caffeine or the drama?” you asked sweetly, voice dipped in venom disguised as charm. “Because if it’s the second one, I’m afraid Rafe’s the one who made up the script.”

Their smiles flickered—just a twitch, but enough to make your lip curl in satisfaction.

Still, underneath it all, one thought blared louder than the rest: you were going to kill Rafe Cameron. Slowly. With absolutely no witnesses.

The rest of your shift blurred by, fueled entirely by the revenge fantasy slowly crystallizing in your mind. You weren’t daydreaming about first kisses or soft-eyed glances across the room—no, you were imagining your fingers curled in Rafe’s collar, shoving him into a wall and demanding he explain himself. You wanted chaos. Clarity. Consequences. You wanted to see his smug expression falter, wanted the satisfaction of his stupid little grin twitching with guilt. There was a heat curling in your chest—not the sweet kind, not affection—but something sharp and electric, like anger had replaced your bloodstream.

Every drink you made, every fake smile you threw at a customer, every time someone said the word “girlfriend” like it belonged to you—it all built, stacked like dry kindling under a match. You were going to burn him with this.

By the time you peeled off your apron and left—early, unapologetically, because there wasn’t a force on earth strong enough to make you listen to one more rich kid complain about the lack of coconut milk—you were practically vibrating with anticipation. Each step home was one closer to a confrontation you were almost eager for. You didn't just want to yell. You wanted to ruin his night.

Your fingers shook with adrenaline as you wrestled your keys into the lock, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ached. The soft click of the door sounded too gentle for the storm brewing inside you, but it didn’t matter. Taylor was home. You could already hear it—muffled Taylor Swift lyrics spilling from her bedroom, her voice joining in without shame, like she didn’t have a care in the world. You should’ve turned straight to your room, but your body had its own plan.

Your steps were mechanical, purposeful. You didn’t hesitate. Not even when your heels protested after standing for nearly ten hours. You didn’t even pause to breathe as you crossed the apartment and leaned against her doorway like you had all the time in the world and none of the boiling fury you were carrying in your lungs.

The door was cracked open, her music louder now. She was sitting cross-legged at her vanity, lost in her routine—eyeshadow palette splayed out like it was sacred, her brows furrowed in concentration. You pushed the door open with a lazy hand, waiting.

She jumped, mirror catching your reflection just as the blending brush froze in her hand. “Jesus,” she snapped, pressing her palm over her heart. “Ever heard of knocking, Hannibal?”

You didn’t flinch. “Maybe don’t blast ‘Vigilante Shit’ like it’s your theme song and I won’t show up like a jump scare.”

Taylor rolled her eyes, turning back to her mirror with a smirk. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw this brush at you. It was twenty-eight dollars.”

She resumed her blending, like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just walked in with fire in your eyes and your world flipped upside down.

But the shift was immediate when you spoke—flat, cold, quiet.

“Did you know?”

The pause that followed was deafening. Her hand stilled mid-blend, and her posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. But you saw it. Too fast. Too guilty. Her eyes met yours in the mirror.

“I thought you were gonna tell me,” she said carefully, pressing a hand to her chest again, this time with faux offense. “Being Rafe’s girlfriend is kind of a big deal, you know.”

You didn’t smile. You didn’t blink. “Don’t say that like it’s real.”

Her expression wavered, caught between guilt and a grin. “Okay, okay,” she said, waving the brush like she could swat the tension away. “But... I mean, if I were dating someone that hot and famous, I’d probably want to keep it lowkey too. Like, just for the mystery of it—”

“Taylor.”

She blinked, startled at your tone. Then she gave a short, breathy laugh and added with a smirk, “Wait, I am.”

She looked at you then, expecting a laugh, a smile, a shared joke. But all she got was silence—your arms crossed, eyes dead steady, expression unreadable.

And just like that, the humor dropped from her face entirely.

You shook your head, too exhausted to even begin explaining to Taylor that the whole thing was a hoax—or worse, to ask if she already knew. You didn’t want to hear her try to justify it, didn’t want her awkward sympathy or casual betrayal dressed up as concern. The disbelief, the rage, the humiliation—it was too fresh, too loud inside your skull to process anything else. So you just turned on your heel, letting silence speak for you.

A sudden rush of clarity cut through your fatigue like a shot of espresso straight to the bloodstream. That kind of wild-eyed second wind you only got after surviving a shift that nearly cracked your soul in half. The kind of resolve that turned your exhaustion into momentum, adrenaline spiked with rage. You tossed something over your shoulder—half a warning, half a promise—that she better wait for you to get ready, because you were driving her to Ethan’s fraternity party tonight.

“Wait, seriously?” she squealed behind you, already abandoning her mascara in favor of sprinting toward her heels. “Oh my God, this saves me fifty bucks—”

You were already in the hallway, lips curled in a wicked smirk. Like her parents weren’t disgustingly rich. Like she couldn’t afford a private driver if she asked nicely. But you didn’t call her out on it. Because you had bigger fish to fry tonight—and your favorite psychotic drummer was on the damn menu.

You had other motives tonight. And to Taylor’s dismay, sobriety wasn’t one of them.

The shower was fast but surgical. A ritual, really—steam and shampoo and violent internal monologues. You let the water scald your skin and didn’t flinch once, scrubbing off the workday and plotting every detail of your vengeance. It was a very specific kind of rage: not loud or messy, but cool, calculated, lined with glitter and perfume and cruelty. You dried off in five minutes flat, eyes already scanning your closet like a war general surveying a battlefield.

You knew exactly what you were going to wear. The black tank—the one with the little bow on the chest, the one that made his eyes drop every single time like clockwork. You drenched it in perfume, unapologetically. Let it cling just right. Paired it with your red leather skirt, the one that made you feel like a threat. Contacts went in. Hair straightened, swift and practiced. Makeup sharp enough to cut. Lip gloss just a shade too glossy. You didn’t want to look good. You wanted to look dangerous.

By the time you emerged from your room, keys in hand and heels clicking against the floor, you didn’t feel like someone recovering from a twelve-hour shift. You felt like a woman on a mission.

Which, in retrospect, should’ve been ridiculous. Petty. Maybe even a little unhinged. But you’d never claimed to be above chaos. And right now, chaos was all you had. Rafe Cameron had lied. He’d chosen to drag you into the spotlight like a trophy he never earned—and you weren’t just going to let him get away with it.

You were going to show up at that party. You were going to drink. You were going to look him in the eyes with a smile that meant trouble and ruin. And if you embarrassed the richest, most desperate asshole on campus in front of his own fan club?

All the better.

Of course you weren’t going to pass that up.

"Wow… the black leather boots?" Taylor’s voice rose from the couch like a siren of disbelief, eyes wide as you stepped into view. The laces hugged your calves like they had something to prove, and your usual beat-up sneakers and hoodie were nowhere in sight—replaced by something sleeker, darker, and so unapologetically intentional it was almost disarming.

“You wanna seduce Rafe?” she asked, half-joking, but her voice tilted with genuine curiosity, maybe even a little concern.

You didn’t even look away from the mirror. Your fingers were steady as they slid the second earring into place, the silver glinting against your skin like it belonged there, like it had something to say. You gave yourself one last glance—chin up, spine straight—and finally replied, voice smooth and eerily calm.

“No,” you said simply. “This isn’t for him. I just wanna look good.”

Casual. Unbothered. Like you hadn’t just spent the last hour assembling a war outfit with the kind of precision normally reserved for covert ops. Like you weren’t already picturing the exact angle of Rafe’s face when he saw you walk in—how his cocky little smirk would falter, even just for a second, how the room would shift.

But this wasn’t about him. Not exactly.

You were dressing for power. For control. For the kind of entrance that made people sit up a little straighter without knowing why. You weren’t showing up to throw a tantrum or plead for an explanation. You were going to show up looking like the version of yourself he didn’t deserve to touch—and then walk right past him like he was nothing more than a whisper in a loud room.

Taylor blinked at you like she didn’t recognize the person standing there. “Damn,” she muttered. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

You just smirked, finally turning away from the mirror, keys in hand. “Too late,” you said, heading for the door. And this time, Taylor didn’t even argue.

You didn’t speak much after that—just grabbed your bag, adjusted the strap of your top one last time, and gestured for Taylor to hurry up. She followed behind like a duckling, still marveling at your transformation like she was watching a Netflix documentary on revenge.

The drive to the fraternity house was laced with bass and headlights and tension. Taylor was rambling about how she hoped the jungle juice wasn’t as “grossly spiked” as last time and that maybe she’d get Ethan to finally commit to something more than a 2 a.m. ‘u up?’—but you weren’t really listening. You were focused on the road, eyes like razors, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter every time someone cut you off or the GPS glitched. The music pulsing through the speakers was angry and loud—something gritty and fast-paced, just enough to match the way your pulse refused to calm down.

“You okay?” Taylor asked at one point, eyes flicking over to you. “You’re, like… focused-focused.”

“I’m fine,” you said, which was your version of I’m plotting homicide but legally I can’t say that out loud.

She didn’t push it. Just hummed and turned the volume up a little, letting the conversation dissolve as the frat house came into view.

The lawn was already packed—bodies spilling over the porch, red solo cups dotting the space like landmines, someone yelling about losing a bet from a second-story window. It reeked of testosterone, weed, and overpriced cologne. You pulled up to the curb, parked, and sat there for a second, letting the engine tick down and your nerves settle into something closer to excitement.

Taylor glanced over, her hand already on the door handle. “So, like… what is the plan?”

You unbuckled your seatbelt, finally turning your full gaze toward her.

“The plan,” you said calmly, “is to find Rafe Cameron. And remind him that dating me would be the most dangerous mistake of his life.”

Taylor stared. “Okay, wow.”

You smiled, slow and sharp. “Go find Ethan. I’ll find Rafe.”

She nodded and got out, heels clicking against the pavement, disappearing into the crowd with all the ease of someone used to moving through chaos. You stepped out a second later, wind tugging at your hair, the night already warm and electric. You could feel the house breathing in the distance—music vibrating the wooden porch boards, laughter bouncing off the walls, the thrum of a party in full swing.

And somewhere inside, Rafe was waiting. Maybe drunk. Maybe smug. Definitely unaware of what was coming.

You walked up the path like you owned the place. Because tonight, you kind of did.

Your face contorted into something akin to disgust and boredom as you weaved through the crowd slowly. What was supposed to be a small, tight-knit hangout had exploded into a full-blown house party. And those were always messy. You wondered if these boys ever cleaned after themselves or if they hired some poor fifty-something woman to come in and scrape dried puke off the bathroom floor and gather used condoms from their bedsheets. Probably the latter.

Your boots clicked against the sticky floor as you moved deeper into the chaos, trying to ignore the stares and subtle points in your direction. They weren’t even subtle, really—half the girls in the room had their perfectly glossed lips wrapped around the word girlfriend like it was a scandal. Rafe always found you, no matter where you went. You didn’t know if he’d secretly planted a tracker in your purse or memorized your perfume well enough to sniff you out like some bloodhound, but he never made you look for him. He always found you first. Like he was waiting for it.

You found the table tucked in the corner of the living room, a cheap fold-out almost buckling under the weight of liquor bottles. Your eyes flicked over the choices, unimpressed, until they landed on one bottle shoved all the way to the back—cherry liquor. You narrowed your eyes. No frat boy stocked cherry liquor willingly. You picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and took a small sip straight from the bottle. It burned sweet, artificial, almost childish. You could practically see Rafe grinning when he bought it. Of course it was his.

You poured a generous amount into a red solo cup, smirking faintly to yourself. You’d come here with your car, sure. But you could always come back and pick it up tomorrow. Blacking out wasn’t the goal tonight, but you wouldn’t be mad if it happened.

You leaned against the edge of the table, sipping slow and deliberate like this was all a joke you were barely tolerating. The bass from the speakers thumped against your chest, and everyone around you looked like they belonged on reality TV. Somewhere in the corner, Taylor was already throwing back shots with Ethan and two girls who looked like they were planning to cry in the bathroom by midnight. You made a mental note to check on her later—maybe.

You couldn’t tell if people were whispering because of your outfit, the solo cup in your hand, or the fact that apparently you were the girlfriend of one of the most watched, wanted, and psycho-coded boys on this campus. Maybe all three.

And just like always—like clockwork—you felt it.

The buzz on your skin, the slight pull in the air, like a storm had walked into the room wearing cologne and a backwards cap. You didn’t have to turn around to know he’d entered. Rafe Cameron moved through crowds like he owned the ground under them, like every room tilted slightly when he stepped into it. And unfortunately, tonight, it tilted toward you.

You took another slow sip, lips quirking just a little as you felt the heat of his stare from somewhere behind you. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like he hadn’t been waiting for you to show. Like he wasn’t watching your every move like a man who’d just seen the sun for the first time and wanted to drag it out of the sky with his bare hands.

He always moved like he owned the ground beneath him. And unfortunately, tonight, it tilted toward you.

You didn’t turn around. Just raised your cup to your lips and took another slow sip, pretending not to notice the way the party seemed to subtly shift, like people instinctively cleared a path for him, or maybe moved out of the blast radius.

And then you heard him.

Low. Close.

“You’re drinking my liquor.”

You didn’t even flinch. Just exhaled softly through your nose and turned your head lazily, dragging your eyes to meet his like you had all the time in the world.

“I figured I was entitled,” you said, tone even and bored. “Since I’m apparently your girlfriend now.”

You let the word linger in the air, heavy and venom-laced. Around you, someone laughed too loudly. Music shifted into something bass-heavy and obnoxious.

Rafe’s jaw twitched.

You didn’t stop there.

“I mean—” you sipped again, letting it burn “—you made it Facebook-official at some house party, right? Told a room full of drunk girls I’m yours now?” You tilted your head. “That was cute.”

He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to grin or beg for forgiveness. Which pissed you off more than anything.

And you smiled. Cold and radiant.

Let the games begin.

Rafe stepped in closer, boots stopping just short of your own like he was toeing a line even he didn’t know the consequences of. That infuriating grin of his was already forming, slow and deliberate, like he had the audacity to find amusement in any of this. Like your anger was something he could play with, mold between his fingers and tuck behind his teeth.

“You saw that video, huh?” he asked, voice low and unbothered—smug, even. The cherry liquor scent still clung to your tongue, but the bitterness rising in your throat now had nothing to do with alcohol.

“Hard not to,” you replied, your voice tight. “Especially when a group of sorority girls played it for me like it was breaking news.”

His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he nodded slowly, like he was trying to appear thoughtful, but you knew him too well for that. Rafe Cameron didn’t think—he reacted. Obsessively, impulsively. Like everything in his life was either a dare or a trap.

“I didn’t know it would get around like that,” he offered, which was a lie. A stupid one. Rafe knew exactly what he was doing. He lived for attention. He treated rumors like currency and you like his personal PR stunt.

You arched a brow. “So what—‘cherry’ was just the nickname you threw in to make it believable? Or was that some kind of romantic gesture?”

Rafe chuckled, low and dangerous. “What can i say? You taste like cherries and attitude. It stuck.”

Your expression didn’t waver, but something twisted in your stomach anyway. He had no right—no right to make that sound seductive, no right to make it feel personal. He leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath near your ear, his tone shifting to something darker, heavier.

“Besides,” he murmured, “you didn’t exactly push me away that night, did you?”

You didn’t flinch, but your chest constricted slightly. He was talking about the kiss. The one from a week ago. The one you pretended didn’t happen. The one that lingered under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t dig out. The one he asked for.

He kept going, that voice of his wrapping around you like barbed wire laced in silk. “You kissed me back. With tongue. And noise. And your hands in my hair, like maybe you didn’t hate me as much as you want to.”

Despite the way he made it sound—and the way it almost made you feel—you scoffed, gaze falling to the swirling red liquor in your cup like it was more important than his entire existence. “It was a favor, Rafe,” you said finally, voice dipped in dry amusement, like you were already bored with the conversation. “That kiss? That was your stupid little tradition, not mine.”

You took a slow sip, savoring the bitter sweetness before letting your eyes cut back to his. “You picked me. Out of everyone in that crowd, you pointed at me and dragged me on stage like a prop. Sat me in your lap like I was decoration for your fucking drum throne. And I played along.” You laughed a little under your breath, not because it was funny, but because the memory made your skin itch.

“You leaned in at the end of the set and asked me to kiss you like it was part of the damn performance. And I did. Not because I wanted to. Not because I was caught up in the moment. But because you asked and I was being... I don’t know, nice? Consider it community service or something.”

Rafe’s jaw twitched. You could see the way his fists clenched at his sides, the way his brows pulled in slightly like he wasn’t sure if he was angry or hurt. “You think I just dragged you up there for show?” he asked finally, voice lower now. There wasn’t the usual smugness in it. Just tension. “You think I kiss people I don’t give a fuck about?”

“Yeah,” you said bluntly, lips quirking into a mock smile. “I think you do a lot of things you don’t actually mean. I think you play pretend so often you can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

He stepped forward once, and you didn’t flinch, but he hovered like he wanted to argue harder than his brain would let him. “I could’ve picked anyone that night. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, and you did,” you cut in, sharp and biting. “You picked the one girl who hates your guts. Real romantic.”

He blinked, like your words knocked the wind out of him for a second. “I picked you,” he said again, quieter this time. “Because I didn’t want anyone else touching me that night. Not like that. Not in that way. You think it was just for the crowd?”

Your laugh this time was colder. “Is that the speech you give all the girls you’ve lied to?”

He shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I never told them we were dating,” he muttered, as if that made it better. “Just said you were mine.”

“Oh,” you replied, venom lining your voice like honey. “Well that clears it right up. You’re not insane, just possessive.”

You downed the rest of the cherry liquor and took a step back, away from him and the heat radiating off his skin like he was made of something unstable. “You made me the punchline of your favorite story, Rafe. And now you’re mad that I’m not flattered?”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared, as if he was seeing you clearly for the first time.

You shoved the empty cup into his chest. “Here. Why don’t you go tell the next girl you pick that she’s yours too. I’m sure she’ll eat that shit up.”

Before you had the chance to step away, Rafe grabbed your forearm—not rough, but firm enough to stop you mid-step. He clicked his tongue as he took the empty cup from your hand and set it on the dingy table beside him, his fingers dragging across the plastic with finality. For a second, he just stood there looking at you, jaw tight like he was running a thousand possibilities through his head. Then his brows raised slightly, a flicker of something sparking behind his eyes—like a lightbulb went off.

“Okay,” he said, voice calm, careful. “It was a favor. You made that crystal clear.”

He waited a beat, watching your face, then added, “And you asked me how it benefited me. Like, what I got out of you kissing me on stage.”

Your expression didn’t shift, but the way your jaw tensed told him you remembered. That you were still pissed.

“So... how about this,” he continued, that familiar Rafe edge slipping back into his tone—charming, smug, manipulative, but somehow still smooth. “We let people keep thinking we’re dating.”

You blinked. For a second, you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head. And then it hit you all at once—what he was actually saying. Your lips parted in disbelief before twisting into an incredulous smile, your eyes gleaming as a laugh escaped your throat. You didn’t hold it back either, nearly doubling over as you laughed at him.

“And why the hell,” you said through a breathy scoff, “would I ever do that?”

Rafe’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, like he was preparing for the blowback. But still, he leaned in a little, voice dropping low so no one nearby could overhear. “Because Sofia saw the video.”

That name. You stilled.

“She saw it,” he repeated, eyes never leaving yours. “The one where I said you were my girl. The one where you kissed me on stage.”

Your spine straightened slightly, but you didn’t speak. He took your silence as a green light to keep going.

“She flipped. Blew up my phone. Showed up at that party on Benson screaming like she hadn’t been the one who walked out in the first place.” He rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand down his jaw like the memory alone exhausted him. “I haven’t seen her that worked up in months.”

You raised a brow. “And that’s... a good thing?”

“For me?” he smirked. “Yeah. Means she still gives a damn. And if pretending to be with you keeps getting under her skin, I’ll finally have the upper hand for once.”

Your laugh this time was humorless. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend so you can win a pissing match with your ex?”

He had the audacity to grin. “Come on. You get to mess with me without consequences, people stop talking shit about you, and Sofia spirals. That’s a win-win-win.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly parted, both horrified and—against your better judgment—intrigued. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But you’re considering it,” he said smugly, like he could already tell by the way you hadn’t walked away.

Your silence betrayed you more than your words ever could.

“I’m not considering it,” you stated again, flatter this time, more to yourself than to him. “I was already put down today by the girls who showed me that video. Comparing me to your stupid, crazy, and awfully rich ex…”

You trailed off, the bitterness thick on your tongue. You hadn’t planned on admitting that. But the words came out anyway, heavy and sharp, and for once Rafe didn’t smirk. His grin dimmed slightly, the amusement in his face faltering. Just for a second. He tilted his head, studying you in a way that made you feel like he was trying to read deeper, like he hadn’t realized how far the fallout had hit until now.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice low, “Sofia’s good at making people feel small. Doesn’t matter how rich you are. She does that shit to me all the time.”

You rolled your eyes. “Touching. So this is your revenge tour?”

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

Your arms crossed over your chest. “Why me?”

“Because,” he said, eyes flicking to your mouth and then back up again, “you don’t take my shit. You never have. That kiss didn’t make you swoon. You glared at me like you wanted to kill me after it. That’s rare.”

You scowled. “So I’m a challenge.”

“You’re real,” he said simply. “That’s the whole point.”

The word hung there between you two. Real. Like he hadn’t just dragged you into the campus rumor mill and claimed you as his for fun. Like he hadn’t been the very cause of your shit shift today.

You hated the way it made your stomach twist.

You exhaled, sharp and slow, and turned your gaze toward the party behind him, the sea of kids too drunk to care about anything but the next game of beer pong. Maybe pretending to date Rafe Cameron would be hell. But it would also be power. Over him. Over everyone who ever doubted you. And after the week you had, that almost sounded like peace.

Almost.

You looked him dead in the eye. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. And I want it in writing.”

Rafe blinked. “Writing?”

“A contract,” you said, crossing your arms. “Rules. Boundaries. Clauses. Something legally binding.”

He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Legally binding? What, are we getting married too?”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m serious, Cameron.”

That cocky grin of his stretched wide across his face, dimples and all, like he was thoroughly enjoying every second of your madness. “Alright then, cherry. Hit me with your terms.”

You lifted a finger. “Rule number one: no touching unless I initiate it. That means no arm around the shoulder, no hand-holding, no weird possessive hand-on-the-back thing. Got it?”

He nodded slowly, like he was etching it into stone. “No touching unless it’s your idea. Tragic, but fine.”

“Rule two,” you said, holding up another finger, “no calling me baby, babe, sweetheart, or cherry in front of anyone else. You can call me by my actual name or nothing at all.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait, I can’t call you cherry? That’s practically your stage name at this point.”

You gave him a glare so sharp he put his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Noted.”

“Rule three: no lies about how we met, how long we’ve been together, or what I like to eat for breakfast. We stick to facts unless we both agree on the story beforehand.”

He grinned. “You’re really planning this out like you’re running the CIA.”

“I’m not done,” you snapped. “Rule four: no real feelings. This isn’t friends with benefits. This isn’t enemies to lovers. This is fake. You don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to flirt unless it’s for show, and you definitely don’t get to confuse anything I do as romantic.”

Rafe was silent for a beat, his smirk slipping slightly like that one hit deeper than he expected. But he quickly recovered, brushing imaginary dust off his hoodie.

“Got it. No catching feelings. No touching. No pet names. No rewriting history,” he recited like a checklist. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

You thought for a second. “Yeah. If your little ex doesn’t take the bait within two weeks, I’m out.”

His lips twitched at little ex. “Two weeks? That’s barely enough time to make her cry.”

“Then you better start acting,” you said, sticking out your hand.

Rafe looked at it for a long moment before reaching out to shake it. But instead of just grabbing it, he wrapped both of his hands around yours, holding on a second too long, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I like this side of you,” he said softly, voice low. “All bossy and in control.”

You yanked your hand back. “Don’t make me add ‘no creepy comments’ to the contract.”

He chuckled, hands up again. “Alright, alright. I’ll draw it up tonight. We’ll make it official.”

You turned to walk away, muttering over your shoulder, “You better. I want signatures.”

Behind you, you could already hear his smug reply: “Should I sign in blood or cherry lip gloss?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy wondering what the hell you'd just gotten yourself into.

You weren’t entirely sure what came after this. You weaved through the crowd like a seasoned pro, dodging drunk bodies, spilled beer, and the occasional unsolicited grab like it was muscle memory by now. The plan was to corner Rafe Cameron, tear him a new one, maybe even throw a drink in his face for dramatics. But somewhere between the cherry liquor and his absurd suggestion, you found yourself agreeing to fake date him. With a contract. Like some deranged subplot out of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before—except with more alcohol, unresolved rage, and a drummer who probably thought “emotional depth” was a brand of cologne.

You almost turned around right then—walked out the door, told Taylor to call her damn Uber, and burned the contract in some ceremonial rite of reclaiming your sanity.

But something held you in place.

Maybe it was the thrill. Maybe it was the faint high of chaos. Or maybe it was the quiet truth you hadn’t wanted to admit until now: your life was painfully, suffocatingly uneventful. You didn’t exactly scream “main character.” You screamed “background Starbucks employee.” Which, unfortunately, you were.

Taylor said as much the night she decided to date Ethan. She claimed your social life was practically an intervention case, and if she had to hook up with the band’s bassist just to drag you out of your hermit shell, then so be it. Apparently, you dating someone from the band was inevitable. “A ripple effect,” she called it. You called it offensive. She called it accurate.

So maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe fake dating Rafe Cameron wasn’t just the perfect revenge—maybe it was a way to flip the whole narrative. Let the rumors swirl. Let Sofia spiral. Let every judgmental girl at your job choke on their designer perfume. Maybe they’d stop calling you “the girl in the apron” and start whispering her? like they were choking on disbelief.

You weren’t going to catch feelings. You were immune to charm, especially when it came in the form of an arrogant drummer with stalker tendencies, a God complex, and a deeply concerning attachment to snapbacks. But if he caught feelings—if he got a little too comfortable, a little too smug, a little too convinced he’d won you over—then maybe you’d get to be the one walking away with a smirk and a perfectly timed line that left him standing in a puddle of his own ego.

Which, yeah… was evil.

But evil had a face. And it wore a backwards snapback and called you cherry like it meant something.

So maybe you could play along.

Maybe you could hold his hand at a party. Let him whisper things in your ear that made people stare. Let him do that smug arm-around-your-shoulders thing like you were his. Let the lie sit sweet on your tongue like candy laced with arsenic. After all, if this was going to work, it had to be convincing. There had to be pictures. Appearances. Close proximity. Maybe even some PDA. Your stomach twisted at the thought, but it wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation. You could pull this off. You could give them all a show.

Besides, Rafe wanted to make Sofia jealous? Fine. You’d give her something to really lose her mind over. You’d make her regret ever letting him go. You’d become the girl people envied. The one who got picked from the crowd and stayed.

But only for a while.

Because this wasn’t real. And you weren’t stupid.

You weren’t the kind of girl who fell for the bad boy. You were the kind who knew better. Who saw the crash before the impact. Who already had the airbag inflated and the seatbelt latched.

Still, your phone buzzed with a new message.

Rafe Cameron: Tell ur roommate to take pictures of us tonight. Make it look real. You know, for Sofia’s sake.

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. The audacity. Like you were his assistant or something. Like this whole thing hadn’t been his idea.

Still, your thumbs moved before you could stop them.

You: I’ll only pose if you buy me a drink. And I get final say on the contract terms.

You stared at the message for a second before hitting send.

Not even two minutes later, he responded:

Rafe Cameron: Anything for my girl 😉

You scoffed, but your lips twitched in a reluctant smirk.

This was going to be a disaster.

But maybe, just maybe… it was going to be your kind of disaster. Just like every kind of disaster in your life.

Which, looking back, your life wasn’t technically uneventful—just quietly catastrophic. Like watching a car crash in slow motion through a fogged-up window. The damage never made headlines, but you felt it in the ache of your bones. Most of your heartbreaks didn’t come with closure or loud theatrics. They came silently, like paper cuts, small and sharp, and always in the same damn place.

Dating? A statistical anomaly in your history. Not even a full series of unfortunate events—more like a couple of poorly written episodes and an unaired pilot. And Rafe? Rafe Cameron? He wasn’t going to be another flop. As long as you kept your head above water and held the reins tight, he’d be your best fake decision yet. You weren’t interested in heartbreak, only strategy.

You lingered near the grand staircase, arms crossed loosely and lips pressed together like you were holding back a yawn, not an existential crisis. You were supposed to be exacting revenge tonight, not spiraling into social disassociation. But without that mission, without the adrenaline of confrontation, you were left standing around in leather boots and a top that screamed dangerous woman in a room full of girls in platform sandals and cropped jerseys.

He didn’t even check you out. The top he once claimed to have a thing for went ignored. The boots that were giving “dominatrix on a warpath” barely got a blink. And you looked like someone who walked out of a music video only to end up... here. At a frat house. In a room that smelled like stale beer, testosterone, and Axe body spray. You adjusted the strap of your purse with a sigh, scanning the sea of rich-kid debauchery. These parties were only fun if you were either emotionally numb or chemically altered. You were neither.

But frat parties did have their uses. They were built for mistakes and blurry snap stories. And your last mistake—unfortunately—was weaving through the crowd right now with a lopsided grin and two red cups like he invented hospitality.

Mikael.

Of course.

The human equivalent of a film school thesis project. All rings and chipped nail polish and artsy button-downs with designs that looked like they were stolen off a museum wall. He had a pearl necklace that he swore wasn’t performative, and an acoustic guitar he carried around like an emotional support animal. The whole male manipulator starter pack, with a dash of tragic backstory and a curated Lana Del Rey playlist he never actually listened to.

You did, though. You’d saved all summer for those concert tickets back in 2015, screamed every word like it was scripture. He just thought the lyrics sounded poetic in the background of his Instagram stories.

It ended badly.

For you.

He’d said you were “too much of a realist” for him. That he “needed to feel more inspired.” Which translated to: you didn’t feed his ego enough and you saw through his Pinterest-level sad boy persona. Then—plot twist—he started dating a girl who looked like she’d just learned what sarcasm was. Soft, simple, painfully agreeable. Nothing like you.

And maybe that’s what stung the most. Not the heartbreak. But the insult of being passed over for someone who was easier.

Your jaw tightened at the memory just as his eyes landed on you. He smiled. That self-satisfied, casual smile of someone who thought you were just going to act civil. Maybe even flirty. Maybe even nostalgic.

But what he didn’t know was that you were in a contractually obligated fake relationship now.

With Rafe Cameron.

And that made you someone new. Someone dangerous.

Someone with leverage.

You didn’t smile back. You just lifted the cup he handed you in a mock-toast, took a long sip, and watched his grin falter a bit.

Yeah. Let him wonder. Let everyone wonder. Because this was the new you: dressed to kill, no longer boring, and about to make the worst mistake of your life—but on your terms this time.

"Wow..." he broke the silence, his brows lifting with exaggerated awe, that same smile curling on his lips—sheepish and disarming, like he was flirting with a stranger and not the girl whose heart he'd bruised in stereo. "You look like you could ruin me," he said, voice dipping just slightly in that purposeful way, aiming for charm but landing somewhere between awkward and endearing. He gave a small laugh, scratched the back of his neck like it was muscle memory. "And I’d let you."

Classic Mikael.

You scoffed, your expression staying neutral but your eyes sharpening like a blade being unsheathed. "Think you had your chance," you replied coolly, shifting your weight to one leg and letting your gaze flit to the side, like you were already bored. Like the conversation was a rerun of a show you regretted watching the first time.

"Pretty sure you blew it when you dumped me via Spotify playlist," you added, voice edged with mockery. “Titled ‘songs that helped me realize we’ve grown apart.’ Real subtle.”

His grin faltered for a moment. Good.

"And then—just to really drive the knife in—you did it again. In person. At a frat party. Half-high, half-drunk, entirely pretentious." You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was an art piece you’d seen before and no longer found impressive. “Quoted Bukowski like it was gonna soften the blow. It didn’t.”

He shifted uncomfortably, but tried to play it off with a small shrug and that same faux-charming grin he wore like armor. He looked like a caricature of who you used to fall for—button-down with paint smudges that were probably intentional, layered necklaces, rings on his fingers like personality traits. His hair was still pushed back in that effortless way that probably took fifteen minutes and a mirror with good lighting.

"You still listen to that playlist?" he asked, a poor attempt at teasing, but his voice wavered—just enough to make it obvious that he cared.

"Only when I want to feel secondhand embarrassment," you replied smoothly, taking another sip from your cup without breaking eye contact.

He let out a low chuckle, but it was awkward now. Forced. Like he suddenly realized the girl in front of him wasn’t the same one who used to play along with his pseudo-intellectual flirting or pretend his curated sadness made him deep. You were sharper now. Less patient. Maybe even a little dangerous.

Especially now that you were fake dating Rafe Cameron.

Mikael didn’t know that yet, of course. But when he did, you wanted him to remember this exact moment—when he realized the girl he once deemed not interesting enough had become the kind of person who could wreck him with a glance.

And maybe she would.

But only if she felt like it.

Right now, all you felt was that awful, twisting sensation in your stomach. Not butterflies—the word was too soft, too romantic. These fluttered with irritation, with a tight, nervous energy that settled low and uncomfortable, like a warning flare. Because as much as you wanted to make Mikael squirm—make him feel the humiliating aftershock of the breakup he orchestrated with curated sadness and aesthetic detachment—you couldn’t help but feel... flattered. Which annoyed you. And confused you. And made you want to hurl the drink in his face.

"Well…" he ventured again, sensing the moment slipping but refusing to let it go, "you didn’t unfollow me on Spotify."

You raised a brow.

"And so," he continued, shrugging with exaggerated awkwardness and nearly sloshing his drink onto his too-expensive boots, "here I am. Stomping over my pride and… trying again?" He laughed nervously at the end, his voice cracking ever so slightly like he hadn’t meant to ask it like a question—but it came out that way anyway. Weak. Uncertain. Hopeful in that annoying, boyish way.

You stared at him, grimace deepening as your fingers wrapped tighter around the red solo cup he offered, like holding it might steady you, like it could turn your irritation into something more concrete. It didn’t. Especially not when you caught the scent of it—peach iced tea, spiked with vodka. The same drink you used to sip on during basement hangs and low-stakes gallery shows where he introduced you like a footnote.

Of course he remembered. Of course he’d bring it.

Probably thought it would spark some wistful nostalgia. Make you soften a little. Classic male manipulator tactic—call back to the comfort, the intimacy, the good parts, like that would somehow erase the Spotify breakup or the pretentious goodbye monologue he delivered while reeking of weed and indifference.

“Trying what again?” you asked coolly, your eyes narrowing with faux curiosity. The kind of expression you wore like armor—disinterested, untouched. "Trying to hook up with someone you decided wasn’t exciting enough the first time?"

He winced, barely. But you caught it.

His fingers fidgeted around his cup. “I was wrong about that,” he said, more quietly now. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

You gave him a pitying look, the kind that burned more than any insult could. “Yeah. You wanted the opposite of me. And now you don’t have it, so you’re crawling back.”

He looked like he wanted to argue. To say it wasn’t like that. But it was, and he knew it. So he just stood there, absorbing the silence, letting it dig into his skin.

You took a sip of the drink anyway. Just to prove you weren’t bothered. Just to remind yourself you had control now. And when the sharp, saccharine bite of it hit your tongue, you smiled. Not at him—never at him. At yourself.

Because this time, you weren’t the girl standing still while he walked away.

You were the one pretending to date Rafe Cameron, the most chaotic boy on campus, and whether that ended in disaster or not, at least it wouldn’t end quietly.

Let Mikael watch. Let him wonder. Let him regret.

You took another sip, slower this time. It wasn’t about the taste—it was about what it looked like. Calm. Unbothered. Above it all. Even if every nerve under your skin prickled with a discomfort you couldn’t quite name.

Mikael shifted beside you, clearly building up to something again. The way his body leaned slightly in, the way his eyes lingered on your mouth. He was still trying. Still testing the waters. “Listen,” he started, voice soft like that was going to work on you now, “I know I messed up. But if we could just—”

“She’s busy.”

The voice sliced through the static between you like a sharp gust of wind. Your head turned instinctively—though you didn’t really need to. You already knew. The weight of it had settled at your back before the words even left his mouth.

Rafe.

He stood just a little too close behind you, one hand slipping around the curve of your waist like it belonged there—like it had always been there. His grip was light, possessive in a way that made your skin flush, though you weren’t sure if it was from discomfort or something else entirely. His other hand held his own drink, untouched.

Mikael’s expression flickered—shock, irritation, maybe a hint of embarrassment. “Uh. Hey, man. We were just talking.”

Rafe smiled, all teeth. “Yeah, I heard. Thought I’d save her before your tragic little monologue got to its third act.” He didn’t look away from Mikael, but his thumb brushed lightly over your hipbone like punctuation.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Your silence was the most powerful part of it.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” Rafe added casually, lifting his brows as if Mikael were just some forgettable extra in the background of his scene. “Wait—no, I did. You’re the one who made the sad breakup playlist, right?”

Mikael blinked, face reddening.

“Bold move,” Rafe mused, like he was genuinely impressed. “I mean, dumping someone at a party is bad enough, but doing it high and then leaving a curated tracklist? That’s, like, next-level narcissism. Props.”

You nearly choked on your drink. Rafe’s tone was smooth, too smooth, and yet under it was that telltale edge—mocking and cruel and a little too satisfied. Like he’d been waiting for this.

Mikael tried to recover. “Alright, man, I don’t know what your deal is, but—”

“My deal,” Rafe cut in, tilting his head as he tightened his grip just a little, “is her. We’re together.” His eyes didn’t leave Mikael’s. “So whatever you were trying to do? You can stop now.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly, chest tight from holding in laughter—or maybe shock. Maybe both. And then, finally, you spoke again, looking at Mikael with a small, calculated smile. “Guess you should’ve unfollowed me on Spotify.”

Rafe’s smirk twitched wider.

Mikael took a step back, jaw tight. “Right,” he muttered. “Well. Good luck with that.”

He walked off without another word, disappearing into the crowd, and you watched him go with a strange mix of satisfaction and surrealism. It was messy. It was dramatic. It was fake.

But it felt like winning.

Rafe turned to you once Mikael was gone, that cocky smirk softening just a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he said, like this was his job now. Like keeping boys away from you was part of the contract.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his hand had been. “Don’t get smug about it. That was just… convenient.”

He shrugged, shameless. “Still felt good. You looked like you needed saving.”

“I didn’t.”

“You kind of did.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him—and the faintest hint of something almost vulnerable passed between you. And then, just like that, it was gone.

“Thanks, I guess,” you muttered, turning back toward the noise and chaos of the party.

Rafe stayed beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence in every part of your body. Like a flame. Like a warning.

Fake or not, you were in deep now.

“Beneficial, right?” Rafe asked, his voice low and smug as he leaned against the railing of the stairs, one elbow hooked casually over the banister. His eyes flicked toward the crowd, but it was clear he hadn’t taken his attention off you for a second.

You side-eyed him, your gaze narrowed in subtle irritation. Were you supposed to be hanging off him now? Cling to his side and giggle for effect, really sell the story? He hadn’t touched you again since cutting Mikael off, but you felt the ghost of his hand still hovering near your waist. Instead, he stood beside you, cool and composed, his arms now folded lazily across his chest as he finally took a sip from his untouched drink.

“Maybe I wanted to reconcile with my evil, sad-boy ex,” you murmured, voice a little too light to be sincere. The sarcasm dripped from every syllable, sharp and cold. Your tone was detached, but the intent behind it wasn’t subtle. It was a jab. A quiet one, but a jab nonetheless.

Rafe snorted, lips twitching. “Mikael doesn’t look like he can spell reconcile, let alone survive it.”

You tilted your head slightly toward him, watching him through the corner of your eye. “And you’re such a great alternative?” you asked dryly. “Should I be swooning now? Or do I wait till you draft another fake contract and tell me where to sit and smile next?”

Rafe grinned like you amused him more than you infuriated him. “You said you wanted revenge, didn’t you?” he replied easily, his voice low enough to feel private. “You looked at me and agreed. This is just the part where it works.”

You took a slow breath and glanced back over the crowd, scanning the room like it had answers for your internal tug-of-war. The lights were too bright in some places, too dim in others. Laughter echoed from the kitchen. The bass thrummed through the floors. It was chaos, all of it—and yet Rafe was still and steady beside you, like the storm bent around him.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.

“Obviously,” he said with zero shame. “My ex is losing her mind, your ex just got shut down so hard he’ll probably cry into his little sketchbook, and now people are staring at you like you’re the girl who finally got me to settle down.”

You made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Settle down? You mean lie publicly?”

Rafe turned to look at you then, his expression unreadable for a second, something softer flickering there for a breath too long before he smirked again, shoving it away like it never happened. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

You shook your head, hiding your smile behind your cup. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re here with me.” His tone was light, but something heavy hung beneath it. Like a warning. Like a promise.

You didn’t reply. You just stood beside him, leaning a little closer—close enough for it to look like something. Close enough to let the night do its job.

If you were going to play the part, you were going to make it convincing. Even if it meant pretending you didn’t like the way his shoulder brushed yours a little more than you should.

"You're wearing the top," Rafe said, voice low and unhurried, like he was making an observation about the weather rather than zeroing in on the thing that had clearly been testing his restraint all night. His gaze raked over you with a smooth, casual shamelessness, the corner of his mouth twitching as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. “Intentional?”

He turned slightly, back resting against the banister now, full attention on you. And not in the fake-boyfriend, sell-the-lie kind of way either. This felt... feral. Like he was breaking character, or maybe slipping into one that felt too natural.

“No,” you said flatly, holding his gaze without flinching, though it took effort. “It’s just my favorite top.” You gave a half-hearted shrug, as if the dip of the neckline and the ridiculous little bow were nothing. As if you hadn’t stood in front of your mirror for ten minutes deciding between this and something safer. As if you hadn’t been thinking about how he looked at you that night on stage.

But of course he was staring. His gaze lingered just a beat too long on the soft curve of your chest, where the fabric clung with precision, dipping low enough to leave less to the imagination than you were comfortable with. You fought the urge to roll your eyes—or sock him in the jaw.

“Oh, it’s definitely one of my favorites too,” he muttered, almost to himself, nodding vaguely like he’d spaced out completely. His teeth dug into his bottom lip as his eyes flicked back up to meet yours, slower this time. Less playful, more deliberate.

You arched a brow. “You wanna keep staring, or should I just send you a photo for later?”

His smirk deepened, like he liked the bite in your tone. “Bold of you to assume I don’t already have one.”

That made your jaw tighten, your heart stutter—and your fist curl slightly around your cup. You didn’t know what pissed you off more: the audacity of his words, or the sharp thrill of something else crawling up your spine.

“Watch it,” you warned, stepping in just half an inch closer, your voice sharp but low. “We may be fake dating, but there’s a limit.”

His smile didn’t waver. “Is there?”

You blinked at him, lips parting slightly—caught off guard by how quiet his tone had turned, how close his breath was now that you were facing each other in the shallow glow of the stairwell. His gaze had dropped again, but slower this time, and not just to your chest. Like he was trying to memorize all of it—your mouth, your expression, your presence.

He leaned in, just a little, enough to test the line. “Tell me where it is, and I won’t cross it.”

You held his stare, defiant but breathless. “You’re already halfway over.”

He smiled at that. Not a cocky one this time. Something darker. Quieter. Like he liked that idea too much.

And for a split second, you forgot you were supposed to hate him.

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t help it. Like you’d said something that turned him on more than it should’ve. His drink hovered near his mouth, forgotten, the condensation sliding slowly down the side of the cup, dripping onto the sleeve rolled up over his forearm.

“Halfway over, huh?” he repeated, voice like smoke. “Then I might as well keep going.”

You didn’t move. You should’ve, maybe. Should’ve stepped back, shoved him, reminded him that this was fake—just some twisted plan to mess with his ex and buy you a moment of social relevance. But you stayed rooted, like your boots were bolted to the sticky floor.

He was looking at you like he wanted to ruin you in the way that made it hard to breathe. Not physically. Not yet. But emotionally. Deliberately. Like he wanted to crawl into the softest part of your brain and live there rent-free just to piss you off. And what was worse—you could feel it working.

You swallowed tightly, eyes darting to the bruise-colored lights reflecting off his jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth like he was waiting for you to push him away or pull him closer. Daring you.

“You fake-date like a creep,” you muttered finally, voice low and sharp and too close to breathless.

He smiled, slow and all teeth. “You like it, though.”

You snorted, stepping back—barely, just enough to gather air again, to think straight. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here we are.” He tilted his head, watching you like you were a particularly addictive habit he couldn’t kick. “You, in that top. Me, behaving myself. Barely.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, just to give yourself something to do, something to keep your hands from shaking. “Maybe I should’ve picked someone else to fake date. Someone less… whatever the hell you are.”

His smirk softened—just slightly. “But you didn’t.”

You hated how true that was. And how much he knew it. Because even with all the annoying smirks and infuriating comebacks and heat he looked at you with like he already knew what you looked like beneath that top—there was something magnetic about him. Something that made you forget every other face in the room.

And that, right there, was the part that scared you most.

“And to not get your panties in a twist, it wasn’t you who picked me…” he started again, voice low and infuriatingly smug, like he couldn’t bear the silence for more than five seconds without filling it with his own voice. “It was me who picked you.”

You shot him a glare over the rim of your cup, your jaw tightening. “Don’t think for a second you have any effect on my panties whatsoever,” you muttered, more of an annoyed grumble than a comeback, but he caught it like it was gold.

Rafe grinned, slow and delighted, like you just handed him a gift. “Then what do I have an effect on?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Other than my upchuck reflex? Nothing.”

That only seemed to amuse him more. His head tilted slightly, tongue running over his bottom lip like he was holding back a laugh—or something worse. “Damn. You sure about that?”

Your brows twitched, your face passive but your stare sharp enough to draw blood. “Positive.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice dipping like it wanted to crawl under your skin. “’Cause you wore that top, remember? And those boots. Kind of hard to believe I don’t have any effect on you when you’re dressed like that and talking to me instead of sad-boy Picasso back there.”

You didn’t flinch. “I dress for myself, not for some drummer with too much gel in his hair and a god complex.”

He chuckled lowly, unbothered by the insult, clearly thriving off the tension you kept feeding him. “Sure. But if I took a wild guess… you wanted me to notice. And now that I have, you’re pissed that it’s working.”

You narrowed your eyes, inching just close enough that he’d think you might do something reckless, like kiss him or slap him. “You have a gift for making everything about you, don’t you?”

He tilted his head, smiling in that lazy, dangerous way that made your stomach twist—because no matter how badly you wanted to deny it, he was getting to you. “Only when I’m right.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, eyes never leaving his. “Keep dreaming, Cameron. That’s the only place any of this is happening.”

But you didn’t step back. And neither did he.

And unfortunately for you, Rafe took it like a win—like everything you said only ever made him more sure of himself. His blue eyes tracked the movement of your mouth as you took a slow sip, and there was something in his gaze that made the air feel heavier. Hungrier.

“Oh, trust me, cherry…” he drawled, slow and syrupy, the nickname slipping out like honey laced with venom. His voice dipped dangerously low, teetering on the edge of honesty and something far filthier. “We do a lot of crazy shit in my dreams. Stuff sad-boy Picasso wouldn’t even dare to whisper to you.”

You blinked at him, face unreadable, but the corner of your mouth twitched—more in irritation than amusement.

Rafe leaned in a little, like he was letting you in on some unspeakable secret. “Like last week? You were wearing this little black skirt,” he murmured, nodding slightly toward your boots. “You know, the one with the slit you wore to Taylor’s pregame a while back?” His tongue flicked over his bottom lip before he grinned, teeth sharp. “Yeah. That one. You had your legs over my shoulders in the back of my car.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your grip on your cup tightened.

“Window fogged up, your lipstick smudged, that bratty little attitude wiped clean off your face for a good ten minutes,” he added with a shrug, as if he was just making casual conversation. “And the best part? You didn’t say a single sarcastic word. Just moaned a lot.”

“Must’ve been a fantasy,” you deadpanned, though your voice had an edge—something tight. Controlled.

He smirked wider. “Oh, it was. Every goddamn detail. The way you tugged on my hair, the way your thighs—”

You cut him off with a sharp glare that could’ve sliced through concrete. “If you finish that sentence, I’ll throw this drink in your face.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning like he won anyway. “Hey, you asked. I’m just giving you context. So you know exactly what you’re stomping around in my dreams wearing.”

You took a step closer, so close you could see the darker flecks in his irises and the cocky curve of his lips. “You’re disgusting.”

He didn’t flinch. “And you’re in my head. Constantly.”

You hated that the heat creeping up your neck wasn’t entirely from anger. “Dream all you want, Cameron,” you said, stepping in just enough to be a threat, your voice low and biting. “But next time you wake up with your hand down your pants, do us both a favor and don’t look me in the eye the next day.”

That made his grin falter—just slightly. Like he hadn't expected you to throw the punch that hard. But Rafe never stayed stunned for long. He recovered with a slow blink, his smile returning with more hunger this time, more grit than charm. Like he wanted to bottle that line and replay it later, under covers. Alone.

“Much hotter that way,” he murmured, a low shrug rolling through his shoulders like he didn’t just confirm the worst thing imaginable—that he liked this. The arguing. The disgust. The way you fought him like he was a bad habit you couldn’t quite kick. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before snapping back to your glare like he’d made a choice and wasn’t ashamed of it.

You stared at him, half in disbelief, half horrified. “Do you have to make everything disgusting?” you snapped, exasperated, more breath than volume, brows furrowed tight as if that might shield you from how infuriatingly bold he was. “Like is that just… your thing now?”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, mock-considering the question, like he was taking inventory of all the ways he’d been horrible to you tonight—and still come out on top. “I think it’s only disgusting when you’re trying really hard not to enjoy it,” he said, and that time, his voice was silk stretched over a knife’s edge. “Which, by the way, you’re doing a terrible job at.”

You scoffed, full and bitter, tearing your gaze away from him before he said something worse—something that might make you react.

“You’re delusional,” you muttered.

He leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint smell of his cologne—clean, dark, and way too intentional for someone who pretended to be so careless. “And you’re not denying it,” he whispered.

You didn’t speak. Not because he was right. But because your body was betraying you, standing its ground like you weren’t already two seconds from either punching him or dragging him into the nearest dark hallway and kissing him until he shut up.

Rafe smirked wider, like he felt the shift too. Like he was betting you’d crack before he did. “Go on,” he said, voice like a dare. “Tell me more about how much you hate me.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes cutting to his. “I’ll save it for the contract,” you said, cool and curt.

The tension between you two boiled thick and fast, so sharp you could almost cut your lip on it. Every look Rafe gave you felt like a hand at the base of your throat, possessive and pulsing with something he hadn’t quite said out loud yet—but you were starting to feel it. The sexual undercurrent was suffocating, and it made your blood burn like a shot of something stronger than vodka.

Okay. This was either going to be the worst, most chaotic, self-sabotaging thing you’ve ever agreed to—or you were finally about to sleep with someone who could actually back the ego-stuffed claims he made. Unlike Mikael, who performed like a poetry major and cried after sex once.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck were you saying?

It hadn’t even officially started yet, this stupid fake dating arrangement, and already your brain was calculating the logistics of hate-fucking Rafe Cameron out of sheer spite. You clenched your jaw, glancing to the side to check out of the moment, only for your breath to hitch in your throat.

Because there she was.

Sofia.

Weaving through the crowd with the calculated strut of someone who knew exactly how she looked, flanked by her two rich-girl clones. She moved like a panther, all silk and teeth, and her eyes were already scanning for him. Her prey.

And behind her—of fucking course—Mikael. This party just kept dealing hits like a rigged slot machine.

“Kiss me,” you muttered, annoyed as ever, but your voice held something frantic beneath the bite.

Rafe blinked, confused, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“Kiss me, dumbass,” you snapped, not looking at him as you readjusted your purse on your shoulder like this was some tactical mission and not a potential mental breakdown.

He stared at you for a beat like you’d just grown a second head. “You’re serious?” he asked, incredulous. “Now? Here? You just called me disgusting like thirty seconds ago.”

“Do you need a fucking script or something? Just do it.”

“No,” he said, tone bordering on teasing, but his hands were twitching at his sides like he was debating grabbing you by the waist already. “You don’t get to just order me around and then act like I’m some human prop.”

You turned, eyes sharp and narrowed. “This is your dumbass plan, remember? You begged me to pretend to date you, so commit, Romeo.”

“First of all, I didn’t beg,” he muttered, stepping a little closer. “Second, you can’t just say ‘kiss me’ like I’m some backup dancer in your Mean Girls revenge arc—”

“Sofia is right fucking there,” you hissed, pointing subtly past his shoulder.

He turned just enough to see her. And his entire expression changed. Gone was the half-mocking amusement—replaced by something darker, sharper. Possessive.

Then his eyes flicked back to yours. “Okay,” he said lowly, voice quieter now. “But you’re not allowed to hit me after.”

And before you could even roll your eyes, he leaned in.

It should’ve been quick. A peck. A tactical strike.

But it wasn’t.

His hand found your waist like it belonged there, fingers pressing into the soft curve of your side with a tension he couldn’t mask anymore. His mouth met yours like he’d been starving for it—like it had haunted him in the silence between nights. He kissed you with none of the restraint you expected and all of the hunger he’d been disguising behind every cocky remark and smug insult. It was filthy, practiced, needy.

Your back hit the stair rail before you realized he’d even moved you. His other hand slid to the base of your neck, holding you there like the kiss had to anchor him to the moment or he’d lose his goddamn mind. His lips moved against yours in a way that made your knees buckle slightly—and that smug bastard felt it, deepening the kiss with a low noise in his throat that bordered on sinful.

When he pulled back, breath shallow, lips swollen, and pupils blown wide, he didn’t speak.

He just looked at you like he couldn’t believe that happened.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, stunned for a half-second before the cocky veneer tried to return. “You sure this is fake?”

You stared up at him, dazed, annoyed, and vibrating with the urge to slap him or kiss him again.

Maybe both. Definitely both.

"Funny…" you murmured, voice low with that signature edge of yours, the kind that made people second-guess if you were flirting or seconds away from throwing hands. Your expression twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a scowl—as your hands braced against Rafe’s shoulders. You rose up on your tiptoes, straining to see past him, scanning the crowd for any sign of Sofia.

But of course he didn’t move. His body was a wall, anchored in place like he belonged there. Like he’d decided he’d be your shield whether you wanted it or not.

Rafe hummed, entirely too pleased with himself, his attention nowhere near the direction of your stare. Instead, he dipped his head, brushing the tip of his nose along the curve of your jaw, so lightly it was like a secret. The kind you feel before you hear. The kind you never admit made you feel anything.

"What the hell are you doing?" you hissed, jaw tight, your words pushed through clenched teeth.

"Leaning into the role," he murmured, voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine. "Fake boyfriend, remember? Public affection sells the illusion."

His hands—once casually resting on your hips—tightened just enough to be felt. Not possessive, but grounding. Intentional.

"And the nose thing?" you shot back, trying not to react to how close he still was. "Is that part of the script too? Or are you just trying to sniff me like a weirdo?"

He grinned against your cheek like he couldn’t help himself. "You smell like cherry and trouble. What do you want from me?"

You rolled your eyes, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back just an inch, needing space to breathe—but not pushing hard enough to really make him move. Because for all your irritation, your body wasn’t exactly screaming no.

"You’re such a creep," you muttered, but your voice betrayed you—it wasn’t venomous, just winded. Like you couldn’t decide whether to kiss him again or slap him.

Rafe tilted his head, eyes glinting. "You’re the one who kissed me, remember? I’m just playing the part. Thought this was about revenge."

You met his gaze, your annoyance and arousal blurring into something dangerously close to real tension. "It was. Until you started enjoying it."

"I’ve been enjoying it since the second I met you," he admitted, and this time—there was no smirk. Just that sharp, honest kind of look that could cut through steel.

Your brain stalled for a second, caught in the aftershock of what he'd just said. The honesty of it. The goddamn seriousness of it. You were used to Rafe being annoying, cocky, antagonistic—but not this. Not the version of him that looked at you like you were a confession he'd been holding in too long. And it was messing with your head.

Still, you kept your hand on his chest like it was the only thing tethering you to common sense. And Rafe, of course, mistook that moment of stunned silence for permission.

Or maybe he didn’t mistake anything. Maybe he was just done pretending he didn’t want to touch you.

He leaned in again, slower this time. Like he wanted you to feel the anticipation before you felt him. His lips brushed against the corner of your mouth—soft and fleeting, not quite a kiss but close enough to spike your pulse. Then he pressed another at the edge of your cheekbone, featherlight. A third followed near your jaw, the skin there warm from your own rising temperature.

"This part sells the lie too," he murmured against your skin, voice thick and low. Each kiss was deliberate, paced like he was tasting the tension on your skin and savoring it.

"You're not helping your case," you breathed out, trying to sound annoyed but it came out more like a warning. Or a plea. You didn’t even know anymore.

He smiled into the space beneath your ear, where his lips paused next. "Sure I am," he whispered, the edge of his mouth skimming your neck, his breath warm and maddening. "You said you wanted her to see. She’s looking now."

You stiffened slightly, turning your head just enough to glimpse over his shoulder. And there Sofia was—watching, jaw tight, eyes narrowed like she wanted to walk straight through the crowd and claw your face off.

Good. Let her.

You tilted your chin ever so slightly, exposing your neck just a little more, just enough for Rafe to take the cue. His lips dragged against your pulse point, a touch of heat in the softness, and you felt your breath catch. Damn him. He was supposed to be faking it, but it didn’t feel fake. It felt like he’d been waiting for this.

And the worst part? You didn’t stop him.

How could you stop him? He wasn’t horrible at what he was doing—God, no. Quite the opposite, actually. He was devastatingly good at it. Like he knew the exact pressure to apply, the exact spots that would make your breath stutter and your stomach flip. And worst of all, he wasn’t being cocky about it. Not in the usual way. There was something quieter in how he kissed you—something desperate that made it harder to chalk this up as just another one of his games.

He wasn't being forceful, either. His mouth moved slowly, almost reverently along your neck, the kisses deepening just slightly, lips parting every so often to let his breath wash over your skin in warm bursts. It was sensual enough to make you swallow hard, to gather the pieces of your composure like they weren’t already scattered across the sticky frat house floor. You were touch-starved, sure, but this wasn’t just scratching the itch. This was setting the whole thing on fire.

"You're so petty..." you mumbled, trying—failing—to lace your voice with annoyance. But it came out too soft, too breathy, especially with the way your fingers threaded through the hair at the base of his neck, tugging just enough to feel him twitch against you. The strands were soft, curling a little with sweat under his backwards snapback, and he made a sound—a low, broken thing you felt more than heard.

“You think this is petty?” he muttered, voice wrecked and almost disbelieving, like you’d just accused him of something laughably beneath him. His lips hovered just below your ear now, his breath shaky. “I’ve wanted to do this since you walked into the set wearing that fucking top.”

You froze, your body betraying you again with a tiny shiver that ran up your spine. He felt it. Of course he did.

“I dreamt about this,” he whispered, mouth ghosting over the curve of your neck again. “Like—fuck—a lot. Don’t flatter yourself, though. It wasn’t sweet. It never is.”

His hands at your waist tightened almost imperceptibly, fingertips digging in just a little like he needed to ground himself. Like if he didn’t hold onto you, he’d lose his grip completely. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a moment, just to breathe, before he kissed the line where your neck met your collarbone—open-mouthed and warm, too intimate for the lie you were supposed to be selling.

You should’ve pulled back. Slapped him. Said something scathing. But your hand was still in his hair and he was still kissing you like it meant something. Like he meant something.

And you hated the way that thought didn’t make you recoil. It made you want to lean in. Just one second longer. Just until Sofia looked pissed enough. Just until Rafe whispered something else disgusting in that wrecked, reverent voice.

“You seriously dreamt about this?” you asked, half-mocking, trying to wedge some distance between the way your pulse jumped and the way his mouth was still dragging across your skin like he owned it.

“Don’t act surprised,” he muttered, voice low, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke. “You’ve got that kind of face that shows up in a guy’s head whether he wants it to or not.”

“Oh, poor you,” you snapped, sarcasm thick, but it melted into something shakier when his lips pressed under your ear again. “Must be so hard, dreaming about girls who hate your guts.”

“You don’t hate me.” He didn’t even flinch, didn’t even hesitate, just kissed the corner of your mouth and hovered there, his breath mingling with yours. “If you did, you wouldn’t be letting me touch you like this.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to admit how right he was. “This is acting, Cameron. Remember? Selling the lie?”

His mouth trailed to your cheek, soft and slow, like he was deliberately ignoring your words. “Sure,” he said against your skin. “Then you’d better sell it harder, because Sofia’s still looking.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse—yep, she was watching. Her expression unreadable, but her body language loud. You hated that you liked the idea of her stewing over this. Hated that you liked the way Rafe was looking at you more.

“God, you’re so smug,” you muttered, but you didn’t pull away.

He grinned against your cheek, mouth curling wicked. “You love it. Admit it.”

“What I love is that this will ruin her night,” you said, eyes flicking toward Sofia again. “That’s all.”

“Oh, yeah?” he breathed, kissing just beneath your jaw, his voice unraveling more with every inch of skin. “That why you’re shaking, cherry?”

You tensed, annoyed at the way your body betrayed you yet again. “I’m cold.”

He hummed in amusement, hands sliding just slightly over the curve of your hips like he didn’t believe a word. “You’re burning up.”

“From rage, Rafe.”

“Then let me help you get it out of your system,” he murmured, finally dipping his head enough to kiss you again—this time on the mouth, softer than you expected. More needy than it should’ve been. His lips moved against yours like he forgot it was fake. Like he didn’t care if you tore him apart after.

And you let him. Maybe because you were too tired to argue anymore. Or maybe because your fists were still tangled in his shirt and he tasted better than he had any right to.

Either way, neither of you moved. Not until the crowd blurred and your chest tightened from the lie feeling more real than you ever meant it to.

Your teeth sank into his bottom lip with enough pressure to make him jolt—a sharp inhale, a stifled curse curling in his throat as copper tang bloomed between your mouths. You meant to punish him. To make him feel the sting of every smug comment and every smirk that had pushed you to this moment. But Rafe didn’t flinch away.

No. He groaned.

Low and guttural, a sound that vibrated in his chest as his hands tightened around your waist. The grip was rough, possessive, like your bite had only ignited something worse inside him. His mouth crashed back onto yours, harder this time, tongue sweeping against yours with a desperation that betrayed every sarcastic remark he’d ever made. His body moved like he wasn’t kissing you for show anymore—like he’d been starving for this and your little act of violence only made him hungrier.

“You’re insane,” you gasped between kisses, your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and breathlessness.

“And you’re driving me fucking crazy,” he muttered against your lips, before moving lower—mouth dragging across your jaw with the same feverish intent. “Do it again.”

“What?”

“Bite me again.”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if your knees weren’t currently seconds from buckling. “You’re unbelievable—”

He kissed you again mid-sentence, swallowing your annoyance, hands gripping the backs of your thighs just enough to lift you slightly onto the railing behind. You grabbed his shoulders instinctively, fingers digging into the hem of his shirt like you were anchoring yourself. But it didn’t stop him. His lips found the underside of your jaw again, then your neck—his breath hot, kisses messy and impatient now.

“Keep selling it, right?” he rasped between kisses, voice unraveling. “She’s watching.”

“She better be fucking crying,” you managed, barely recognizing your own voice—low, hoarse, threaded with a shakiness you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Rafe just hummed, tongue grazing your collarbone as he spoke. “She’s watching me lose my mind over you.”

That made you falter. Just for a second.

Because his voice didn’t sound like it was part of the act anymore.

And neither did the way he whispered your name, half against your skin, half into the space between you—as if it slipped from him without meaning to. Like he’d been holding it back and it clawed its way out.

“I hate you,” you breathed shakily, gripping the front of his hoodie like it would keep your balance, like it would stop your body from reacting.

“I know,” he whispered back, his mouth brushing yours again, more tender this time. “I fucking love it.”

"She’s walking over," you muttered, half in warning, half in disbelief. Your breath hitched when Rafe didn’t stop.

He didn’t even pause.

Instead, his mouth dragged along the corner of yours again, lingering like he was tasting something he didn’t want to forget. His grip tightened on the underside of your thighs, fingertips brushing dangerously high beneath your skirt. The kind of touch that skirted the edge of decency, one that made your breath stutter even as your brain screamed at you to stay composed.

But Rafe looked completely unbothered—worse, he looked addicted.

His lips chased yours like he needed them, like the moment he let you go he might spiral into withdrawal. “She’s not close enough yet,” he murmured against your mouth, voice husky, almost frantic. “Just one more, cherry…”

You barely had time to react before he kissed you again—slower this time, but deeper. His mouth moved like he was committing it to memory, tongue brushing yours like he could memorize the shape of your sigh. His desperation was seeping through every move—more than show, more than strategy. It felt like a quiet unraveling.

“Rafe—” you started, voice caught somewhere between command and caution, but he just swallowed it, his lips ghosting over yours like he couldn’t bear to stop.

Then—

“Ahem,” a voice cut through the noise behind him.

Rafe stilled, reluctantly. His mouth was still brushing yours when he opened his eyes and muttered, “Fucking finally,” under his breath like he wasn’t the one that just kissed you like a man possessed.

Sofia stood a few steps behind him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised with a carefully measured expression that didn’t quite mask the flicker of jealousy in her eyes. She glanced at you, then at the way Rafe’s hands still rested firmly on your thighs, the hem of your skirt slightly bunched where he’d pushed it up.

You could feel his pulse thudding under your palms.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t straighten your skirt.

Didn’t even pretend to act guilty.

“Didn’t realize you had company,” Sofia said, her tone sugary sweet and completely fake.

Rafe tilted his head slowly over his shoulder, still not letting go of you, his voice cool and unbothered. “Didn’t realize you still cared.”

“Quite the scene you’re making on the staircase,” Sofia said, smirking with a brightness that didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that was practiced—tight at the corners, deliberately casual, like she was playing the part of the amused ex. Like she wasn’t clenching her jaw behind it.

You blinked, looking between them, fingers twitching awkwardly where they rested on Rafe’s shoulders. The weight of her attention made you self-conscious, and you suddenly became acutely aware of just how disheveled the both of you looked. His hat was pushed back, his hair a mess where your hands had been tangled in it. And his mouth—his stupid, smug mouth—was smeared in your sparkly lip gloss like a signature he hadn’t bothered to wipe off.

You grimaced and reached up hesitantly, swiping your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes followed the movement, dark and lazy, like he was still in a daze from the way you tasted.

“You missed a spot,” you murmured dryly, trying to make it sound indifferent, but the tension in your hand betrayed you. Your gaze flicked to Sofia’s, her smile now twisting with something sharp. Calculating.

Rafe didn’t even flinch. He leaned into your touch like it was a reflex, catching your wrist with two fingers and holding it there for a beat too long—like he wanted her to see it. Like he wanted her to feel it.

“She always does that,” he said, voice low, looking over his shoulder at Sofia. “Gets annoyed about the mess and then cleans me up herself. Can’t help herself.”

You shot him a sharp glare, but the smirk on his face only deepened. He was being insufferable on purpose. And it was working. Your jaw tensed, trying not to react, but the urge to shove him off the stairs and into the crowd below was becoming dangerously tempting.

Sofia tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Cute. Didn’t know you were into charity work,” she said, this time to you, her tone dipped in passive aggression.

Your lips parted in a scoff, but Rafe beat you to it.

“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” he replied smoothly, gaze flat now, his grip on your thigh just a little firmer—like a silent reminder that she was the one interrupting, not the one in control.

Sofia gave a breathy laugh, but her eyes lingered on where his hand disappeared beneath your skirt before she straightened her posture. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your little softcore porno. Just figured I’d say hi.”

She turned on her heel with a flick of her hair, walking off with a sway in her hips that made it obvious she wanted to seem unaffected.

Rafe watched her go for a second before muttering, “She’s definitely pissed.”

You pulled your hand from his grasp, raising an eyebrow. “And that’s a win for you?”

He finally looked at you again, and his grin returned—slow, dangerous, and way too proud. “Nah. The win was getting you to kiss me like that in the first place.”

author's note: hey ya'll!!!! i couldn't help but make them kiss, their dynamic is so juicy. they're like so attracted to each other and i can't wait for them to get to the point where they have to admit they like each other. until then we can enjoy the arguing and sexual tension. follow me on here, and don't forget to comment and reblog this since my blog is like losing its reach for some reason due to the new policy with the mature content. don't be shy to send asks, i love interacting with you guys and hearing your ideas. Join the tag-list, and please tell me if it works and you guys are getting the notifications for my chapters!😊❤️

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[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

thinking about transfem metal sonic again bc she’s like. the most transfem character in fiction whos not in any way actually transfem or coded transfem like it’s entirely unintentional and that’s what makes it so interesting to me. bc like her entire Thing is identity issues she was built to emulate, surpass, and be a superior version of sonic which like. we can talk about eggman hating sonic so much he literally made a better version of him as his own child another time but besides that metal's entire life has been being forced to fill the expectations placed on her to Be someone she can never be. and this is something that causes her a great deal of anguish! she literally has a mental breakdown over it it’s something that’s clearly traumatic and distressing to her bc she can’t do it! defeating and proving herself superior to sonic is something inexorably linked to her, and both cause her nothing but misery and are both very literally dehumanising towards her. she clings to them, bc she has nothing else and it’s the only path that she’s been allowed to even consider, but they don’t make her Happy. she wouldn’t be so fucking angry all the time if she was happy! but it’s what she’s literally been programmed to believe she wants even though chasing that ambition provides her no joy or relief.

and in sonic heroes, the pressure makes her snap. if she Has to fill the mould she’s forced into, then it’s the outside world saying she’s doing it wrong that’s the problem, because she Has to be perfect, right? metal sonic is the golden child out of all of her “siblings”, and while that means she’s not outright going to be destroyed by her father and faces much less verbal abuse and marginally more affection, it also means she’s forced to uphold the perfect image her father sees her as, else she fail and face the same treatment she’s seen her fellow badniks go through. and that image she’s always tried so, so hard to force herself to fit is that of her father's magnum opus, his masterpiece, a superior version of his enemy. and to be superior to sonic she has to Be sonic and so if everyone says she’s Not they have to be the ones in the wrong and not Her she has to be the real true superior sonic and she has to Prove it.

but the thing is, not only is she forcing herself into performing the perfect role set on her- one that’s specifically masculine- she also reinvents Herself. this is something in heroes a lot of people miss, but neo metal sonic isn’t an upgrade From Eggman to her (and also came After her breakdown, she did it Because she felt she couldn’t Beat Sonic And Therefore Be Him if she stayed the same) her neo form is entirely self designed, and it was done all by her own hands. neo metal sonic is probably the closest we can get to how metal actually wants to present herself to the world, that’s Literally just named to be the New Her, and. ma’am this is a goth girl.

like. not only is she Literally Wearing A Skirt, not only does she Literally Have Eyeliner, she's also designed in such a way it looks like she’s wearing clothes, which feels silly to bring up until you remember sonic anthro characters almost universally only wear clothes if they’re female. and neo metal sonic straight up has hatsune miku sleeves a belt with a flowy skirt and leg warmers but with spikes. like it’s already fem as shit (in a emo edgy fourteen year olds oc way) but like i'm pretty sure by mobian standards this is about as feminine as a murderous robot can reasonably get. and while obviously that doesn’t = gender, metal specifically presenting as feminine in her idealised form she designed herself, while having a meltdown because she’s unable to Be A Specific Boy and is having an identity crisis bc she’s miserable trying to chase that is… like, that’s just a closeted trans girl innit. like this is Very Obviously not the intended read but like… it’s an extremely obvious and resonant one?

metal is, canonically, a scared teenager. as in, she herself says that she was scared Before her transformation. she’s mentally like 15 afraid of failure with an abusive and neglectful father figure suffering from psychotic episodes brought about by golden child burnout. like that’s not how it’s phrased in a 2003 game rated 3 and up but that is like, objectively what’s happening in sonic heroes she’s very open about her motives that’s just canon. which doesn’t make her Trying To Burn A Toddler Alive in any way not absolutely horrible like people forget how excited she was to murder a group that included Multiple small children in it brutally she’s fucked up. but her issues with her identity are more tragic than anything. her being dehumanised and treated only as A Superior Sonic broke her. and when she finally is able to express herself in any way, she's able to present as, well, a very edgy teenage goth girl but in robot form! she’s a fucked up and evil person but she’s also unable to be her true self and she’s scared and frightened and alone. and she’s not incapable of good! she Did sacrifice her life for shadow in rivals 2 like she can care for people she’s not inherently evil she’s a Person just one that steals your IP address. but what Makes her evil is sticking to a path and presentation that makes her evil.

tl;dr: canonically transitioning would have saved her (this was not an intentional story decision they just accidentally made her ideal form goth girl hatsune miku before hatsune miku was even an idea)

[bluebandedagate]

Listen, you can be upset that Alexander Skarsgård doesn't match your personal headcanon for what Murderbot looks like, but I personally think a white masc person was the best choice, because that is what a megacorporation would design its robots to look like:

1. The corp would think that "white man" is the default, and therefore the best choice for a generic robot. If you want a robot of color, you probably have to pay for a premium version or something.

2. They would never design OWNED PROPERTY to look like a person of color! That would be a PR nightmare!

3. They would want their security units to appear strong and tough, and would therefore make them masculine to fit the stereotype of masculinity=strength.

Like I'm sorry, but realistically any corporation designing a security robot would want it to look as white and manly as possible!

[yndrgrl]

yandere! bakugou uses you to get to someone else, but ends up falling for you instead

long ass fic. fem! reader. regular! au. enemies to lovers. lowkey crack! fic. tsundere! bakugou.

warnings: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, manipulation, somnaphilia (idk how to spell it), degrading, bullying, spitting, public sex, hatefuck

a/n: requests are open :) (plz request something, idk what else to write about 😭)

---

"no." that's all you said. so flat, so robotic. that's all you wanted to say.

bakugou was a pushy man, however. "it wasn't a question."

"oh for real?" you gasped, putting both hands to your cheeks to show your faux shock. "no."

"listen, you're gonna help me win over uraraka-"

"no, i'm not, bakugou," you denied once more. you don't even know why he came to you in the first place. it was clear as day that uraraka had a major crush on izuku, & izuku liked uraraka just as much.

honestly, what surprised you the most is that bakugou even had a crush. i guess it makes sense that it would be on uraraka though.

"yes, you are because i have something over you," bakugou threatened lowly.

you scoffed, "oh, do you now?" there wasn't really much he could have over you that would make you help him-

he slammed a journal on the desk, a slam echoing throughout the library. it was your personal diary.

you lunged for your journal, but he snatched it & threw it into his bag. you screamed at him, "how'd you get that, you sicko?!" the only way he would've gotten that was by breaking into your dorm room.

"are you going to help me or not?"

yes, you could've bought a nicer, leather journal with handcrafted pieces of paper, glued recent pictures of your life & decorated the pages with washi tape, stickers, & colored markers, but you didn't want to start over yet. your journal is a year & a half old, every page nearly filled; it's a deep dive into your mind. every overwhelming event in your life, every good memory, every goal you strive to achieve is written down in that book. bakugou katsuki had that all in his possession.

that's why, two days after you found out what he has, you're sitting with your usual study group in your designated, outdoor study area-- plus bakugou. your bluetooth speaker played a playlist shared throughout the group. you sat on the edge with uraraka beside you & bakugou across from you.

"y/n," someone said, catching your attention; it was uraraka. "i didn't know you & bakugou were friends."

you wanted to laugh. you quickly told her, "we're not-"

"we're good friends," katsuki overlapped with his lie. his scowl upturned into the smallest smile when uraraka glanced up at him.

"oh wow, i had no idea! the two of you are so hard-headed, i wouldn't have expected the two of you to get along so great," she said back with a giggle. you loved uraraka, but she's too friendly sometimes.

bakugou, trying to play into the cool-bad-boy character, said, "yeah, well she makes it hard sometimes, but it helps when she has cute friends, i guess."

never in your life did you think you would hear big, tough bakugou flirt in your life.

they continued their conversation that you tuned out, rereading your notes & constructing plans on how to get your journal so you could expose him. everyone was invested in their own stuff. obviously, bakugou & uraraka were talking amongst themselves. momo was explaining to jirou & mina some math topic that they were sobbing about. tsu was on her laptop as she tried finishing a power point that was due the next day.

your chin was propped up by your hand, humming the song that started playing. "um, excuse me," a masculine voice called out. it caught the attention everyone at the table. you heard bakugou scoff, & you could only assume he rolled his eyes.

you looked up at the source of the voice. he was right in front of you, face red, cheeky smile. he was cute in the way that a puppy eager for a treat was. "you're y/n, right?"

"yeah, i am," you confirmed, matching his grin.

he introduced himself by saying his name & told you that he was in the hero-support program. he then said, "i just wanted to say that you're just really pretty."

compliments were one thing. compliments from complete strangers always messed you up though. "oh, th-thanks." you're so awkward.

"so like, maybe i could get your number, & we could go on a date or two?"

you glanced back at all your friends, who all had big smiles as a way of non-verbally saying, "get your manz, bitch!!"

bakugou on the other hand, had an expression of confusion & anger-- the anger was permanent though.

"i mean, i don't give out my phone number, but maybe we can snap or something?"

the guy nodded with enthusiasm, pulling out his phone to give you his username. "cool, well sorry for wasting your guys' time," the boy said to you friends before turning to you & saying, "i'll hit you up later?"

"can't wait," you replied back.

as soon as he was out of earshot, mina squealed, "oh my god! you're such a flirt!"

jirou teased, "you're so awkward, it's literally so funny."

"you're my pretty best friend," tsu croaked with a laugh.

"guys, nothing is gonna happen," you said with a blush. "i'm just gonna be his friend."

"how does it feel to be hit on for the first time, loser?" bakugou yawned, as if he's been hit on ten million times by fan girls & milfs or something.

mina retaliated, "what are you talking about? y/n gets hit on all the time!"

uraraka jumped in, "yeah, what's was that? guy number five?"

"y/n?" bakugou questioned, & all your friends nodded. "that thing? doubt it."

"what's there to doubt? you just saw it," you growled at him, he annoyed you so badly.

after that study session, he got uraraka's number like he hoped for, but he was more curious about you. he never realized until that day how often you do actually get men's attention. bakugou always assumed you were some bookworm, writer nerd who leeched off of his darling, uraraka for popularity & personality.

"i don't get it," bakugou muttered, staring at your figure across the cafeteria. he was surrounded by his friends, who all followed his gaze.

kirishima groaned, "dude, just ask uraraka out already." it was routine that bakugou would say something about how shitty nerd, deku, isn't good enough for her affections or how he would be a better match for her.

"no, it's not that," bakugou corrected, glare not breaking off of you. this caught kirishima, denki, sero, & mina -who sometimes sat with you as well- off guard.

"what are you talking about, bro," denki asked.

"i don't get it. she's not even that cute," bakugou scoffed, slouching back into the bench. his eyes finally tore away from you & awase from class 1-b.

"who?"

"y/n, i think," mina assumed, & when bakugou didn't deny it, they all knew she was right. "why does it even bother you?"

"it doesn't," he said, glancing back at you. awase left you, & in his place was the floating, fighting machine uraraka. he didn't feel the need to say anything about her though, but he felt like he had to. "she's weird, uraraka shouldn't even be friends with her."

"there it is," sero sighed, making all the others laugh.

"shut up," bakugou scowled at them. everyone was used to it, so they weren't that threatened.

"but seriously, bakubro, don't hate on y/n just cuz she's best friends with uraraka, & you're jealous," kirishima told him. he always did this to the blonde. he wasn't scared to tell him off.

bakugou, infuriated, yelled, "i'm not jealous of her, okay? it's just stupid how she has everyone wrapped around her finger, so don't be some dumb, y/n defenders. hop off her fuckin' dick."

"i'm just saying, man. she's super cool, has a useful quirk, & is an awesome fighter," kirishima said, holding his hands as a way to show he was backing down.

"if i were you, bakugou, i would be trying to be her friend," mina said.

mina's words played on repeat in bakugou's head for a week. it was driving him crazy. even though that bridge of being friends was already burned & he kept telling himself he doesn't care, he can't help but want to be closer to you.

he said it was all for uraraka in the end. after all, when they were texting the other day, she said that she would want a future partner to get along with her friends or else it'll be a deal breaker.

bakugou deduced that if he was on favorable terms with you that uraraka would fall for him-- & maybe you too. he felt himself physically jolt when he thought that. why in fucks name would he want you to fall for him? he thought for a second. it's not like he wants to be with you or anything, but he doesn't want you with anyone else.

he somehow found himself in front of your dorm door past curfew. bakugou, at this time, was usually asleep, dreaming about a life where him & uraraka lived happily ever after. however, tonight was different. he didn't feel like thinking about the short-haired brunette.

he doesn't even know why he's outside your door.

in his head, he rationalized that he just loves uraraka so much that he'd give up sleep to become your friend. it was such an urgent situation that he didn't even bother putting on shirt.

he fished in his sweatpants' pocket for a lock pick, the same one he used to break into your dorm the first time to steal your journal. bakugou jammed it into the lock, opening the door with ease. he shut the door carefully before stalking further into your room.

there you were on your bed. swaddled in your fluffy duvet, cuddling a stuffed animal. you must've felt his presence because your sleeping self started shifting & ended up kicking off your blanket. you ended up on your stomach, one leg crunched towards your side while the bottom leg laid straight. you faced away from bakugou.

his breath hitched, something inside him twitched. bakugou couldn't help but stare. he had to admit that you had the body of his dream girl. wait no, his dream girl was uraraka-

he cut his own thoughts off when he saw how your ass looked in that position. the blue hue from the moonlight flowed into the room because, for some reason, you felt no need to close your curtains. he could make the shape of you so clearly. he reached for you.

he told himself that he wouldn't be cheating on his soon-to-be lover. it's just a touch, a friendly touch that friends share with each other.

his fingertips ghosted over your exposed thighs. you were wearing nothing but thong & an oversized band tee. the gentle touches turned into full-palm caresses. her skin is so smooth, bakugou thought. he loomed closer to you, inhaling deeply. she smells so nice.

he climbed over you with the agility of a shadow. the bed didn't even creak. he kneeled over legs, & his hands found your plush ass. he kneaded your bare butt, shifting you so you were fully on your stomach. you remained unmoving; you usually take melatonin gummies right before bed anyways.

bakugou kept groping your ass while his cock hardened into its full length. his hands wandered, thumbs grazing over your entrance. he grasped you, & he spread your ass cheeks apart. you must be dreaming about something dirty because your thong was soaked.

bakugou readjusted himself so he was on level with your ass. "this is just what friends do," he hazily whispered to himself. "friends help friends get better."

he blew on the wet patch, watching your pussy twitch through your panties. bakugou waited for a second, trying to grasp at any sort of self-control but, when you subconsciously propped your ass higher for him, he couldn't help it. he mentally apologized to uraraka before he dove into your ass.

his tongue licked your clothed slit, & he felt how thin your thong truly was. he only got an inkling of what you tasted like, & he craved more. bakugou lapped you juices through your panties, dampening the light grey cloth into a darker shade. his jaw hinged open to allow his tongue to delve further down.

he found your clit through your thong. he pressed his tongue against you, & sleeping, unsuspecting you let out a moan. "oh fuck," bakugou whispered in response, diving back into your pussy.

he pulled your thong up. it rode higher in your ass, then the part the was covering your pussy disappeared between your lips.

he started eating you out again, groaning in pleasure when he finally got to touch your bare skin. he slurped your juices over & over.

bakugou didn't realize that he pulled his sweatpants & boxers down to his knees. he pulled away from your pussy, a string of your juices & his saliva connecting him to you.

on his knees, he positioned his big cock between your ass. a moment of clarity hit him, it wasn't right, he knew that deep down. you really didn't do anything to him.

your phone next to your pillow buzzed. he grabbed it, his hung cock still pressed against you. it was a message from uraraka that read, "wait what did you wanna tell me about bakugou earlier? you looked so concerned haha."

you were trying to tell him? what a fucking bitch, bakugou thought with pure hatred. you were trying to sabotage him with your words, your pretty little mouth, with your dumb, stupid body.

his rationality was once again thrown out of the door. uraraka would want me to show y/n her place, he thought. he climbed off of you. he had to show you what your mouth was meant for. your mouth wasn't meant for snitching, it was meant for sucking cock-- his cock.

bakugou turned your head & pulled it at the edge of the bed. thankfully, it's like your body already knew what was gonna happen, your mouth was already agape. he pushed his tip past your lips. your tongue lazily stroked against his length. he moved his dick in & out of your throat, & yet somehow you still remained motionless.

his control turned into animalistic thrusts, gagging you over & over, & you still stayed asleep. "fuckin' stupid bitch," he groaned, throwing his head back. your throat expanded with each thrust to accommodate his thickness & length.

spit & his precum spilled out of your mouth & onto your silk pillowcase. because you were sideways, his heavy balls slapped against your face, nose shoved into his pubes. you gargled & gagged in your sleep, but you still handled him so well.

his passionate angry finally swelled up & shot down your throat. even though he was cumming, he kept half-assed thrusting in your throat, coating every inch with white. all for uraraka, remember? because bakugou completely forgot what drove him to do what he just did.

the next day, as you entered the classroom, he heard you tell to uraraka about how the melatonin gummies really worked. "yeah, i was completely knocked out! i drooled so much, my pillow was drenched. it was disgusting."

"really? i know that they're good, but i never drooled that much. maybe you really needed that sleep."

as they passed bakugou's seat, uraraka waved at him with pink cheeks. "hey, bakugou."

"uraraka," he said back to her. he watched your smile drop into a frown, your eyes rolling. he was winning over uraraka, he knew that, but he didn't feel satisfied. he yearned the banter between the two of you more than uraraka's affections. "what was that, idiot?"

uraraka was shocked at first, thinking he was talking to her until she heard you shoot back, "shouldn't you be watching ochaco instead of me?" if he didn't know any better, it sounded like you were jealous.

"y/n, let's calm down," uraraka sheepishly suggested, but it only angered you more. why was she on that weirdo's side? why wasn't she on your side? even after you told her what he did to you, she didn't even care; in fact, she seemed flattered.

"yeah, calm down," bakugou chimed in with that disgusting, cocky smile, "go in the back & drool all over your desk."

"eavesdropping now? you really are obsessed," you huffed, marching towards your desk that was, in fact, in the back of the classroom. you thought uraraka was right behind you, but by the time you turned around to sit in your chair, you noticed her take a seat next to bakugou.

the bell rang, & in rolled your sleepy teacher, mr. aizawa. he called roll, held an hour long lecture while you took notes, then assigned a 4-page essay with three sites sources. after he was done, he questioned, "now that we're done with that, what is happening today?"

iida's hand shot up along with his entire body.

"go ahead, iida."

"the 1a students from ketsubutsu academy are training with us today." oh right, you completely forgot about that. you were not in the mood to socialize with those uptight, cocky rich kids today. even though you took the melatonin gummies the night before to ensure a goods night sleep, you got everything but that. you felt like you were melting all night, & now you just felt restless.

"good, iida is correct," mr. aizawa confirmed. "they're already waiting in training facility a, so get dressed & be there in 10 minutes."

"yes sir!" & they all scurried out of the classroom.

your entire class entered the facility in their hero costumes. like mr. aizawa said, the visiting students were already there, stretching & warming up. mr. aizawa, once he noticed his entire class, announced that on the white board was everyone's names & assigned training group for the day.

everyone, including the other class, crowded around the board to find their names. "y/n!" your best friend, who you were extremely pissed off at, cheered. "we're all in the same group!" we... all?

you look at uraraka to see who she was referring to. "it's just my luck," you groaned, of course it was bakugou. "i just had to be put in a group with you!" you wanted to shout at everyone. you wanted to shout at uraraka for being swooned by a creep, you wanted to yell at mr. aizawa for putting you in a group with bakugou, & you wanted to scream, jump, yell, & hit bakugou over the head with a bat just for being the aggravating, prideful bastard he is.

"we just had to have a weak fuckin' nerd in your group?" he said to uraraka, but glanced to his side to meet your eye. your fuming expression really got him going. "there's no one more annoying than you-"

"are you y/n?" someone questioned. that just be the last person in your group.

you looked up at him, & with a half-hearted smile, you said, "i am."

"nice, i'm in your group," he told you, "i'm yo shindo. & i must admit, i was not excited for this whole group training thing until i saw a pretty girl like you was in my group."

oh, so he was a flirt? honestly, you didn't mind at all; you needed something to distract you & what's a better distraction than a buff playboy?

"honestly me too, but i think it'll be fun with you," you said back, but you overthought what you said. was it cringy?

bakugou was watching the whole exchange, brows furrowed, vein popping through his skin on his forehead. uraraka noticed, & because with the new-found knowledge that bakugou really liked her, she stroked his arm & asked, "are you okay?"

he looked at her with the same look of anger, now mixed with discomfort, & shrugged her off. "yeah, i'm fine."

he turned his attention back to you & shindo. bakugou's hands sparked ever so suddenly when he took in the scene in front of him. you were eating up all of shindo's praises & brags. your hands tried to squeeze around his biceps but you just couldn't connect your hands. "wow, your muscles are so big~ you must be strong."

"of course i am, i gotta be so i can impress pretty girls like you after all," he winked at you. for a moment, you glanced at bakugou, feeling his harsh glare, & he looked like he was about to explode. you didn't know why though, doesn't he have what he wanted already? he has uraraka right there, & yet he's still mad at you. he still owes you your journal too, so the two of you were not on good terms.

"sorry, i didn't mean to get carried away," you told shindo, pulling your hands away.

as the two of you walked towards uraraka & bakugou, shindo said, "i don't mind, you can touch me wherever, whenever."

you couldn't help but laugh out loud. "god, you're such a flirt!"

"you seem to love it though-"

"y/n, would you stop being a hoe for one second & train like you're supposed to?" bakugou said to you, hands stuffed inside his pockets, looking so nonchalant. you blinked a moment, & you waited for uraraka to say something or to rush by your side. she didn't do any of that

all she said was, with a giggle & eyes staring at bakugou, "that was mean." yeah, it was. it really was. the tips of your ears burned in humiliation, your palms became sweaty, & your breathing was uneven. after uraraka was done ogling bakugou, she looked at you, & her eyes widened. never in her entire childhood friendship did she see that expression on your face.

"dude, i don't know who think you are, but don't talk to her like that," shindo said, stepping forward & slightly in front of you. your tense shoulders relaxed just a bit-- someone is in your corner.

the amused bakugou turned pissed off when your new, little boy-toy went to your rescue, even though he knew you didn't need rescuing. "h-hey, let's save it for training, yeah-"

"i'll talk to y/n however i want, damn weak fuck," bakugou replied, copying his movements & stepping forward. "you're just like her: fucks anything that moves, huh?"

"bakugou-"

"that's it!" you shouted as you shoved bakugou away from shindo. the three of them -bakugou, uraraka, & shindo- were shocked to say the least. he pushed you too far all for entertainment & some obsession. "you're such a goddamn coward, you know that? all you are is a bully who's play-pretending to be a hero! you're such a control freak that, even after you stole my best friend, you still need to have something over me, so you won't give me back my stupid journal. & worst of all, you just stare & glare & act like i'm scum when you're the actual piece of shit! & you're not even ashamed! you want everyone to know! i hate you so much!"

after your tangent/rant, you walked away, quirk firing left & right. you didn't need to hear whatever bakugou was going to say next, it was probably be something so degrading that winds up in her next journal entry.

the three of the gawked at you, watching you walk straight to the state-of-the-art punching bags. uraraka was the first to speak. "i'll talk to her. i've never seen her that... mad. it was like she was a whole new person-"

"you guys are terrible classmates. there was no reason to say any of that. i'll go talk with her," shindo cut uraraka off. before either of them could do anything, bakugou was already strutting towards you, gauntlets sparking.

"who does she think she is?" they heard him utter. they were out of earshot, however, when he said, "making me fuckin' hard then walking away. damn tease."

he caught up to you in no time. you were almost to the punching bags when he grabbed your wrist, his hand was warm & a stinging sensation engulfed your wrist.

uraraka & shindo watched as the two of you screamed at each other, you shoving him, him glaring at you, you throwing a piece of your costume at him. honestly, it would've been comedic if it wasn't for bakugou pressing your buttons.

"what are they? toxic exes or something?" shindo questioned as they began to walk towards the fighting two.

"oh, no, not at all! i would've known," uraraka told him, "they're just... um... friends i think. maybe enemies."

"i can tell that much."

when the actual training began, you & bakugou tried to separate from each other. you were paired with shindo & him with uraraka. but, because of the conditioning & the way today's training was set up, it was inevitable that you two would interact again.

like at lunch, the two of you sat across each other at a table, eating your lunches. you didn't bother speaking, you didn't even want to see bakugou ever again, after all.

or at the water fountain, when he said, "hurry up." & so you took longer, even though you weren't thirsty anymore.

or when you had to rotate partners & bakugou was your only option. the two of you, against the rules, threw quirk-backed attacks each other.

& that's how you two ended up being excused early. while everyone else was getting better, you were locked out & forced to change back into your school uniform, & the only person with you was bakugou.

when you left the changing room, he was leaning against the wall-- almost like he was waiting for you. "you done being mad at me?"

"no, i'm not, & i'll never stop being mad at you," you said, walking right past him. he followed close behind you.

"listen, i didn't mean to embarrass you. i didn't know you'd get so pissy."

"what did you think was gonna happen?!"

"i don't know, okay?" the two of you were yelling at this point.

"you have ochaco, can you please just give me my journal & leave me alone? you two can be happy far, far away from me," you said, cursing yourself for choking up. you mentally prepared for the teasing & "witty" comebacks bakugou had in store.

instead, he asks, "are you jealous?"

"what?"

"are you jealous?"

you scoffed, opening the door to the dorm building. "don't flatter yourself, big guy."

"i'm being serious," he said to you as he leaned on the counter. you were so hungry that you didn't really care bakugou was watching you cook. "because i was."

"what are you getting at, bakugou?" you asked, putting a pot of water on the stove, bringing it to a boil.

"i was so jealous today," he said.

"of what?"

"of damn shindo kid," he responded back. your angered expression contorted into a puzzled one as you looked up at him. when you didn't reply, he continued, "if i knew stupid one liners got your attention, i would've been doing that sooner."

you couldn't believe what you were hearing. the guy who's been making the past few months hell was confessing something you never expected. "what about ochaco, hm? i thought you needed her to breath or something."

"yeah, i guess i liked her at first, & that's why i needed your help," he admitted. he then fished a journal, your journal, out of his bag & stood up. he walked towards you, hand outstretched with your beloved diary in his grasp. you reached out for it when he lifted it above your head with a taunting smirk. "but then i realized that i wanted you this entire time."

--nsfw starts here--

"you're just saying stupid things to get a rise out of me, bakugou," you rolled your eyes at him. you placed a hand on his chest as you jumped for your journal, fingers touching it ever so lightly. it was just out of reach.

you thought you had it, he brought the notebook down. however, you didn't have it. he threw it on the counter behind you, & the hand the was holding it snakes around your waist. his other hand grabbed your face, stroking your cheek as he kissed you.

you don't know why, but you found your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. without breaking your lips apart, he pushed you against the counter, pinning you between his two arms now. his tongue, the tongue that craved you since that unknown night, licked your lips before fighting yours for dominance. his thigh was between your legs. he pressed your core against him, & you moaned.

bakugou shut off the burner during your kiss. he was expecting the two of you to escape into his room, but when you threw off his tie & unbuttoned his shirt eagerly, he knew he needed you right then & there.

the two of you broke your kiss, & he placed his head in the crook of your neck. "you get off on making me jealous, don't you? that's why you were flirting with stupid shindo?"

"wh-whatever, you jerk. you act like you weren't basically grinding on ochaco in front of me all the time?"

bakugou laughed into the nape of your neck. "grinding? all we did was talk."

"same fuckin' thing," you growled in frustration.

"i didn't know you were so jealous of her."

"oh, fuck off, asshole," you said. you were quickly shut up by him biting your sensitive spots all over your neck, sucking & licking to create hickeys.

he took off your tie & ripped open your shirt. he unhooked your bra, throwing it god knows where. "take this fuckin' thing off," he uttered, helping you out of your torn clothes.

"h-hey!"

"shut up, & take it. i'll buy you a new one," he said before fondling your breasts. you bit your lip as your grinded against his meaty thigh. your wetness, even though you had panties on, began staining his slacks.

"bakugou~" you whispered, voice shaking.

"it's katsuki tonight, dummy," he told you, turning you around & bending you over the counter. you brushed your journal out of the way as you pressed you tits onto the cold, granite countertop.

with three fingers, he pinched your pussy through your panties so his middle one snuck in between your lips. "stop being a tease & fuck me already." if only you knew.

"be patient, woman," scowled katsuki, smacking your ass. he set of small sparks when he hit your cheek. "you can't take this cock yet. i'm doing you a goddamn favor."

you doubted him, you really did. he was so cocky & arrogant, how could you not? "i can take your tiny dick any day, don't underestimate me."

katsuki let out a hearty, sarcastic laugh. "you really think so, dumb bitch?" he unclicked his belt, dropping his pants & boxers around his ankles. he started to grind against your ass, & you swore up & down it felt like deja vu.

you gasped as you felt his length between your ass. you've had dreams about cocks that big, sure, but you didn't know they actually existed. "wh-what the fuck?"

"what? still think you take me? still think i'm tiny, sweetheart?" katsuki taunted as he took off your panties. he pressed your thighs around his cock, the base of it stimulating your swollen clit. he thrusted gently; it was so against his brash, aggressive character.

you were not one to back down, so at least you stayed true to your character. "yeah, i can take your skinny ass dick-" you were cut off by katsuki spreading your ass & shoving his girthy length into your throbbing heat. you screamed, tongue hanging out of your mouth as you tried to adjust to him.

he wouldn't let you though. katsuki, once inside your tight pussy, started pounding you. he shoved his cock head into your g-spot over & over, making you quiver & pulsate around him. "sl-sl-slow d-down!" you begged between thrusts. in response, he pulled your head back with your hair. you arched uncomfortably; your pelvis was still against the edge of the counter, but your head was pulled so far back that you could see katsuki's face.

"you think you're all that? you think you can just flirt with all these other guys in front of me? you fuckin' slut," he spat into your mouth, not that it mattered since it mixed with your drool & fell out of your mouth & onto your cold body. "i own you now. i own this mouth, i own this pussy, i own this ass, i own you."

"f-f-"

"c'mon, pathetic whore. say it."

"fuck y-you, katsuki." oh, you were a brat through & through clearly.

katsuki has had enough of your retaliation. you were supposed to be a brainless bimbo begging for more, yet here you were, surprising him again. any bit of consciousness you had, he was going to fuck out if you.

he, without pulling out, let go of your hair & made you stand up. he grabbed both your legs & hoisted you into this air. his hands found their way behind your head, & you couldn't move. you were nothing more than a cum dumpster to him now. "you know, if anyone walks through that door, they're gonna see you folded in half, tears streaming down your face with my cock balls deep in your dripping pussy, & they'd realize how much of a slut you are, & they'd know that you're all mine."

you didn't mean to, but your pussy clenched around his cock tighter as more of your juices squirted onto the linoleum floor. "oh, you like that, princess?"

you moaned in response, eyes rolling to the back of your head when he praised you. "aw, how pathetic. you must love when i call you cute nicknames & tell you how good you're doing." with whatever head movement you had, you nodded.

"that's a shame because you've been nothing but dirty, i can't treat you like a good girl until you deserve it."

"p-please! i'll do anything!" you cried out, then you started twitch uncontrollably around him. a white, hot wave of pleasure washed over you as you creamed all over his cock. he wasn't done yet, he still abused your cervix, making you beg for him to stop, or at least slow down.

his thrusts turned rapid as he started to groan about how you were all his, how he wasn't going to let any other man look at you, how he would be the only one you ever think about. you knew that was all true. "y/n, you fuckin' bitch, i hate you & your pretty, little face. take it all," he yelled as he unloaded his load into your tight pussy.

you screamed in overwhelming pleasure, squirting all over him once again. the two of you caught your breaths. he set you down once his cock finally stopped twitched, & he spun you around to embrace you. "i'm so sorry, y/n. i promise i'll be the best boyfriend in the world, just give me a chance. i know we're enemies or whatever, but i don't wanna be that anymore, & i don't want to be whatever this is; just fucking like we hate each other then go our separate ways." you've never seen this side of katsuki before.

"i-i'd like that, i'd like to be your girlfriend."

you hated him. you hated how he made you feel. you hated how he infected your mind, how he ruined you for any other man. you hated how you knew you needed him.

[lvmimis]

cw: minors dni. smut. first time sex. literal breeding. sci-fi themed. female body parts for reader. izuku is bigger than reader. size kink if you squint.

The dynamics of the world as you knew it thousands of years ago are now gone, and ever since you awoke from cryogenic slumber just 24 hours ago, the next phase of humanity’s plan to continue to exist and expand through the stars is now in progress.

Repopulation.

The new Earth substitute you inhabit is practically devoid of humans and will need bodies, at least until enough of you can build robots to replace your physical labor. There are fifty of you in total, of reproductive age and of peak physical, intellectual and emotional ability (aggregate, with some compartments allowed to be lower than others), and you are assigned to partners based on your compatibility.

They call you terraforming partners. It’s a euphemism for mate. Your only job is to breed.

There are of course other departments to work in the colonizing efforts. Some of the selected fifty have double appointments in the repopulation department and in research and development, others in art and communications, still others in nutrition. You failed to select a secondary appointment prior to your assignment to this planet, and thus have the appointment of Propagator-09A.

It is time to meet your mate. Taking in a deep breath, you leave your quarters, housed in one of two L-shaped buildings surrounding the Nexus or central headquarters, and walk straight down the hall of the dorm building into the designated repopulation centers. These are where you will perform your duties.

The two of you will enter a dome-shaped building from opposite ends of the room. You’re not sure who awaits you on the opposite end of the door, just that they are sexually compatible with you, and pass other measures of compatibility based on a predetermined algorithm. This algorithm is not meant for love, not meant for marriage, just sex and reproduction. Will you two produce at least two minimum viable human children that can be turned over to the administration to be raised? That’s all that is asked of you, and that is what you are contracted to do -

... regardless of who will show up in the next few minutes.

The watch on your wrist monitors your heart rate and everything other than it, and it is starting to beep in concern of your rising heart rate. You suck air into your lungs and let it blow out of your nose. 

Mates are not allowed to hurt you. They are to watch for your comfort, as you are to watch for theirs, they are to stop if you’re not ready, and you are allowed to leave at any time. They are meant to fit you perfectly, and you were specific enough in your application to explain how you liked to be held and pleased.

This will be okay, you tell yourself. It will all be okay.

The door slides upwards into the apex of the dome, and you step into your new home away from home, at presumably the same time as your mate. Marching straight into the center of the room, your eyes lowered to the ground to steady yourself, you don’t notice that the man on the opposite end has not yet begun to move, and when you look up finally once you’ve reached the center, you see him for the very first time, and his cheeks are tinted with the deepest of blushes.

The young man’s lips are parted wide, his hands balled into loose fists at his side as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Immediately, you recognize him from the debriefing session just prior to the cryogenic freezing and the young man - tall, handsome, far too talkative with a voice gentler than expected for a man of his stature but in keeping with his softened but still masculine facial features - seems to hang in the frame of the door, transfixed. Not one word comes out of his mouth. You notice the top of his head, covered in mossy green curls, just barely grazes the top of the door, remembering that the domes have much lower ceilings than the buildings back home.

“Hi,” you eke out, then quickly add, “watch your head.”

Your voice is smaller than usual as you offer him a slightly nervous, strained smile, and he looks as though a shock runs through his body as you speak to him, bumping his head anyway as he walks in despite your warning. You raise your eyebrows, and he laughs just as nervously before meeting up to you.

Standing just inches apart, he scratches his neck, and the pink beneath his freckles still hasn’t abated, but at least now he can talk.

“Sorry about that haha, I’m… I just didn’t realize you’d be so pretty.”

Your own face deeply warms at those words. He’s easy on the eyes too, and you’re thankful for it, but he doesn’t need to charm you as easily as he does. 

Shy yourself, you’re at a loss for words to reply, even thank you failing to be generated. He notices the silence, and quickly fills in the space.

“I’m Izuku. Izuku Midoriya… uh, your terraforming partner. Nice to meet you.”

His hand stretches out to shake yours, and you shake it. It’s larger, warm, and heavily calloused. You wonder what type of work he does, before the mission or now that he’s on this planet with you. With those broad shoulders and impressive biceps of his, you figure it could be something manual, but he’s always sounded quite intelligent so perhaps the muscles are more for show.

“Nice to meet you too. I’m ___.”

As if on cue, once you’ve introduced yourselves, the doors slide down behind the both of you, closing you in. There’s a loud click, and then the pod announces that it’s moving underground, and you steady yourself as gravity shifts. Your partner’s hands extend reflexively to hold you to prevent you from falling, but he’s careful not to touch you unless the motion is invited.

The pod settles onto solid ground again.

The space isn’t small, but it’s not large either, and while it’s mostly monotone, a smattering of whites and beiges and glass, many of the surfaces are soft and plush. A large, round bed with many pillows, a glass panel that doubles both as a window and a screen is across from it. When you try the window, you realize your pod hasn’t moved completely underground, and you can still see the suns’ rays in the afternoon. You’d heard that the pods are set up this way for insulation. For heat, and for… sound.

You look towards Izuku again. His back is turned from you and he’s looking around the pod as well, examining every corner and crevice, his fingers rubbing his chin as he thinks. He’s a caricature of a thoughtful person, you think, soon distracted by the way his shirt hangs over the muscles of his back. He stretches for a moment, and you see the muscles flex under the thin fabric. Something stirs in your chest, then you look away quickly, deciding to search through the closets.

These algorithms hit the nail on the head when it comes to your type, you hate to admit.

Poring through the closets and drawers reveals all manners of lingerie and loungewear, as well as a few very specific costumes that seem to be for roleplay. Your face warms as you see a set of angel wings, and a bunny leotard, then you glance at him, wondering if these are the types of things he’s into. When you see the gladiator suit hung neatly right next to it, you can feel your blood run cold. 

Yes, it’s what you’re into.

There’s a fridge in the center of the room with protein drinks, meal replacement shakes, fresh fruit, wine, chocolate and other sweets, as well as a call button for meals. Cutlery and dishes find themselves in another drawer, along with a small table spread and two chairs that appear at the click of a button in the wall. A makeshift fireplace. 

Anything to set the mood.

Pornography in abundance. Dirty comics. You and Izuku both stare in awe at the sheer collection of spank material, then look at each other, and can’t help but laugh.

They really prepared for everything.

By the time you’ve looked at everything, your stomachs are growling. You share a meal together in polite conversation, which turns into friendly banter, laughter, and then soon, back into pregnant silence as you realize the sun is setting, and you remember there not on a date, not to become friends but for a purpose. 

The ability to delay the inevitable is now being lost, and eventually you’re both acutely aware of the body that occupies the same space. Izuku looks up at you, clears the plate before him, and broaches the subject first.

“Have you ever-”

“Yes,” you lie.

“Oh.”

He looks down for a second, then looks up at you. You wonder if he’s disappointed, but soon he adds, “I’m sorry if I can’t meet up to expectations but I’m willing to learn how to make you feel good.”

Your stomach twists for a moment, but you offer a smile. He looks sincere, no waver in those bright, green eyes, and it warms you. The two of you clear away the dishes soon, and Izuku tells you he’ll be careful with your body, once clothing has been stripped away, and the two of you are bare and facing each other.

You don’t know what that will entail before he touches you, but the inevitable attraction you have towards him, the magnetic draw that he has to your body, informs you soon. Your lips meet, you on your tip-toes, and his arms reaching carefully around his waist. The first kiss is reticent, soft and anxious, the second is hungry, the third is greedy. His tongue tastes everything your mouth has to offer, yours fights to get its share as well. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, as your chest presses against his. Your hearts beat in time with each other. Thump, thump.

Izuku’s skin smells like spring water and freshly cut grass, and is soft and warm to the touch; his weight against yours is a comfort you’ve needed your whole life. His breath against your skin, soft kisses along your collarbone, between your breasts, over your lower belly, and finally culminating with his mouth laying over your clit makes your body buzz. He whispers something about reading that you cumming first will make you accept him better, but the way he eats you out hungrily makes you think that it’s less tactical and more for the pleasure of it. He’s good with his fingers, too, thick and deep in your crevices, gentle but purposeful. 

The act of copulation can be such a solemn, resolute affair, but for you two it’s a new dance, where your bodies open up to each other in concert. Your bodies press and join together, your mouths each swallowing the other’s gasps as he enters you, as you take all of him in. You feel like heaven, he feels like paradise; the ebb and flow between you is perfect, unending. The sun sets without your notice because all you can see is each other.

Unconquered territory is discovered inch by inch, from inside out. Izuku makes your toes curl, your heart skip several beats as you cry out his name, even if you’ve just learned it moments ago. It’s a job, but the pleasure seems almost sinfully indulgent.

And you’re both extremely hard workers by nature. 

Breathless by the time he’s filled you to the brim, you have to remind each other that you don’t have to be pregnant at this very moment. He pulls out of you reluctantly, and your body tries to hold onto him, but all good things must come to an end, even if temporarily.

“Are you okay?” he whispers over your knees. 

You’re better than okay, full of affection and hope, flooded in hormones. You nod, Izuku offers a kiss to both your kneecaps as he applies just enough pressure with a forearm to keep your folded position. Parts of his semen slips out of you and he asks you if he can, and when you nod, cheeks warm and breathing steady, pushes the slippery substance back into your body with two fingers. 

A timer goes off and he sighs, laying down beside you.

“Testing is at the end of the week,” he muses. He’s staring at the ceiling. You want to reach over to him, but it feels too intimate for a first meeting, even if he’s been in your guts, even if he’s planting himself forever into you.

“Yeah.”

“I think we can do it,” he adds. Your worn out body warms, wanting more already. 

It’s just a job, you remind yourself. It’s work, not play. Duty, not love.

“Me too.”

Izuku turns to look at you, and he’s so earnest and sweet, you can practically imagine you are lovers, instead of biologically matched mates, and that rather than this transient mission, you’ll be together for the rest of your lives.

[glisteningmirror]

Vee's design isn't very good [Critcism/Rant]

I'm back on my medication, so let me rant about why Vee's design bothers me, as someone who's real into character design and a big fan of gameshow host characters.

I think it's important that I start with things I like about her design.

Vee's a television that's a television host; that's very satisfying connection of themes.,

She's specifically a CRT that invokes a 70's-80's vintage-styled gameshow host, which lines up well with the timeline of the character's in-universe conception.,

She's a lady host, and a fairly GNC one at that. Female television hosts are less common than male ones, especially within the gameshow genre. Female hosts are typically referred to by the title of hostess, and, moreso back in the day, are usually expected to wear feminine formal attire (Dresses, jewelry ETC.) as opposed to the suits you're used to. Vee is canonically shown sticking to the masculine counterparts regardless,

She's portrayed to have an ego from her status,

Basically, she has some good ideas going on, so lets move on to what about the execution disappoints me.

Conceptually:

I never understood why she's a robot. Is it because she's an electric appliance? Because Brightney (and likely Astro) contradict this by remaining organic. Not to mention, the game treats her more like a computer than a television because of this, and it's way too convoluted to make much sense.,

I don't like her writing. Why is she pissed off all the time? Like, I'd get it if she had a temper boiling under the surface, and I know she's meant to be upset by how centre treats her, but they seem to just forget that she's a showman, and supposed to maintain some semblance of charm that a disgruntled, snippy attitude contradicts. Like, she's even shown to be like this when she's on stage.

A host's whole job is to be the face of their show; keep up a charismatic persona that keeps the show engaging and guide their guests with a playful hospitality. Of course, every host is going to have a different personality, but cold and pissy simply doesn't work for for a family-friendly gameshow. She can have complexities, but an approachable stage presence should come first, even if it's just a front.

This is more of a nitpick, but functionality-speaking, I don't think she should be a main. Mains are the main characters of the show, who we presumably are given the perspective of in every episode. A famous show host just seems like the type of character that would be hard to follow alongside the humble suburbanites she's friends with; celebrity status gives her a higher and much more scrutinized position in society, and she'd probably spend too much time busy at the studio to keep a good grasp on her neighborhood relationships. She seems more like a character that would be restricted to posters and episodes taking place on her set, with the occasional appearance outside of that. In gameshows, hosts are, for a lack of better words, a set piece; sure they're an important part, but you're more supposed to root for and identify with the contestants. Even in episodes on her show, she'd probably take a backseat most of the time, while the conflict surrounds the show's challenges and the other characters taking them up (we're even show this very thing directly with Winning Big).

Speaking of her show, we've never been given an actual name for it. It's been shown multiple times, and you'd think she'd take the opportunity namedrop its cheesy title, but no. We're stuck calling it "Vee's Show".

Visually:

Her design doesn't invoke what it should correctly. All she has to portray her occupation is a lone bowtie and the microphone that she only sometimes has. When I first played the game, I remembered having no idea what her character was supposed to be until I saw her TV animations. And, with her green monochrome display for a face, the only thing visually tipping you off that she's a television at all is her antennae.,

The shapes for her face are unappealing, at least to me. Her expression fits how she's written, and though that's good in a vacuum, it's just another manifestation of the issues I detailed above.

Her colors are not very good. Discounting neutrals, the only color in her pallet is green, and it's not well distributed or contrasted. Take a look at the green of her face and bowtie:

It's a weird shade of bright green that's hard to look at, and not distinct enough from her body color to stand out very well. This especially looks bad on her model.

A neck accessory with good contrast could've helped break up her head and torso being the same color, but it very much doesn't do that.

I don't like the butt-microphone. I don't like that she's a robot in general, but even with that it's just weird-looking and too high-concept. My best buddy made the good point that it could've come out of the back of her head, where televisions keep all their ports and wires, but I guess she had to have a tail for no reason.

I don't have enough space to touch upon her Twisted or answer the question of "Well, then how would you fix these issues?", so those'll have to be a seperate part.

[axolartandfics]

Transformers and Female Body Types (Rant/Essay)

(I wanted more images in this, but tumblr has a limit and it was a lot of pictures anyway)

Anyone who complains about female transformers having “robot boobs” needs to shut up. Unless it’s a case of critiquing a design that’s genuinely caricatured, this complaint only serves to protest against robots looking too feminine, as if all robots by default should have broad, masculine shoulders and flat chests instead. The problem is that people look at a masculine transformer and say, “Ah yes, an anthropomorphised robot.” But the moment it’s one of the female transformers, it’s “why do robots need boobs?” as if a male-looking body type is anthropomorphizing, but a female-looking body time is suddenly “too human” or “too much.” As if all humanoid robot aliens should look male by default.

That being said, for a long time transformers did have a glaring issue of their female transformers having a generic, Barbie-doll like body type. This especially became problematic as male characters appeared with several different and varying heights and builds, while female characters all looked the same.

This eventually improved with newer media. I’m going to go through different transformers series, giving my opinions on various female Cybertronians designs.

Transformers Animated and Transformers Prime are the cases where we see the very few female characters that there are being designed with this more Barbie doll look, especially in comparison to the male cast, who each have strikingly different silhouettes. I maintain that there’s nothing wrong with having this stereotypically feminine figure as long as it’s not caricatured or designed to sxualize the character (in TFA’s case, Black Airachnid was extremely sexualized, but Arcee wasn’t at least) it’s just the lack of variety that makes it painful. If all female characters were designed with a stocky, square body type, it would be just as bad; the problem is the lack of diversity in representing how each woman is different.

I think Arcee from Transformers Prime gets some of the most comments about how she has breasts and hips and is most often faced with the question “why should robots have boobs?” In response to this question, I propose: why shouldn’t they? The shape of their chassis really doesn’t matter in the end. I like Arcee’s design and acting like she’s inherently caricatured for looking like a woman is just a way of alienating femininity.

TFP Arcee is also unfortunately sexualized a lot by the fandom. Primus forbid a woman exist in peace.

The problem with these ‘Barbie doll’ designs isn’t that they are oversexualized— while this may have been a problem with Black Airachnia, the true problem, as seen especially with the treatment of TFP Arcee, is the concept that any female body traits are inherently sexual, which both creators and fandom spaces feed into.

It’s not as prominent, but I’ve also seen a trend of attempting to give female transformers more diverse body types by giving them… male body types.

In Transformers Cyberverse, the Seekers all have the same body type, whether they are male, female, or genderfluid, the only differences being that the female models have lips and the male ones have facial-hair like chin stubs (and Acid Storm switches back and forth). However I would hardly call this progress, because the body type is more male-leaning, not truly gender neutral.

Often to make something appear gender neutral, people will just remove anything too obviously feminine. This treats masculine traits as the “default” and female traits as a deviance from this. A truly gender-neutral design would incorporate both masculine and feminine traits at the same time.

(What if we just made all the Seekers look like women and gave the dudes chins. What if we did that. Huh.)

Shadowstriker from Cyberverse is a better example of this, having a female body type but a chin stub and generally gender neutral face.

I like the look of Alpha Strike as well, she feels actually gender neutral and isn’t too exaggerated like most muscular (and especially muscular female) characters are.

For example, Clobber’s design is good, but I do think her lips were strangely exaggerated.

Once the IDW run of the Transformers comics actually introduced female characters, they eventually gained a large cast with a variety of different body types. Take Windblade, Nautica, Pyra Magna, the Mistress of Flame, and Aileron.

These aren’t all examples, but IDW certainly had a unique design for each of their female characters, with different heights, width, mixing and matching the proportions of their bodies and displaying diverse body types. Aileron is also a stand-out character design for me, as one of the few heavy-set transformers to be designed in a way that looks more rounded than bulky, implying weight over muscle. We need more weighted transformers in general.

I have many positive feelings about Transformers Earthspark’s choice of character design for their female characters.

Earthspark has the most consistently diverse character design for its female characters.

And it shows that the key to designing actually good female Cybertronians isn’t necessarily to make them not feminine, but to show diverse depictions of femininity. All of the female characters in this show are pretty feminine, but they all look different. Twitch is small and slight, Hashtag is tall and boxy. Each one has different proportions and are easy to tell apart by body type alone. Even better, they each have drastically different facial structures. Twitch has large eyes, Hashtag has a strong chin, Elita-1 has a straight nose and pronounced lips, Arcee has small eyes and a very slight nose, et cetera. Earthspark is definitely a win in this department.

My point with all of this is to say that femininity isn’t a one-size fits all. Every woman is different and everyone should get to express their gender in whatever way they see fit. Transformers gradually diversifying the look of their female characters represents this, and I hope they continue improving as the franchise continues.

[100frogsinatrenchcoat]

It’s kinda interesting to me that ENA’s salesperson side is more human-looking, and is also red. I feel like humanity and the color red are both things that are usually associated with emotion or passion or frustration. Also, sales ENA has like, glove hands, which feel like they wouldn’t be much good for someone who is meant to be working. It feels like it would be less convenient.

And on the other hand, meanie ENA is more robotic looking, which feels like it should be the opposite. You’d expect the job-oriented people-pleasing side to be the more angular/digital/robotic side, and the emotional side to be more human, but it’s not. I’d also assume that the angry emotional side would be red like a warning sign, but instead she’s a pale silvery white. And she has fully articulated hands and fingers, which makes sense because they’re sort of like claws, but it’s odd that sales ENA doesn’t.

And there’s definitely some things that fit, like sales ENA is softer while meanie ENA is sharper, but in general I feel like I would typically expect them to be switched. I’d expect the more robotic looking side to be more goal oriented and less emotional, and the more human looking side to be more emotional and less goal oriented.

Idk if it means something, but I think there’s something to be said about dehumanization and how ENA is only seen as a worthy part of society when she’s useful. Sales ENA is more human, softer, more palatable, and more colorful. Sales ENA is the side that’s meant to be seen. Meanwhile, meanie ENA is sharper, less human, meant to be pushed to the side and forgotten. Your eye is probably going to be drawn to the red side first. And that makes sense! Sales ENA is usually talking more and leading the conversation. She’s human, she’s soft, she’s helpful! The other part of ENA is less human, less worthy, not helpful to anyone. (I know most characters aren’t “human” but I mean symbolically, y’know?)

And I think there’s also something to be said about the voices. Ena is one character, and she’s a woman, but sales ENA has a masculine voice and meanie ENA’s voice is feminine. I feel like there could be something there about how when women are emotional they’re seen as erratic or over the top and it’s “typical woman behavior”. ENA is a woman, but she’s only seen as useful when she’s taking on what is considered a more masculine role— a worker. But despite that, her useful side still needs to be soft. Strong and useful, but never threatening.

Idk I’m just kinda rambling but I think it’s interesting. I love the character design in dream bbq and I’m not sure if it actually means anything but it’s fun to think about

[charleecat-bat]

Sonic LGBT+ Headcanons

For the sake of pride month, I wanna share some headcanons that i've got or that i thought over. Some are still heavily what-if's and hypotheticals.

And for the love of god if you don't agree with these. it's not a huge deal... i really am not looking to cause any rage or arguments. please. this just simple fun.

Sonic- Aroace. This is pretty easy. And I have played around with the idea of him being transgender. Either way he is down for people living their truths and being themselves <3

Tails- Transgender. Since he's just a boi I haven't put much thought to how he'd identify himself but you can't tell me he doesn't give trasngender vibes. The way he rejects his given name and goes by a chosen name. Idk personally if he'd be mtf or ftm. I could see it either way. Be your best self little buddy <3

Knuckles- Bisexual (DUH i mean so many see him as this i can't help it too) and thanks to talks with a lot of my friends in the Knuckles chat, I do imagine he's on the nonbinary spectrum. He has no real strong feelings towards gender. Just tends to go by he/him cause that's what people usually go by, but would likely respond to anything. Boi don't care.

Amy- A pansexual queen <3 and I have also pondered her being trasngender too. Either way. QUEEN <3 She probably adores the celebration and parade of this month, such expressions of love towards others and yourself means so much to her.

Rouge- She's an interesting one... I've had a lot of thoughts about how she identify. I do love her being trasngender. We barely know anything about her past, perhaps it was to her own design. Leaving her dead name and her past self behind her. When it comes to her opinion on romance and sexuality i've always gone back and forth. The closest I've come to is omnisexual and aromantic. I just see her being not that keen on being tied down romantically.

Shadow- Now for Shadow, of course he'd be somewhere on the spectrum of nonbinary. Heck I've even pictured him being possibly Intersex. They should have some more rep. <3 Meanwhile for sexuality Demisexual and Demiromantic feels the most right for him as of now. He'd need some time to open up in that sense, not feel much attraction until he's made a prior bond.

Omega- Agender. Bros a robot. Of course he has no gender. He'd def be firing flaming conffetti at pride though, let the bot celebrate in his own way. Violently.

Cream- Look, she's a lil tot. I don't really have much thoughts for her, as I don't really ship her with anyone, so I don't think about that sort of stuff. I do imagine no matter what she grows to be or identify with she is a strong ally and as long as your nice she supports you <3

Big- Big is such a tough one, I could see SO many fitting him... i've gone back and forth so many times. I've made him gay, ace, aroace, demi, pan and even gender wise he's just 'big' i could see him being super lax when it comes to gender. So it's kinda hard to label him... so far he kinda has to be unlabeled, he's just... Big. He's an ally for sure, but jeez for a fav of mine I can't really decide on what I wanna headcanon him as.

Vanilla- I know I could easily make her a straight ally but I like to see her as bisexual. Also I do see her being such a supportive figure to those, especially those without a mother. At parades she'd offer mother hugs and also give advice, snacks and water for those in the parade.

Vector- Vector's got a lot of options for me, I know most people ship him mostly with Vanilla but I like to play around with his orientation. I've gone back and forth between Polysexual or Ominisexual.

Espio- I like to think Espio gender wise might be genderfluid. i could him appearing more masculine one time, feminine another, and then androgynous another. He is a chameleon, his identity fluctuates as much as his skin. :p I can imagine him as a pansexual mess though, gender might not mean much to him but the minute he has an attraction. WELP GOOD LUCK TO HIM KEEPING HIS COOL. he can try but we all know how he really is behind that mask.

Charmy- Much like Cream, I haven't given him much thought. He is a kid after all. The only thought i've had is him being possibly a trans child but again i haven't really thought much about it. Sorry Charmy LOL

Blaze- I headcanon she's a lesbian. That's just me though. Probably doesn't help it's a flaming looking flag that is just a funny coicidence though LOL. I just see her liking girls but not being sure how to express her feelings.

Silver- he's always been hard to place at least with sexuality. Asexual feels right for him but when it comes to romance. I'm not sure... possibly gay? IDK... He's always been hard. Gender wise I feel demi-boy feels right. He/they pronouns for them.

Jet- I personally see him as a closeted gay. I know there are some fokls who'd likely disagree but this is just my own headcanon. Who knows maybe he needs to stretch out. But since I haven't really shipped him with any girls, nor have I had any ship that has made me wanna change that. I'll just stick with this for now. He likely just needs some time to explore his identity. But for now he's very tight-lipped and is likely not ready to confront it or come out. Maybe some day. (I just like making him a ball of insecurity and having him confront and deal with his issues. CHARACTER GROWTH FOR YOU BOY)

Wave- She's... hard. But what feels the most right to me is Demisexual, or even Ace. But is biromantic.

Storm- For a long time I wasn't sure how to label him. What feels the most right is pansexual. Another headcanon I have was kinda on accident though but I now kinda headcanon him as polyamorous. This mostly happened on accident due to how many poly's he's been included in fun lil au's of mine.

Nack- Gay. I have not really shipped him with any females so I just see him as a gay lil guy LOL i'm not sure if has anymore layers to his identity though, he might but I have not really explored his character in that sense.

Bark- Now originally, I wanted to say Gay... but tbh I kinda like omnisexual for him better. I can see him leaning towards men and masculine people far more, but the attraction for other genders is still there.

Bean- Hilariously I have not really explored Bean a lot, I've only shipped him with one person and that's a girl. But straight ally still doesn't feel right for him LOL i can see him exploring himself in the future though. but right now let him set off a bunch of rainbow smoke and confetti bombs.

Mighty- Gay. I've always headcanoned him being gay. That's just how I view him. i can see him being such a heavy ally though. He'd def paint his shell for fun of it and carry so many flags in support.

Ray- Like a lot of the other youths, I haven't given him much thought but... I have had an idea that's stuck with me although I don't know if anyone would really agree but idk. It's just an idea. I liked the idea of further along down the line Ray starts to explore his gender identity and perhaps feels happier appearing more feminine and even transitioning... Just the idea of Ray trying on a dress or skirt and being genuinely happy in just makes me happy to think about but I haven't explored this idea much further and I think i've only told one person.

And that's all the ones I had. Please don't take these too seriously. I know people can get so bent out of shape over headcanons... i'm not looking to cause arguements I just wanted to share my thoughts that I've had. Heck these could change even as most of the time i'ts hard for me to decide labels for characters, whether canon or my own. Keeping them unlabeled is just much easier.

Happy Pride Month everyone <3

[undasura]

I'm usually not a huge fan of fleshy robots/androids, but I think Rali's design is probably one of my favorite ones!

Also Zephyr makes me feel good about how I look a bit more as a somewhat masculine pre hrt trans woman

:)

i feel powerful that i could persuade u to enjoy her fleshiness??!?!! my powers.... i think it helps u can see her roboty parts so it gives less of a fleshy feel

also :) yayy... im glad the "somewhat masc" shows in zephy.. i dont think shes really butch like some ppl say? shes the softest butch a soft butch can be imo.... shes pants. regardless though thank you and im glad i could make u feel good T_T