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screampied · 8 months ago

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#TRYNA FUCK ME I'M LIKE OKAY! g. suguru

☆ sum. suguru geto wasn’t used to losing a race, especially to a fucking rookie—but you’ve got him confused, intrigued, and… hard? long story short, ever since he hit it he’s never been the same.

wc. 6.8k

warnings. fem! reader, street racer! geto, pwp, unprotected, 2 fast 2 furious references, bratty reader, rivals to lovers ( ? ), geto has a dīck piercing, big size kink, riding, he fucks you on the hood of your car, cunnīlingus, sore loser geto gets humbled lel, overstim, squīrting, dirty talk, praise, petnames.

an. chase atlantic inspired me again </3 same au as this one.

second fucking place. he got second place and he lost to you, a newbie—the newest racer with the prettiest trendy wheels, flashy rims, and a hot pink 2001 honda s2000. stupid, stupid, the reality of losing left a sour taste in geto’s mouth. he can’t remember the last time he’s lost, ever. .

the moment he saw your car bolt in front of him at those last few milliseconds of the race with fiery pink smoke coughing from your steel pipes dusting near his front window, he just knew he lost to you. geto scoffs. “tch,” he’d mumble, slamming his car door shut, and releasing the straps of his custom-made helmet. you leaned against your slick hood, innocently fanning yourself with a pamphlet of the track’s course layout that was given to every racer before glancing at geto. he was quite tall and he looked down at you with a look of intrigue and bitter annoyance. “cheater.”

“excuse me?” you raise a brow. you knew damn well who he was, suguru geto—one of the if not the best street racer in tokyo. notorious for his wins and extremly cocky ego - except this time, your win against him bruised that little detail a bit. a small grin spreads across your glossed lips before your eyes rove up and down his dark leather ripped clothes. “you said somethin’?”

“you heard me, sweetheart,” he utters, bringing a gloved hand up to his face. doing so, geto tucks his sticky black tresses back inside his helmet. he’s so close, that he practically has you cornered against the hot hood of your car and his eyes stare at the medal that’s pinned near the left side of your chest. that gold medal that was supposed to be his. “besides,” and you nearly gasped once you felt your rear tap against the front of your vehicle. “your ‘riding’ could use a ‘lil work, rookie.”

you saw the look in his eyes. he’s challenging you, geto sees you as a potential threat and he wasn’t fond of losing.. ever.

it just wasn’t in his vocabulary.

you don’t know why but beating one of tokyo’s top street racers made cocky pride swell right up in your chest. the same kind of cocky pride that he was used to, and damn were you a force to be reckoned with. he just had to learn that the hard way.

“do i?” you reply, reaching an arm inside of your car to twist the keys out of the ignition. with a roaring sputtering growl, your engine gradually turns off and the sounds of whirring wind fill the air.

geto’s got his hands buried in his pockets as his tall lean body stands still. he’s checking you out.

his head slightly tilts to the side with his helmet cracked open and you can feel his eyes trailing up your entire physique.

he’s studying you - trying to figure out just who this pretty girl that just dusted him in a race.

you’d be lying through your teeth if you didn’t idolize him just a little bit. he was well known not just in tokyo but worldwide. the fangirls loved him, and the racers despised him with envy.

beating the suguru geto was a rare fever dream of itself.

“or are you just upset you’re not in the spotlight for once?” brat.. though your comment made him scoff with a sly smile curling against his thin lips.

“mm. for a new racer you sure have a smart mouth,” and his eyes quickly dash toward your car.

hot pink, it even looked freshly new and painted. and just to put the icing on the cake, it also has a pretty character design painted near the sides with the addition of a cheetah print wheel.

he lost to . . that?

geto’s quietly admiring your ride though—it looked like it was straight out of a movie. once he looks down at you again, he speaks in a gruff intimidated tone, finishing his sentence. “it’s only your first win, don’t be cocky.”

“i’ll be cocky if i want,” you murmur, and there’s a loud competitive tension between you both.

people started to leave the car meeting spot until it was just the two of you. your car’s parked near one of the garages where geto’s car was coincidentally parked also. you’re still leaning against the pink hood of your car before walking up to him. you close the awkward distance between you both, being just a few inches apart.

you’re bold, and he liked your spunk although he’d never flat-out admit it.

just . . . who were you?

geto didn’t like losing—that’s already been established. but now, he’s starting to realize he probably has to deal with you in future races, and oh- he knew you were gonna be a problem.

and he was right, because perhaps he’d finally met his match.

“besides, even if i did cheat,” you retaliate, your tone sounding more and more coy and foxy. playfully, your arms wrap around his shoulders and you tap against his sheer black helmet that had ‘s. geto’ autographed in bold purple near the other shell. vexed, mousy eyes glare at you through the protective gear and you lean up all the way close. “what are you gonna do about it, suguru?”

famous last words,

because one moment you’re being nothing but a mere brat and the next, you found yourself bent over the hood of your pretty blush-colored honda.

well, fuck.

suguru geto didn’t take disrespect lightly . . although, he liked the brat in you. a nice change of pace, even though it pissed him off a bit - a lot.

“s- shit,” you gasp, feeling your thighs squeeze together. geto’s domineering aura sends you chills, the kind of chills where it runs through your entire soul.

he’s so close that you could almost taste his loud cologne on your tongue. it’s a manly scent, you’d probably guess one of the main ingredients was oak moss. as you’re pondering deep in thought, still trying to get over his loud smell—a hand gingerly starts to brush down your skimpy lace-up chaps.

his touch felt good. . and sure, maybe you’ve fantasized about this exact moment once or twice while watching his races broadcasted on live television. geto’s pressed up against you as you’re idly hunched over, biting your lip. with a huff, you’re so close to your tinted window that you were practically having a staring contest with your rosy windshield wipers. “aw. you planned to spank me over my car?”

“not exactly, pretty girl,” he tsks with a clicked tongue, and that’s when you feel it. something poking against your rear — oh, he was hard.

it was something hard and you don’t quite think it was his helmet..

that couldn’t have been anything else other than a raging boner, and it makes you smugly hum. geto groans once he feels your ass wriggling against his skin-tight leather jeans. “think you’re funny, yeah girl?”

“a bit,” you utter in a breathy tone, feeling his fingers zig-zag down the exposed straps of clothing that reveal a bit of skin. you didn’t mind his touch - in fact, you only wanted more.

the inside of the garage was widely spacious—big enough to fit your car and geto’s iconic skyline gtr. it’s a gorgeous midnight dark purple that glimmers in the dead of night, akin to a raven’s wings.

with the garage lot being empty, it was just the two of you, the witching hour steadily approaching. all that could be heard was the occasional squawks and chirps of squaking birds and loud cars honking near the far distance by the freeway. as he’s still got you pinned over, you bite your pointer finger with a cheeky hum. “hilarious even.”

but, you don’t find anything funny moments later when the street racer’s tongue is shoved right between your splayed, plush thighs.

not at all, in fact- the only ‘words’ that came from your mouth were babbling inaudible whimpers, and he made sure you’d eat your sentences… just like he’s eating out your first place cunt like the starved man he was.

with widened eyes and a stretched jaw hanging open, you stare back with a hand on your ass, giving your skin a soft squeeze. geto grunts, on his knees as you’re hauled right over your pretty decorated hood.

hell! you figured he’d ask to rematch but this..

it seemed like all he wanted to do was take out his loss on your pussy… with his second-place tongue.

and that’s just what he does too.

not that you were even complaining—suguru geto was a nasty man to no one’s surprise. he’s nasty on the road and he’s even nastier with his tongue recklessly driving up and down your slobbering twitching cunt.

you feel a crooked nose sloooowly drag its way like a trail against your entrance. geto starts near the bottom and then makes his way up, making sure to have his button nose dripping with your mess. letting off a sweet whimper, it doesn’t take long before he’s starting sucking against your swollen clit.

“hng,” a needy whine dashes from your throat, and you can already feel a shaking judder spasm between your legs. geto’s unapologetically sloppy with his mouth too. as he’s repeatedly flicking the pointed pink tip of his tongue in crazed different directions, a throaty hiccup leaves from your glued lips. “fuuck, do you usually mhm--do this to your opponents who hah, beat you?”

“only the ones with the smart fuckin’ mouths,” he replies with a quickness, taking a moment to spit right on your sticky cunt. it’s a loud ‘ptui’ and it’s a filthy slimy trail that dribbles past his lips, polishing near the creasing crevices of his mouth.

a rubber-gloved hand snakes toward the crack of your pried open thighs and he spanks your pussy, causing a cute shrieking squeal to leave out your strained cords. “also, a reminder again. you didn’t beat me. i let you win. big difference.”

“s- sure,” you sheepishly moan, feeling vapid air circle around you both.

the night was eerily and silently dead—you swallowed thickly, praying no one would see you bent over your flashy pink hood getting eaten out by one of the most famous street racers in the world. although, the thought of getting caught made you throb in a way you didn’t think it would.

he’s mean with his tongue.

geto was competitive in everything he did, including with how he ate it.

your strapped pants were pulled down along with your panties lazily sticking toward the side of your feeble quaking thighs.

within minutes his jaw would angrily ache, growing slack and locking from how it was reaching soreness - but he didn’t care.

if he didn’t win his race, the least he could do was win by eating you out…right?

geto’s designer mauve-colored helmet probably costed thousands and rests near the side of him. he took it off before he started to feast himself between your sprawled legs.

through hazed doe-like peripherals, you stare at it and admire the designs that paint across his visor.

everywhere, there’s writing and designs—and again, you spot his famous autograph that’s nearly written near the side. typical, of course, he’d autograph his helmet.

he’s suguru fuckin’ geto.

regardless though, you’re still nothin’ but a whining mess though, and as he continues to eat you out, you let off a sweet ‘ooh!’ as soon as he bites near your pearly clit.

it’s soft and tender, but it still makes you babble out a sobbing moan. his teeth gently nibbled against your pussy . . . leisurely slithering his tongue between your flooding flaps.

so good, each time you hear the wet smacks from his lips, you can hear geto huskily groaning out satisfying ‘mmmh’ ‘s.

it’s a feeling that makes your legs stagger within the firm hold of his hands. geto’s still wearing his gloves and each time the stretchy rubber rubs onto your skin, you moan. “fuck, fuckk,” you whine, and he’s groaning right against your sobbing cunt. his hair’s pinned back into a high messy ponytail - a few ravened strands running down the sides of his face. pretty long lashes of his were closed as he was slurping you clean.

so damn sweet . . . he wonders why he’s never seen you on the track until now. well- you were new. maybe he has seen you, but geto’s never been one to pay attention.

either way, you were a meal he didn’t wanna stop tasting, ever.

and despite the bitter taste of defeat continuously lingering on his flat tongue even still . . your cunt sprinkled a bit of flavor to it, an aftertaste of vying rivalry . .

“mmph,” he grunts, feeling you push him further into your cunt with one hand. with a twist, you turn your torso just a bit to look down at him, bringing his face further. geto’s slick wet tongue slides across your nub before he’s sloppily thrusting it in and out of your weeping flowery entrance.

you whimper once he reaches that spot, feeling a sudden heave of a breath snatch its way out from your puffed lungs. geto’s dark brows amusingly knit together and he’s already nose deep—the hooking bridge that smears against your pussy makes you nearly wail out a needy weep.

he’s smearing his face everywhere, and wet splotches of your juices started to coat his clear face.

but he doesn’t mind - geto’s always been one to get a ‘lil dirty during a match.

two slack lips munch against your clit wholly before his lengthy tongue reaches toward your winking hole. “pff,” he clicks his tongue, letting off another husky groan once he feels the tint in his pants arises.

fuck, you made him hard—even more, now that he was eating you out.

the louder you were, the more his dick twitched underneath the rough fabric of his jeans. it’s almost painful- the way his hardened bulge prods its way against the leathery fabric makes him suck his teeth. he needs you.

geto’s lips remain glued against your cunt before he uses a gloved thumb to peel your pudgy sweltering folds apart just a biiiit more.

his tongue creates a downward slope that trickles its way below your clitoral hood that’s frantically throbbing right in his mouth.

ba dum, ba dum, ba dum. . .

pulse pulse pulse after fucking pulse,

a smoky chuckle echoed from his lips as his shoulders slightly shake and fuck- it vibrates against your pussy. “god, she’s a ‘lil crybaby isn’t she,” he breathlessly mumbles as his thumb peels your soaked flaps all the way down. he’s intently staring inside, studying all the pretty nerves and your twitching nub before spitting right inside yet again.

airy cold breath fans over your nude slit and you whimper, feeling his tongue douse itself back inside. “were you drivin’ around this wet the entire time, princess?” and you moan, feeling the rubber of his palm smear a few circles around your clit. “drivin’ around, tryin’ to beat me with a pretty pussy this fuckin’ soaked?”

with a shivering whimper ghosting past your splintered lips, you snivel out a soft mewl.

“sugu—fuuuck, ‘m gonna cum,” and as your breath gets caught in your throat, you feel him grab a nice chunk of your ass.

at his very grip, he gives your rear a rude spank and the recoil makes him hum in amusement. so soft, the way it bounced just from his palm alone.

oh, and spanking you became his favorite thing to do, especially since you were so fucking noisy.

as a shrilling whine prepares to race out your strained esophagus, you nearly yank his head forward again, hearing him groan against your clit. “d- did you hear me? ‘m close, gonna cu—”

“yeah yeah girl, i heard you,” he swats your hand away, and the low grit that rumbles from underneath his tone makes you throb for the nth time.

geto brings a few digits up toward your cunt to rub against your runny folds, and he starts making out with your pussy - with tongue.

sloppy smacks slosh out from your crying folds and you gasp, feeling him impishly nip your clit with his teeth once more. “mmf,” and his eyes start to become low and hooded.

he’s pussy drunk, very much so.

geto eats you out until you’re abruptly coming undone on his tongue, letting off a sweet euphoric battle cry with your toes curling in your knee-high boots. fuck, and even as he’s savoring the syrupy taste that pours on his flat flushed tongue, he’s still eating you out.

with brief circular maneuvers of his tongue, he’s got you whimpering from the sensitivity. as a staticky twinge pulses through your pussy, your hand grabs at his hair hard, tugging near his roots, having to literally pry him apart.

your cunt was so sensitive, throbbing a plethora of pulses as your mouth fatally goes dry. “f- fuck,” you moan, and you can feel your legs stick together once they instinctively close shut.

“tsk. drama queen,” he soils his lips together that were now perfectly glossed from top to bottom with your juices.

oh, his chiseled chin was just shimmering with such sparkling sap that it even poured a stream down the lower part of his face. his tongue slides near the cracked corner of his right lip, and he’s just luxuriating at the treacly taste of you. if you tasted this good, maybe the second place wasn’t so bad after all. .

as he’s still lapping up his lips with a wolffish grin, geto notices you openly gawking at his bulge and he snickers, patting his fly with a gloved hand. “it’s rude to stare, sweetheart.”

“it’s rude to walk around with a bulge that big.”

“oh yeah? how ‘bout you fix that problem for me then, rookie?”

a brat, almost as much of a brat as you.

geto gets silenced once you slam your lips onto his, not even batting an eyelash that you’re tasting yourself on his tongue that’s swirling around yours.

it’s intense, you could feel your heartbeat start to match the exact pulsing pace from between your legs. his lips were icy, and you moaned—tasting a bit of mint that resides on his tongue.

his breath is freezing cold, it’s an almost sweet candied taste and you whine in his mouth once his hands start to roam up and down your body.

geto’s feeling you up- feeling up the pretty girl who just beat him in a race.

rough protected hands drag down your frame, taking in your curves before toying with the leather straps that droop against your pink lace-up chaps.

it’s as if even the kiss was far more competitive than the actual street race.

both desperately fought to win, swerving through each tongue like swerving lanes.

geto grunts, lightly pushing your ass back against the hood of your car. as tongues twist and tango in lewd unison, he seductively sucks on your pointed tip.

as geto’s eyes open halfway, you open yours, and he’s just staring at you with a look of feral - a carnal smug grin tweaking on each side of his lips.

“turn around again, pretty. hands on y’r hood like…this,” and once he spreads you apart, you moan once he rubs his bulge against the middle fabric of your pants. “good hah- messy girl.” his bulge was so damn hard, it felt like a brick.

the more he rubbed himself against you, the more your body ached and yearned for more.

oh..

his hands, geto kept his racing gloves on the entire time. as the stretchy rubber sensually crawls down your waist, you hear the jangling of his studded skull belt. with a few shuffles, he leans up close, pinning your hands behind your back like you were under arrest.

“just for the record again, you didn’t ‘beat’ me, you cheated,” and you scoff, feeling frigid air waft between your inner thighs. oh- here he goes again. talk about a sore fuckin’ loser.

“sur— mmph,” and he cuts you off, placing a gloved palm over your mouth.

“quiiiiet, you’ll get your turn to talk,” he cuts you off, and you let off a moan once you feel his bulbous tip smack against your sopping cunt.

it’s loud..

dozens of paps and squelches leave it right away and he plants a wet kiss near your exposed neck.

the rubs from his blushing reddened cockhead make loud noises that constantly replay through your empty mind.

“see? let her talk,” and you swallow thickly, feeling him use an extra hand to pry your legs apart further. clammy, big hands glue against the pink hood of your car before your tongue tastes the metallic fibers of his glove. “so eager. poor baby,” he coos against your ear, feeling you trying to swallow and gulp him down right away. your twitching pussy’s aching, and you can’t help the pathetic whimpers that hiccup from your lips. you even try to wriggle your ass but he rubs a hand underneath your clit. “aw, impatient are we? what’s the sayin’, princess? slow ‘n steady wins the race?”

‘okay…but i beat you,’ was what you were saying in your head… but you sort of forgot his hand was covering your mouth. duh girl.

“mmph—” you let off a muffled moan against the palm of his hand, trying to wriggle your ass against him harder.

geto lowly groans and then you groan, feeling what was a piercing that attaches toward his pre-creamed dewy frenulum. geto strokes himself a bit, fisting his cock. with hooded, jaded eyes, he watches his loose skin peel back before arising up again and he hisses. the frenulum perfectly hooks itself over his tip, and oh- how you wished you could have seen it.

you couldn’t see but, fuck did you feel it.

you’re so wet, your swollen pussy lips resemble a blossoming flower as he spreads you apart with two scissoring rubber fingers.

his dick piercing almost tickles once it starts to rub against you some more. he swipes it all against your clit, teasing it near your opening before pulling it right back out. “fuck,” you whine once he finally removes his palm from your mouth, glossy strands of your saliva coating the entirety of your hand. “h.. hurry up, suguru. ‘m gonna fall asleep at this rate.”

geto rolls his eyes, and that’s when with a semi-loud thud, your chest lands against your hood.

“oh please..” he murmurs, a brow twisting upward in annoyance. one of his hands still has its grip on your wrists and you bite your lip in anticipation.

geto’s tip leaked with creamy coating pre, and you felt remnants of it sprinkle against your entrance. with a raspy grunt, he drags his angered pierced crownhead down your drooling folds before roughly smacking it against your cunt.

more sloppy wet splats! of squelches spurt out from your folds as if it’s saying its own kind of lewd language and he grunts.

geto makes sure you’re arched over the hood of your car before whistling at your presented frame. “so damn…pretty,” and within seconds, he’s easing his way inside.

immediately, your eyes widen with your jaw collapsing down like earlier—fuck, he’s big.

from the countless times, you stared at his bulge, you figured as much. geto’s vast head had a rosy-pink tint of vermillion with how close it mirrored to being a pinkish red.

sucking in a greedy breath, he watches as he’s gradually disappearing inside of your cunt. his pierced dick made things even more sensitive, and you moan once you feel the piercing softly graze its way inside of your fluttering orifice.

pasty gummy walls welcome him, and now it’s his turn to bite his lip.

“hng, f- fuckin’ big,” you try to inhale a single breath, and he raises your leg just a bit. it now sits over your hood- and damn it, the angle he has was just brutal.

you just knew you were gonna feel him everywhere.

geto’s obelisk-like girth was wide ‘n fuckin’ tall, you felt him fully and the shaft ring that’s on top of his top continues to kiss against your sensitive throbbing nub.

prince albert to be specific!

it decorates his tip perfectly, making sure to tickle inside of you as he’s feeling you clamp down. “shiiiit,” you slur out your words in a mere whiny syllable, gasping at the curved column of his fat dick search through your walls like a maze. he’s expanding through you and you can’t help but part your lips, squealing before letting off a cute, ‘ooohh!’

your hand prints stick against the pink-stained hood of your car due to the insane amounts of perspiration and you whine once he gives you one biiiig thrust.

just one- and ah!

it rocks your world - literally.

you let off a cute squealing shriek, your legs shimmying a bit from his pressed-up weight.

“atta girl, bare ‘round me, good girl—fuck,” and the warmth you envelop his dick with makes him groan. your pussy was clingy, already so eager to devour him whole.

within a few punctuated thrusts to start, geto’s finally fucking you and each vigorous piston of his honed snatched hips makes your crossed eyes roll back in needy rapture.

his hands now stick toward your sides and you’re just whimpering from his size over and over again.

weighty inches pound into you at full speed, giving you whiplash every time as he impales your sweet greedy cunt. “fuck, mhm,” you bawl a fist against your car, gritting your teeth. riiiight there, the moment his tip smooches its way against that pretty bullseye spot, it’s over. there, he locates a spongy texture with the mushroomy pierced crown of his cock and it earns out a sobbing whimper from you. “ahng! right there, fuck. faster, there sugu.”

“right there, fuuuuck. faster there, sugu,” he mocks your whiny babbles, fully exaggerating.

to hell with him, you didn’t even sound like that but oh, did he enjoy getting on your nerves. just like you did- cute.

geto’s hefty sack smacks back against you from each nudging thrust he creates with his hips. every time, it makes him groan at how your body cutely slams back against him. with how sharp your ass pounds on his dick, those pretty wet sounds singing straight from your cunt- a sound way better than screeching tire wheels. “god, so fuckin’ warm. hah, squeezin’ all around me,” and as his irregular breathing patterns pick up, he leans in to kiss a slope down your neck. “bend over just a bit more- hah. there we go, m- my good girl.”

as your chest continued to lie flat down against your car’s hood now—he’s got you at such an angle to where you feel his cock expand everywhere.

it reaches every depth and rummages through every open orifice or just about near it. “oh my god!” you whimper out, hearing the sloppy sounds of your cunt whistle through the silent night. geto’s hitting you deep, slamming his keen hips into you with such rhythm, and each time he does, your brain short circuits.

tiny invisible stars circle and float over your head as you’re completely dumbfounded, thinking about nothing but how big his cock is and the way his pierced tip just plummets its way in and out of your drooling cunt.

speaking of drooling—you were starting to drool from the slit cracks of your mouth. you couldn’t help it- his dick was out of this world, and maybe you were exaggerating but fuck, you didn’t want him to stop. ever.

geto’s hastily rearranging your insides with just a few inches and it felt oh so good.

it was so good that you forgot the two of you raced together. you forgot about street racing as a whole, and instead, he had you dumb from his dick. “biiiiig fuckin’ stretch baby,” he’d grunt, starting to witness viscid stringy strands glue against each slapping thighs. geto’s dick slips out for a minute and he groans, gradually sliding himself back in.

it’s a sloppy ‘pop’ that rings between your cunt and it’s cute. you were wringing him dry, and with how wet you were, it wasn’t exactly helping things.

geto’s hot breath brushes against the open part of your neck before he gives your ass another playful swat. “fuck, that’s it. fuck back against me, don’t get lazy, uh huh. work those hips baby, f- fuck.”

as you weakly try to sway your ass into him to coordinate in sync with his crazed hips, he holds you in place—pumping inch after inch into you.

his cock sheaths inside between your syrupy-coated pussy almost effortlessly, and you let off a melodic moan the second his tip starts making out with your g-spot.

the pierced bulbous head dared to french kiss against there—making you writhe around him, on the verge of losing composure. you don’t think you’ve felt more sensitive than ever.

geto’s silvery dick piercing probes up and down your pearly clit every few seconds and he grunts at the gripping friction. “suguru…..fuuuck!” and as your words start to get bouncy, more sweet whimpers rose out of your sore throat. “more, more.”

“ungh,” he purses his lips together as he feels your cunt hungrily swallow his cock from top to bottom. with a rough pound, your ass smacks against his base—right near his tender plump testes and he groans.

such power-

even geto’s stunned for a moment, and his head throws itself back. the air surrounding you both starts to feel thick as smoke, and his eyes glance at your exposed backside that’s oh-so-pretty while arched.

all for him, and him only.

geto’s hips were simply maddened, and even he didn’t care about the race anymore.

well actually, maybe he did a little..

your pussy was brimmed with cock — sooo full, and you felt yourself starting to pant quicker and quicker. it’s as if you were having a literal street race with your breathing. geto’s getting lost inside of you, and it’s only a matter of time before his hips turn wildly sloppy.

gloved hands still reel you back into him as he’s breaking sweats within each long millisecond that passes. “pheww,” he’d wipe a sheet of sweat off his forehead, veins bulging in his beefy tatted arms. the drenching grip you had on his dick had him craving more…more of you.

the stoutness of his shaft jackhammers inside of your walls repeatedly until you’re on the verge of breaking yet again. geto grunts, the loud quick snap of his hips bringing him back to reality every time he’s about to go into another fantasm.

“fuuuck, ‘m gonna cum,” his words come out in a quiet rasp, and he claws a hand near the back crown of your head. “god,” his jaw tightens, and geto leans right up close to your neck, panting heavily against the outer shell of your ear. as long tangled tresses of hair freely cascade past his shoulders - all ruffled and messy from his helmet, he groans. “where do ya want it, sweetheart. tell m—”

“insideee,” you whine, barely giving him time to finish his husky words. your legs slightly raise against your headlight as it’s still stretched up and over.

geto’s still hitting you deep - so deeply good, swollen tip massaging every part of your clit and all. dozens of your toes curl up in erotic excitement as your tongue lolls out. you probably looked a sight. “inside, sugu, in- fuckin’- side.”

sassily smacking his lips together, he spanks you. “tch, dumb girl,” and the racer brings a hand to wrap around your neck. with a firm safe grip, his gloved thumb caresses a trail up your neck before he drills into you much quicker.

each snap of his hips draws out harmonic whines from you, gargled moans following out of your throat shortly afterward. the burn that’s twinging near the undersides of his thighs grows more and more intense before he geto lets out a guttural growl.

so……damn….. wet..

your flooding cunt’s slathering all over him, dripping near his base and he can’t help but snicker. “hah, fine. better hold still though.”

“fuck,” you whimper in response, feeling his sharp hips pound into you at such a pace. his rhythm was insane and there was no way in hell you could match his pace.

when it came to geto’s speed- yeah, you’d always lose. sure, you may have won today but when it came to his cock- you were losing with the hasty speed of his hips drilling into you at such miles per fuckin’ hour. .

as his turgid fat tip gives its final thrusting pumps inside of your cunt, geto’s body starts to violently shudder.

oh.. you were about to wring him dry. with a mewling slosh sound leaving the front your folds, you gush out yet again.

but at the same time…. so does he.

geto’s head remained tossed back with his round adam’s apple bobbing out of his throat. gnawing in the inside of his squishy cheek, he lets off a low grunt. his abs cockily flex through the white tee that tucks underneath his half-on leather jacket.

geto pulls out though, and it’s quick like the flash. he doesn’t finish inside to your devastated surprise, and a downturned pout forms on your lips. he huffs, watching such creamy-white amounts gush ‘n goo out in ropes and he sprays it on the outside of your pussy.

“damn,” he murmurs, feeling the awkward needy fidget of your hips. cute. darkened eyes remain on you the entire time and he grabs ahold of his veiny cock, aligning hit pierced tip against your pearled throbbing clit. “heh.. ain’t that a pretty sight,” and he smears it all against your pasty-creamed entrance.

now . . it’s painted with his color, white.

and geto came a lot because it’s still trickling out in ribbony globs, filthily oozing from the thick girthy sides and all like an erupted volcano. his teeth get caught by his quivering bottom lip as he watches such immoderate ropes of cum leave out of him. “such a- hah, messy girl,” and as he’s still lathering his sloppy seed that’s pouring out, sticking wads of splotches between the heat of your thighs, geto squeezes your ass. “awww,” he huffs breathily, noticing a few ivory stains splattered near the pink bumper of your car. “oops. might wanna clean that, sweetheart.”

hours passed . . many hours, and to say that you got fucked stupid was merely an understatement.

suguru geto had the stamina equivalent to a toyota supra MK4. his horsepower was his hips- with the added addition of his cock driving in and out of you.

but oh- you knew he wouldn’t be running out of gas soon.

or would he?

so. . many rounds, geto had you questioning your insanity the entire time, all because of his dick. if it was one thing he knew how to do, it was to fuck.

whether it involved his tongue or not, he knew how to make you feel good. it was one of the many things he excelled at, truly.

the only thing that got in the way was his cocky smug ego. every few seconds, he’d boast and remind you for the umpteenth time that your win was an unruly cheat, a hoax, or that he just couldn’t see the finish line because of your pink fucking smoke.

of course, geto didn’t say that part, that would have been him admitting that he lost the race and his pride couldn’t let him admit that he lost fair in square—

but your pussy could.

“hngh,” he falls back against your front cottony plus seat. geto grunts with a scowl entrapped in his thoughts. you pushed him - the audacity.

both of you were still sensitive but you had a tiny trick up your sleeve. “got some.. nerve,” and with low-dropped eyes, he watches you align yourself on his swollen pierced tip yet again.

he’s soft-flaccid, and he was pretty ran down. maybe now, geto was finally starting to run out of gas. with sweltering reddened lips smearing together, he watches you pick back up his expensive helmet, putting it over your head. “oh, gonna ride me while wearing my helmet, yeah? do your wors— oh.. fuck.”

his priggish words come to a not-so comedic halt the moment your cunt slams down on his cock. geto was still sensitive and he slouches back against your programming warming seat, dark eyes rolling back.

“goddamnnn,” and as your hips swerve around in circles identical to 360 car donuts, he sees you touching yourself while wearing his helmet. “fuckin’ brat—god.”

“aw,” you mock the exact faux caring tone he did to you earlier, making him touch you by bringing his shaky rubber hands toward your chest. geto’s fingers feel against the cropped top you wore, squeezing at your jiggling neglected breasts. “c’mon, sugu. i gotta guide your hands now too?”

“tch, shut up,” he groans, his heavy-sunken base sticking near your skin. dried splotches of cum glue against your sheeny ass as your hips continue to whirl ‘n rotate. you were unpredictable—you moved and jerked while he sat there with the most pussy drunken expression. geto lowly grunts, already feeling his balls starting to tighten up. he was trying to stop a sleazy grin from forming and oh.. was your cunt just making it impossible. “shit, ‘m not gonna last. s- still fuckin’ sensitive…. fuuuckk.”

the pink honda’s loud grumbling engine resounds through the echoey walls of the isolated garage with only the sounds of sheer skin slapping and a mixture of grunts following afterward. without thinking, you lift his helmet off of you, leaning in to kiss him and he returns the gesture almost right away.

geto’s lips were a tad bit delayed once they pressed onto yours. its a small yet cute detail- how he’s so pussy drink that he could barely crash his lips onto yours. as he’s moaning from your hands feeling on his burly tatted arms, his tongue sloppily delves into your mouth with no rhythm whatsoever.

maybe you were crazy, but you think you heard a whimper leave from his lips as he tried to nibble on your tongue. geto grunts, feeling that same pressure from earlier build up and fuck.. you were about to make a mess out of him . . . again!

his dick stills itself inside of you and his hands continue to roam down your body, further and further away from your jostling bouncy tits. “fuck ‘m cumminggg,” he’d moan between sultry kisses as stringy strands of saliva entangle with one another.

wetly, they form a web of sheeny lustrous cobwebs. geto’s foot rests against your bedazzled hard brake pedal before within seconds, he cums again.

this time, inside.

but it’s different this time- so so different.

it feels tenderly warm..

such hot gooey amounts dribble inside of you, spraying further inside your precious womb and you hum at the feeling.

his pierced cock fitting real nice and snug inside and you moan into his mouth, cocking your head in different directions as you trap his lips with another steamy kiss. “mmph.” a muffled whimper gets caught against your lips and you can already start to feel the whiteish searing ropes of fresh cum trail down the insides of your thighs. geto feels you slowing down on his lap—still buried balls deep, and he grunts in defeat..

soon, embarrassment overtakes him once he realizes how early he finished.

it’s a lot, again.

a thick load splatters heavily inside and past the inner lining of your cunt and he’s shivering underneath you. once you finally break away from his lips, your eyes meet his.

geto’s staring back at you, and you don’t see that cocky sly look in his eyes that everyone else sees.

right now, he looks…needy, and you think you broke him.

“what . . ?” he grouses, his hands still attached to your waist. his grip- it was gentle and tender a rubber thumb softly caressing down your curve. geto wasn’t ready for you to leave the garage, at least not yet.

“say it, pretty boy,” you whisper, pressing a kiss near his chin. your touch - it drove him mad.

never in a million years would he, suguru geto- have thought he’d get humbled by a rookie . .

humbled by you.

geto’s shooting straight daggers at you, but you can tell how flustered he is because he breaks eye contact a second later. you’re making him nervous, the same feeling he was making you at first when you had your first encounter with him.

as geto’s still warmly buried inside, he grunts once you take it upon yourself to softly wrap a hand around his throat.

oh- you were a mere tease, mimicking his exact movements from earlier. slightly wide-eyed and all, geto stares at you. and as he does—there’s that familiar glimpse of brattiness glimmering in his irises again.

you fucking turned him on..

“heh, f- fine then,” he stammers, heaving every few seconds to catch his irregular breaths. his body felt like it was on empty. no more gas left in him and that same cunning grin that plastered on his lips slowly started to fade.

geto’s not so cocky now, and in fact— he lets off a soft quiet whimper once you start to grind against his lap.

shakily, his hand squeezes your ass before finishing his sentence in a shaky defeated rasp.

“you . . fuckin’ win, sweetheart,” and you let off a sweet gasp once a loud smack! interrupts the moment, his hand swatting against your ass. “mhm,” geto grunts, “didn’t s- say stop. finish ridin’ me, sweetheart,” and his gloved finger swirls itself inside of your stuffed full cunt before pulling it right back out.

again, he’s filthy.

and even while being in such a state, geto brings his fingers up to his lips, slowly poppin’ them into his mouth before tasting the concoction mixture of both bittersweet messes. your syrupy cum and his.

quickly, he presses the tips of his rubber fingers toward his uvula, before staring at you with a greedy smug expression. he’s panting harshly, still trying to get over how you just outrode him literally, and he laps up his fingers right in front of you.

geto reclines your seat back a bit as you still straddled him, and he gives your ass its final spank before tiredly huffing,

“best- two out of three, what do ya say, r- rookie?heh..”

#★vegasbaby.#geto smut #geto x reader #geto x you #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #female reader #geto suguru #geto #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk #anime smut

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imaredshirt · 9 months ago

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Lately I've been referring to my fics as Potato Chip Fics. It feels right to me

#they're not particularly nutritional #you can get through them pretty quickly #they can be either salty or sweet or a combo depending on the flavor #you probably wont remember them very well come tomorrow except for a vague taste #and they're decent enough to hold you over until the main course or the big ol cake is ready/updated

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 6 months ago

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You guuuuuys, you are going to be. So. Jealous. Of what I did today

So Amgueddfa Cymru is the umbrella super museum in Wales, and it is in charge of multiple museums around the country. Seven branches specifically. Entry to each is free, and each commemorates a different facet of Welsh history and culture; of the seven, I had (until a few hours ago) been to five. I've done Caerleon Roman Museum and Amphitheatre, Cardiff Museum, St Ffagan Folk Museum of Welsh Life, Big Pit Coal Mining Museum, and Swansea Waterfront Museum. I have yet to do the Slate Museum in Eryri.

And today, I went to:

The National Wool Museum

YEAH THAT'S RIGHT we have a national wool museum. It's so cool. We arrived at lunchtime so we started in the cafe and we had soup and also cheese and leek Welsh cakes. Except the soup was so Welsh it was correctly served with a piece of cheese:

AS IT SHOULD

Anyway, the building was a wool mill once upon a time, and half of the machinery still works, and still produces 100% woollen textiles. Also they run workshops for knitting and weaving and stuff. But you follow the rooms around and they show you the full process, from fleece to flannel.

BUT ALSO at each stop they had little stands where you could try a bit for yourselves. So for example, there was an exhibit where you could card fleece by hand, with a pile of washed fleece beside, and you could just... go ham with the carding.

I deliberately tried not to photograph literally everything. But here's a lil collection:

I should have taken a picture of the carding, actually, that was my favourite.

OH MY GOD YEAH and also, they had a section on the uses of the wool. A whole display of traditional Welsh blankets, trad and modern clothes, and, of course, instructions for how to cwtch a baby in a shawl, which was so lovely because that's what my Welsh paternal grandmother taught my English mother to do with me as a baby.

Anyway, then the gift shop sold balls of 100% wool in many fun colours, and tabletop looms, and books on how to knit/weave, and bags of roving that you could spin yourself, and plushie sheep and dragons. And Welsh blankets and shawls/scarves and that.

Anyway, you lot are textile nerds. You should all go. It's in the tiniest village in Ceredigion and it is the BEST.

#wales!#closed for cleaning on mondays #I personally think the Welsh Tourist Board should hire me #or at least Amgueddfa Cymru should #actually don't they have a Tumblr?

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itsminjify · 20 days ago

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SLOW DOWN ㅤ★ PARK SUNGHOON

𝗦𝗖𝗥𝓲𝗣𝗧──── 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂'𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌," 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒."

❪ 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐒 ❫ ｡ hockey player!sunghoon & fem!rea 1OOOwc. smut, MDNI. unprotected sex, fingering ˊᯅˋ situationship, oneshot

( minji says ) : 6 months since i've posted. i'm back ! i'll post fluff next week! who missed me ㅠㅠ

you don’t really remember what your birthday cake looked like this year. only that your ex broke up with you before it was even lit. said some bullshit about “timing,” and “pressure,” and how “maybe we’re just not meant to be.”

but a few weeks after that, sunghoon came along like a delayed punchline — except he was a better joke than your ex ever was.

park sunghoon. rival team’s golden boy, captain, heartthrob, five penalties this season for fighting — most of them against your ex’s teammates.

you hadn’t meant to kiss him after the game. you really hadn’t.

but maybe the way he’d looked at you that night — smudged eyeliner under his eyes from the team paint, a bloody lip, sweat glistening on his neck — maybe that had meant something. you kissed him anyway.

and then you kept kissing him. after practices. after away games. after your classes. in the backseat of his car. in the stairwell of your dorm. once — recklessly — with his jersey still on.

you don’t know what to call it. not dating. not just fucking either. but it’s been three months. and he’s in your bed again tonight.

"you locked the door, right?" he mumbles against your neck, lips dragging warm and unhurried, tongue flicking at your pulse just to hear your breath stutter.

you roll your eyes, fingers threading through his hair, tugging. "why? scared someone’s gonna see you with me?"

he huffs a soft laugh against your skin, something equal parts amused and fond. "if anyone sees me with you, they'll think i won the fucking lottery."

“you are the captain. shouldn’t you act a little less pathetic?”

“you want me to stop calling you my girl when i’m fucking you?” he murmurs, low against your collarbone. “say the word.”

you don’t say it. you never do.

he climbs over you slowly, his bare chest warm against yours as you sink deeper into the sheets. you’re wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts, and sunghoon’s hand sneaks under the hem with zero shame, gripping your hip like he owns it.

"why do you always do that?" you whisper, breath hitching when his thumb brushes low over your waistband.

"what?"

“act like i belong to you."

his eyes flick up. his hair’s messy from your hands, his lips slightly pink from where you've been kissing them. he looks so annoyingly good it makes you want to scream. or kiss him again. or both.

"because you do," he says simply, shrugging like it’s not a confession.

you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” he says lazily, but his hand’s moving again, dragging up your thigh. “don’t say things that make your pretty thighs clamp shut like that?”

“sunghoon.”

he smirks. "what. you want me to lie? pretend this isn’t the best thing i’ve ever had? pretend i don’t want to fuck you stupid every time i see your face?"

you bite your lip, and he notices, of course. his hand slips between your legs then, fingers warm and firm through your underwear.

“you’re soaked,” he mutters, like it’s your fault. “what’d i say that did it, hm? calling you mine? or saying i want to fuck you dumb?”

you gasp when he presses harder, fingers circling gently, but not nearly enough. your hips twitch against his touch, but he pulls back just enough to make you whimper.

“too busy dripping all over my fuckin’ hand, aren’t you?” he mutters, brushing his fingers over your folds, middle and ring finger spreading you open just enough.

“shut up,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

“make me.”

you don’t. you can’t. not when his fingers finally slip inside, slow and deep, curling instantly like he already knows what makes your toes curl. you arch off the bed with a gasp, grabbing at his shoulder, nails sinking in.

“fuck—sunghoon,”

"that’s it,” he grins, biting gently at your jaw as his fingers start thrusting, unhurried. “say my name like that again."

you do. you say it more than once, breathless and broken and desperate, hips chasing his hand, thighs trembling already.

his thumb finds your clit with unfair ease, circling slow as his fingers keep pumping into you, tight and warm and slick. you hear yourself whining. actually whining.

“shit, baby,” he groans, voice dipping into something lower. “your pussy’s so tight—keep clenching like that and i’ll cum before i’m even inside you.”

“then get inside me,” you choke out, gasping, eyes glassy.

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re gonna kill me.”

he strips the rest of his clothes quickly, tossing them to the side like it doesn’t matter. and when he kneels between your legs, cock heavy in his hand, tip glistening — you swallow hard.

he leans down, kisses your mouth slow.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers against your lips. “like this. legs spread. eyes glossy. waiting for me.”

he sinks in slow. painfully slow. your breath leaves in a gasp.

“shh,” he murmurs, voice strained. “i got you.”

you whimper under him, fingers clawing at his back, the burn between your legs making your thighs shake. he groans against your shoulder.

“tightest fuckin’ pussy,” he hisses, starting to move. “so wet—fuck, baby, made for me.”

you can’t speak. your mouth falls open, a moan stuck in your throat as he starts to fuck into you harder, hips snapping, cock dragging against your sweet spot again and again until your legs are wrapped around his waist.

his hand cups your cheek, fingers brushing your jaw. he groans low, hips stuttering just slightly.

"you’re mine,” he growls, fucking into you deeper. “doesn’t matter if you say it or not. you’ve always been mine.”

“sunghoon—” your voice cracks, and his thumb finds your clit again, pressing harsh circles as you tighten around him.

"cum for me, baby," he pants. "cum on my cock, fuck—let me feel it."

you do — crashing over the edge with a strangled cry, body spasming, legs shaking as you clamp down around him. he curses loud, fucking you through it, pace turning rough and desperate.

and then he’s pulling you closer, hips jerking, and you feel the warmth flood inside you as he spills deep, groaning your name like a prayer.

the room’s quiet after that. your chest rises and falls fast. his arm wraps around your waist.

“…still mad at me for calling you mine?” he whispers against your ear.

you snort, burying your face in his shoulder.

“no,” you mumble. “good,” he breathes. “’cause i’m not letting you go.”

and he doesn’t. not that night. not ever.

even if you never say it out loud. you’re his. and he’s yours. even when you’re both too stubborn to admit it.

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sublimati0ns · 3 months ago

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daily koss #29: if we only have one shot… better make it count, right?

Since I started on the 18th of February, today marks the one month anniversary of me drawing these wretched old men every day!!! I wanted to make something special for it, so I tried my hand at a comic (even though I am NOT good at comics—dear god, paneling is so unintuitive for me that I ended up wrangling this into a webtoon format just to avoid it).

Despite the increasing level of render and polish on my dailies over the past two weeks, this is the first time I’ve really, actually tried to flex my art muscles and apply my braincells to a piece 😂 Here’s to hoping my work paid off! I have now, officially, moved from low-effort shitposts to real-effort seriousposts 😔

(Also, if you’ve never read a webtoon before, hopefully the long-scroll format wasn’t too jarring! >_<)

A meta aspect I love about KOSS is that Transformers is a multi-timeline franchise: Knock Out and Starscream exist across multiple different continuities, sometimes alongside each other, sometimes not. But they only really ‘work’ in TFP, despite them both having other characters as constants (Breakdown, Megatron). If this were any other world, and they were any other versions of themselves, they might not even have been coworkers—just ships passing in the night.

And yet, the perfect storm of random events led to them being in one thing together, with a compelling dynamic at that (even an entire episode that puts it on blast!!!). Sometimes I think about how, according to the TFP artbook, Knock Out was originally conceived as something of a counterpart to Bumblebee—another fast, pretty car, except a villain this time—but the writers ended up fleshing out his relationship with Starscream the most. I wonder what the thought process behind that was—did the devs find their dynamic fun to play with as well?—and whether the two would get more moments together if Prime wasn’t cancelled…

But I digress! The fact I discovered TFP in the first place is the cherry on top of the serendipity-cake; I never imagined I’d ever get into Transformers, but one impulsive ‘hey, what if we watched the new Transformers movie’ from Lacuna at 3AM in the dead of January changed the trajectory of my life.

I’ve always been really bad at committing to projects for over a month at a time—I often find myself burnt out and restless after only a few days, even. So to still have so much drive and inspiration to create fanworks—for KOSS, of course, but an assortment of other pairings and properties too—is such a novel and exciting experience. My tune may change at a moment’s notice (I can be very fickle), but for now I’m eager to keep scribbling on 🥰I already have something planned for the next week of Daily KOSS hehehe~

Anyway, things referenced in the comic!

G1 cartoon s01e13 “Fire in the Sky”

2019 IDW continuity Tread & Circuits issues 2, 3, and 4

Armada episode 48

TFA s02e03 “Mission Accomplished” and s03e13 “Endgame II”

2005 IDW continuity “Choose Me,” Spotlight: Megatron, and Annual 2017 “Chosen One”

And it’s probably obvious from the art, but I love the juxtaposition of Starscream being tortured by god in every other universe while Knock Out is either happily married or doesn’t exist.

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wqlfstqr · 1 month ago

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hii hope you’re having a good time i was wondering if you were okay with a luke castellan x reader request where she has him try all the different flavors of her lipglosses until he finds his favorite please

◟𖥻 gloss taste test : luke castellan

▰▰ pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

luke trying his girlfriend's lipglosses until he finds his favorite— except he just likes the kisses.

"Next"

Luke's voice is almost lazy, as he leans back on his elbows with a smug, amused smile on his face.

It had all started when Luke saw her collection of lip glosses and he dared to question it, "Why would you have so many if they're basically the same?"

And from that, he'd ended up here, sprawled on her bed, surrounded by her plushies, while she sat cross-legged in front of him, a bunch of glosses scattered over the covers.

"I swear you're not even trying." She shakes her head while applying the next one.

Luke shrugs, eyes fixed on her lips. "It just wasn't a strong contender." His hand suddenly shots up to her waist to pull her close. "Now, come here."

Before she can even drop the tube, he crashes his lips against hers. A soft, breathless giggle leaving her lips.

"That one's good, but not my favorite." he says against her lips before fully pulling back. "Next."

"You didn’t even let me tell you the flavor." She blinks at him, still stunned.

He smiles smugly. "Strawberry, love, I can taste it."

She rolls her eyes fondly, grabbing the next gloss, a soft, shiny pink. "This one's called Pink lemonade sorbet."

Luke raises an eyebrow. "That's surely not a real flavor."

"Try it yourself." She challenges playfully after applying it.

Of course, Luke is immediately leaning in to kiss her. When he pulls back, he hums thoughtfully. "Interesting. But not the one."

"Not even trying." She repeats, amused.

This goes on for a while. Peach candy? Good, but not great. Cotton candy? Sweet. Birthday cake? Absolutely not. Vanilla is too bland, But mint too tingly. Ginger snap? Gods, no. Chocolate—

"I like that." He hums, smiling against her lips. "But there’s gotta be a better one."

"You're doing this on purpose." She narrows her eyes, her cheeks already warm.

"I'm just taking my job very serious." he replies as she reaches for another tube of gloss.

It's a new one. She has barely used this one. It's mauve, with glittery shimmer, labeled dragon fruit. She swipes it on carefully, Luke's eyes following every movement.

And when she kisses him again, it's different. This time, there's no immediate next. Instead, he kisses deliberately slow, and she can totally feel him smiling against her lips. He doesn’t pull away, not until he absolutely has to when air is finally needed.

Even then, his hand slids up to her jaw and he presses breathless, short kisses to her mouth, lip-gloss quickly gone.

"So, what did you think?" She asks, giggling between kisses.

He doesn’t answer this time. Instead his hand tugs on her waist until he has her sitting closer, then he takes the gloss from her hands. He uncaps it and gently reapplies it to her lips himself.

Then he leans in again, lips curving into a grin as they brush hers once more.

"Mhm" he hums between kisses, hand holding her cheek. "Where do you buy this? I'll make sure you never run out of it."

After that, she uses the same lip gloss almost every day.

And almost every day, it's quickly gone once Luke starts kissing her.

#𐙚 mari's fics #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #fluff #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo series #one shot

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tangerineastronaut · 5 months ago

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Let's Put the End in Friends | Jackson Wang (Part 2)

Part 1

The one where your best friend/sort of boyfriend really wants to fuck you.

Pairing: Jackson Wang (GOT7) x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff, SMUT, BestFriend!Reader, idiots to lovers Requested: Yes w.c. 7.8k Warnings: reader is bad at feelings, jackson is in love, two horny weirdos, "begging" for sex (but not in a bad/manipulative way there's a mutual understanding ok), oral - fem!receiving (the man eats it like cake even after he hits), unprotected sex (don't do it unless you're best friends with Jackson Wang and I'm guessing you aren't), discussion of contraceptives, breeding kink sorta kinda heh, brief talk of having kids in future, banter, teasing, name calling, dirty talk, I think that's all?? they're still really annoying except just horny now A/N: Ughhhh here's the part two that I desperately wanted to write and finally people requested it!! This chapter is like 15% feelings and 85% smut, but it's all kinda mixed in so I apologize in advance. Jfc I love these two so much. If this is bad I'm sorry! I love writing where it takes me and it all felt right. I love my readers so much. <3 Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

You hadn’t really known what to expect.

In dramas, after a confession, things were usually a little awkward, shy, sweet. But the day after Jackson confessed to you, he nearly bit your hand off when you tried to steal one of his dumplings. Granted, you bit him first, but it was his job to be chivalrous, not yours.

“Um, maybe eat your own before you try to steal mine?”

“I’m literally just a girl, Jackson.”

A few weeks after said confession, things were still mostly the same, as you were awoken by someone pinching your cheek. Bleary eyed, you squinted, looking up at a very hot, very annoyed face.

“Where the hell is my academy sweatshirt? I’m gonna be late for my shift,” he huffed, giving you another pinch. Jackson worked part time at an MMA academy, teaching a class of young children. Unfortunately, that meant three days out of the week, he had to wake up at 7 in the morning to be ready by 8. And if he was up, so were you.

“I dunno,” you whined groggily, rolling over. “I didn’t wear it. Promise.”

“Liar,” he accuses.

“Mmn. ‘m not lying, check my laundry.”

You hear shuffling, the sound of your hamper being opened (filled with clean clothes, because dirty clothes go on the bathroom floor of course), and quickly tug the blanket over your head as Jackson calls your bluff.

“At least it’s clean,” you attempt to plead your case, but the covers are yanked off. You yelp as Jackson flips you onto your back and begins to tickle you.

“Didn’t wear it, huh? Seriously, of all my clothes?” he snarls, fingers digging into your sides. You can’t speak; you instead make animalistic noises of possession as you attempt to free yourself. You wrap your legs around his waist and shove at his chest, shouting apologies in between fits of laughter.

At last, the tickling ends, and you all but collapse against the sheets, sprawled out like half a starfish.

“I’m going to start charging you for the things you steal,” Jackson says, breathless himself from the efforts of torture. Only then are you made aware that his hands are on your thighs. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, until you do, when he squeezes them beneath his palms and brushes his thumbs under your pajama shorts.

“Hey,” you warn, wriggling beneath him. He laughs and leans over you.

“What?”

“You know what. Get off of me.”

He sighs, letting his head drop down as though weary.

When he looks at you again, his eyes have gone all soft, and it makes you feel warm and tingly inside. You swallow and force yourself to look away. You weren’t completely immune to his charms and didn’t want to risk it, answering the question he hadn’t asked.

“Nope.”

That was the deal.

Kissing was alright—as long as it wasn’t too long or too deep. Touching was fine too, just avoid any erogenous zones. Truthfully, you weren’t sure why you’d placed such heavy restrictions on your…relationship? Whatever this was. Probably because at the end of the day, you were still terrified of losing him. Of crossing a bridge that crumbles behind you, never being able to return to where you were.

Right now, the two of you could still be around your friends, could still shamelessly flirt and insist it isn’t flirting. When you’d shown up to dinner with the guys, your hand clasped in Jackson’s to test the waters, no one said a word. Youngjae crinkled his nose and said it was cringe…and that’s it. That was the only reaction. The only people surprised about this development were the two of you, apparently, mostly you. And, you hadn’t realized how horny you were for one another.

When you’d stare at him after a shower, when he had the audacity to drink juice from the carton wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, you noticed that…you’ve always stared. That wasn’t new. It’s just that you were now aware of it, and also very aware of how it felt to see his throat working as he swallows, beads of water dripping down his chest and following the dip of his abs like a treasure map for your tongue—

But it went both ways, fortunately, as Jackson’s playful way of grabbing your waist when you were busily bent over no longer felt fun, but rather, made you want to push against him, feel his hands sliding elsewhere, because god had they always been so big? Had his fingers always been so long?

Presently, Jackson rolls his eyes and kisses your cheek. You refuse to look at him still, so he tilts down, where his lips brush your throat; when your head snaps up to scold him, he takes the opportunity to catch your lips with his, sighing as though relieved.

Kissing him feels so normal that it’s almost painful, like every second his lips are against yours, you ask yourself why you were so stupid, why you hadn’t noticed before, why you hadn’t understood that the feelings you’ve had for him were being confused for platonic when they were much, much closer to something akin to lo—

“Mmff…ou’re ‘unna ‘ee ate,” you mumble, though Jackson doesn’t stop kissing you. You giggle as your words are slurred by his mouth, which in turn makes him smile, which in turn makes you wrap your arms around his neck and consider begging him to let the kids down just this once.

You know he wouldn’t hesitate. So that’s why you groan and push him away. You squirm from beneath him before he can snatch you up, fixing your pajamas as though you were preparing to walk the red carpet. When you look up at Jackson, he’s on his knees on your bed, hands gripping the covers and head tilted to the side. Oh.

“Stop looking at me like that, puppy boy,” you mumble, rolling your eyes. You cross your arms, taking on the weight of the world’s strongest soldier as Jackson fucking Wang silently begs to bend you over the mattress

Jackson lets his legs slip over the side, feet planted on the floor as he tugs you toward him by the strings of your shorts. You whine in protest—losing a drawstring was so—

“I think you like it when I beg,” Jackson says, voice too low to be good for your health. You look at him in surprise, his expression hasn’t really changed, but why did he have to do this to you?

“I think you’re gonna be late,” you huff, feeling your cheeks redden.

“I think you’re cute when you blush.”

“I think—”

“I think we’re gonna be good for each other.”

“It was my turn,” you pout. “I think you need a cold shower.”

Jackson mumbles something you don’t catch as he nuzzles his face against your stomach. His arms hang loosely around your hips, and you’re once again left with emotional whiplash as the man somehow goes from fuck me~ to hold me in the span of a few seconds. You swallow and rake your fingers through his hair (which he pulls at less nowadays, thanks to your nagging).

“I want to,” you say quietly, nails scratching at his head. “But I’m scared. Like…we could probably bounce back from this, and from holding hands and even kissing. But I’m afraid that I’d never be able to, you know, not hurt around you the further we go if things turn out bad. We just don’t know what’ll happen if we commit. That’s scary.”

To your surprise, Jackson squeezes you tighter. He tilts his head back to look up at you, his chin resting just above your belly button.

“What is it gonna take, pie?” he asks softly. Your brows furrow, though he continues. “What’s it gonna take for you to realize I’ve been yours this entire time?”

Your breath catches in your throat; you know he can feel it from the way your stomach tightens. He noses at the material of your top, planting a kiss there. Then the bastard opens his mouth again. You can taste his words.

“You own me, baby.”

You wake up confused and sweaty, fumbling around for your phone. You grab the device and groan—it’s not even five in the morning, and it’s a saturday.

The dream woke you up. You and Jackson had an idea to conserve water, apparently, sharing a shower too small for one person let alone two. Your brain filled in the blanks for the missing information, unfortunately for you, though you had no doubt he was as beautiful in this reality, too.

It was almost impossible for you to go back to sleep after waking up usually, so you throw the covers off with much more attitude than necessary before quietly stepping out of your room. The light beneath Jackson’s door is off, and you tiptoe down the hall, but when you round the corner to the kitchen you gasp in surprise.

Jackson raises a brow at you, taking a sip from the bottle of water in his hand. He’s wearing nothing but black boxers, showing off the lean muscles he works so hard on. So very hard.

“You’re up?” he asks, and by his raspy tone it’s clear he woke up not long before you. You nod and shrug for no reason at all other than to distract from the fact that your eyes are eating him alive. He has the sexiest bedhead, and the thin chain he wears glints as it drapes over his collar bones.

“Thirsty,” you lie. You move past him to reach the fridge, but an arm hooks around your waist. You inhale sharply as you’re tugged against his chest, the warmth of him shooting tingles down your back. You swallow, and he holds the bottle in front of you.

“Here,” he mumbles. He sounds so casual, like his actions hadn’t just made your soul briefly leave your physical form. You take the water from him and tilt your head back for a sip, not having realized how thirsty you were until you’ve finished half of it.

You turn around, though he doesn’t release you, so you remain pressed to his bare chest. You have no idea why, but you lean forward and kiss him just below his collar bone, realizing too late how cruel you were being. In an attempt to make it chaste, you kiss the other side, right above his heart, though Jackson’s hand flies to your hair. He cups the back of your head and refuses to let you move.

“Jackson,” you protest, but he whines.

He fucking. Whines.

“Please, pie. Just keep your lips on me. Please,” he breathes. You exhale a shaky breath and nod.

“Okay,” you say quietly, and you swear he sighs with relief. You watch his face, tilting in again and pressing another kiss to the same spot as before. Jackson nods, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips.

You kiss the center of his chest, lips dragging over his skin to his left pec. When you move a tad bit lower, this time where his heart beats, he hisses and tightens his grip in your hair. You gasp for all the right reasons, though he doesn’t know that.

“Fuck, sorry,” he whispers as though the two of you are sneaking around rather than doing…whatever this was in the middle of your shared kitchen. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you giggle softly. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Jackson looks down at you, his expression morphing completely into…calmness? But it still puts you on edge.

“What’d I say?” you ask with a frown.

“I haven’t had sex in almost a year,” he admits.

You blink.

“You…what?” you breathe, shaking your head. “But, you’ve had tinder…you’ve gone on dates.”

Jackson pulls you close again, silently asking for more kisses. You realize he might’ve been right…you like when he begs. You kiss him as he asks, this time close to his nipple, and he shudders.

“I’m not gonna fuck a girl who wants more than I can give her,” he says. You mouth over his skin, tongue reaching the edge of his areola. You like his answer.

“Why can’t you give her what she wants?” you ask, knowing what he’ll say but wanting to hear it all the same. Jackson knows this too, but he’s more than happy to give you what you want.

“Because she—fuck—”

Your tongue lathes over his nipple and he grips the counter tight.

“—’cause she’s not you,” he finishes. “None of them are. Can’t be anything for anyone except you. Wanna…wanna be everything to you.”

“You are…you are…” you mumble carelessly, barely kissing him, but rather rubbing your mouth on his chest. He seems more than okay with that, his head falling back, though he shakes it.

“I’m not, baby. I’ve got so much to give you, gonna show you what it’s like to be loved right, fucked right, needed right. I need you, y/n. I-I fucking need you so bad. Always have.”

You were supposed to be turning him on, not getting choked up, but you pulled back and covered your face. Jackson was still a little breathless and out of it, but he grabbed at your wrists.

“Sorry, fuck, was that…was that bad? I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, wiping helplessly at tears that slide down your cheeks. Jackson pulls you forward, crushing you to his chest. He wraps both arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. You love it.

What else do you love?

You love that you can feel his cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, that you can feel how much he wants from you. You swallow your tears and reach between you, your palm finding the thick outline beneath his boxers and squeezing.

Jackson’s reaction is visceral and downright sinful. He jumps, then buries his face into your hair.

“Again, p-please,” he mumbles. You do it again. There’s a weird mix between sadness and horniness between you, but you keep going, sliding your hand up and down his clothed length. He’s definitely thick and a little longer than average, but not frighteningly so.

Thick enough to make you choke, but not enough to bruise your cervix. Perfect. Somehow, you think you know exactly what it feels like to be fucked by him.

“Jesus fuck—I don’t care if I get to fuck you, just please…let me taste you, baby,” Jackson grunts, hips lazily bucking against you.

That…sounds alright with you. You take your hand off his cock and grab his wrist to pull him to his room, but he twists you around so that your back is to the counter. You open your mouth to ask what he’s doing, but the words die on your tongue when he drops to his knees.

“J-Jackson, you don’t have t-to…”

“Shh, baby,” he mumbles, cupping the backs of your thighs. You feel dumb, forgetting how to speak. “Let me make you feel good. Wanna hear those pretty sounds you make when you play with yourself.”

Your cheeks flush pink, Jackson’s words hardly registering in your brain. He hooks his fingers into the elastic of your pajama shorts, leaning forward to kiss the front of your thigh before he begins tugging them down.

“W-What do you mean when I pla—oh…”

Jackson doesn’t hesitate, going face first between your legs and groaning. The vibrations ring through your inner thighs and go straight to your clit, nearly sending you down. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“If you tell me you didn’t want me to hear you fucking yourself, I’m gonna call you a liar,” he whispers. His lips graze over the hair you keep trimmed—you could be a little self conscious about that at times, a couple past partners even commenting on it, but Jackson is worshipping your pussy without words and you’ve never felt so perfectly adequate.

You think over what he said once you regain a little bit of consciousness. And fuck.

You were tired of this sort of hindsight ability you had now, the way you felt when you thought back to the times you were so obviously head over heels in love with him and had convinced yourself you were friends.

Like fucking yourself with your favorite toy, back to the wall splitting your rooms. Moaning loud even though you didn’t do that when he wasn’t home.

“S-Sorry,” you whimper, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say? You feel warmth as Jackson breathes a laugh against your thighs, teeth grazing the sensitive skin near your labia.

“It’s okay, baby. Just do it again for me, hm? While I’m in the same room at least?”

Did he have to be such a fucking brat? You thought “pie” and his attitude would disappear after all of this, but you were sorely mistaken. You opened your mouth to complain.

Jackson pushed your thighs open wider, settling between them and looking up at you from his knees. You squeaked, and the last thing you saw before his face disappeared was that smug grin underneath his pretty brown eyes.

You learned two lessons very quickly. One:

Jackson Wang ate pussy like his life depended on it.

And two, you were immediately jealous of any woman who’d ever had him like this, on his knees between their legs. This should be illegal.

His tongue slid between your tender pussy lips, expertly finding your clit and daring to flick at it beneath the hood. Your knees did buckle, but he hugged your thighs and kept you upright, taking the opportunity to squeeze and knead at your ass. You reached down and gripped his hair for purchase, tugging, eliciting a groan from him that felt better than any dick you’d ever had. You did it again, and this time he practically sang praises into you—he was literally fucking you with his moans.

“Jesus fuck, Jackson?” you ask, unable to do much else other than feel and squeak out your needs. His fingers dug into the plushness of your thighs, though one hand slipped beneath your shirt. His thumb grazed over your nipple before gently pinching it, and you were ready to die.

When he sucked the tender flesh of your clit into his mouth, you stumbled forward, nearly sending him back until he caught you by the waist. You whimper and tug at him to let you go until finally, he pulls away from your cunt, looking far too pleased with shiny lips. He licks them and you fall into his lap, shuddering as you cling to him.

“That bad, huh? Should I keep my day job?” He teases you gently, one hand cupping the back of your head while the other hugs you tighter. You can still feel his cock straining against his boxers, nearly perfectly aligned as it presses against your ass.

“S-Shut up, a-asshole,” you stammer out, gripping his shoulders tightly for comfort—or maybe dear life. Jackson chuckles in a way that makes you feel safe and annoyed—because how can he send you to fucking space and then try to convince you it’s all good and dandy with the same mouth?

“You okay baby?” he asks softly. When you nod, he pulls back enough to kiss your temple, though keeps his lips there. You swallow, having a feeling that he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

“Was it good?” he asks.

“Very c-classy,” you manage to huff, but Jackson only laughs.

“Mmm. Knew you’d taste good. Knew you’d love me on my knees,” he hums. You shiver, and he moves to your ear, nipping at your lobe. “Knew you’d look so pretty while I eat it.”

You let out a soft whine, your hips rolling into his. You’re spreading your sticky juices along his clothed cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he grabs your waist and bites his lower lip.

“Are you done? Hm? Or can I take you to my room and finish you off?” Jackson asks, tilting his head to kiss below your ear. “Lay you down and hold you open until that pretty clit is nice and swollen…”

“F-Fuck,” you whine, digging your nails into his shoulders. “N-No.”

“M’kay, need me to run you a bath then? I bought some new bath bombs—”

“No I meant…” you breathe, letting your head drop to his shoulder. You were dizzy, but your thoughts had never been more clear. Not necessarily a decision out of desperation, just…it needed to happen. You needed it.

“I-I don’t want you to eat me out, Jackson,” you say as you swallow.

You lift your head, relieved to see there’s no frustration in his gaze, no disappointment. God, he’s really just here to make sure you’re happy, safe, comfortable.

“I want…I want you to fuck me.”

“Why are we in your room?”

“My bed is bigger.”

“When’s the last time you washed your sheets?”

“I don’t know, pie. When’s the last time you washed my sheets?”

You crinkle your nose, but Jackson just rolls his eyes. He drags you onto the bed with him, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it in your face. You sniff, your eyes immediately narrowing.

“Have you seriously been washing your bedding regularly now under the implication that we’d fuck soon?” you hiss, sitting up to glare at him. He was sprawled out, looking much too happy for your liking.

“Yes,” he says gleefully. You grab the pillow and make an attempt to suffocate him, but he doesn’t fight back, and that’s not very fun.

Oh yeah! You’re also only wearing his a t-shirt, and he’s only wearing boxers, and his cock is very hard and you’d very much like to put it in your mouth now that you’ve recovered somewhat from his tongue.

“You’re such a boy,” you groan, throwing the pillow back to the headboard. Jackson nods, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Yeah. Take this off and sit on my face please,” he hums, lying back as though preparing to be sacrificed to the thigh smothering gods.

“How romantic,” you scoff.

“Come sit on my face so I can make you cry the only way a man should make a woman cry, please~”

“Better.”

With the back and forth out of the way, you can’t bring yourself to smile, pulling your knees to your chest. Jackson sits up, reaching out to take one of your hands in his large one.

“Hey, no expectations, remember? You wanna stop right now, we’ll stop and never do anything like this again. You want me to finish you off, that’s fine too,” he says, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles. You shake your head.

“No. I think…I think we should. We need to, I mean, otherwise we’re gonna be in limbo forever. But…” you pause, feeling your eyes burn a little damn it. When you look up at him, his boyish charm is gone, replaced completely by a concerned man who almost looks in love with you.

“Hm? What is it, pie?” he asks, coaxing you gently. Ugh—why did sex have to be so god damn complicated?

“Promise me,” you say, biting your lower lip as you gather your words. “Promise me if we hate it, if it’s bad, just…stay with me? Like, forever? Please don’t move out? I mean if you have to get married just try to find someone who’s nice enough to let me stay? I’ll do the laundry. We can be like a throuple except you both just have to feed me and nothing else.”

“I love you, y/n.”

“Nevermind, let’s just do it.”

Jackson laughed as you flopped onto your back, though he leaned over you and caught your chin in his hand. You avoided looking at him, but he tilted your head down and pressed his forehead to yours to prevent you from escaping his eyes.

“I know you’re allergic to that word—”

“I am not—”

“But I love you. I love y/n and I love pie and I love the girl who thinks ‘coinkydink’ is an appropriate alternative for ‘coincidence’—”

“It is but okay—”

Jackson rolls his eyes, cupping your cheek under the romantic guise of making you shut up by pressing his thumb to your lips.

“Do you know why I want to fuck you?” he asks, his voice oddly gentle for such an erotic question. You blink, he lifts his thumb.

“Um, ‘cause I’m hot?” you offer with a shrug. His thumb goes back to your lips.

“Yes, but the truth? I want to make love to you but I assumed your reaction to that phrasing would be…”

Jackson lifts his thumb.

“Cringe?”

“Correct,” he smiles. “I’m gonna do what I can so the next man you meet has to climb to fucking heaven to reach the lowest bar for you. I’m nowhere near perfect, but I’ll be damned if you leave my bed able to call your best friend and complain that your inner thigh got more action than you did.”

You pout and push his hand away.

“That was one time,” you mumble. “If sex with you sucks, who am I gonna call? Yugyeom?”

“I dare you to fucking try,” Jackson says, narrowing his eyes. You beam, attempting to boop his nose, but he leans forward and kisses you instead. “If you leave this bed and hate me after, I’ll move out before sunset. And if you want me to l-o-v-e you for the rest of your life, I’ll do that too. I told you, pie. I’m yours.”

You kiss him this time, turning into him and cupping his jaw. Why couldn’t he see that the more of this he showed you, the less you wanted to risk it all disappearing?

You tilt your head to the side, nuzzling your face against his throat to plant kisses there. He inhales, leg sliding between yours as a hand strokes your hair.

“Mm…what do you want, y/n?” he asks, groaning when you suck beneath his jaw.

“Wanna suck you off,” you mumble against his skin, relishing in the heavy groan you feel from him. “Then I want you to fuck me.”

“I can do that,” Jackson nods, licking his lips. You release him and sit up, looking over his stretched out form. He was so fucking gorgeous, and you were in his bed.

You place a hand in the center of his chest, and Jackson sits up on his elbows, his thighs parting eagerly. You giggle, gently kneeing his side.

“Patience,” you hum, dragging your hand down to his abs, letting your fingertips dip between the muscles. You remembered all those times you fantasized about drawing your tongue against them—realizing you can. So you throw a leg over his, sliding down until you’re hovering over his thighs, face level with his hips.

One hand rests on the elastic of his boxers while the other palms his abs. You look up at him as you drag your finger through the lines, following the shape of his muscles. He’s tense, but still coherent, so your other hand slides down to palm him again.

Jackson curses under his breath, eyes never leaving yours. So you lean down and flatten your tongue below his navel. He gasps as you lick down the thin trail of hair that disappears beneath his boxers, kissing the sensitive skin there before moving up again. Jackson whines, and you lift a brow.

“You’re not being very patient,” you say, kissing his stomach before licking up to his chest. Jackson’s head falls back, one hand moving to your hair.

“It’s been almost a year, pie,” he groans. “Want this…want you…”

You giggle softly. When you palm him again, curling your fingers around his constricted length, Jackson practically flies off the bed, grabbing your wrist.

“Baby, I will let you suck my cock until the sun explodes, just…please not now, I’m so fucking close, wanna be inside you…” he breathes. You’re surprised to see his chest flushed and heaving, not having realized how worked up he was over just a few light touches. You swallow and nod.

He smiles in relief, pulling you in for a kiss before sitting up on his knees, gently guiding you back. It’s a little jarring, suddenly being underneath your best friend, but Jackson immediately gives you gentle kisses, whispering your name and promises to make you feel good. You believe him.

You lie there awkwardly as he reaches over you to the bedside table, removing a foil packet. You feel your cheeks redden, which makes him chuckle, and you mumble a quiet shut up. When he holds the condom packet between his teeth and thumbs the waist of his boxers, you realize that you should probably be naked, too. So you cross your arms over the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it to the side.

The condom drops and bounces off your thigh as Jackson’s lips part in shock.

“What?” you mumble shyly, bringing your arms to your chest. He clears his throat and fumbles for the condom, shaking his head.

“Nothing. You’re gorgeous. Knew you were, just..." he sucks in air through his teeth.

You blush harder, resisting the urge to tell him to hurry.

Jackson manages to slide his boxers down to his thighs. His cock, once freed, smacks his toned stomach and you grip the covers at your sides as you watch an enticing bead of precum slide down the shaft. It’s exactly as you’d imagined; a little bigger than average, thick, and so beautifully veiny. God it’d feel so good on your tongue, but later. The idea that, hopefully in the future you could suck his beautiful cock whenever you wanted to, made you happier than you’d ever admit to anyone.

You watch as he rolls the condom down his length, swallowing down your doubts as he drops to his forearms on either side of you.

“You okay?” he asks, no humor, no teasing, just genuine concern. You nod and lick your lips.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you say with a shaky breath. Jackson smiles, leaning forward until your noses bump. The action makes you giggle until you realize he’s fitting your mouths together, and suddenly he’s kissing you.

It’s gentle and soft, his lips sucking at your lower one but moving no further than that. Your arms move to loosely hang around his shoulders, where both of his slip beneath you. You feel the head of his cock brush over your clit and jump. Jackson chuckles. It happens again, but this time, the swollen head catches against the opening between your folds, and you can already feel the stretch, wriggling your hips as if to wedge him in.

Jackson begins to push.

The stretch is slow, heavy, delicious, both of you releasing sounds of relief with eyes rolling back into your skulls as though you’ve both spent four years pretending you don’t want this. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, he squeezes you tight beneath him as he sinks deeper and deeper. At last, his hips meet yours, and Jackson Wang, your best friend, is balls deep inside of you. You squeeze your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the sudden and intense sensations and emotions.

“Are you okay? Feels okay, baby?” he asks softly, clearly restraining himself. You nod, licking your lips.

“Mhm. It’s good. So good,” you babble. Jackson chuckles, nodding as he kisses you again. It’s sweeter this time, moreso as he begins to slide out. The drag of his cock makes you shudder, and you clamp your thighs tight around his waist.

“That’s it,” he hums, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Lock me up inside you, baby. So fucking pretty.”

You purr in response, arching your back. Jackson takes this as a go ahead, pushing himself up to his palms as he begins to fuck you properly.

You feel your mouth open in shock as he thrusts rhythmically, the switch between emptiness and fullness making your head spin. Every time his hips smack the backs of your thighs, another grunt escapes his mouth, and fuck if you couldn’t listen to that sound for the rest of your life.

Jackson leans down and kisses you. This time, you make sure it’s not as sweet, sucking his tongue and letting him lick yours. You taste his groan as he bucks heavily, pausing to collect himself. Your legs hook around his waist, heel digging into his lower spine, making him moan.

“F-Fuck baby, gonna make me come already,” he breathes, letting his head hang down. You smile, cupping his face and pulling him into you.

“So sensitive,” you purr. Jackson huffs.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he hums, wincing at his own sharp thrust. “Maybe I should pull out and leave that gorgeous head to wonder what it’d be like.”

“You won’t,” you reply, calling his bluff. “If I begged you, I bet you’d go raw.”

Jackson surges forward, hands moving behind your knees as he folds you nearly in half. You choke on air and look up at him, wondering why the fuck you've forced yourself to wait for this.

“You don’t have to beg for shit. Don’t fucking tempt me, y/n.”

Your mouth opens at his tone, but he begins to fuck you harder, gripping your form against him as he gives you everything he has. Your whines turn into muffled cries as he tucks your face into his shoulder.

“Shh…let’s not let the neighbors know I’m finally inside you baby…that’s it, quietly…take it for me, yeah?” he hums, and you whimper, digging your nails into his skin. Your legs bounce uselessly where he holds them in place, giving him room to be flush against your ass each time he bottoms out.

“Can’t wait for you to let me lick this sweet little cunt until you cry,” he murmurs, leaning back to slip a hand between you. You jump when he immediately finds your clit, index and middle finger repeatedly alternating pressure. He’s a god damned expert, and you feel yourself clenching tight around the obstruction of his cock.

“Fuck…is that all it takes? You’re squeezing me like a fucking vice, y/n," Jackson groans. “More, baby. That’s it…fuck. So fucking good.”

“J-Jackson,” you huff, squirming beneath the pressure of his weight. “Nng…f-feels so good…”

“Yeah, princess? Just like you've dreamed about?"

Fuck. He always knew, knew you too well, were you made of glass?

"Y-yeah," you whimper, choosing not to lie. "B-Better."

Jackson kisses you again, his hand slowing its movements to match his hips.

“Show me,” he says roughly, obviously close himself. “I wanna feel you cum, baby. Want my cock shiny and sticky like my tongue was.”

“Mm..don’t stop, ‘m close,” you breathe. You tuck your hands into his hair, tugging at the strands, knowing what kind of response you’d experience. He groans, as expected, though pulls back and pushes your thighs apart.

He looks down at your cunt swallowing his cock whole as he rubs at your hooded clit, cursing and biting his lip. Your cheeks flush despite everything, and when his eyes flicker to your face—you’re not sure what to call that expression if not love.

You want him to cum first. You bring his hand away from your clit and up to your lips, kissing the wet pads of his fingers before slipping them into your mouth. Jackson lets out a high pitched noise that you can’t wait to tease him over later as he watches you suck them.

He swallows and leans forwards, pulling your fingers away from your mouth to kiss you. You think it’s an accident, the intimacy, but the kiss is soft, so soft that he stops thrusting and you stop trying to make him cum, so soft that you’re suddenly crying and hugging him and apologizing for being a fucking idiot.

“Hey, ‘s okay baby, I’m here,” he whispers, his own eyes wet. “Stop crying, y/n. I’m right here. I’m yours. I’ll still be yours tomorrow. Shh...”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you breathe, burying your head against his throat despite the fact that his cock is kissing the opening of your cervix currently. “I was scared, Jackson, so fucking scared, I-I think I loved you so much that I scared myself into thinking I couldn’t.”

“Huh?” he asks, knowing damn well what you said according to the stupid grin on his face. You roll your eyes, using the back of your hand to wipe at your tears.

“I said I love you, asshole,” you whisper, sniffling. “And ‘m not gonna say it again.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, pulling your hands down to wipe your tears himself. “Fine. I’ll just memorize the way you sound when you say it and play it over and over until we live in a nursing home together."

"You roll your eyes, smiling through the teariness. Only you would cry in the middle of sex, but Jackson seemed to love this, taking it as your not-so-silent confession.

He eventually shifts again, making you shudder despite the fact that he was only getting comfortable. He prepares to ask—you already know—want me to stop? So you shake your head before he gets the words out.

“I want it, you know, without,” you say instead, shyly looking up at him from your elbows. Jackson looks a little confused, and you sigh, gesturing around as if that’s helpful at all. “You know. Without.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, pie—”

“I’m saying I want you to fuck me, and then I want you to tell me you love me so I can say it back without dying, and then I want to go to the pharmacy with you and get plan b even though I’m on birth control because we’d make cute babies but I wanna wait like 10 years probably. So, like, without? If you want?”

You finish your monologue, your cheeks burning hot. You flop to your back and cover your face, once again forgetting about the cock buried inside of you. Jackson doesn’t, of course.

“Are you asking me to hit it raw—”

“Must you be so unromantic—”

“Shut up and c’mere,” he mumbles. He leans down, pulling you up enough to kiss you. You feel him shuffling between you, embarrassed by the gasp that slips out when he pulls back. Jackson smirks. There’s a snap of rubber and he winces as he removes the condom, tossing it into his desk trash can.

“Easy, baby. He’ll be back,” he chuckles.

“I’m actually going to kill you,” you groan. But then he’s pushing into you again, and fuck if the look on his face doesn’t make you want to buy a first class ticket to hell.

“Fucking…jesus…baby…” he gasps. You giggle, though he just pushes you back to hide the apparent blush on his cheeks.

“That bad huh?” you mock him, feeling him bottom out, completely. He curses and dips his head to kiss you, but it’s messy and desperate and feeds the fire that’s been burning inside of you for too long.

“So fucking…nng…so fucking pretty,” he says with a sharp snap of his hips. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he leans down. He kisses you again, hard, palms flattening on the bed on either side of your hips. He uses the leverage to fuck you harder, leaning over you until you’re pinned beneath him.

“D-Didn’t know it’d turn you into an animal,” you giggle breathlessly, hand fisting his hair. He groans and tilts his head to the side.

“You turn me into a fucking animal, baby,” Jackson grunts. “Makes me…makes me want to do stupid things, like fuck you without a condom and cum so deep the pill doesn’t do shit to stop it—”

“Jackson—”

“You said it first. Still gonna make you swallow the pill with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You squeak and tug him down for a filthy kiss, tongues barely missing the mark as his thrusts become loose and sloppy. He’s fucking himself dumb, gripping the sheets and whining against your mouth like a dog.

“G-Gotta make you cum. Gotta make it good for you,” he breathes, reaching between you. You pull his hand away, shaking your head. He begins to argue but you squeeze your thighs around his waist, making him shudder and stumble. He falls against you, cursing into your hair as he continues his thrusts.

“Want you to cum first,” you whisper, hugging him tight. “Want you to fill me up like you said, so fucking deep—"

He groans, leaning on you and thrusting heavy as he snaps his hips forward. His speed remains the same, but you can hear the sound of his hips meeting your ass like he's trying to bury himself in you indefinitely.

"T-That's...fuck..." you whimper, nodding. "Good, that's good."

“Ah…ah…” Jackson whines, shaking his head. “F-Fuck, baby…gonna cum, is that…is that okay? Fucking…ah…c-can I cum?”

Oh. Oh.

You were going to explore this later, him asking permission to cum. But not now.

“Please, Jax. Please cum for me, in me?” you beg softly. “Promise, I’ll take it so good."

“Fuck, I know you will, princess. Know you’ll take it all so good for me…so perfect, so fucking beautiful…all mine, baby…”

Jackson clings to you so tight you have trouble breathing, but you feel him shudder, hear him gasp, and you squeeze him back just as much. He releases a sob into your hair, his muscles tensing as he cums hard. You feel his cock pulsing, the warmth spreading inside of you, and realize with a start that you’re feeling his actual cum seeping into your womb.

You rub his back for a few minutes while he recovers, until he finally sits up and hisses at the sensitivity of his softening cock still buried in you. When he tugs away, it’s your turn to gasp, shivering at the cool emptiness you feel.

“Was that okay?” he asks quietly, hands pushing your thighs apart. You nod.

“Yeah, ‘s good. What are you—shit.”

Jackson knelt between your legs, lips first kissing your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. You all but scream, trying to clamp your legs together, but his easy strength prevents that.

“F…Jackson...fuck, w-what are you doing?” you whimper again, trying to push yourself up to look at him. He uses a hand on the soft of your belly, pushing you back down. He pops off of your clit, free hand taking over the strokes.

“My babygirl didn’t cum. I’m gonna make sure she does,” he explains as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“B-But you…your cum…”

“Mhm, keep reminding me,” he moans, tongue slipping beneath the hood of your clit while two long fingers prod at your sore hole. You wince, but he slowly eases them in, his own cum working as lube. Rather than move them, he holds them there, gently stroking inside of your walls while he laps freely between your labia.

In a frighteningly short amount of time, you’re coming off the bed (literally) with a cry of surprise, mumbling his name over and over again as though he could save you from the crushing pleasure you felt. Your thighs clamped around his head, though he made no move to escape, apparently right where he wanted to be as it allowed him to continue sucking and licking the sensitive bundle of nerves until your legs trembled violently.

It stole your breath, and you saw stars, mixed in a few moments later with a boyish grin and someone peppering your face with kisses. It was the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, definitely if you were comparing him to other men. Well. There was no comparison.

You could only imagine how it'd feel with his cock as deep as it was. Next time. You'd suck his cock, cum on it...maybe make him beg to do the same.

Jackson is patient enough to wait until you’ve mostly returned to your body before he smugly proclaims that he was right, the sex was great, and you owe him a backrub (don’t you usually have to make bets to win them in the first place?) but whatever, because you were fucked out and your boy was happy and probably planning your wedding.

But once you attempted to sit up, wincing at the soreness of keeping your legs open, Jackson kissed you sweetly and urged you to lie down again. He left for a few minutes, returning with boxers (darn it) and a bottle of water, which he forced you to sip whilst he ran you a bath.

You were helped down the hall, feeling like a frail old lady after you insisted you could do it—and had to catch yourself by the doorframe as you walked like a baby deer. You informed him it wasn’t polite to laugh at people you’ve nearly fucked to death, regretting your words immediately as a somehow cocky Jackson became even cockier.

He guided you into the bath, telling you to relax while he ran to the pharmacy. Before he left though, he knelt beside the tub, fingers tapping at the lava-like water you were soaking in.

“Do you like the smell?” he asks, resting his chin on his fist. You nod, letting your fingers find his and trying to pull them beneath the water. He compromised by pulling yours out, kissing the back of your knuckles. “Good. It’s strawberry scented.”

“Fucking me doesn’t make my bath bombs free real estate,” you say pointedly.

“Fucking me doesn’t make my clothes free real estate.”

You open your mouth, then purse your lips.

“Touche.”

“I have something to ask,” he sighs, resting his lips on your hand. “It’s really important.”

Oh god. What.

“Yeah?” you ask, your voice shaky. Jackson grins.

“Just…did you like my cream, pie?”

You stare at him for a few seconds, contemplating the last hour and four years of your life. “I want a divorce.”

“I love you.”

“How…how long have you thought of that joke?” you ask. You didn’t really want to know the answer.

“Um…about 20 seconds after I called you pie for the first time? Not with you of course.”

“Well why in the god damn hell not with me!?”

“I mean? Yes with you?”

“Creep.”

“I love you.”

“I still want a divorce.”

“I still love you.”

“Nng.”

“That means I love you in worm?”

“...Yeah.”

“Heh~”

“Hey Jackson?”

“Mm?”

“Your lil sperms might be kinda fast? So like? Maybe leave now? I do love you but I will not have your babies right now?”

“Oh. Yeah. Be right back. Try not to make a baby with those in the meantime, they’re not ripe yet, you know?”

"...Hurry."

2K notes · View notes

salem-s · 3 months ago

Text

04 ── PLAYING UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS language, fingering, p-in-v sex. angst (familial issues, mentions of abuse). but also hella fluff??? italian skills are not great, reader's b-day is around thanksgiving for plot sake just go along with it. 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 13.7k. don't.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER 24 hours by sky ferreira

The thought of tomorrow sets a pit in your stomach.

You toss and turn for the better part of two hours, wanting to throw a pillow at Rafe’s face when you see him sleeping soundly in his twin bed, envious of the rest that he’s getting that you yearn for since you obviously didn’t get to nap today after the beach.

It’s not uncommon for you to dread your birthday.

Growing up, it was always so close to or sometimes on Thanksgiving that it was overshadowed by the holiday, and you never got an extravagant celebration and instead was pushed to the sidelines. Truly, you never cared for a giant blowout, but the song and a slice of appreciation would’ve been nice.

This holiday in particular is a big time of year for your family to flaunt all the things that they are ‘thankful’ for, which mainly entails money, clothes, and materialistic things that are so out of touch with reality that it makes you sick. So, taking that into account, you associate this time of year with dread and misery.

On your thirteenth birthday, the day fell on the holiday and no one in your family remembered. The one thing you asked for was a birthday cake with candles that only you got to blow out, not your little cousins or your brother, just you.

Apparently, you asking that was far too annoying for your mother, resulting in a swift backhand when you prompted one too many times.

That was the last time you asked for a birthday gift, and stopped bringing the day up altogether in the future.

So, you don't really tell people with the exception of a few friends and nonna, who promised to not make a big deal out of it in front of Rafe. The last thing you want is it to become a thing for a multitude of reasons, and pulled Lorenza aside when Rafe was preoccupied with Ticino to not let it slip to your so-called boyfriend.

Of course, Lorenza would not let the topic slide away that easily, so you settled on her making your favorite meal with your favorite bottle of wine.

The day, its lonely memories, plus the thought of having to dress shop keep you from being able to fall asleep.

You try all sorts of positions, fluff your pillow, count sheep. Nothing.

Anxiety creeps up the longer you're awake, knowing the clock is ticking until you have to cross off a lot of items off your check list: the dress, formalities with your extended family, dealing with your mother, pretending to be Cupid-struck by the guy sleeping seven feet away from you. You don't know how long you've been up at this point, and you're starting to grow delirious.

One idea - a horrible one, at that - stays in the back of your mind for the betterment of an hour.

That last resort sleeps across the room, probably frolicking in a field in his dreams peacefully based on the content expression on his face.

The thought of what you're about to do makes your head spin in embarrassment, the idea of needing Rafe Cameron - of all people - to be able to sleep. It sounds revolting and pathetic to even consider, and it makes you slap a hand to your forehead in frustration, reeling in the thousands of possibilities of how it could go down.

What if it doesn’t work and you still can’t sleep, and then you're stuck in his arms for the rest of the night? What if he wakes up and tells you to go back to your own bed? He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy after you had sex earlier, and was weird all day following it.

Weirder than he usually is, anyway.

But it’s the only option, frankly, because the few times he’s slept over or you've slept at his, you always got surprisingly good sleep.

You usually forgo the sleeping over aspect since your dorm rooms are quite literally next to each other, so the walk of shame is only a mere few steps. But, on occasion, he will be too tired to retreat back, or you'll get caught up in stupid conversation, or whatever the excuse is that night.

As much as you hate to admit it, you always found better sleep in his arms, and that remedy is calling your name right now. Honestly, you fear if you don't do it, you'll be up all night wondering if it would’ve worked.

Fuck it, you think.

With diligence, you slip out of bed and hiss quietly at the cold tile floor against your feet, adjusting to the temperature. You sheepishly pad over to his side of the room, analyzing where it’ll be best for you to slip in without waking him up. A wave of ridiculousness washes over you, cheeks burning in the darkness at how desperate this feels.

Rafe is fast asleep on his side, facing your bed with an arm slung over the edge and nearly brushing the ground. The position leaves a tiny sliver of space between his body and the wall that you can see from the moonlight casting a pearly hue into the room, particularly towards his half.

Now or never, you think bitterly.

You nudge his arm gently with your palm to see if he’s truly out cold. He is, because he doesn’t even flinch, chest rising and falling deeply even and syncopated.

Then you slowly lower your knee onto the edge of the bed, careful not to bump into him as you hike your other leg over his body. Diligently, you place your foot firmly on the mattress, wincing at the way it dips down at the weight of you and you bite your lip at the fear you've woken him up.

However, Rafe doesn’t budge, so you continue your stealth mission and move to climb over him.

But – of course – when you launch forward to quickly hop over his body, you severely overestimate how close the wall is and-

Thud.

You smaaaack your forehead against the wall, hard. The bang isn’t that loud, but you involuntarily yelp at the pain and nearly collapse at the ferocity of the collision. The unsteadiness of your posture has your trailing leg nudging his hip harshly.

You freeze, hoping it isn't hard enough to wake him up, and for a moment you think you're in the clear.

But your absolutely heart drops when Rafe twitches, groans, and moves to lay on his back, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes in an adoring way that makes your cheeks flame even hotter than before. His hair, from what you can see, is freshly tousled and sticking up in every possible direction, some pieces falling over his eyes while others stick up and out.

You'd normally laugh at the sight if you weren't currently getting caught in the most embarrassing position to grace planet earth.

Rafe squints in the dark and blinks blearily, taking in the dim sight of you kneeling on his bed and cupping your forehead. All you can do is look down at him with wide eyes, like a deer in headlights.

Despite being lulled from his sleep, you hate how he smiles at you. No, not smiling. He's beaming.

“What are you doing?”

Your mouth opens and closes, attempting and failing to find an excuse for your endeavors as your head throbs at how hard you smacked it on the wall.

Say something, idiot.

Apparently, you take too long to come up with a response, because soon a cool hand comes up to brush against your knee, rubbing a thumb across the bone lazily as if Rafe has all the time in the world, as if he hasn't been woken up from a peaceful sleep.

Now you really stumble over your words.

After a moment of gaping like a fish, you sigh in exhaustion. “I can’t sleep.”

“Hmm?”

“I thought maybe…” you trail off, furrowing your brows.

But you wince when the gesture makes your head throb even more.

Rafe drops his teasing demeanor when he sees a flash of pain paint over your pretty features, concern immediately rising as his chest tugs something foreign from him. Protection, maybe? Fear? Whatever the emotion may be this time, it makes him panic for a moment at the thought of you being hurt.

He pushes himself up on his elbow and brings his hand from your knee to your cheek, brows furrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”

The whole thing is so ridiculous that you can’t help but snort, but the humorless facade fades quickly and all of a sudden you feel stupid under his gaze and feather light touch.

Incredibly stupid.

You feel stupid that you woke him up when you really didn’t need to, and feel even stupider as his hand caresses your jaw so affectionately that it evokes a need to lean into his touch, to feel protected and cared for. You feel stupid that you just want to melt into his big arms and play dumb.

Especially with the way he's looking at you right now.

God. You hate that you're so tired. You hate that the dress doesn’t fit you. You hate that you have to seek solace in him in order to feel at ease. You hate that your head hurts.

You hate that it’s your birthday.

Before you know it, tears spring to your waterline. You pray it’s dark enough so he can’t tell.

But he notices.

Rafe sits up immediately, keeping one hand on your cheek and the other on your bicep to ground you, but also to force you to face him. He ducks his head to your level to meet you eye to eye, and even in the darkness you can still pinpoint those gorgeous blues staring at you.

However they hold a new look you don't recognize from him, and after a moment of staring you realize it’s concern.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

God, it makes you want to melt. And puke. And scream. Why does he have to say that outside of intimacy? Why does he have to play with your heart? Why can’t he simply say your name like normal friends do?

“I just–” Your bottom lip trembles and frustration bubbles in your chest. “I hit my head," is all you can pathetically muster.

You hope that’ll be enough to not have to share the other stuff.

Rafe’s eyes land on where you cradle your forehead, frowning as he gently moves your hand away. The moonlight offers him the ability to lightly inspect the damage. There’s no visible blood or bump as his thumb smooths over it with a feather light touch.

Without thinking, he leans forward, pressing a light, chaste kiss on the soreness. When he pulls back, Rafe pushes some hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear, his hand then settling back on your cheek with a nonchalance that doesn't match how incredibly intimate the act was.

You watch him the whole time, still willing the tears to not fall as you blink them away quickly. Your head doesn’t really hurt that much anymore.

After a moment of staring at each other, Rafe gently coaxes you down onto the mattress and pulls you against his chest. His hands sprawl on your back, rubbing up and down your spine and over the ridges of your muscles. Your cheek rests against his bare chest, hearing the loud thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat which contrasts his relaxed demeanor.

Is he nervous?

You push the thought away. He probably feels panicked on how to handle someone crying in front of him, as emotions are not in his forte.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” he murmurs against the crown of your head. “Can I do anything?”

You simply shake your head with little to no motion, heart dropping as you remember this is just an arrangement, a fake ploy to help you get through the next week. He’s doing this to have leverage. Rafe Cameron doesn’t do things without expecting something in return. But you really don't feel like having sex right now.

“I don’t feel like doing anything right now,” you murmur, voice more shaky than you'd like. “Maybe tomorrow. I just want to sleep.”

Rafe frowns at the implication behind your words, something ugly brewing in his chest as he repeats them in his head.

Do you really think he wants to have sex right now?

“No, I–” He stops himself. You want to sleep, he needs to let you sleep, but he also feels the need to defend himself. Rafe comes up short on his response, a flicker of panic rising in his throat at the thought of revealing too much.

He sighs to himself, irritated that that’s how he presents himself.

Rafe says your name quietly. “Go to sleep.”

You frown at the use of your name, knowing he never really uses it unless he’s angry or upset about something or coming down from a high. He sounds annoyed, probably because he thought he was getting some when he saw you climb into his bed, not expecting the late night blue balls.

You bite your lip at the meaning, wanting to go through all the potential reasons of why he would say that instead of his usual obnoxious pet names, but sleep starts to lull you away as his big arms cradle you, cage you in, share warmth and everything nice.

Not that you'd ever admit this to anyone – not even in a confessional booth – but this is you favorite place to be.

The overwhelming urge to sleep plus the contentment of being in his arms makes you relax, turning your brain off as you flutter your eyes shut.

You assume this position also makes you delusional, because you swear you hear Rafe whisper, “Happy birthday.”

You wake up in a sour mood.

First, Po steps on your chest and it feels like a hundred tons on your sternum, jolting you awake.

Begrudgingly petting the cat, you then notice you're alone in the bedroom with the covers bunched around your waist. Inhaling out of frustration, you try to ignore how the sheets smell like him and sit up, but the act makes you groan, the lingering throbbing on your forehead springing back at the sudden movement.

Then when you leave the bedroom, you discover the house to be quiet. Too quiet.

You enter the kitchen and movement in the garden catches your attention, and your breath hitches when you see Rafe and Lorenza sitting at the outdoor table, sipping coffee and talking animatedly.

Ticino sits right against Rafe’s leg, alternating between typing on his phone and petting him. You watch Rafe type something into his phone and then show Lorenza, who nods and takes the phone, pressing a button and speaking into it.

A pang of frustration pricks at your chest when you see them laugh together. What could they be talking about?

No, you panic.

They aren’t supposed to be getting along. Rafe isn’t your boyfriend. He doesn’t need to be falling in step with this little act. He’s doing this as a pity favor, because he felt bad for you when your mother practically berated you in front of him. He’s doing this because he doesn’t want to go home and see his family for the holiday, he takes the first out he can get and clings to it. He’s not doing this because he wants to, but because he has to.

You push the thought away when you remember your agenda for the day, a cloud of grumpiness shifting over your head as you grumble something incoherent. The sun hasn't been up for long and you're already wishing it's the next day.

Instead of joining the two for coffee, you change into daytime clothes and freshen up, hoping to be able to slip out of the cottage and go on your endeavors alone.

The thought of entertaining Rafe all day makes your stomach do a somersault, as you just want to go in, get a dress, and come back. All you want to do today is relax, maybe go to the beach again, and get stupid drunk at dinner so you can pass out before all the heartfelt emotions circulating your birthday memories come into fruition.

The only remedy to today is drinking yourself into oblivion at dinnertime.

Of course when you exit the house, purse in arm and sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, Rafe and Lorenza frown.

“Dove stai andando?” (where are you going?)

You admit your tone is nothing inviting, as you reply that you're going to the dress shop, and your nonna stubbornly matches your irritable tone.

“Porti il tuo ragazzo.” (bring your boy)

An excuse brews in your throat but Lorenza doesn’t let you argue, shushing you harshly and gently ushering Rafe towards you.

You nearly roll your eyes at the difference in treatment, practically coddling your so-called boyfriend. You guess you wouldn’t be surprised if, at some point, your nonna ends up pinching his cheeks endearingly before you leave for the wedding.

You bite back a groan when Rafe shoots up from his seat, waving goodbye to your nonna and falling into step with you. You don't wait for him before you start practically speed walking onto the dirt path, eager to get this whole thing over with - especially since you begrudgingly have a babysitter now.

However, his long legs allow him to catch up with ease, even taking it one notion further and spinning around so Rafe's walking backwards and facing you.

If you weren't so irritated you'd actually be impressed with his foot coordination.

“You weren’t even gonna wait for me?” he teases, his tone and demeanor a stark contrast from last night. Maybe he jerked off this morning and got rid of his blue balls, as it seems like the only valid excuse for his chippier attitude on this bright sunny day. “I find that highly offensive, baby.”

You roll your eyes, and then realize you're wearing sunglasses. “What’s highly offensive is the lack of steps you took to catch up. Has anyone ever compared you to Gumby?”

“Is he handsome?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

You groan. “You’re in the wrong profession. You should be on some sort of court instead of running your mouth all the time.” You try to side step so he’s not backwards-walking right in front of you, but he mirrors your movements to prevent that from happening, taking utter glee in your irritation. “Stop.”

“No,” he retorts, shuffling with a skip in his step. He must’ve played soccer with the way his feet are coordinationally graceful. “This is how I like to walk.”

“No, it’s not.”

“How would you know?”

All you want to do is leap forward and throttle him.

It’s bad enough you have to run this errand in the first place, and even worse that he has to torment you the entire time with that stupid smile that he wears when he knows he’s pissing you off. It also frustrates you that he’s essentially forcing you to look at him, his biceps outlined offensively well in his plain navy t-shirt and his hair falling over his squinted eyes.

You attempt to mask your staring with a scowl, but it feels like he sees right through you. And it further pisses you off.

“You know you don’t have to talk, right?” you hiss, hating the way he laughs at you. “Sometimes people like to walk in silence.”

“I don’t.”

You throw your head back, huffing at his stubbornness, at your headache, at the whole ordeal in itself. “Well, I do. So shut up.”

Of course, Rafe doesn’t listen and instead taps his chin in mock contemplation, humming low as he pretends to think. “Do you think I could get away with robbery? I’m not talking amateur klepto, I’m talking something big. Like a car. Or a freight train.”

The rest of the walk is essentially just that: Rafe talking your ear off as you brush him off with one word responses, move to hit him, or ignore him altogether.

You know you're being a dick, but today, of all days, you do not want to be tested. Rafe doesn’t seem to run out of words, though, moving past your bratty attitude and filling in the gaps of silence with outrageous hypothetical questions or random stories and facts about stuff you don't care about.

After tuning him out for the better part of fifteen minutes, you nearly sigh in relief when you approach town. He eventually falls into step next to you, taking in the sights around him. Your heart does a weird leap when you see him pull out a camera you've never seen before and snap some photos of the scenery around you.

In a moment of his distraction, you race forward and slip into a store in a feasible attempt to lose him.

But Rafe doesn’t shake that easily, following you inside with ease and shooting you a deadpanned look as if to say nice try.

The store doesn’t end up selling clothes, instead holding antiques and random trinkets that you actually don't mind looking at. Frankly, you want to stall your loitering as much as possible with the hopes that he’ll get bored and go venture off somewhere else for the better part of an hour. But to your dismay, Rafe doesn’t budge, instead looking at the items with you and lingering around the things you seem to pick up, inspect, then put down.

You forget about your irritable facade when you pick up a ceramic fish about the size of your palm, the sardine painted in whites, blues, and yellows with two little holes through the top fin, assumingely there to be able to hang it up with a piece of string. The handmade item sits gently in your hand, inspecting the grooves and crevices and paint job as you run your thumb across the glassy surface.

There’s a small section of the table devoted to similar ceramic fish, all painted with the same colors but in different patterns, no two alike. They're all beautiful, and you stop and inspect all the different detailing on each one while still holding the original you picked up.

Rafe suddenly appears next to you and follows your gaze to the art piece in your hand, picking up another one off the table and flipping it over to see the artist’s small signature on the back. Your arms brush as he moves his hand next to yours so you can look at both fishes next to each other. The one in his hand looks so much smaller than yours despite being the same size.

“These are cool,” he murmurs, almost challenging you to agree.

But you simply hum, taking one more lingering glance before putting your fish back down on the table and walking away to inspect other items. You're so dismissive to his presence that you don't seem him pick up the sardine you were previously holding, cradling it along with the fish he picked up in his hand.

You do that a few more times in the store: pick up a random item, inspect it, hum in appreciation, then put it back. Rafe trails behind you, as if following your movements and analyzing the same things that you do.

When you move to leave, Rafe calls your name in warning before you can exit.

“I’m getting something for my sisters, can you wait for me? Or am I going to have to chase you down again?”

You roll your eyes at him, but nod nonetheless as you linger by the door obediently, picking at the material of your purse with one hand as you absentmindedly trace the spines of old books with the other.

It doesn’t take long for him to meet you, gripping the brown paper bag tightly as he approaches with shifty eyes.

“What’d you get for them?” You ask quietly as you move to leave, deciding the question is too intimate so you don't hold the door for him to make up for it.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck and falls into step next to you, avoiding your eyes as he pretends to busy himself looking through the windows of passing shops. “Uh, there were some small posters in the back made by a local artist. They’re kind of freaky looking, but my sisters are weird. So. That’s what they get.”

You hum at the thought of him thinking about his sisters, catching yourself smiling lightly. But you wipe it off your face as quickly as it came. “Cool. I think there are other shops like that if you wanna get them more stuff. I’m gonna pop in here quick to look around.”

“Nuh-uh,” he warns sternly and your shoulders sag at his stubbornness. “I’m under strict orders to stay with you from Lorenza. Stop trying to get rid of me.”

The thought of the two of them conspiring broaches a weird feeling in your gut, a combination of confusion and envy and something else that you can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a slight tick of anxiety that flashes in your mind that their conversation this morning was all about you, more specifically on what today is. You just hope your nonna respected your wishes and didn’t tell him that it’s your birthday.

“Whatever,” you eventually grumble, cutting off his stride to side step into a dress shop.

Rafe follows obediently, trailing behind you in the store to inspect the vintage looking dresses on the racks. He watches you fish through them without a forethought, humming at some possible contenders but then continuing to move on with your search.

You feel his gaze burning from your peripheral and decide to ignore him, taking his focus as boredom because he has nothing better to do than to watch.

You take a few possible dresses under your arm as you move onto the neck rack, ignoring the gross feeling in your chest when he offers to hold them for you while you continue to look.

It almost makes you laugh at the sight of Rafe Cameron as your personal clothing rack.

You have half a mind to tease him on the matter, but when you look back at him to hand him another dress to hold, he looks perfectly content. Happy, even, to provide such a small service. You hate that he doesn’t complain once, grumbling something incoherent about his stupidly incessant presence as you turn back to the rack to resume your search.

Then your gaze settles on a particularly unordinary dress shoved deep in the back as if someone hid it.

You pull it out and inspect it with a quiet gasp. It’s a silky spaghetti strap dress with all kinds of patterns etched through it, decorated with delicate beading that make up swirls, small flowers, and dotted lines along the hem. The bottom is uneven, creating an edgy diagonal stitch as it cascades down. The neckline is a v-neck, you assume, because there’s a sliver of material in the bust that gives the dress a bit of a cowlick design.

With one hand you hold up the dress by the hanger and gently skim over the material with the other, as if admiring its beauty through touch alone.

You hear Rafe hum quietly behind you, drastically pulled from the mesmorizing moment as you nearly cough from the surprise.

“You like that one?” he asks gently, voice void of any teasing regard.

You mimic his hum, but then frown as you further inspect the dress. “It’s beautiful, but…”

You trail off. The dress is beautiful. Ethereal. It’s the kind you’d see in a dream and spend life trying to find.

But you catch the numbers on the tag and your shoulders sag, because there’s no way in hell you’re able to afford that off a measly part time job at school. Even then, you can’t think of a scenario where you would wear this, knowing it’ll ultimately sit in your closet collecting dust. Because this dress will turn heads, and you’re not the kind of person who normally holds the spotlight.

Plus, the dress isn’t wedding guest appropriate to you, because it would no doubt draw attention to you in a way that you really don’t want – assuming that it will even fit you.

Your mother would probably call it hideous and demand you change into something else more appropriate: basic, standard, conservative, because god forbid you try to figure out your own style versus molding into whatever cookie cutter shape your mother wants you to be that day.

“But what?” You hear Rafe behind you, confusion edging his tone.

“I wouldn’t wear it to the wedding,” you say softly, almost dejected and trying to convince yourself not to waste your savings on a dress you have no occasion to wear it for. “Too…out there. Besides, it’s worth like three months of work for me.”

You put it back on the rack and move on with your search, knowing the longer you look at it the more upset you’ll get.

In another life, you suppose.

But Rafe doesn’t let you get far, reaching back in to grab the dress and add it to the growing pile. You spin around with an argument ready in your throat, but your words don’t come when he gives you a pointed look, a warning, forcing you to shut up before you create another argument.

The thought of standing in the middle of this shop and arguing with him seems like your personal hell, so you humor him with a dejected sigh, turning back around to fish through the last rack.

“I’ll be quick,” you grumble as you take the pile of dresses from his arm. “You can wait outside if you want.”

Rafe’s response is immediate. “Sweet girl.”

A warning.

The changing room is small. Well, calling it that is generous, because it seems more like a supply closet that the owners were forced to change into a dressing room. It’s a fully closed off room with no seats for observers, so Rafe settles on leaning onto the wall next to the door.

You have to physically look away when he shamefully crosses his arms, shutting the door quickly behind you to put the barrier between you.

It's as if Rafe knows how achingly annoyed you are at this little errand, because, bless him, he tries to make it fun for you.

The first dress you try on is a deliberate no based on the awkward fit, but he insists you show him anyway despite your excessive cursing. With a scowl, you oblige, doing a sarcastic twirl for him. In return, he puts on a fake southern accent to thoroughly judge the dress with dramatic flair.

Rafe only amps it up when you barely - just barely - crack a smile.

After breaking the ice, your cold demeanor slowly starts to slip. You come out one by one, needing his help a few times with a lingering zipper. There’s one that is so atrociously bad that you step out to show him as a joke, and hate how he laughs with you (not at you, it seems) pulling out that camera before you can protest and snapping a photo of you mid-shout. Rafe holds the camera high above his head when you nearly tackle him to get him to delete it, failing to no avail as he simply fights you off as you attempt to reach it.

You wouldn’t even call it fighting, because it takes little to no effort for him at his offensively tall stature.

Eventually, you give up on the matter, grumbling something about judge-model confidentiality before disappearing back into the changing room.

It isn’t until you come out in a sleek wine-red gown that Rafe perks up, and he's at a loss for words because he can't even muster up the gall to put on the judge-facade he's been milking the whole time.

And, boy, does he stare.

The dress is beautiful and wedding appropriate. It’s conservative enough with a higher v-neck that ties into a halter, your entire spine exposed with a cowlick at the base of your back. The form is fitting around the bust but falls loosely from your hips down, a knee-high slit showing a sliver of your leg.

You hate the way Rafe is drinking you in right now, staring shamelessly up and down your body.

To fill the gap of silence, you try to distract yourself by explaining what you’d do with your hair, which is tie it up, and what kind of jewelry you’d adorn. But, frankly, it’s as if it goes in one ear and out the next given how Rafe can only nod absentmindedly at your words, eyelids low and lazy.

“Okay,” you roll your eyes at his demeanor, “clearly this is the winner based on your lovely review.”

Rafe can only blink stupidly as you shoot him a pointed look before disappearing back into the dressing room.

In your absence, he masks a cough as he readjusts his pants, suddenly irritated how he seemingly has to wait at least another thirty minutes before he can fuck you right, and that’s if Lorenza isn’t home. He sighs at the thought of having to sneak around again, wanting to hear you loud and clear every single time.

This knuckle-biting-moan-preventing bullshit is starting to irritate him.

When you exit the dressing room, back in your normal clothes as you hold the red-wine dress, Rafe frowns, angrily huffing.

“You didn’t try the other one on.”

You look up at him quizzically, gesturing to the piece of material in your hand. “I’m getting this one. There’s no need.”

Rafe scoffs, as if the whole thing offends him. “Go back and try the other one on.”

“Cameron–”

“Go.”

His incessant tone makes you freeze, your gaze flickering between his furrowed brow and his palm upturned at you, gesturing you to hand him the dress.

Your frustration bubbles at his bossiness, pinching your brows at his sudden demeanor switch and nearly stomping your foot when you move to walk to the register and he grabs you by the elbow, keeping you in place.

Rafe squeezes in warning. “Now.”

You narrow your gaze right back at him, so it just becomes a few moments of you staring at each other in mutual irritation, waiting to see who will break first.

Eventually, Rafe squeezes your arm again to which you relent, rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, shoving the dress in his hands and slamming the door behind you.

You grumble to yourself the whole time, shoving your pants off and ripping your shirt over your head as it falls to the floor carelessly. Despite the anger, you handle the dress with delicacy as you slip it onto your body with such care it might as well be made of glass. After adjusting the straps and zipping the side, you sigh dreamily at the sight.

It fits you like a glove. It makes you feel beautiful.

Though your heart is heavy.

Fuck, you wish you hadn’t even picked it up, because the sagging feeling of not being able to afford it nags at your brain. A wave of sadness crashes over you as your palm skims over the material longingly.

A knock at the door startles you, pulling you from the moment. You don’t realize how long you’d been standing there admiring the piece until you hear Rafe’s voice.

“Are you dead in there? What’s taking so long?”

God, you want to throttle him. His impatience turns your sadness into anger.

You swing the door open, nearly hitting him as you meet his gaze. Huffing, you gesture to the dress with an attitude.

“Here it is. Happy?”

There’s a prolonged silence between you as Rafe takes in the sight before him, studying the way it shapes your body, cascades down your legs, and hugs your breasts in the right place. His breath hitches, feeling his dick twitch uncomfortably at how frustratingly perfect it looks on you. The delicacy and beauty of the dress starkly contrast the expression on your face, one of irateness and annoyance that it makes him furious.

You take his silence as dislike.

Grumbling something under your breath, you spin around and attempt to slam the door in his face.

But Rafe’s foot jabs out to stop it from shutting.

Before you can yell at him, the words die in your throat as Rafe pulls you in for a bruising kiss, pushing himself into the small changing room and shutting the door behind him. His hands wander all over, shameless groping and fondling you as he pushes you against the mirror, caging you in.

Breathless, Rafe pulls back, reeling in the way you lean up to chase his lips and pout when you don’t get your way.

“I need you to understand something,” Rafe warns low, his fingers feather light against the neckline of the dress, tracing it and ghosting over the warmth of your sternum. “You've been nothing but a brat all morning.” His finger finds the strap, pulling one down your shoulder agonizingly slow, his touch the complete opposite of his intentions. “So, I’m going to fuck the attitude out of you. And you’re going to be good and quiet, and you’re going to take it.”

You nearly gasp when he presses his hip against yours, feeling his already aching hard-on against the swell of your belly.

He doesn’t falter. “When I’m done with you, I’m buying you both dresses and you’re not going to complain about it.”

“Bu–”

A hand grips your chin, forcing your mouth shut. “Shut. Up. Not another word about it. Alright?”

Frustration seeps from your pores. You don’t want him to feel obligated to buy you the dress, the price tag flashing across your mind and a swell of guilt rises in your chest. The topic of money is no concern for him, you assume, but it’s more so the implication of the purchase.

Why does Rafe care?

His fingers only grip harder when he sees your internal battle, and the guilt slowly starts to fizzle out and is replaced by lust, especially with the way his other hand ghosts under the material to slowly fondle your ass.

Rafe peers down at you, patiently waiting for the green light, and he moves lightning fast when you nod against his hold, submitting.

He suddenly takes a step back, hands and body leaving yours and you nearly slump without the weight of his support. Your mind feels fuzzy as he inspects the scene in front of him, dick painfully hard at the sight of you waiting obediently.

“Good,” he growls. Then, with a wave of his hand, he gestures to the dress. “Off.”

For once, you don’t argue as you carefully push the straps down your shoulders and unzip the side, letting the material fall to the ground and pool around your feet. Eagerly, you grab a hanger and step away, gently putting the dress back on the wall as your tummy flutters with excitement.

There’s no denying you’ve been a brat all day. Maybe you really do need him to fuck you into a better mood.

Rafe hums in appreciation. “Turn.”

Obliging, you spin and face the mirror, eyes coming into contact with his as he takes a step forward, closing the distance. Your heart skips a beat when you feel him up against your back, and suddenly you survey the scene in front of you, naked besides a pair of panties while he stands behind you, fully clothed.

A flicker of embarrassment coats your features, as you want him to be as naked as you are right now (almost in solidarity?), so you spin around and grab at the ends of his shirt to try and pull it over his head.

But Rafe doesn’t allow that to happen, snatching your hands to pull them away from him and forcing you to face the mirror once again, tsking in your ear at the disobedience.

“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” he spats quietly, but the words feel amplified as his mouth ghosts over the shell of your ear.

“I-I am,” you defend weakly. “You’re being—“

“No,” he rasps, interrupting you with a firm tone that has you shutting up immediately. “Quiet.”

Rafe doesn’t break eye contact with you through the mirror as one of his hands snakes around your waist, flattening his palm against your lower belly and traveling lower to trace the outline of your panties.

Your breath hitches, watching his fingers slowly descend into your underwear as your heart races with anticipation. It doesn’t take a look in the mirror to know how ferociously your cheeks burn when he slips a finger through your slit, the embarrassing realization dawning on you that you’re already wet for him.

You can feel and see your face get hot, and it only spurs him on further.

Rafe smiles at you and it’s nothing nice.

He drinks in the way you’re practically putty in his arms, chest heaving when he enters one finger inside and eagerly watches your reaction. Stubbornly, you try to not give him one, but fail when he enters a second without warning, humming in satisfaction when you let out a low moan at the feeling.

You flutter your eyes shut but snap them open when his other hand roughly grips your hip.

“Eyes open,” Rafe commands with a whisper. “I want you to watch yourself come on my hand.”

Jesus, the words make you bite back a smile.

You should act like a brat more often if this is what the result will be.

Rafe continues to shamelessly finger you in this dingy dressing room, his other hand groping your ass, tits, waist — anything else he can get his hands on — while he works you towards your high.

Every time your eyes start to slip closed from pleasure, he stops and scolds you with a particularly harsh squeeze with whatever part of your body his hand happens to be on in that moment. It's usually accompanied with a simple "sweet girl" or "eyes" when he notices.

And, of course, you obey.

It only takes a minute for you to feel shaky under his touch, especially when he presses his thumb against your clit and traces tight circles on it. Your head falls back onto his shoulder, reaching an arm up to grip his hair to ground you to something while you feel your release approaching.

Your other hand flies up to your mouth, biting down on your knuckle as you try — and fail — to hide a shameful moan.

"Look at you." Rafe's voice is right in your ear, sucking ungodly kisses on your neck. "Dirty girl, fucking my hand for everyone to hear."

It only takes around half a minute before you’re writhing from his touch, panting as you feel your orgasm coming.

“Fuck, Rafe, I’m–” You can’t finish, instead interrupting yourself with a pornographic moan as you rut against his hand like a bitch in heat.

You force yourself to look in the mirror at the scene in front of you in fear that he’ll rip his fingers away if you close your eyes. With eyes slitted and your mouth parted, you will yourself to look him in the eye, only spurring your orgasm.

And Rafe simply stares at you.

His mouth is agape, eyes trailing from yours down to your breasts and eventually down to where his fingers disappear inside you. Rafe has to bite back a moan when he sees your cum coating his hand and your underwear, relentlessly continuing to shove his fingers in and out to shove your cum back inside as you ride out your high.

You moan in overstimulation when you come down from it and realize he’s still going.

Weakly, you try to push his hand away with a huff, attempting to assert any last ounce of dignity, but that quickly flies out the window when he snatches your wrist with his other hand, gripping so tight that you can’t move even if you wanted to.

“No,” Rafe orders, bringing your hand back up to his hair where it was before. “You’re giving me another.”

You splutter in protest. “Bu–”

He interrupts you when his thumb returns to your clit, entering a third finger that elicits a loud whine from you.

Gripping his hair impossibly tight, you nearly pull him forward to where his lips ghost over your flaming cheeks, the roughness making his eyes roll back for a fraction of a moment. Your back arches off of him when you feel Rafe press against you again, feeling his hard-on through his shorts, and in a feeble attempt to stake your claim of control, you push your hips back to press into him.

Of course, that makes him stop.

Rafe scoffs meanly at you absolutely writhing against him. “You’re such a fucking brat. No complaining.”

The dominance makes your head feel fuzzy, and when his other hand comes up to wrap around your neck, the coil in your belly starting to gradually build again.

With a fuzzy brain, you whine, mouth agape as you get closer and closer until–

“You want my dick, princess?” Rafe urges mockingly.

Your head is spinning as your orgasm builds, and builds, and builds. “Yes, Rafe, I’m cl–”

“Fine.”

A gasp rips out of your throat as Rafe suddenly pulls away, his fingers leaving your pussy devastatingly early.

You stumble on your own two feet at the loss of support, about to spin around and hit him on the chest for teasing you until the hand around your neck grips your chin, forcing you to look at him in the mirror.

“Stay,” he commands harshly.

Rafe brings his cum-coated fingers out of your underwear and to your lips, eyes narrowing as it takes a moment for you to realize what he’s waiting for you to do. With bleary eyes and shallow breaths, you take his fingers in your mouth, sucking the taste off of him and swirling your tongue around his digits.

The act elicits a low moan to escape from his mouth, and he hates the way it comes out involuntarily.

Rafe takes his fingers out and quickly unbuckles his shorts, letting them fall to the floor as you both look down to the achingly pitched tent in his boxers.

Your mouth nearly salivates at the sight of it, your hazy muscle memory forcing you to dart your hands forward to grab him.

But his fingers harshly grip your wrists and pull them away from him.

“Turn around,” Rafe grumbles.

You stumble on your feet as he tries to spin you around. “I want to–”

“No.”

You huff in frustration, nearly stomping your foot. The bratty excuse but it’s my birthday rises but dies in your throat.

Irritation clouds your mind. You want to suck him off. The last time you did so was in his dorm room about a week and a half ago, as he had a particularly rough day. A small part of you loved when he let you take control, giving into the notion of letting you take care of him without needing to ask. Instead, you had insisted.

You want an ounce of that semblance back in an attempt to gain control of the situation. But you can’t help but feed off of being bossed around, since this isn't the first time Rafe has fucked his frustration out on you. After snipping and barking insults and orders, it’s nice to let someone else take the reins for a little.

Despite your wishes, you oblige and turn around with a pout, letting Rafe practically shove your underwear down the curve of your ass and around your ankles. Your faux irritation wipes away from your features when he butterfly splays a calloused palm on the middle of your spine, pushing you down to bend over.

With a spark of excitement, your hands brace themselves on the mirror, biting your lip in anticipation as you watch him admire you from this angle, cock hard in his hands as he fists himself up against your ass.

“Look at you,” Rafe coos, almost mockingly. You meet his eyes in the mirror, the piercing blues dark with lust. “Being such a good girl for me.”

Rafe takes achingly long. It could be seconds but it feels like hours before he brings his cock between your folds to soak up your wetness. You’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so damn nice, and you can’t help but moan at the sensation, wanting to yell at him to stop elongating the foreplay.

“Rafe, please—“

But it’s as if he reads your mind, aligning himself with your entrance and pushing himself in until he’s buried fully.

“Shut. Up.”

Unlike the tender-like intercourse yesterday, Rafe snaps his hips harshly, setting a fast starting pace as he thrusts in and out of you, keeping one hand on your hip to raggedly keep you in place while the other stays firm on your back to keep you low and bent over nicely for him.

His tip nearly leaves your cunt every time, slamming back into you with his full length.

God, your eyes roll back into your skull.

“Feel good, baby?” Rafe asks huskily. The tone is far from genuine.

You can only babble something incoherent back to him.

It only makes him laugh darkly. Mean. “Done being a fucking brat, hm?”

Your elbows fold and extract with every thrust, trying your very best to hold yourself against the mirror instead of smacking headfirst against it. You moan as he fucks you deep and rough, the sound of hips snapping together only spurring you on further.

"N-Never—"

One of his hands leaves your hip to firmly smack your ass, jolting your body forward as you can't help but sigh at the sensation, head lulling as your legs begin to shake from his force. But Rafe notices, and instantly his palm is snaking up your spine to grab at your hair, forcing your eyes back into the mirror.

"Eyes. Up."

Back arching at the sensation, you both moan when his cock nearly hits your cervix, the mixture of pain and pleasure creating a low rumble in your tummy.

You try and say something back, some half-assed retort that never reaches the light of day because you find his eyes in the mirror, and you instantly notices he's equally as fucked out as you are.

Rafe’s hand on your back snakes around your body, instead splaying on your stomach as he pulls you to stand up straight, the new angle causing you to roll your eyes back. You throw your head against his shoulder, forehead sticky with sweat and legs shaking from overstimulation. He continues to fuck into you, a thumb finding your clit that has you immediately arching your back, molding into his body.

When you glance into the mirror, you notice Rafe is already staring at you.

“Look at yourself, princess,” he rasps breathlessly, your blissed out state nearly making him finish. “Taking it so goddamn well.”

Suddenly, it’s all too much.

The pace, the obscene noises, the way Rafe’s blue eyes are blown black with lust, never straying away from your face.

“Give me one more.”

It’s as if his words ignite a fire in your stomach, the sensation of everything happening in this room catches up to you.

His thumb on your clit. His dick hitting every possible angle. His chest heaving against your back. His breathy moans ghosting the shell of your ear.

The coil snaps for the second time as you’re coming so hard you see white, the noise wrangling from your throat in surprise as you throw a hand up to cover your mouth, not wanting to alert the shop owner of the scandalous activity happening in the room, but you really don't do much to prohibit the noise as your hands shake from the force.

The sight in front of him has Rafe’s pace stuttering, trying to ignore how fucking nice your orgasm feels around his cock, how your hand knots in his hair, how your pretty little sounds echo off the walls.

“Shit,” Rafe curses, eyebrows furrowed in what looks like pain as his thrusts gradually slow.

You return to planet Earth momentarily, frowning at his elongated pace. In an attempt to ride out your high for a little longer, you snap your hips back into him.

The rebellious act has Rafe gripping your hips impossibly tight, probably bruising, as his rhythm falters.

“Where? Where should I–?”

The response is immediate and careless.

“Inside.”

That seems to startle Rafe as he nearly shoves himself forward, coming inside of you with hot spurts as he groans into your ear, both of you nearly drooling at the side of his cum pooling down your thighs as he fucks you through his orgasm. His hands on your hip are iron clad, guiding your motions in rhythm with his.

Eventually, Rafe’s thrusts gradually slow as you lean against one another with heaving chests and breathy pants.

Once he’s assured his knees won’t give out, Rafe slowly pulls out of you. You stand there for a moment, balancing on wobbly legs and nearly collapsing from the dull ache from between your thighs.

But he’s quick to hold you in place, gentler this time, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as his fingers smooth over the roughness of his previous grip, soft enough to be considered an apology.

Blinking away the fuzziness, your mind comes down from the dumbification.

And it makes your heart ache.

You hate the way Rafe’s eyes soften in his post-orgasm haze, trailing his eyes up and down your body not in hunger but in admiration.

At least you hope it’s admiration.

You two stand there for a moment, chests heaving and staring at each other through the palm-stained mirror with matching fucked out gazes. In an attempt to regulate your breathing, you bring a hand up to smooth down the pieces of his hair that you pulled abhorrently tight, doing your best to make it look presentable.

Then, Rafe manages to chuckle lightly. “Still wanna be a brat?”

That makes you snort.

“Hm,” you hum in mock contemplation, eyes slitting. “Can we do reverse cowgirl if I do?”

He shakes his head in disbelief, but the rising grin gives away his faux irritation. "Sweet girl, you don't even need to ask."

It’s funny because the first couple of times you and Rafe hooked up, you were thoroughly appalled at his lack of aftercare.

You remember cussing him out for practically ignoring you, thinking he was purposefully not helping you clean up because you weren’t really friends at the time and you still couldn’t really come to terms with how you both, sometimes, had to be nice to each other. But once you brought the word up to him in the heat of an argument, you watched his anger morph into confusion.

Given his track record, you were stunned that he genuinely had no preconception of the word, let alone the concept in itself, and taught him the implications of aftercare and how it makes life so much easier for everyone.

He hasn’t forgotten about it since.

Rafe helps you clean up, but not without pushing some of his cum back into your pussy with his fingers, then proceeding to pull your underwear back up over your hips.

You, truly, try to ignore the casual intimacy of it, but it doesn’t seem to faze him as he helps you dress first, then takes care of himself.

With a racing heart, you tell him you’ll meet him out at the register in a minute, spewing some excuse of wanting to fix your hair. Rafe doesn’t press any further, grabbing the dress hanging and throwing it over his arm before he leaves the room, closing the door behind him to give you some privacy.

What the fuck was that?

It was almost perfect. Almost.

Why does Rafe have to do things like that? Why can’t he just fuck you rough and hand you your clothes instead of dressing you himself? Why can’t he use a tissue to clean his cum instead of pushing it back into you? Why does he have to say stupidly endearing things right after as if he didn’t just give you an earth-shattering orgasm?

Pull yourself together, you harshly think.

After you nearly coach yourself to calm down in the mirror, you slide out of the room looking presentable enough to see Rafe at the register, flashing his black credit card to the shop owner. When he stuffs the card back in his wallet, you catch a glimpse of a giant wad of Euros that you’ve never seen before.

You don’t linger on the moment before the shop owner is handing him a bag, taking it with a curt nod.

Rafe’s eyes find yours as you carefully approach him. “Ready?”

So nonchalant, you think.

You can’t find the words, instead nodding and murmuring grazie to the shop owner, partially out of guilt for what went on in the changing room. As if the universe hates you, Rafe’s hand grazes your lower back, guiding you out of the store and back out onto the street.

You don’t venture back up to the cottage just yet, as your mood has – shockingly – improved.

Finding an ounce of independence again, you decide you want to look around in a few more stores for shits.

Rafe doesn’t complain, and instead encourages it, claiming he can look for more trinkets for his sisters. Although, you don’t see the way his gaze shifts to you when he says it, nervously waiting for you to call him out on his strange behavior of why he wants to buy things for his family after bitching and moaning about them.

But you don’t seem to catch on, thankfully.

Because Rafe practically buys everything you express the slightest interest in in secret.

When you’re off distractedly looking at something else or hopping to another store, he’s carefully building up his collection: dainty rings with jewels, clunky rings, a pair of earrings with pretty green jewels, an old annotated copy of Macchiavelli’s Un Principe, an old Italian movie poster that he doesn’t understand, a thin frilly scarf, and even manages to sneak a pair of vintage heels that he has to nonchalantly confirm are in your size.

Rafe stuffs all the items in the only two bags you know about, not wanting to raise suspicions even though they get heavier after leaving each store. He imagines you’d be mortified if you caught him in the act buying all the things you seemed to touch, and no doubt bites back a laugh as you’d probably force him to take it all back.

After all, he bought you a computer once after yours broke, and you harassed him for a week to take it back or let you pay him for it. Rafe edged you so fucking much one night until he forced you to drop it.

So, yeah, he’s content doing this under your nose.

Eventually, after Rafe convinces you that you need gelato from a stand on the street, you retreat back to the cottage with a careless pace in your strides, taking all the time in the world as you eat your ice cream and talk about stupid stuff that has no meaning. He wishes he had another hand so he could take a photo of you like this: grinning into your cone with the slightest bit dribbling on the side of your lip, no doubt grilling him about something stupid he says.

Rafe quickly finishes his cone so he can have the hand free, reaching over and brushing the pad of his thumb over the sweet strawberry gelato ghosting your lip.

The fuuuuuck.

Your mind turns to mush as you pause mid sentence at the action, watching him as he takes the thumb in his mouth, tasting the flavor.

“Mhm,” Rafe hums. “Good choice.”

You shake your mind out of the gutter at the terribly intimate action, telling yourself that he is so casual about it because he doesn’t care about stuff like that.

Besides, he’s probably doing it to get a reaction out of you — his favorite past time — which you refuse to give him.

Instead, you roll your eyes in faux irritation and continues what you were saying.

After twenty minutes, you make it back to the cottage and the overwhelming gloom-cloud over your head returns, popping out of fantasy land and remembering your birthday celebration tonight, the memories of the day in the past creeping up to haunt you.

Memories of you begging your mother for a cake or the newest Barbie or whatever infatuation you had of the year to get absolutely nothing in response, maybe an eye roll or – that one year – a swift backhand to the cheek for interrupting her phone call.

A small part of you wishes you felt comfortable enough to ask for what you want, as it would certainly make life a lot easier. Instead it only augments your stubbornness and makes you skeptical of what people do actually bring you things. And that definitely doesn’t allow for an easy way out of situations.

Unfortunately, Rafe notices your quiet demeanor, trailing off from whatever tangent he finds himself on and frowning.

“You okay?”

His change in tone pulls you away from your nagging thoughts, looking up at him distractedly. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

Rafe nods, half accepting that answer but also not wanting to push it. You enter the garden. “How’s your head?”

The question tugs something in your heartstrings. Why does he care?

You push it away. “Better. Might refrain from sneaking around in the dark, though."

You go to push open the door but Rafe beats you, opening it for you despite the two bags he carries.

Thinking back to the dresses, that former guilt of him spending all that money on you resurfaces as you pause. Rafe expectantly holds the door open, gaze flickering from his arm down to you, who stares at the bags in deep thought.

A shot of panic flashes to his mind, thinking you caught a glimpse of all the things for you stuffed deep in the bags, but instead you peer up at him sheepishly, a kind of look he hasn’t seen from you before. It has him tilting his head to the side in concern, half torn between making a chide comment in teasing and half resisting the urge to kiss you.

“What?” he whispers, gazing deep into your eyes.

You bite your lip, frowning ever so slightly. “You really didn’t have to buy them. The dresses, I mean. They were expensive.”

Rafe’s mouth curls up into a smile, the cost having little to no effect on his wallet and it’s endearing to him that that’s your concern.

Hell, he’d buy you anything you wanted with no questions whatsoever – if only you asked.

Asking isn’t in your nature. Rafe learned that pretty quickly after the computer debacle. Plus, he just had to fuck you stupid in order to buy two dresses for you alone, so he couldn’t imagine what he’d have to do to convince you to let him take care of you more often.

“I just…” you continue, hating the way he’s practically beaming at you, “don’t expect me to let you buy stuff for me just because you fuck me nice.”

That earns a belly laugh from him, throwing his head back precariously close to hitting the doorway and you have to refrain from mirroring his smile, switching your demeanor back to serious as best as you can to keep up your firm facade. Although, it's proven difficult because he has the audacity to look incriminatingly handsome.

Rafe’s grin burns a hole through your heart. His eyes gleam with pride. “So you’re admitting I fuck you nice?”

Cheeks burning embarrassingly red, you turn away from him and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But I’m not letting you buy me anything else ever again.” You point to him in warning, then brush past him to enter the cottage.

Rafe’s laugh echoes throughout the house as you storm into the bedroom, partially laughing at how mad you’re going to be at him later.

Boy, is he wrong about that.

Dinner runs swimmingly.

Lorenza makes your favorite kind of meals: gnocchi with a crab based tomato sauce, breaded chicken with lemon squeezed over the top, along with a homemade tiramisu that the neighbors bring over just an hour before you all eat. The older woman prepped with two bottles of wine: one to drink during the cooking and another to drink while eating.

It’s wonderful.

It’s all you want out of your birthday: having a lively dinner full of laughter and conversation with a belly full of wine. Rafe asks a bunch of questions to Lorenza and she answers, trying to tie a few English words into her stories to help him understand. However, you end up translating for most of the night, but you don't mind.

Not in the slightest. Not when your mouth hurts from smiling so much.

After eating, Lorenza slips a gift into your hand when Rafe leaves the room to play with Ticino, an assortment of your favorite Italian chocolates and an old pendant of hers that you once complimented. Along with the present, she gave you a smooch on each side of your cheek with a quiet, “Tanti auguri.”

You tell your nonna that she absolutely did not need to get you anything, but, in Lorenza-like fashion, waves you off with a scoff, nearly offended at the thought of not doing anything for you.

When you retreat back to the room, a little tipsy and toying with the gift in your hand, you sit down on the edge of the bed, a stupid smile painting your lips as you close your eyes and hum dreamily.

This is the most content you've felt in a while, and you feel incredibly grateful at the notion of your nonna getting you a gift. It’s small and light, wrapped delicately with a ribbon, a short handwritten note folded inside with something so beautifully written that you can't bring yourself to read it right now, otherwise you'd probably cry from the sappiness.

The door creaking causes you to open one eye, seeing Rafe poke his head in to see if you're in here. He reciprocates your smile as he pushes inside, walking over to you and kneeling between your legs.

The sensation of his cool hands gently running up and down your thighs makes you hum sweetly and brace your hands on his shoulders, smoothing down the ridges of his collar.

“Hi, pretty,” he says softly.

You beam at him and he swears he’s never seen a better sight. “Hi.”

Rafe drums his fingers on your soft skin in anticipation. “How do you feel?”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm.” You shut your eyes in contentment, sighing dreamily as the effects of wine make you feel warm. “Great.”

Rafe taps your thigh gently. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep.”

You open your eyes obediently and pout. “But ‘m tired,” you nearly whine, especially when his smile grows larger.

“Wake up.”

Your eyes flutter shut again. “Why?”

“‘Cause we’re going out.”

Then they shoot open, staring down at Rafe in confusion.

Your feather-light touches around his collar and the nape of his neck cease. He taps your thigh again, noticing he's trying (and failing) to suppress a grin, one that screams trouble. If you weren't so tired, you'd tease him for his eagerness.

But curiosity gets the best of you, especially when he has this look in his eyes that means he’s up to something.

“Why?”

“Did you really think I wasn’t going to do something special for your birthday?”

You freeze, the confession causing a moment of panic to rise like bile in your throat.

God, you're going to kill your nonna.

Your gaze darts between his eyes to see if he’s going to add anything else, or berate you for not saying anything. People usually go berserk when you neglect to tell them your birthday, seemingly more upset about it than you. Over the years, you've gotten used to the lectures, and it's given you more reasons not to tell people the day to avoid such grandiose scoldings.

However, Rafe simply stays quiet, watching you intently with a gaze so genuinely soft that it makes your stomach somersault. Suddenly, the wine doesn’t make you feel so nice.

You hate the way your voice is barely above a whisper. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Then Rafe sits up, placing a caressing hand on the side of your neck as his lips place a chaste kiss on one cheek. “We’re going out.” He alternates and places another on your other cheek. “You’re going to wear your pretty new dress.” And then his gaze flickers from your eyes down to your lips, pausing for a moment before leaning in and kissing you. “And we’re gonna take your nonna’s Vespa.”

That pulls you from the moment, brows furrowing and blinking stupidly. You move a fraction away, still confused about the whole matter.

“Nonna has a Vespa?”

Rafe nods. “Mhm. It took a lot of convincing. But she eased up when I told her I know how to drive a motorcycle.”

A...what?

The confession sends warmth to your tummy, the thought of Rafe operating a motorcycle has you shifting in your seat. “You do?”

“Mhm. What do you say, sweet girl? Wanna go?”

God, if you ever say no to that question...

It doesn’t take you long to get ready, simply pulling on your new dress and putting on some mascara. The whole time, Rafe simply watches you, lounging lazily on the bed after quickly changing with an arm tucked under his head.

It isn't until you're digging through your bag to take out your heels – meant to be for the wedding – Rafe stands and stops you, putting his hand over yours and pulling something out from behind his back.

You want to slap him silly when it’s a pair of heels, shoes that you voiced interest in earlier during your shopping (or browsing) spree. Of course, you were never going to buy them, and placed them back on the rack, but it seems as though he snuck his way around you.

You never really know how to accept gifts. Usually it’s with reluctance and dismissal, but right now, in this very moment, you've found a new reaction when he hands them over to you: a scowl.

“Okay, this is the last thing you buy me. Deal?”

Rafe puts his hands up in surrender, dressed adoringly in a collared shirt and dress pants. He looks so ridiculously handsome that it makes you blush, especially with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone. It almost makes you angry at his audacity. Truthfully, he looks good in anything: T-shirts, flannels, polos, nothing. It isn't fair.

The urge to stab him with the stiletto of your shoe but also pull him in for a bruising kiss comes into fruition, and you have to shove it to the back of your mind when you stand with the heels on, slinging your purse over your shoulder. You have the sudden realization that you're dripped out in clothes he's bought you, and you'd be pretending if you said it didn't make you feel some type of way.

Like his.

"Ready, baby?"

Shamelessly watching you, Rafe crosses his arms and tilts his head, drinking the sight of you in.

Thank god you're still a little buzzed from all the wine you drank, because you can't stand it when he looks at you like that.

So, instead of babbling like an idiot, you smile sweetly and nod.

And, jesus, the sight of it makes him bite his lip.

You're annoyingly beautiful, especially dressed in clothing that he's gotten you. A wild wave of possession rolls over him, much to his dismay, and it only makes his heart lurch when he remembers that you're not his.

Not really, anyway.

But regardless, Rafe ignores the thought.

Lorenza escorts you to the scooter waiting patiently at the edge of the gate, exchanging a few words with you and forcing a helmet into your nimble hands. Rafe waits patiently on the vehicle, biting back a grin when you nuzzle in behind him, wrapping timid arms around his middle and pulling yourself flush against his back. He can feel your breath on the back of his neck, and it makes the hair stand up with a chill. Before he starts driving, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze in reassurance.

The ride is, admittedly, stupidly fun.

Rafe is careful on the dirt road, rightfully so, focused on his task so intently that he barely registers you hugging him tighter, expressing your thanks in the only way you know how.

The sun sets low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the horizon that your eyes seem glued to, and soon the drive is illuminated by street lamps, making it into the heart of town as the roads slowly transition to cobblestone. Watching the life on the streets pass by, you rest your helmet clad head against his back, looking out towards the sea in longing and glancing at the locals basking in the setting sun.

Only now, you allow yourself to relish in the moment, shutting your eyes and simply existing, feeling his warm chest against your palms, the wind blowing against the exposed skin of your leg, hearing the sounds of laughter emitting from the street. The whole journey is so achingly pleasant that you forget you're actually stopping.

Rafe parks on the street in a small designated spot, hopping off before you can think. He slips his helmet off then proceeds to unbuckle yours, diligently lifting it off your head and holding both of them in one hand by the straps.

Then he offers a polite hand to help you off. “M’lady.”

You raise a quizzical brow. "Is this the Rafe Cameron boyfriend experience?”

“Shut up and take my hand.”

You roll your eyes, taking his hand anyway and allowing him to help you off the scooter. “How charming.”

Ignoring the thumping of your heart, you walk across the street to a quaint little restaurant, his hand splaying on the small of your back possessively as you enter.

You peer further into the restaurant to see they have outdoor seating with a view of the ocean, deciding to indulge in the pleasantries of a birthday and attempt to learn how to ask for (seemingly small) things.

Before the host can pull them into a corner to hide you from the locals, you ask, “Se è possibile, possiamo per sederci fuori?” (if it’s possible, can we sit outside?)

The request is successful, because the host leads you to their private tables outside, and you nearly sigh when you feel the ocean air brush your cheeks. You and Rafe sit away from others, tucked in your own world as the ocean laps gently to your left, his right. The table is lit gently by hanging lanterns and a single candle on each table, impossibly romantic in a way you try to disregard.

You order two red Chianti’s for them, the same wine you drank earlier at dinner.

When the waiter disappears, the silence stretches between you.

It suddenly dawns on you that you're on a date. With Rafe Cameron.

He seems to have the same epiphany simultaneously, and he chuckles out an anxious laugh and scratches the back of his neck.

The act makes you reel. Is he nervous?

You decide to elongate his misery as he comes up short on things to say. “How’d you find this place?”

“Oh,” he murmurs, the question catching him off guard.

He can’t look you in the eye.

It makes you grin.

“Lorenza recommended it. Said it was fancy to the locals, but far enough from the tourists.”

“Technically, we are tourists,” you tease.

Big, bad Rafe Cameron nervous on a date. Who would’ve thought?

Rafe finally meets your gaze, rolling his eyes when he sees your big grin at his stupidity. The hard edges to his exterior slowly smooth out, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Repressing his own smile, he shakes his head and turns away from you, hating the way he feels his cheeks turn pink.

“Shut up.”

“You’re being awfully rude to me on my birthday.”

“You were being awfully rude to me on your birthday,” he retorts as the waiter brings the wine, setting each glass in front of you.

Despite his playful tone, the accusation has you frowning.

You definitely were an asshole all day, no doubt about it given the dressing room treatment. There really was no excuse to take out all the anger surrounding your birthday and the upcoming wedding out on him, who simply has been helping you this entire time and going above and beyond in front of your nonna. A flicker of embarrassment coats your features at the thought of it.

After the waiter pours you each a glass, he places the bottle on the table and walks away, leaving you alone once again.

This time, it’s you who can’t look him in the eye, absentmindedly swirling the wine by the leg of the glass.

Fuck it.

You decide to swallow your pride because, regardless of how insane he drives you or how much of an asshole he is or everything in between, he didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of your behavior today. After all, he did buy you two beautiful dresses and heels despite being your personal punching bag all morning.

Guilt washes over you. You don't even remember if you thanked him.

“I’m sorry for being such a dick today.”

The confession catches Rafe by surprise, his brows rising as he brings the glass to his lips, pausing his sip mto see if he heard you right. The genuine tone of your voice renders him speechless as he's only able to stare at you.

His silence makes you continue. As well as the alcohol.

“I don’t really like celebrating my birthday just because of…stuff that’s happened in the past. It’s not an excuse, but contrary to popular belief, I’m juggling a lot of shit right now and I took it out on you.” You struggle to get through the sentence, finding a shroud of bravery to look him in the eye. “So, I’m sorry.”

Rafe takes a sip, then puts the glass down on the table. A moment of silence stretches between you before he finds himself asking, “Do you…want to talk about it?”

You raise a brow. “Which part?”

“Any of it.”

Rafe knows his tone reeks of desperation, but he wants you to be able to trust him, even if it’s for one night.

Because, fuck, he wants you to tell him what’s bothering you, and he wants you to know that he’s here to listen. He stills, nearly holding his breath and waiting for you to reject it, to shove him back into a cloud of mystery surrounding the pleasantries of your past. The pounding in his ribcage only augments the longer you stay silent, contemplating opening up to him.

Taking a long sip of your drink, you take a moment to compose yourself, swirling the drink more as you stare at it.

Fuck it.

“My birthday brings up a lot of bad memories,” you murmur quietly, almost reluctantly. You refuse to look at him but he doesn’t even mind, eager to pick on the breadcrumbs. “I, uhm, am used to not celebrating it because it’s so close to the holiday, so it usually just gets…brushed over.”

You decide that’s a nicer term than what the reality is.

But Rafe simply doesn’t understand. How could anyone treat you like that?

You fidget with the glass, finding it really interesting to look at all of a sudden as you feel his gaze burning into you.

“As a kid, I used to have to beg my mom for the family to sing me happy birthday, trying to compromise that I didn’t even need a cake or presents or anything. Obviously that went nowhere, so after thirteen I stopped asking.”

You find yourself faintly smiling, remembering the gift your nonna gave you and the clothes he bought you today.

“I can’t remember the last time I got a birthday gift. So, thank you,” you say so gently.

The expression on his face is indifferent, you realize, when you look up at him.

It’s a mixture of concern, pity, admiration, and a bunch of others that you can’t quite pinpoint. He doesn’t offer an immediate response, instead staring at you as if he’s carefully collecting his thoughts by darting his piercing blues around your features.

You once again fidget under his gaze, unsure of what to make of it.

But Rafe takes a deep breath, sliding his hand forward to cover yours that anxiously picks at the glass, ceasing your movements altogether. The gesture of comfort makes your shoulders visibly relax, leaning into the conversation instead of shying away from it.

Rafe squeezes your hand, as if to coax you to continue, to let you know that he’s here to listen.

So he does.

Rafe listens intently to you lament about (most) issues plaguing your mind: how the whole concept of celebrating your birthday feeling foreign and disingenuous to you, the upcoming stress surrounding the wedding – more so having to see all of your extended family and deal with your mother at the same time – and how you wish you could just exist with them instead of constantly trying to prove yourself, the term paper that you have to submit by the end of the month that you forgot to start, and the thought of leaving nonna again since your mother is forcing you to come home for winter break.

The bottle of wine is eventually finished, and Rafe insists on getting some food so you're not stumbling around on an empty stomach.

You share a calamari appetizer throughout the night as you go over your checklist of worries. Rafe offers a few of his own so you don't feel left out: the fact that he has to say goodbye to the greatest dog he’s ever met, the nagging reminder that he has to call his dad at some point and give a thorough explanation of why he didn’t come home for the holiday, the excuses he has to come up with as to why he doesn’t want to spend Christmas with them, and how he doesn’t want to leave Italy to return back to the cold.

"I almost have maternal instincts for him," you frown after you're both long finished with the lamenting. "If I was having a really bad day, I think I would get irritated with him even though he doesn't know any better. He would probably think it was his fault."

"Sweet girl, Spongebob isn't real, you know."

This exact conversation is a tale-telling sign that you're tipsy.

You're babbling about nothing, but you really don't care. "It doesn't matter. No one understands him-"

Rafe is grinning at you taking this conversation so seriously.

"-I mean, his own best friend participated in the 'No Spongebob Day' for fuck's sake." Your cheeks flush at Rafe's teasing expression. "Stop looking at me like that. How would you feel if your best friend celebrated in a 'No Rafe Cameron Day'? It probably wouldn't feel good, you know. You're not being very sympathetic right now."

"Sorry, baby." His tone is hardly apologetic.

All you can do is narrow your eyes. "You're on thin ice, Cameron."

He nearly laughs. "Whatever you say."

You reluctantly let Rafe pay for the drinks and food despite a million protests, claiming that Lorenza gave you money to spend on the evening, but he doesn’t buy it for one second, flashing a wad of Euros to the waiter to take care of the bill without so much a thought.

Once you finished your last glass of wine (not Rafe, he stopped drinking hours ago), he guides you out of the restaurant by the hand, intertwining his fingers with you gingerly. You blame the overly affectionate act as special treatment for today and today only.

The ride back is calming, hugging him impossibly tight the entire time. When the cottage comes into view, you frown under the helmet that the little excursion is over already, nearly laughing in disbelief that your date with Rafe Cameron was actually pretty decent (maybe excluding the part where you drunkenly ranted about the implications of modern day make-up in period pieces or the Great Molasses Flood).

Even if it was all pretend, anyway.

Lorenza’s asleep given all the lights are off except the entryway, so you and Rafe quietly tip toe towards the bedroom. It’s much easier for him than it is for you, so it’s mainly him guiding you through the house by your waist, careful not to bump into anything or make a lot of noise. At one point, you almost knock over a vase that makes Rafe pull you taut against his chest, not letting you an inch from his grasp until you make it to the room.

He shuts the bedroom door behind you, flickering on the lamp behind his bed before turning back to the birthday girl.

Rafe isn’t sure if it’s technically your birthday still, but none of it matters because he still needs to do a few things before you fall asleep, starting with showing you how much you mean to him without having to say anything.

Without further ado, he gently takes your hand, slips your dress off, and guides you to bed, all while kissing your knuckles, your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, murmuring sweet nothings against the goosebumps on your skin in a tone that seems only reserved for you, his sweet girl.

Then Rafe proceeds to make the softest love he knows how to you.

There isn’t an inch of your body that goes unnoticed, un-kissed, unappreciated. It’s slow, gentle as he can, and completely, irrevocably, impossibly revealing his true feelings, spilling secrets he can’t seem to speak into fruition or else it’ll simply confirm the rawness of it all. So he lets his body do all the talking, and all it does is worship you.

Frankly, you relish in the princess treatment, liking it a little too much that you can’t even find the gall to tease him for how doting he’s being.

So you both submit to each other, emotionally and physically.

When you lay under his sheets together, limbs entangled with one another with quiet chatter spilled across cotton sheets, it’s the most content he’s felt in a really long time. He could spend the rest of his life in this twin bed with you if he had the ability to choose, to forget about everything else happening and solely devote himself to you and only you.

Fatigue creeps up on you in your body and soul, your core aching in a pleasant way as you nuzzle into the sheets that smell like him while adorning one of his t-shirts, the clothing practically swallowing you whole. You're surrounded by him, physically, emotionally, mentally, a thick fog that clouds your vision.

Your eyes start to lull shut, but a calloused palm shakes your shoulder gently.

"Hey, don't fall asleep yet."

You whine, but obey nonetheless as you watch Rafe turn over and nearly hang off the bed, reaching underneath to pull out a bag and the sight of it makes your heart throb.

It’s the same bag he carried around all day, you recognize with a pang of guilt.

And he's handing it to you.

Moving to sit up, you reluctantly take the bag from him and he twiddles his thumbs together as he watches you.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

Your shoulders sag. “I told you not to get me anything else.”

Rafe simply shrugs, not entertaining the thought.

You have half a mind to tell him off, but your eyes catch a glimpse of something in the bag and your heart flutters, freezing as your gaze flickers between the contents and his nervous expression. Reaching into the bag, you can’t help but grin as you hold up the ceramic sardine you so patiently admired earlier today.

Leaning back to pull something out of his backpack, he holds up another ceramic sardine, the one that he picked out. “I got one, too. Now we can match.”

God, the whole thing is so fucking thoughtful that you want to cry.

You pull out more objects, the gifts seemingly never-ending: the fish, more clothes, a scarf, a book, jewelry, and more.

The realization dawns on you like a tidal wave. He got you everything you expressed interest in at the stores and managed to do it right under your nose. The whole thing is severely overwhelming and you cradle each item with such love that he nearly melts at the care.

You've never had someone do anything like this for you, never had to not ask to get something, never had someone who simply understood what you wanted without needing to outright say it.

You're hugging him before you can process it.

The action startles Rafe, your arms hooking around his neck as you press yourself impossibly tight against him. He hesitates to reciprocate it in a moment of surprise, but Rafe eventually slides his arms around your waist, warm hands settling on your back as he shuts his eyes at the sensation of simply holding you, being held by you, holding each other.

Rafe decides that he really likes hugging you.

Being a hugger is not in his day to day agenda, not even his year to year. Hugs are viewed as hello and goodbyes in his family, nothing more. When someone was upset, he simply talked it out. When someone had something great happen, he poured them a drink. When someone was expressing gratitude or love or genuine appreciation, it was through words or not expressed at all. Rafe doesn’t realize what he’s been missing out on all his life, not knowing hugs can just be. They can simply happen because it can, no need for an occasion.

But when your shoulders start to gently shake with a quiet sniffle, his eyes snap open.

Are you crying?

Rafe tries to pull back to inspect the damage but you only grip onto him tighter, holding yourself there in his arms for a little longer before you have to face reality again.

He says your name so fucking soft that it brings upon more tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry evident in his tone.

Fuck. Was it too much? Was it not enough?

Rafe nearly huffs in frustration at the thought of fucking it all up, kicking himself because he was doing so well, or at least he thinks he was doing well, but all of that goes out the window by making you upset. No, not just upset: he made you cry. Now that’s a new low, even for him, and panic rises in his throat as his heart drops at the sound of your sniffling.

He decides he hates the noise, never wanting to hear it again after tonight.

In another attempt to comfort you, Rafe pulls back again and you let him.

He doesn’t get a glimpse of your face as you immediately cover it with your hands, sniffling once more as he frowns deeper. His hands ghost over your forearms, unsure if he should touch you right now or give you a bit of space. There’s always a caution when it comes to people crying, and he normally doesn’t handle it correctly.

But his anxiety simmers when you let out a strangled laugh, aggressively wiping your tears away and sniffling once more as you finally manage eye contact with him, faintly smiling at his severely worried expression.

“I–” you hiccup, “I was so mean to you all day, and you were doing all of this for me.”

Rafe’s shoulders drop in relief, huffing out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Gingerly, he lets his hands run up and down your arms endearingly as you continue to wipe away your tears, the nerves in his chest simmering down because, phew, you aren't mad at him or upset or, more importantly, he didn’t overstep.

Brushing a stray tear away with his thumb, he manages a tired smile. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought I upset you.”

You pout, confused. “Why would I be upset? This is…so thoughtful. I’ve never…” you trail off.

But he understands what you're trying to say. And he hates that he's the first to do so.

“You deserve all of it,” Rafe says quietly before he can stop himself. “All of it. And more. I’m sorry that no one has done it before.”

He opens his mouth again to say more, but the words die in his throat, not wanting to say too much even though a small part of him fears he has. Instead of speaking, Rafe settles in silence, keeping his hand against your cheek as he caresses your jaw and stares deeply into your eyes to compensate for his lack of words, trying to telepathically tell you what he's trying to say.

You do the same, so confused on how someone could think you deserve all of this, especially when that someone is Rafe Cameron.

Melting into his touch, you nearly sigh, relishing in the moment and trying to draw the line between real and fake. However, dwelling on the fine line of the arrangement will only make you more upset, so instead you lean into his touch and decide you'll indulge in your delusions for tonight.

At that, Rafe breaks eye contact to look at your lips. It doesn’t take long for him to lean in, kissing you slowly, passionately, earnestly. The kiss ends as soon as it begins, you feel, because he’s already pulling away and tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s go to sleep.”

After carefully putting all the gifts back in the bag and setting it on the floor where you won’t step on it in the morning, you settle into his bed as he turns the lamp off, following suit and pulling you taut against his chest. Your face nuzzles into his neck as a big hand cradles your back, rubbing gentle circles along your spine underneath his shirt.

In the dark, you feel a little more comfortable and a little less vulnerable (despite literally crying in front of him a few mere minutes ago), but the confidence to say what you've been meaning to say all night comes easy in the pitch-black.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his neck, voice so quiet you aren't sure he hears you.

But Rafe hums, confirming he does. He says your name quietly. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that…for anything. I want you to know that.”

Your heart beats uncontrollably at his words, at your name. “Okay.”

“I’d get you anything you wanted if you just asked.”

Your chest feels funny at the confession, confusion running awry in your mind at all the implications that statement can have. What is he trying to say to you right now?

Exhaustion fatigues you, eyes lulling shut as you lay in his big, warm arms. Despite all the nagging and overly complicated emotions plaguing your mind, you manage to softly smile against his skin, pressing a featherlight kiss on him.

“Even a Mary Poppins umbrella to save myself from a tsunami?”

Rafe chuckles above you. “Anything you want, baby.”

“What about a talking car?”

“Sure.”

“A magic crystal that turns me invisible?”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“The Fairy Godmother’s wand from Shrek 2?”

“‘F course.”

You pause, biting your lip. “What about a cannoli tomorrow at the bakery by the beach?”

Rafe snorts. “Now you’ve crossed a line.”

You can't help but laugh, nuzzling even closer to him as you hum in contentment.

The sensation of being in his arms, the warmth of the bed, and the fuzzy feeling pooling in your chest quickly lull you to sleep, soon turning limp in a matter of minutes. The last thing you register is Rafe's lips pressing on your hairline, pulling you just a fraction closer than before.

notes please leave comments. i yearn for feedback.

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