#got the advanced collection on switch

[daisys-gard3n]

When the video game beats your ass instead of you beating its ass

[k3n-dyll]

Warnings...18+, wlw, not proofread, dom!Sevika, dom!Ambessa, rough sex, porn with zero plot, oral (r!receving), strap usage, strap sucking/face fucking, spit, squirting, spit roasting Word Count: 898

Notes ☆ this is just a sleepy, disgustingly horny, rant, man. Like, more so than usual.

Sevika practically holds you down with her body, mech arm caught tight around your torso as her flesh palm paws and squeezes at your tits, her lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your neck and shoulder. She's enjoying the view more than she'd ever admit out loud, silver eyes fixated on the other woman that's had her head snug between your legs for what at this point feels like fucking hours. Neither of you can seem to take your eyes off of the way Ambessa's scarred back and broad shoulders move as she forces you to keep still for her, the same large hands that so gently caress your face and hold you close any other time now locked in a vice grip against your thighs, sure to leave bruises against the soft skin.

The noises coming from her sucking and lapping at your cunt are bordering on obnoxious, the amount of time you've been pushed over the edge with her mouth alone having landed you sitting in a wet spot of a collection of your own squirt and her saliva. The overstimulation has reduced you into a babbling, trembling little mess, and yet neither of them have had their fill yet.

"I c-can't, I can't..." You slur, both women letting out amused huffs of laughter at your pathetic attempt to speak. Dumbly, you think that Ambessa pulling away and Sevika's grip on your body loosening means that you finally get a little bit of a break, your sigh of relief getting cut short by Sevika's voice as she whispers into your ear.

"You're not done, doll. Hands and knees." Her coaxing is gentle, her hands keeping you steady as you switch positions with the elegance of a newborn calf. It'd be humiliating if your brain hadn't been rendered so useless, eyes half-lidded as you watch Ambessa's tear-blurred form tower over you, a hand coming to grip your chin.

"Such a pretty thing you are. You've got a little more in you, don't you angel?" Ambessa's sultry tone fills your ears, a dopey grin crossing your features at the praise as you give an equally lazy nod. Gently, she presses the red silicone hanging from her hips against your mouth, seeking permission for entrance. "Good, girl. Open that pretty mouth for me"

Your jaw slacks almost immediately, a low hum of approval escaping the woman in front of you, her murmured praises and the feeling of her hand gently palming the back of your head distracting you from the girth stuffing your jaws. Distracting you from what's happening behind you as well.

You get little warning - the bed slightly sinking in from behind and the cool touch of a metal hand against the plush of your hip before you start to feel Sevika pushing her own strap inside of you. A choked yelp of surprise escaping you at the feeling, your body tensing up.

"Uh-uh, relax... that's it, just breathe baby.." Sevika purrs, leaning down and peppering wet kisses along the arch of your back to ease your tension, though she doesnt stop her advances, each shallow pump of her hips stretching you further.

They give you grace, letting you adjust, kissing and marking you as you settle around them but the gentle front doesn't last long. Sevika can't stop herself from slamming into you from behind, admiring the way your ass jiggles with each hard thrust, her own pussy dripping against the harness at the sight of the white ring forming at the base of her cock.

Each thrust from behind forces Ambessa's strap down your throat, every gag forced from you sending strings of saliva pooling from behind your lips and onto your chin, your neck, the bed...

"You're such a fucking mess, look at that.." Ambessa chuckles as she watches you struggle to take her in your mouth, enjoying how eager you are to please, even if it turns you into well...this. She rewards your eagerness by pulling out of your mouth, barely letting you get down a few much-needed gulps of air before she's shifted the harness down off of her hips, instead shoving your face flush between her thighs, letting you taste her.

Your breathlessness doesn't stop you from lapping at her like a woman starved, fingers curling into the sheets as you do your best to focus on the task at hand without succumbing to the intensity of Sevika's sloppy pounding from behind. Their grunts and overlapping praises drown out all thought, your body covered in a thin layer of sweat, shaking and twitching as you're split between the two. The only warning you're able to give before your climax ultimately rips through your body is a couple of muffled, loud whines.

Your head falls from Ambessa's grip, the woman letting you breathe as you cum, Sevika's hips just barely slowing as you finally let go, too enthralled in the way you squirt around her, the liquid wetting both your and her lower halves.

"Gonna have so much to clean up when we're finished with this one - fuck" Sevika boasts, letting her human palm land on your ass with a thwack. Ambessa just chuckles, her palm lightly patting the side of your face to keep you grounded in reality.

"You'll get to rest that pretty head in a little while, angel..." She coos. "But we're not quite done yet..."

Donations 4 Palestine - Arcane Masterlist

Taglist: @archangeldyke-all, @delinthecut, @half-of-a-gay, @porcelainmystery, @glass-apothecary, @cobraisveryhorny - Wanna be tagged?

We're gonna pretend I tagged the correct ppl the first time, 'kay? <3

[beuxwhoyouare]

Mirror Mirror

Inspired by this story from @kylecrusoe-captions

Richard Clarke had spent his whole life living a conventional life. Now in his late 50s, Richard had spent his life the way he was expected. He found a passion, worked hard at it, pursuing a degree and then eventually getting a job as a reporter on TV. Back in the day, it was so glamorous like you would expect, but as time went on all things lose their luster. Budget cuts led to less pampering and eventually newer more attractive talent comes along to steal the spotlight. Corporate came creeping up everyday trying to find a way to sunset Richard from the career he built brick by brick.

It was agonizing doing the work to stay visually appealing as he got older. Richard had to admit he let him go in some areas as complacency set in over the years. He was happy with what he had accomplished and felt like he had so much more gas left in his tank, despite what his corporate overlords were telling him.

Richard told himself today’s the day to start reinvesting in himself. He was going to make sure he put in his best foot forward to preserve the professional life he’s always known. He went out for a coffee in between shows to start planning his return to conventional attractiveness. While he waited for his coffee at a low-key cafe in the busy part of downtown, Richard got lost enviously gazing at the young men walking by. Making a mental list of the attributes he found attractive and aspirational. He wanted to attain what they had, even though it was unrealistic at his advancing age.

He glared too long at a guy grabbing the next coffee prepared at the counter. He may have been wearing a baggy hoodie but his shorts showed how much of a beast he was in the gym.

Syd was in a different cafe than he usually goes to. In true brooding boy fashion he liked the slightly run down edgy look this cafe had and he went inside. Syd may look like a typical gym bro that exits pictures with so much contrast you can barely make out the details, but he was….slightly more than that. He also dreamed of being a fitness influencer that made a life out of simply going to the gym so that way he could play games with his friends. He wanted an easier life but easier is u realistic. Plus he was paralyzingly introverted. A seemingly sad waste for someone so conventionally attractive and genetically gifted when it comes to musculature.

Richard was nearly salivating looking at Syd’s meaty thighs that he ran into him when going to collect his coffee. The TV news anchor quickly went into on air personality and composed himself to present a thoughtful and sincere apology. Syd played it off like no big deal and began making his way towards what he believed to be the cafes restroom to clean off. He went inside a restroom after assuring Richard it was no big deal and closed the door behind him. But Richard didn’t believe him and continued to feel guilty. He stayed but grew significantly concerned when Syd never came out. Richard knocked on the door and when no one answered he opened the door and walked into the dark room as the door closed behind him. He blindly searched for a light switch or string to pull when he finally found a string in front of him and pulled it as a light blared on nearly blinding him.

As Richard's eye adjusted to the bright light he tried to focus his sight on an odd mirror on a nearby wall. He thought he saw Syd standing there, causing him to jump back startled. But when he looked away, he realized he was alone in the room.

He stepped closer to the obscured mirror....there was Syd, clear as day, but Richard couldn't make out where he was. He focused his sight at the mirror and realized what was happening as the buff young man's eyes met his. "Wha?" Richard raised an arm in anticipation of his understanding of the outlandish predicament he now found himself in. The man in the mirror did the same, showing his hairy pits.

Richard worked in a world of fact and rational explanations....he had none in his head for how this was possible. He was uncharacteristically giddy as he looked at the unfamiliar man staring back ahead of him. He was already growing excited and as other things swelled he couldn't control his journalistic curiosity and yanked off the oversized sweater hiding the goods. Turning his cap the other way around like a man of his advanced age would do in their hey-day.

Richard looked at himself and his new reflection eye to eye and confirmed to himself through an inner dialogue, he had to get out of here stat. He gathered his belongings or rather Syd’s and headed out expeditiously. He didn’t know where he was going after he left the cafe doors and sifted through the baggy hoodie to find a trifold wallet. He entered the address on the ID haphazardly into his phones GPS and booked it. His new beefed up physique, moved with an ease he hadn’t been able to in years. He confidently stepped and glanced down at his striated legs as a smirk graced his handsome face.

He haphazardly fumbled looking for keys and clumsily flopped his way into an unassuming yet large abode. A mirror across the entry way inside a nearby bedroom immediately caught Richard’s eye as he dropped his belongings on the ground and confidently stripped himself of his cloth confines. 

“Jesus. I didn’t even know getting this shredded was humanely possible?” he gasped to himself in awe. 2 vein’s indecently aligned with the v-taper of his new body’s muscles down to another thing intriguing Richard. He tugged at the waistband to get a peak at his new manhood and wondered if it looks like that soft what’s it going to look like hard. That thought started the quick spiral into a feral mindset.

Richard nearly ripped his shorts as he pulled them off in his horned up stupor. Then came off the orange undergarments and he rushed to a nearby restroom. Another mirror greeted Richard and there he stood in awe gazing at his new corporeal home. He examined the black and crimson tattoos and stretch marks showing Syd’s skin pushed to the limit by his bulging muscles.

Richard poked and prodded at the muscles he’d alternate from relaxing to flexing. One poke and prod near his nipple accidentally lit the final match as Richard gasped feeling the blood rush down to his growing tool. He promptly used his vascular hand to grab hold of the thickening stick and allowed himself to fall into muscle memory. He may not know who Syd was or what he liked but his body remembered enough for him. He quickly turned on the scalding shower and as the room filled with steam he took a giant sniff of the musk emitting from his hairy pits. Oh yeah that’s the smell of man.

He walked into the hot stream of water and already knew to brace against one wall with his left arm. His right arm started going to work pumping up and down as he began twisting and expertly working his new shaft. As if he was doing an intense workout, primal grunts and moans escaped his new youthfully plumped lips.

Richard stepped backward and decided to lie down on the floor of the tub and used both hands to begin to plow them to feel more pressure sending him over the edge. As he huffed and puffed pulse after pulse of hot water and his seed dropped over her alabaster torso. He couldn’t help but scoop up the mixture and drink it like he had spend days in the desert.

He stepped out of the exploratory shower and took cocky photos. Richard realizing he didn’t know what to do now, as he got dressed. As he pondered how to figure out how to move forward with Syd’s life, he started feeling his pants stir once again. He decided to visit the dating apps Syd had on his phone and began to tink with preferences. Adding men and women instead of just one and adding the revealing post-shower pics.

Sure enough, the matches and messages started flooding in from the new found dating pool. Being fruity in his heyday would have been a no, but with this body in this century, Richard wanted to see what life had to offer. Something stirred him up once again when he saw a headless torso message him asking if he was down to be dominated.

Richard had always been the alpha in a typical cisgender relationship but this might be his chance to give into submission. He grabbed anything he could to look casual and set up the least candid looking photo of all time. The snap capturing all his body had to offer in a modest way.

“Wanna come over daddy?” Richard replied to the headless torso before adding the picture to the message. He had his fun with Syd’s physique but now he wanted to try something Syd had never done himself. Arching his lower back to emphasize his new assets.

Oh yeah he was gonna have fun, slowing once again guiding his new meaty hands down the elastic waistband to explore. As two finger managed to find their way to his tight hole, he pushed their way in slowly and his phone vibrated.

“Send the addy.”

Richard moaned in anticipation and the pressure he felt sliding the fingers inside for the first time.

[vampiriito]

Cherry bomb ᝰ.ᐟ

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

Part two |

–„IN WHICH your roommate starts dating the bassist of a rising college band, dragging you into a world of parties, late-night gigs, and too many eyes. One pair in particular: Rafe Cameron’s. He’s the drummer, the golden boy with a temper, and he acts like he can’t stand you—but you’ve caught him staring more times than you can count. When a rumor spins out of control, you're forced into a fake relationship to save face, and suddenly you’re spending too much time with someone who’s been quietly watching you for months. It’s supposed to be pretend—until the tension boils over, and the line between obsession and affection gets dangerously thin. He says you’re his muse. You’re starting to believe he means it. (likes, reblogs, comments and follows would help greatly, thanks for reading in advance! <3)

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──---

Rafe

Friendships? They were hard. They truly were. Rafe grew up surrounded by people whose worth was defined by how many credit cards they carried by fifteen and the car they'd eventually get by sixteen, where last names mattered more than birthdays and everything was handed to you with just enough resentment to make you hate yourself for accepting it. He always found himself floating—hovering between groups without ever sinking into any of them, switching up his voice depending on the crowd, wearing faces like they were hoodies he could throw on and off when the season changed. He told himself he was adaptable. He told himself he was clever. But the truth? He just didn’t know how to be close to anyone. Not really. Not without ripping himself apart in the process. Now, stuck at the age of the in-between, as he liked to call it, he wasn’t a kid but he wasn’t grown either. Nineteen. The useless cusp of a number that felt like you could touch adulthood but still had to ask permission to do anything meaningful. The age where people still thought mistakes didn’t count. Where people fucked around like life wouldn’t eventually collect the bill.

His friends now weren’t friends. Not in the real sense. They were people who went to college for the idea of college, for the chaos and the clubs and the hookups, not for the education or the future or the change. Rafe liked to believe he was above it, that he had some grander reason for being there, for sticking it out. He was more than certain he hid his daddy issues well. He wore them like an invisible wristwatch—ticking away in time with his pulse, always there but rarely acknowledged unless he was drunk and spilling things he shouldn't. In college, he got to be whoever he wanted. Nobody here knew Rafe from before. The Cameron name didn’t mean the same thing here. He could’ve said he was from Boston or Liverpool and people would’ve believed him. He could’ve dyed his hair neon blue or buzzed it off completely and no one would’ve stopped to question it. There was a kind of power in being anonymous. A kind of safety in the blank slate.

But sometimes his hatred for the man who made him bled through the cracks anyway—spilled into his words, stained his fingertips. Whether it was a drunken monologue after a gig, or a lazy sentence tossed into the dark while tangled in sheets with someone who wouldn’t remember him in the morning. He always circled back. Back to the place he swore he’d outgrown. Back to the ghost of the boy he used to be. No matter how many snapbacks he bought or how many drumsticks he broke in half pretending it was therapy, Rafe Cameron stayed just a little unhinged. Not in the funny, quirky way. In the way that made people laugh too loudly around him because they didn’t know if he was joking or about to snap.

Hence you.

It started small—if you could even call it an interaction. He did, for lack of a better word. It was a random night. One you probably didn’t remember, or remembered too vividly, but not for the reasons he did. He was dragged out to a shitty diner just off campus, the kind with flickering signs and cracked booths and the kind of lighting that made you look like you had the flu no matter how much sleep you got. The kind of place that served milkshakes in glass cups and ketchup packets that always had something sticky on them. He hated it there. But the band wanted fries and greasy comfort and a place to argue about setlists and who got the bridge on their newest song, so he went. Slouched in the booth with his legs kicked out, already regretting his existence as the lead singer and bassist tore into each other over whether the crowd preferred angst or irony.

He wasn’t listening. Not really. Just stabbing at cold fries and imagining what it’d be like to walk out and never come back. He was bored out of his skull. And then you walked in.

Not like a movie. Not in slow motion. Just there. Hoodie swallowing you whole, clearly thrown over something more formal—he saw the hem of a skirt peeking out and heels dangling from your fingers like an afterthought. Your makeup was smudged, your mascara clinging to the edge of your lashes like you’d been crying or rubbing your eyes for hours. You had earbuds in. You didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t register the table full of noisy half-drunk guys. Just ordered a cherry milkshake and curly fries, then slid into a booth like you belonged there, like it didn’t matter that no one sat across from you. You waited for someone who never came. Checked your phone once, twice. Sighed. And then you started eating anyway. Alone. Like you’d been alone before and knew exactly how to carry it.

That, Rafe swears, is what did it. That was the part that ruined him.

The way you didn’t flinch. The way your fingers curled around the milkshake glass like it was enough. The way you paused mid-bite to shove your hair up, frustrated and tired but still composed, adjusting your glasses with that same subtle annoyance like the world kept making you late. At one point your gaze drifted to the window behind him, not at him, never at him, but past him—and your eyes passed over his face like a breeze, impersonal, ambient, accidental. He looked at you like a match about to burn his fingers. You looked at him like he was furniture. And somehow that made it worse.

He didn’t sleep that night. Not because he was lovestruck or obsessed with your laugh or any of that fairytale garbage. But because you’d carved out a whole galaxy in the middle of a filthy diner, and no one else had noticed. No one at the table even registered you. But he couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop remembering.

After that it became quiet checking. Not stalking, not at first. Just curiosity. The kind that pulled his eyes toward the campus Starbucks on the off chance you’d be there. The kind that made him peer into classrooms you weren’t in. Then it got louder. Then it wasn’t curiosity anymore. Then it was a need.

And when he really met you for the first time—the official first time, the one you thought was the first—he looked irritated. Detached. Like you were nothing special. Like he hadn’t been carrying the weight of your existence since that stupid milkshake. But only because you didn’t remember. Because you looked at him that day like he was new. Like you’d never walked past him in that awful booth. Like your eyes hadn’t burned a hole through his ribs even if you didn’t know it.

It was already too late for him.

Cherry stuck. Mostly because he didn’t know your name and partially because the first time he called you that, you whipped around like you were going to end him with your glare alone. That look—half confusion, half insulted disbelief—seared into his brain like heatstroke. The eyes stuck too. The whole package, really. If Rafe were the kind of impulsive he used to be, he would’ve gotten a tattoo of them somewhere under his ribs—glasses and all. Or maybe just the cherry. Small and quiet and hidden behind a drumstick or the hem of his waistband. That one he was still considering. Still sketching. Still circling in his notebook margins like a secret he wasn’t ready to spill.

Because that’s what you were. A secret. A slow unravel. A private apocalypse.

And you still had no idea.

Not the first time you showed up to band practice, trailing behind your obnoxious, glittery, blonde best friend like a reluctant afterthought, and definitely not the first time Rafe pretended he wasn’t watching your every step like it was his goddamn job. And now—now it wasn’t the first time he showed up to the campus Starbucks where you worked either, slouching into the chair across from you like he just happened to be in the area. Like he hadn’t memorized your work schedule, the soft buzz of your opening shifts, or the specific table you liked to sit at during your fifteen-minute breaks. Like he hadn’t spent a whole night spiraling through the digital menu, trying to figure out what drink would sound cool but still passable enough for someone who was only just getting into caffeine as a placeholder for harder vices. He’d quit coke. Mostly. Not for himself. And not really for his health. But because you worked mornings, and coke made mornings unbearable. You made them slightly less so.

He cracked some half-assed joke the second he walked in, something crude about how unfortunate you must be to be stuck behind a counter making lattes for freshmen who didn’t tip. He offered to employ you for "special benefits" under his own twisted idea of HR, just to see the way your nose wrinkled and your mouth twisted in that sharp, unimpressed frown he swore looked better on you than any smile. You didn’t laugh. You never did. That only made him want to try harder.

His eyes hadn’t left you since. They trailed, slow and greedy, over the movement of your hand pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose — a movement so practiced it made something twist in his gut. His fingers tapped against the plastic cup of the iced Americano you’d made him without asking, exactly how he liked it: no sugar, no foam, no bullshit. A drink bitter enough to slice his tongue and keep him grounded through long classes and even longer rehearsals. It made him feel awake in the way that still left room for the hum of self-loathing he wasn't quite ready to let go of. He didn’t even like coffee, not really, but this order had become part of his performance — masculine, minimalist, functional — like him. Or the version of himself he projected when you were near.

You sat across from him, hair tied up in a loose knot with strands framing your face, all chaotic and pretty in a way that made him feel like a fucking idiot for noticing. You were rummaging through your bag now, muttering something under your breath about pens, or maybe about him, who knew. He didn’t hear you because he was too busy pretending to look bored, like this wasn’t the highlight of his week. And if he looked tired, it was only because you had called him half an hour ago — half an hour ago, on a Sunday morning — and told him to get up, get to Starbucks, and sit his ass down so you two could finally draft the “fake dating” contract he conveniently forgot to bring up again the night before. Maybe because deep down he hoped you’d reconsider. Or maybe he just liked the idea of you calling him. Like he was important. Like you needed him.

But you didn’t rethink it. Of course you didn’t. You called, shoved the iced Americano into his hand the second he walked in, told him to suck it up and make it fast because your break was exactly fifteen minutes and counting. And now here you were, the one wasting time, digging through your bag with a scowl like your life depended on finding a notebook and a pen — even though a napkin and a lip liner would’ve done the job just fine. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you, quietly amused, quietly miserable, sipping the cold drink you made him like it was your fingerprint on his tongue.

And even now, as you finally pulled out a pen with a little triumphant huff and began smoothing a crumpled sheet of paper on the table between you, he sat back and let his mind wander. Not far — just to the idea of your handwriting spelling out some ridiculous clause about PDA and handholding, the tip of your tongue sticking out in concentration. And maybe, later, to how your lipstick would smear on his mouth if he ever got to kiss you like he wasn’t faking it. But for now, he just leaned back, coffee in hand, pretending like he wasn’t already three steps too deep into something he should’ve never started.

“Okay, so…” you started, voice abrupt enough to startle most people, though Rafe didn’t even blink. He’d already seen the words forming on your lips before you bothered to say them, already caught the flicker of irritation blooming behind your eyes like storm clouds rolling in. “Rule number one: no touching unless I initiate it.” You didn’t even look up at him as you said it, just tapped the pen against the crumpled contract on the table, tone flat and definitive, like it was law. Like it wasn’t the cruelest sentence he’d heard before eight in the morning.

He grimaced. Not enough to start a fight, but enough that you’d notice. Enough to make it clear he wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of you laying down boundaries like you were a camp counselor and he was some horny delinquent. His mouth twitched with something that might’ve been amusement or might’ve been resentment. It was always hard to tell with him. “You’ve got control issues, you know that?” he muttered, dragging his palm down his face as if the sheer effort of pretending to be normal around you was already exhausting him.

He sighed again, deliberately slow this time, letting it slip past his lips like smoke as he leaned back and glanced down at the sad little piece of printer paper between you. The lines were crooked from where you’d torn it out of a notebook. The ink was starting to smudge already. It wasn’t romantic, or cinematic, or cute — just pathetic and weirdly personal, and it made his skin crawl in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Why do we even need a contract?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the paper like it offended him on a spiritual level. “You’ve got the relationship standards of an eighty-year-old woman, Cherry.”

“It’s important to know where you stand on certain issues,” you said, and you said it like it made perfect sense, like that one sentence was the nail in the argument’s coffin. Like this was a job interview and not a fake relationship you dragged him into because your roommate wouldn’t stop running her mouth. If Rafe wasn’t already neck-deep in the kind of obsession he couldn’t admit out loud, he probably would’ve gotten up and walked out right then. Left the coffee, the contract, the whole damn Starbucks behind and gone back to sleep. But he didn’t. Because the pen was in your hand, and you were frowning like his opinion didn’t matter, and he wanted to kiss that frown off your face more than he wanted to breathe.

He leaned forward instead, elbows on the table, tapping his ringed fingers against the plastic cup in slow, methodical patterns that betrayed the irritation simmering under his skin. “Okay, like what?” he finally asked, voice all false calm as he took another sip of his drink. The bitterness hit his tongue like regret, but he didn’t flinch. Just raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to hit him with something insane.

And you did. Of course you did.

“For example… I don’t want you to kiss me anymore,” you said, without even blinking, glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of your nose as you scribbled something onto the paper. Your tone was almost offhand, like you hadn’t just shattered the fragile little thread holding his sanity together. Like it wasn’t personal. Like it wasn’t him. You twirled the pen between your fingers like you weren’t aware you’d just ruined his entire Sunday before it even started.

Rafe lowered his coffee. Stared at you like you had three heads. “Are you insane?” he asked, voice just sharp enough to make the girl studying at the next table glance over before quickly looking away. His eyebrows pulled together, lips parted in disbelief. “Who the hell’s gonna believe we’re in a relationship if I’m not allowed to kiss you?”

“I don’t care what they believe,” you muttered, finally looking up, and god, he hated how calm you looked. How unaffected. “You might be the James Dean of this whole fake dating scene, Rafe, but I don’t go around just kissing people, okay? I don’t play that game.” You tapped the end of the pen on the paper again, emphasizing your point like this was a courtroom and not a shitty café with sticky floors and too-loud music. “Touch is... intimate. It means something.”

He stared at you, dead silent for a beat too long. Not because he didn’t have something to say — Rafe always had something to say — but because that sentence? That sentence gutted him. You didn’t kiss people unless it meant something. And you’d kissed him. At that party. After the gig. In the stairwell when your roommate wasn’t looking. More than once.

You’d kissed him like you were angry. Like you wanted to shut him up. Like maybe, for one stupid second, you meant it.

His voice was quieter when it came out, lower, more dangerous. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it before.”

You blinked. Eyes narrowing like a challenge. “That was before I realized you think fake dating means free access to my mouth.”

He laughed then — sharp, bitter, joyless. “Free access? That’s rich. You kissed me, Cherry. Don’t rewrite the script now just because you’re scared of whatever the fuck this is turning into.”

You bristled, sitting up straighter, lips pressing into a tight line. “Don’t get it twisted, Cameron. I kissed you to sell a lie, not because I wanted to.” But your voice caught just enough on the last word that he caught it. The stutter. The crack in your armor.

He leaned in, crowding your space just slightly, just enough that you could smell the stale americano and whatever expensive cologne he always managed to wear like a second skin. “You sure about that?” he asked, eyes flicking between your own like he was looking for something you refused to give. “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re scared you did like it. That maybe you liked it too much.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him like he was the worst kind of mistake — the kind that felt good in the moment but left bruises that didn’t fade.

And for a moment, Rafe wished this really was just a contract. That it could be simple. Controlled. Clean.

But there was nothing clean about the way you haunted him. Nothing controlled about the way he wanted you.

And definitely nothing fake.

There was something deeply ironic about the whole thing. The fake dating. The contract. You. You, of all people. Looking back at his so-called dating history — the blurred names, the pretty faces, the girls who giggled at his jokes and posed with his drumsticks for Instagram stories — you weren’t even close to his type. Or anyone’s type, really. Not in the shallow, campus-scene, Greek-life type of way. You didn’t try to be liked. You didn’t smile at strangers in lecture halls or linger at parties just to be seen. You walked around like you hated the very sight of men, like every guy who so much as looked in your direction was part of some failed social experiment. And you glared at him like he was the ringleader. Like his bloodline was a personal offense to your peace. And maybe it was. Maybe the pastel polo shirts he used to wear and the legacy student status he tried to keep buried made your skin crawl. You always looked like you had something better to do — like being here was a punishment. Like you’d rather claw your way through barbed wire than play beer pong with a bunch of guys named Chad.

You weren’t built for college, not the way others were. Not for the tailgates or the fake activism or the Spotify-blasting lawn culture. You had that look — like you were supposed to be somewhere else entirely. Like you’d fall asleep with books pressed to your chest instead of boys. Like you’d sign up for a Dungeons and Dragons campaign just to kick everyone’s ass and then walk out halfway through. Rafe didn’t get it at first. He’d see you in passing and chalk it up to some hipster, edgy-girl phase. But that didn’t last long. Because then he started noticing everything — the way you cracked your knuckles when you were bored, or tapped your pen against your lip when you were focused, or pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose like the weight of the world was balanced behind the lenses. He considered offering you a cigarette once, some late night after a gig, just to see how you'd react. But then he imagined you socking him in the jaw and breaking his nose clean, and decided against it. Not because he couldn’t take a hit — but because you were the one person on earth whose disappointment he couldn’t stomach.

So him being obsessed with you was kind of poetic in the most self-destructive, Shakespearean-tragedy way possible. You treated everything like it had to be defined, cataloged, put into neat little boxes with crisp, legible labels. And here he was, a goddamn hurricane in a snapback, trying to wedge himself into whatever metaphorical box you’d scribbled his name on — if you’d even bothered to give him one. That was the worst part: you probably hadn’t. He didn’t even register as a chapter in your planner, just some margin note, a background character in your controlled, over-organized life. And still, he showed up. Every time. Like a moth to a bonfire.

“Rule number three: no corny nicknames besides Cherry,” you mumbled suddenly, barely above a whisper, like you were saying it more to yourself than to him. You didn’t look up, didn’t break rhythm as you scribbled it onto the paper, your handwriting neat and overly aggressive. “Because number two is no kissing. Number four is we stick to facts and don’t lie about how we met or any intimate details of our so-called relationship in public. And number five…” Your voice tightened, sharpening like a knife as your gaze finally snapped up to meet his. “No real feelings.”

Rafe didn’t respond right away. Just stared at you, jaw ticking, as if your words had carved something out of him. Like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or walk straight into traffic. His eyes dropped to the paper, to your list of tidy, devastating rules — five little lines that made him want to rip the damn thing in half just to see how you’d react. Not because he cared about rules. But because the last one felt like a punch to the ribs. No real feelings. You said it like a warning. Like you already knew what he was hiding and wanted to shut it down before it could breathe.

“You know,” he finally said, voice low and almost amused, “for someone who wants to fake date me, you sound like you’re trying to avoid me at all costs.”

“I’m trying to keep it from getting messy,” you replied simply, like that explained everything. Like that was enough.

He scoffed, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair, eyes flicking from the contract to your face with something dangerous simmering under the surface. “Too late for that, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” he muttered, and you didn’t miss the sarcasm dripping from his tone.

He leaned back then, folding his arms across his chest, the plastic coffee cup between his fingers creaking slightly from the pressure of his grip. He looked down at your stupid little contract, now stained with a smudge of ink and a tiny coffee ring, and let the silence stretch. He’d already failed the first rule before you’d even written it. The other four weren’t much better — kissing you was second nature by now, and feelings? He was drowning in them. Had been since the diner. Since the milkshake. Since the way you looked through him like he didn’t exist. But if fake dating you with a set of boundaries scrawled on printer paper meant he got to sit across from you like this, watch you breathe, hear you tell him what he wasn’t allowed to have — then fine. He’d take it. He’d follow your damn rules. He’d stay in the box if it meant getting to haunt the edges of your carefully-controlled life.

“Fine,” he muttered, grabbing the pen from your fingers and signing the bottom of the paper with a dramatic flourish, then sliding it back to you. “But for the record, Cherry...”

You raised a brow. “What?”

“I’m gonna break all five.”

Rafe watched you like he always did — intently, greedily, like there was something about your anger that made him feel more alive than he had any right to. The way your jaw flexed, the subtle twitch of your eyebrow, the ghost of restraint in your clenched fist as if you were one wrong word away from cracking it across his jaw — it made him feel oddly healed, like you socking him would somehow align all the broken things inside him. And just like that, with your teeth clenched and your patience fraying, he felt strangely, stupidly better than he had in days. As if getting metaphorically shot in the chest five times in a row with your rules and rejections had finally kicked his heartbeat back into rhythm.

And then you signed it. Neat, crisp, deliberate. Your signature was sharp in a way he hadn’t expected, practiced and painfully legible, like you actually cared. Like this was a binding agreement, and not just a dumb excuse to keep him at arm’s length. You folded the paper with the kind of care that made him dizzy, the creases perfect and symmetrical, your fingers precise. Every motion screamed restraint, control, discipline — everything he lacked. Everything he wanted to ruin. You didn’t meet his eyes as you pushed it across the table with two fingers, like the contract was a punishment and he was the unruly kid being handed his sentence. “You can have it, then,” you said lowly, tone firm and annoyingly parental, and it would’ve pissed him off if it didn’t turn him on so goddamn much.

His gaze dropped to the folded paper, to the little triangle of rules that now belonged to him. And instead of looking defeated, instead of reacting the way a normal person might when handed a list of all the things they weren’t allowed to do, Rafe smirked. Smirked like you’d just given him a key, like you’d handed him something precious and dangerous and didn’t realize what you'd done. He plucked the paper off the table with an obnoxious sort of casualness, slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket like it was concert tickets or a backstage pass. “So you can reread it every time you wanna think about breaking a rule,” you added, tone dry, not quite a threat and not quite a warning — something in between.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you. Really looked. Hair tied up in that messy, too-tight way that made you look perpetually stressed; your glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose from how often you pushed them up; your lips chapped and bitten, the sleeves of your uniform rolled halfway to your elbows. Exhausted. Sharp. Real. And so goddamn pretty it made something in him ache. You weren’t dressed up, weren’t posing, weren’t even trying — and it was that version of you that had lodged itself so violently into his bloodstream. Just like that night at the diner, when you’d looked barely held together and more alive than anyone he’d ever met.

“I’m keeping it in my wallet,” he said finally, voice low, fingers absently tapping the spot where the paper now sat pressed against his chest. “Like a psycho ex with a restraining order.” He said it with a grin, but there was something softer underneath, something quieter. Like it meant more than he could admit out loud.

You rolled your eyes, biting back the smallest twitch of a smile. “You are a psycho ex. Without the ex part.”

“Yet,” he corrected, leaning back in his chair like he hadn’t just said something completely deranged. “Give it time.”

You shook your head, muttering something under your breath that he was pretty sure was either delusional or idiot, maybe both. But you didn’t pull the paper back. You didn’t rewrite the rules. You let him keep it.

And Rafe — who’d spent most of his life breaking things he didn’t understand — knew with terrifying clarity that he was never going to throw it away. That he’d reread your list of rules at 3 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep, tracing each letter with his eyes and wondering which one he’d break next. Not if — when. Because he wasn’t playing by your rules, not really. He never had been.

He watched as you stood up, brushing imaginary dust off your apron, fingers carding through your hair like you were trying to steady yourself before walking back behind the counter. You didn’t say goodbye. Just grabbed your empty cup, shoved it into the trash, and walked away like none of it mattered. Like he wasn’t still sitting there memorizing the way your shoulders moved under your uniform shirt.

But he stayed seated long after you disappeared, fingers pressed to the outline of the paper in his pocket, and let himself think — just for a second — about how hard he was going to fall. About how fake it might’ve started, but how real it already was. And how lucky he was that you didn’t see it coming.

He stayed there, grounded in that shitty Starbucks chair, long after your break ended and you disappeared behind the counter with that familiar pinched look on your face, the one that made it impossible for him to tell if you were annoyed at him or just life in general. Maybe both. You didn’t glance back. Didn’t shoot him a smug look or a warning glare or anything that would’ve made it easier for him to walk away like a normal person. Like this was a normal arrangement. Instead, you vanished behind the espresso machine, tied your apron tighter, and resumed pretending he didn’t exist.

And yet he sat there, hand slipping into his jacket pocket again and brushing against the thin rectangle of folded paper like it was a photograph of something sacred. Not a stupid fake dating contract, not a list of rules designed to keep him in check, but a physical piece of you. Your handwriting, your fingerprints, your ridiculous bureaucracy disguised as emotional safety. It should’ve made him laugh. Should’ve made him scoff and toss it into the trash like every other rule he’d ever been handed in his life. But instead he pressed his thumb to it like it might bleed warmth.

Because here was the truth — the one that stuck in the back of his throat like a secret he hadn’t earned the right to say out loud: this wasn’t fake to him. Hadn’t been from the moment you locked eyes with him through that greasy diner window freshman year. Before you even knew who he was. Before he knew who he was. And now, with this fragile, rule-bound illusion you were trying to build between the two of you, you’d done the worst possible thing. You’d let him in. Close enough to touch. Close enough to watch.

“Hey. Rafe.”

He looked up, blinking like he’d been pulled from underwater. It was your coworker — some guy with a green apron and a nose ring who looked vaguely terrified of him.

“You, uh… you done with that table? We’ve got people waiting.”

Rafe glanced around, only now realizing the line had thickened, the hum of the café grown louder around him. The world had kept spinning, even as he sat there, caught in the echo of your voice telling him no real feelings like it wasn’t already too late.

He stood slowly, grabbing his iced americano — now half melted and entirely forgotten — and nodded at the guy. “Yeah, I’m good.”

But he didn’t throw the coffee away. He carried it outside like it still meant something, like it was part of a ritual. He walked a block down from the café, sat on the edge of a fountain that hadn’t worked properly since last fall, and pulled the paper back out of his jacket. Unfolded it carefully. Read every rule again.

1. No touching unless I initiate it. He already wanted to break that one again. Not even for something dramatic. Just to reach across the table next time and brush your fingers with his. Just to see if you’d flinch.

2. No kissing. You didn’t say never again. You said no kissing. Present tense. Technicalities mattered, didn’t they?

3. No corny nicknames besides ‘Cherry.’ He smirked at that one. As if he didn’t already have five others in his head he hadn’t dared say out loud. He’d find a loophole eventually. Maybe just say Cherry in that tone that made you squint at him like you were deciding whether to hit him or not.

4. We stick to facts — no lies about how we met or the relationship. That was a cruel one. Because the fact was: you didn’t remember the diner. And the truth was, he’d been chasing your shadow since that night. And if you ever did remember, he didn’t know if it would ruin everything or save him.

5. No real feelings. Too late.

He folded the paper again and slid it back into his pocket, this time slower, more deliberate. He was gonna make you break all five, first. Mess with your mind and make you think you were the first one to step over the sharp, crisp lines you drew yourself and then maybe he'd admit how pathetically he was in love with you. How he didn't really care about Sofia anymore and the whole fake dating arrangement was an excuse to get up close and personal with you.

Rafe would never admit it — not now, not ever — just how involved he really was in his bandmate’s love life. On paper, it looked like Ethan and Taylor just found each other at one of their campus gigs, a classic college romance born out of too many tequila shots and late-night Spotify playlists. But Rafe knew better. He was the one who made it happen. The unofficial, unhinged matchmaker. He even considered dressing as Cupid this year for Halloween in honor of the role he played, bow and arrow and all, but even he knew his version of Cupid would be a little… warped. Less “love brings us together” and more “I orchestrated your relationship so I could get closer to your best friend without raising suspicions.” And if that wasn’t the most selfish, borderline psychotic motivation for playing wingman, he didn’t know what was.

But in his defense, he never meant for it to turn into this. All he did was point Taylor out to Ethan one night after a gig, muttering a casual, “Blonde, top left, sparkly eyeshadow. She’s a sure thing.” And Ethan, being a simple man with zero resistance to glitter and a good ass, was immediately hooked. That was all it took. Rafe never had to push. No divine interventions. Just one little nudge. And suddenly Ethan was in love, Taylor was dragging you to every practice and show, and Rafe had you in his orbit without lifting another finger.

Did he think it through? No. He never really did. He liked to call himself proactive — solution-oriented, even. But this? This was messy even by his standards. Before Taylor, Rafe used to be stuck fending for himself at afterparties while Ethan dipped early with whatever girl he was tangled up with that week. But once Taylor became a staple in their chaotic band dynamic, you started appearing too. Sitting in corners, arms crossed, making it very clear you hated every second of being there. Glaring at Rafe like he was personally responsible for every bad experience you’d ever had with men and music. He should’ve backed off then. Should’ve let it go.

But instead, he doubled down.

You didn’t flirt. You didn’t giggle or bat your lashes like girls usually did when they found out he was a drummer. No — you rolled your eyes when he spoke, made sideways comments about how "it doesn’t take a genius to hit things with sticks,” and Rafe, for the first time in his life, found himself trying. Not to get in your pants. Not even to win. But to just… see you change expression. To pull a laugh out of you. A smirk. Anything other than that look you gave him — the one that said you’re not impressive and you know it.

He even had a brief moment of panic early on, thinking maybe you liked Ethan. That maybe all his meddling had backfired. But you didn’t look at Ethan. Not once. You looked at him — unfortunately, with contempt — but still, that counted for something. And after a few gigs, a few parties, three stolen kisses (four if he counted the one where you shoved him against a wall just to shut him up), and an unhinged plan to fake date him out of spite, Rafe thought maybe… maybe you were finally softening.

And yet, here he was, laying flat on your cramped little living room couch like a corpse, arms folded over his chest, the back of his skull pressing into the lumpy throw pillow that smelled like your shampoo, while you raged about your conditioner in the next room.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. He’d tried everything to stay awake — scrolled endlessly on his phone, mindlessly played a bootleg game that crashed every three minutes, even started the first random show on Netflix just to have some noise in the background. But nothing stuck. Nothing could compete with the bone-deep exhaustion of being woken up by your voice at 7 a.m. on a Sunday to discuss “terms” of your fake relationship. Rafe wasn’t a morning person. Not unless you were in his bed — which, clearly, you were not. So he crashed. On your couch. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was still half-asleep when your voice floated from the bathroom, sharp and annoyed.

“How many times have I told you not to use my fucking conditioner, Taylor?” The words sliced through the fog in his head, but he didn’t move. Eyes still shut, limbs heavy with the kind of sleep that always hit harder in places he wasn’t supposed to fall asleep in. He listened as your footsteps padded into the kitchen.

“Your parents are literally loaded and instead of caving in and getting an actual bottle of conditioner, you use mine?” There was a clatter — probably a spoon or fork or whatever you were fidgeting with as you paced. “Not to mention using my razors. Which, by the way, are like five bucks for a ten pack—”

Your voice cut off mid-sentence.

Silence.

Then: a sharp intake of breath, followed by the unmistakable sound of ceramic hitting the countertop just a little too hard.

“What the fuck?!”

Rafe flinched, one eye cracking open just in time to see you standing in the doorway, a butter knife dangling from your hand like you were seriously considering whether it could double as a weapon. Your hair was still damp, your oversized t-shirt clinging slightly to your collarbone, and your expression — pure panic laced with fury — was the kind of thing that should’ve scared him. Instead, it made his lips twitch.

“Morning, Cherry,” he drawled, voice still hoarse from sleep as he shifted on the couch with zero urgency, stretching his arms behind his head like he belonged there. “You really gotta work on your hospitality. I could’ve been a burglar, you know.”

You stared at him like he had just grown a second head. “Why the hell are you in my apartment?!”

“Ethan said it was fine,” he shrugged. “And Taylor was taking forever and your couch looked lonely. Plus, you woke me up at seven, so technically this is your fault.”

You blinked. “You broke in.”

“I didn’t break anything,” he muttered, rubbing at his eye lazily, “unless you count my spirit when I realized your Wi-Fi sucks and you don’t have HBO.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you breathed, more to yourself than to him, like you were mentally going through all the steps it would take to cover up a murder and whether or not Taylor would help.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” He grinned now, all teeth and smugness. “You already signed the contract. You’d have to fake grieve. Real messy.”

You didn’t answer. Just glared at him, fists clenched at your sides, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sigh. Rafe, still reclined like a smug demon on your floral couch, closed his eyes again.

“Let me know when you’ve cooled off,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as if this was all going exactly to plan.

He barely contained another shit-eating grin threatening to split his face wide open as he caught the sight of you storming toward him, still sprawled shamelessly across your couch like it belonged to him. Butter knife in hand, expression murderous — or at least trying very hard to be. You were standing over him like some chaotic little storm cloud, shoulders squared, brows pulled into a scowl that might’ve worked if not for the rest of you. Because you weren’t exactly the image of intimidation. Not when you were wearing an oversized, faded Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt that hung to your thighs and a mismatched pair of fuzzy socks — one blue, one pink, both slouching around your ankles like they’d given up on life halfway through the morning. Your hair was still damp from the shower, sticking to your neck and curling slightly at the ends, and your glasses had fogged slightly from the kitchen heat. If anything, you looked like the kind of person he wanted to wrap himself around, not run from.

"I'm going to call the police if you don't get out of my apartment," you muttered darkly, voice tight with annoyance and just enough edge to make him open one eye lazily, squinting up at you from the cushions. And there you were — hovering, exasperated, butter knife clutched in your grip like a warning. A deeply unserious warning. It was endearing, honestly. Pathetic in the way only someone dangerously close to being fond of another person could find it.

He blinked once, then let out a low hum, the corners of his mouth twitching. “With that?” he drawled, nodding at the butter knife with mock concern. “You planning to spread me to death?”

Your eyes narrowed, and for a second, he really did think you might stab him. Not deep. Not enough to hospitalize. Just a light puncture — a warning jab to the ribs, maybe. “I’m not joking, Rafe. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Ethan said it was fine,” he repeated, stretching a little more, muscles tensing under the fabric of his shirt as he shoved his phone aside and propped one arm behind his head again. “You were taking forever. I was bored. Couch was here. You do the math.”

“I do the math, actually,” you snapped, planting your fuzzy-socked foot firmly beside his hip, the knife still pathetically hovering somewhere around his chest like it might suddenly transform into something scarier. “And it tells me you’re a sociopath who thinks breaking and entering is cute.”

Rafe clicked his tongue, gaze trailing down the line of your leg, then back up to your face — lingering in that way he always did, like he wasn’t afraid to get caught, like he wanted to be caught. “Didn’t break anything,” he murmured, voice syrupy slow. “Didn’t enter anything that wasn’t already open. Maybe keep your door locked if you’re gonna live in a fairytale-themed shirt and threaten people with breakfast utensils.”

You made a frustrated noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and shoved at his shoulder. Not hard. Not even really a shove — more of a firm poke that made his grin finally crack wide open across his face.

“Get. Out,” you hissed.

He didn’t budge. Didn’t even flinch. Just tilted his head, appraising you like you were a particularly complicated lyric he was trying to memorize. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said simply, like that was a perfectly appropriate thing to say while being threatened on your living room furniture.

You blinked once. Slowly. And Rafe watched the flicker of exhaustion bloom across your face like a storm cloud finally settling. The fury deflated a little, replaced with something more dangerous — that brittle kind of disbelief that came from being so done with someone, you stopped even trying to react. You stood there for a beat, breathing heavily, and then tossed the butter knife onto the coffee table with a dramatic clatter.

“I swear to God, if Taylor doesn’t break up with your bassist by the end of the semester, I’m going to start charging you rent,” you muttered, raking a hand through your damp hair and moving to collapse into the armchair across from him with a defeated thud.

Rafe turned his head slightly, watching you settle with that smug, victorious calm he wore like a second skin. “If you’re offering me keys, just say that.”

You didn’t answer. Just shot him a glare so withering it could’ve peeled paint off the wall. But he noticed the way your arms crossed over your chest a second too late. The way your foot tucked slightly under your leg, like you were staying. Like you weren’t kicking him out anymore. And he smiled to himself, slow and triumphant, letting the silence stretch while you simmered and fumed and very pointedly didn’t look at him.

He sank back into your couch, folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes again like the argument hadn’t just happened. Like this was routine. Normal. Like you wouldn’t wake up one day and realize he’d carved a space for himself in your life with nothing but smug persistence and stolen moments on your couch.

He could feel you watching him. Not subtly either — not with curiosity or even passive disdain — but in that loud, silent way you always did when you were trying very hard not to say something. And he could’ve cracked. Might’ve even apologized or at least thrown out a self-deprecating joke if this was someone else’s apartment. But it wasn’t. It was yours. Which meant you didn’t just tolerate him being here — you invited him into your space by sheer proximity to Taylor, by signing that stupid contract, by letting him into your routine in these tiny, unspoken ways that you pretended didn’t count.

So, no, Rafe didn’t apologize. Instead, he leaned in. Sank deeper into the couch like it was a goddamn hotel mattress and exaggerated a groan of satisfaction, stretching his legs out until one foot bumped the edge of your coffee table. His arms flopped behind his head again with all the performative flair of a man deeply unbothered, and he even turned his cheek against the pillow like he was about to drift off again — right there in the middle of your living room.

“You know,” you snapped finally, voice sharp enough to cut through the air, “you could at least pretend to look more… I dunno? Embarrassed about being completely unwanted in someone’s house.”

His eyes opened slowly, like you’d interrupted something important. Like he’d been deep in a dream where your voice didn’t make his chest ache in that annoying way it always did. He turned his head, met your glare head-on, and then — with all the carelessness in the world — slid one hand down to scratch lazily at his stomach beneath the hem of his wife-beater.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and husky with leftover sleep. “But that would be lying. And didn’t we agree on no lies, Cherry?”

You looked like you were going to throw something. Your eyes dropped — slowly, deliberately — taking in the full picture: the chain around his neck, the wife-beater clinging to his chest and slightly rumpled from sleep, the rings glinting on his fingers like they had something to prove, the baggy jeans slung low on his hips like he’d rolled out of bed and onto your couch without even thinking. Which, to be fair, he pretty much had. Your nose scrunched ever so slightly — not in disgust, more in that this fucking guy way you had about you that only made him grin harder.

You folded your arms across your chest, sinking deeper into the armchair. “You look like you should be standing in the back of a gas station asking minors if they wanna buy weed.”

He barked a laugh, head tipping back against the couch cushion. “Says the girl threatening me with a butter knife while dressed like a children’s cartoon character.”

“I will call campus security.”

“I’ll tell them we’re fake dating,” he countered, turning his head to look at you again. “They’ll probably just give us a pamphlet and tell us to work on our communication.”

You gave him the flattest look he’d ever received. “If you fell down the stairs right now, I wouldn’t even flinch.”

He grinned, wide and stupid. “You’d miss me.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes dragging away from him like you were doing mental gymnastics just to avoid launching yourself across the coffee table. “I don’t miss things that give me migraines.”

“That’s such a specific way of saying you think about me when I’m not around.”

“You’re not special, Rafe. I think about how much I hate traffic too, but that doesn’t mean I want it in my house.”

“Oof.” He clutched his chest mockingly. “That one hurt, Cherry. Might need a bandage.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up with a heavy sigh, muttering something about needing caffeine and walking toward the kitchen like if you just got far enough away from him, your blood pressure might stabilize. Rafe watched you go, cheek still pressed to the couch cushion, his grin softening just slightly around the edges.

He didn’t need to be in your house. He wanted to be. That was the difference.

And based on the way you hadn’t actually called campus security, or kicked him out, or even gone back to your room and slammed the door — you wanted him here too.

You just didn’t know it yet.

Now, Rafe was always having those thoughts — the kind that crept in every time you were near, uninvited but all-consuming. Sometimes they were vivid, filthy things. You on your knees. Him on his. Hands in hair. Fingers on skin. Lips trailing low. They came without warning, hit him at the worst times — mid-practice, in the backseat after a party, once even in the middle of a lecture when he caught sight of you through a window across the quad. He’d thought about kissing you more times than he could count. And not always with the kind of urgency he usually felt for girls. Sometimes it was slow. Tender. Too gentle to be casual and too selfish to be pure. But tonight... tonight it wasn’t about lust. Not really. He looked at you and just wanted to kiss you, not to get anything, not even to win — but to give. Something soft. Something grounding. Something you’d never ask for but maybe needed more than you’d admit.

He rubbed a hand down his face, dragging his palm across the sharp edge of his jaw, trying to chase off the sleep still clinging to him. Then he stood, stretching just slightly, bones cracking as he moved toward the tiny kitchen. The apartment wasn’t big — everything was a little too close, the overhead light too harsh — and he usually thrived in cramped spaces where boundaries blurred and personal space didn’t really exist. But now? As he leaned against the doorframe and saw you, hunched slightly over the counter, back to him as you stirred something fragrant and vaguely fruity in a chipped mug, he hesitated.

You looked... tired. Not just in the physical sense. Worn down. The sleeves of your Strawberry Shortcake shirt were pushed up to your elbows and your hair was pulled into a lopsided bun like you hadn’t even looked in a mirror. Your shoulders were drawn tight, like the tension had settled there and refused to leave. He didn’t know why it made his chest ache — just that it did.

You sensed him before he said anything, glancing over your shoulder with a flinch that you tried to mask quickly. But he saw it. And for once, Rafe didn’t joke. Didn’t lean against the fridge like an asshole or flash that smug grin he wore like armor. He just raised both hands in genuine surrender, stepping no further. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he mumbled, voice quieter than usual, rough from disuse and something else — guilt maybe, or care he didn’t know how to show.

You didn’t glare. Didn’t roll your eyes. Just adjusted your glasses with one finger, wordlessly turning back to your tea.

And it made something in him snap a little — not in frustration, but in tenderness, a foreign kind of helplessness he hated almost as much as he craved.

He lingered, then stepped a little closer, cautious like you were some wild thing he didn’t want to spook. “Rough day?” he asked gently, the words hanging in the air like they weren’t supposed to come from him.

You exhaled through your nose, lips twitching but not smiling. “Do you have to ask?”

Rafe scratched the back of his neck, leaning against the counter a safe distance away. “I dunno. Figured if I asked nice enough you might tell me. Or throw your tea at me. Either way, I get something out of it.”

You didn’t respond at first. Just kept stirring your tea with that slow, absent motion like it was the only thing keeping your hands busy enough not to break something. Then, finally, you sighed. “It’s just been… one of those days.”

“Yeah?” he asked, soft. “The kind where everything’s loud and shitty and nothing’s quite going right?”

You glanced over, surprised he got it so right. “Yeah. Exactly.”

He nodded, tapping his knuckles gently against the counter. “You want me to shut up and leave or... stand here and keep trying to piss you off until you feel something else?”

That pulled a sound from you — half laugh, half scoff. You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

Rafe smiled, slow and almost shy, like he hadn’t expected to get that far. “Yeah. But I’m already here.”

There was a beat. You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking over to him, less guarded now. “You’re not always what I expect, you know.”

He tilted his head, genuinely curious. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

You took a sip of your tea, eyes dropping to the mug. “Ask me tomorrow.”

And Rafe, without even thinking, said, “I will.”

And he meant it.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense, for once. It hung there like steam off your tea, warm and light and flickering at the edges. Rafe leaned his hip against the counter, watching you without the sharpness he usually wore — no smirk tugging at his lips, no bite in his gaze. You weren’t looking at him, but he could tell you knew he was there. Your body didn’t flinch anymore, and your shoulders — while still stiff — had sunk just enough to betray that part of you was letting him exist here. In this small, ordinary corner of your day.

“Strawberry?” he asked finally, tipping his chin toward the mug in your hands, trying to read the scent in the air. “Smells like fruit punch’s weirder, calmer cousin.”

You blinked, then huffed softly. “It’s hibiscus.”

“Right. That’s what I meant.”

You looked at him sideways. “Do you even know what hibiscus is?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said with mock confidence, straightening slightly, “it’s a fancy word for pink leaf water.”

That made you smile — just barely, but it was there. Faint and reluctant, like you didn’t mean for it to slip out. Rafe saw it. Filed it away like every other stupid thing about you he couldn’t stop collecting. “God,” you muttered, almost fondly, “you’re such a dumbass.”

“And yet you keep inviting me in,” he said smoothly, stepping just a little closer like he couldn’t help it. “I must be growing on you.”

You gave him a look. “You broke into my apartment.”

He shrugged. “Semantics.”

There was another long pause, the kind that was starting to feel less awkward and more like an unsaid truce. You stirred your tea one last time, then set the spoon in the sink and leaned back against the counter, facing him now fully. And he didn’t move, didn’t joke, just looked at you — and for once, you didn’t try to look away.

“You know,” you said slowly, voice quieter now, the teasing almost gone, “this is the longest you’ve gone without saying something absolutely infuriating.”

Rafe’s brows rose. “I’m evolving. Like a Pokémon.”

You rolled your eyes again, but softer this time, like you didn’t really mind it. Then your voice dipped a little lower, your gaze landing on his necklace where it sat crooked on his collarbone. “You always wear that chain.”

He looked down, fingers brushing over it instinctively. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He blinked, then met your eyes, surprised at how serious your tone was — not mocking, not challenging, just... curious. He could’ve made something up. Could’ve deflected. But for some reason, with the air this quiet and you looking at him like that — like maybe you wanted to know things no one else cared to ask — he told the truth.

“My mom got it for me,” he said. “Years ago. Before everything got... messy.”

You stared at him a second, then nodded. Like you understood that. Like you knew what messy felt like too.

“That’s... kinda sweet,” you admitted after a beat. “Don’t make a habit of it or anything.”

Rafe chuckled under his breath. “No promises.”

The air between you shifted again — something warmer this time. Still quiet, still uncertain, but undeniably softer. He watched as your fingers curled tighter around your mug, your thumb tracing the edge like you were grounding yourself.

“You still wanna kiss me?” you asked suddenly, voice so casual it almost knocked the breath out of him.

He blinked, caught off guard, heat blooming instantly at the base of his spine. “What?”

You looked up at him, finally — really looked — and repeated, just as calmly, “You still wanna kiss me?”

Rafe stared, throat dry, mind stalling just long enough for him to forget how to play it cool. “Yeah,” he said eventually, quiet but steady. “But not ‘cause I want something.”

You tilted your head. “Then why?”

He took a breath. “Because you look like the day’s been eating you alive and I just— I don’t know. Thought maybe it’d help.”

Something in your expression faltered. Not cracked — not enough to let him in — but tilted just slightly. Like you hadn’t expected that answer. Like you were caught between saying something honest and laughing it off like you always did. You looked down at your tea again.

He took that as a no and nodded once, pushing off the counter like he’d already overstayed. “Alright. Cool. I should probably—”

“Wait.”

You didn’t look up, but your voice stopped him cold.

“I didn’t say no,” you added, softer than before. Almost shy. “I just didn’t say yes yet.”

Rafe froze, standing still in your kitchen, heart rattling in his chest with a force he refused to show. He turned, eyes on you again, watching the way you sipped your tea like nothing happened — like you hadn’t just completely thrown off his center of gravity.

He smiled then. Small. Real.

“I can wait,” he said.

He watched the side of your face like it held the key to something locked up deep in his chest — some answer he didn’t know he needed until silence filled the kitchen like thick steam. Your profile was calm, too calm, eyes focused on the mug in your hands while your lips pressed to the rim and stayed there a beat too long. Like you were stalling. Like you were searching too. Rafe squinted slightly, trying to catch any twitch of the jaw, any flicker of movement in your brow, a tightening around your mouth — something to grab onto, anything he could use to steer the conversation somewhere easier. But you gave him nothing. Not a crack. Not a signal. And he was left there, completely exposed, staring at you like a love-struck idiot, fidgeting with the ring on his index finger like he was fifteen again and this was his first real date.

Which it wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But still. His brain felt hot and slow and a little dizzy, like it was short-circuiting in the face of your silence — not because it was tense or sharp, but because it was thoughtful. And Rafe wasn’t good with thoughtful. He was good with noise. Chaos. Conflict. Fast comebacks and dirty jokes and slamming doors and morning-after texts he ignored. Not… whatever this was. Not the stillness. Not the soft edge in your voice when you said, “I didn’t say no.”

He was freaking out now. Properly. Not because you’d flirted or threatened him with a butter knife or even agreed to lie about being his girlfriend for the sake of a petty revenge plot — he could handle all of that, that was his arena. But this? The way your words landed heavy but gentle, like a feather dipped in gasoline — this was different. This mattered. And it stirred something in him he didn’t know what to do with.

It made his chest feel too tight. Made his stomach flutter like it was hosting a butterfly funeral. And that terrified him. Not in the run-of-the-mill, fight-or-flight way he usually lived in — but in a way that made him feel. And Rafe didn’t do feelings. Not like this.

There was that old itch, that familiar buzz under his skin — the instinct to retreat, to shut it down before it touched anything important. He’d felt it before, every time something got too real. Too raw. Every time someone reached in too deep or lingered too long. The part of him that whispered, “You don’t get to have this. You ruin things.” It crawled up the back of his spine and told him to laugh it off, to say something crude, to disappear for a week and come back like none of it mattered.

But he didn’t. He stayed.

Not because he couldn’t walk away. But because he didn’t want to. Because you were standing there in your ratty little shirt, with your chipped mug and your tension and your stupidly guarded eyes, and you looked like you were about to bolt too. Like this wasn’t what you planned either. Like you hadn’t expected to get shy in a kitchen with Rafe Cameron, of all people — the boy you were supposed to be fake-dating, not softening for.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice low, like it didn’t want to scare the moment off. He leaned forward slightly, still fiddling with his ring but grounding himself in the movement. “You don’t have to say anything else, alright? I’m not— I didn’t mean to make this weird.”

You glanced at him then, just a flicker of eye contact, but it landed like a shot in the dark.

“I didn’t say it was weird,” you replied, a little too quickly. A little too defensively.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t, either,” he countered, but there wasn’t any venom in it. Just observation. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I get it. We made a deal. A dumb one, probably. And I’m… me, so yeah, I’m gonna make it more complicated just by breathing.”

You let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh but close. “Glad we agree.”

“But I’m not gonna push,” he added, more serious now. “I just… I meant what I said. I wanted to kiss you because it felt like maybe you needed something easy tonight. That’s it. No strings. No pressure. Not even a tongue,” he added with a lopsided smirk, trying to take the edge off. “Unless you ask nicely.”

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t land as hard as it used to. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I’m not,” he promised, and for once, it wasn’t a line. “I’m just saying… I can wait.”

There was a pause, longer this time, and your eyes didn’t leave his. You held his stare, mouth parted just barely like you were weighing your next move on a scale he couldn’t see.

Then, finally, you murmured, “This is stupid.”

Rafe nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

You sighed. “And complicated.”

He nodded again. “So complicated.”

“And messy.”

“That too.”

“But you really would’ve kissed me?”

“Still would,” he said, softer this time. “If you wanted me to.”

You stared at him, brows furrowing like you were still trying to decide if he was joking. But then your eyes dropped, and something in your chest rose, and you said — quieter than before — “Maybe next time.”

And for some reason, that made Rafe smile like he’d just won something far more valuable than your lips.

“Cool,” he said, biting back the grin. “I’ll start a countdown.”

You shook your head, walking past him with a faint shove to his shoulder as you muttered, “You’re so fucking annoying.”

Rafe thrived off the high you unknowingly handed him, floating through the rest of the evening like he’d been given a hit of something stronger than whatever used to keep him awake at night. It wasn’t just your words — though they echoed relentlessly in his chest — it was the look in your eyes when you said them. That brief moment when your walls dropped, even slightly, when your gaze lingered a little too long on his mouth, and you didn’t push him away. That had been enough. More than enough. He kept replaying the kitchen scene in his head, every twitch of your lips, every flicker of hesitation and warmth and maybe. It had him grinning like an idiot all the way back to the frat house, shoulder to shoulder with Ethan and Taylor, who were still wrapped up in their own bubble, drunk on each other’s company and completely oblivious to the shift that had occurred between him and you.

He didn’t ask you to come with. Not because he didn’t want you there — fuck, he always wanted you there — but because the idea of extending the moment too far, pushing it into something it wasn’t ready to be, made his chest twist. You’d had a long day, and the way your fingers had clutched that mug, like it was the only thing keeping you steady, was enough of a sign for him to ease off. It wasn’t often that he read a room right, but tonight he didn’t want to mess up the progress, didn’t want to spook you into retreating behind that razor-sharp edge of yours. So he let you stay behind. Told himself it was the right call. That giving you space was what a normal, non-obsessed fake boyfriend would do. Even if every inch of him had wanted you walking beside him, even if the absence of your voice already made the night feel quieter.

By the time the three of them got back to the frat house, Rafe realized immediately that "rehearsal" was a joke. The front porch was already swarming with people, some familiar, most not, and music thumped through the walls like a heartbeat. He exchanged nods and lazy greetings, dapped up a few guys from his English elective and some randoms who only ever spoke to him at parties. His mood didn’t dip, not completely, but the realization that tonight wasn’t going to be the kind of focused, intimate practice he’d lowkey been craving made something coil a little tighter in his chest. Still, he pushed through, weaving around the bodies and brushing off offers for drinks or games, heading straight toward the back corner of the living room where his drum kit waited — tucked half behind a couch, right beneath a flickering LED light strip that made everything look artificially red and blue.

The kit was the only part of this house that felt like his. Not his bedroom, not the couch stained with someone else’s college stories, but this. The weight of the sticks in his hands. The way the cymbals gleamed in the dull glow. He didn’t bother sitting down right away, just stood behind it, fidgeting with the sticks, flipping one between his fingers and tapping it softly against his thigh. He wasn’t about to rehearse anything serious without the rest of the band — especially not with a growing crowd stumbling in and out of the room, some already too drunk to notice if he was playing or setting the whole house on fire. So instead, he focused on the rhythm of whatever song was pumping from the speakers in the kitchen, some trashy club beat over a synth loop, barely musical but catchy enough to sync his hands to. He drummed along with it on instinct, not for show, not to impress the strangers stumbling past him — but to keep himself moving, buzzing, distracted.

His thoughts kept veering back to you anyway, no matter how hard he tried to throw himself into the motion. Back to your bare legs and oversized tee, the way your glasses slipped down your nose when you glanced at him, annoyed but not furious. Back to the tea you never finished. The heat that bloomed in your cheeks when you admitted, “I might say yes.”

He tapped out another rhythm against the snare, faster this time, matching the pounding beat inside his chest rather than the one bleeding from the house speakers. The edge of his mouth tugged up, unbidden and annoyingly soft. Fuck it — he was so far gone. And the worst part? He didn't even mind.

It started slow, like the way a storm creeps up on the edge of the horizon — subtle, inevitable. Rafe stayed standing behind the kit, not fully committing to sitting down but also not budging, hands moving in practiced muscle memory over the rims and pads just to feel something under his fingers. The party had thickened around him, bodies moving in waves, spilling beer on sticky floors and shouting over whatever was playing through the Bluetooth speaker no one had bothered to unplug. He barely noticed anymore. It was all background noise to the chaos already buzzing under his skin.

The first to join him was Ethan — of course it was Ethan — sliding into the room with that laid-back lopsided grin, already halfway through a conversation he hadn’t started with anyone. His backwards cap was tilted too far, the neck of his hoodie stretched from Taylor’s grip, probably. He had his bass slung over his shoulder, the strap frayed at the edge like everything else in their setup, and a half-full solo cup in his hand. “Yo,” he said as if they hadn’t just left the same house together an hour ago. “This a solo act or you just needed a warm-up?”

Rafe gave him a look, one brow raised but unbothered. “Figured someone should actually touch their instrument at band practice.” He punctuated the sentence with a sharp double tap against the hi-hat, dry and precise.

Ethan smirked, dropping the cup onto the amp beside him and plugging in. “You’re just grumpy ‘cause your girlfriend didn’t come. Admit it.”

“I’m grumpy ‘cause this isn’t a fucking rehearsal,” Rafe muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s a glorified keg stand with a playlist.”

Ethan just chuckled, tuning his bass lazily. “She really got you whipped, huh?”

Rafe didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Not long after, Cal wandered in — their rhythm guitarist — reeking of weed and sleep deprivation, his hoodie half over his head and fingers already miming chords on air. “Did we agree to actually play tonight?” he asked, voice hoarse from god knows what, eyes scanning the room like he hadn’t even realized how many people were there.

“I didn’t,” Rafe said, spinning a stick between his fingers. “But I got bored watching future alcohol poisoning, so…”

Cal snorted, setting up beside Ethan without another word, running a lazy scale across his strings to check his tuning.

A few more bodies drifted toward them — not the kind that wanted to listen, just party stragglers looking for a place to stand or somewhere to drop a half-finished drink. Rafe blocked them out. Even when Taylor poked her head in with a flushed face and a high ponytail, dragging in two other girls with her before planting a kiss to Ethan’s cheek and flashing Rafe an exaggerated wink.

“Don’t worry, I’ll film a clip for her,” she said over the noise, like it was some secret between them. Rafe didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes and finally sank down onto the stool behind the drum kit with a heavy exhale.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s run something.”

“What?” Ethan asked, clearly not expecting real effort.

“Anything. Something loud. Something fast.”

Cal groaned. “We didn’t even soundcheck.”

“I don’t care,” Rafe said, more to himself than anyone else. He wanted to move. To sweat. To pound his palms against the world until the noise in his head shut the fuck up.

Ethan adjusted his bass, nodded once. “One-two-three-four?”

Rafe answered by lifting his sticks, rolling them once across his thigh, and diving into a snare beat that hit like a pulse through the room. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it was loud — and it felt good. The kick drum thudded through the floor like a heartbeat, cymbals hissing behind the sludgy thrum of Ethan’s bass, Cal’s lazy guitar finding rhythm in the mess of it. They weren’t rehearsing. Not really. But they were playing. And for now, that was enough.

Rafe let himself disappear into it, hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted as he moved with something that wasn’t quite rage but wasn’t peace either. He could feel the phantom weight of your stare in the back of his mind, the curve of your voice wrapped around his ribs, the not yet still lingering on his tongue. And even as his arms burned and sweat gathered along the collar of his wife beater, he played harder.

Through the blur of the not-really-rehearsal, Ethan tossed out, “Let’s do Nirvana,” and the room latched onto it like drunk moths to a neon sign. Rafe paused mid-fill, set his sticks across the high tom, and tipped his snapback back with the heel of his hand so he could drag his fingers through his damp hair. Ethan was watching him too closely—too amused—and the look hit the part of Rafe reserved for special nights, the ones where the old version of him—the sharp, mean, pre-frat one—scratched at the skin of the persona he wore now. He was supposed to be easygoing city frat bro with a drum kit; instead he felt the snap of static under his ribs, the kind that made him want to pick fights or kiss people he shouldn’t. Ethan gave him a single nod like he knew exactly which way Rafe would swing, and yeah, fine—he swung.

They swapped. Ethan slid behind the kit, casual like he hadn’t just poked a bruise, and Rafe slung the Strat copy across his chest. The pick still never sat right between his fingers—he gripped it too much like a stick, too much attack, not enough finesse—but he could fake it. He adjusted the strap lower because pride, rolled his shoulders, and when he looked up he caught a girl standing too close to the amps staring at him with that glazed, delighted expression girls got when guys touched electrified wood. He didn’t blame her. People were simple creatures. Drummers were utility; guitarists were mythology. And yeah, he did look good with a guitar. You’d roast him for thinking it. You’d say, Congrats, you unlocked the campus starter pack: backwards cap, distortion pedal, and unresolved family trauma.

He was still a drummer at heart—always would be. Rhythm first. Anger translated to muscle memory. He liked hitting things until the noise in his head synched with the noise in the room. Guitar was a side language, one he learned because sometimes melody got in where blunt force couldn’t. Without ceremony—no count-off, no ego throat-clearing—they slid into the only Nirvana cover on the week’s gig list: “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Cliché. Predictable. The kind of song you’d side-eye on principle and call “freshman orientation grunge.” He felt superior for that alone. He’d pushed Dirty Diana for the set—sleazy, dramatic, a better flex—and the guys had tabled it. He hadn’t told you he played guitar. He hadn’t told you he fought for setlists either. Some things he kept, like the folded contract in his wallet and the memory of you in fuzzy socks threatening him with a butter knife.

He chunked into the opening progression with more downstroke than necessary, palm-muting too hard because that’s what his body knew: choke, release, repeat. Ethan caught the groove on the kick without missing, Cal smeared texture over the top, and somewhere behind him Taylor whooped like she was at a throwback night in a dive bar that still carded on principle. A couple of guys in the doorway started shouting the chorus before they were even there—of course they did—and Rafe rode the fuzz, letting feedback bloom between phrases because the house PA was garbage and the room deserved to howl. He imagined your voice under all of it, dry and unimpressed: Wow, revolutionary. Next you gonna light the kit on fire, Cobain? He almost laughed mid-riff.

Midway through the second pass he let his left hand slide, slipped in three teased notes from Dirty Diana under the tail of the progression—so buried no one drunk would catch it, but clear enough that Ethan’s head snapped up and he grinned, teeth flashing like you asshole. Rafe answered with a shrug and kept going. If you’d been here, you would’ve heard it. You would’ve called it out. You would’ve accused him of peacocking. Maybe he would’ve admitted it. Instead he played the rest of the song for the ghost of you, for the hibiscus smell that still clung to his memory of your kitchen, for the “maybe next time” you left in the air like a live wire.

When the crash bled out and the room erupted in the kind of off-beat cheering that meant half the crowd thought they’d just heard Metallica, Rafe rolled the volume knob down with his knuckles and let the guitar hang against his hip. His fingers twitched for sticks; his brain reached for you. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. Just pressed his thumb briefly against the pocket where your rules lived, and told himself he could survive cliché covers and drunk compliments a little longer. Because when he showed you he played guitar, it wasn’t going to be at a half-party rehearsal with sticky floors. It was going to be when you said yes. Or when he got tired of waiting. Whichever detonated first.

He set the guitar down on the amp with slow, practiced care, the kind that made it look casual even though his arms ached slightly from holding it so low and he didn’t want to admit it. The noise behind him lingered, a few stragglers still cheering, one voice obnoxiously asking for “Wonderwall” like this was freshman year again. He let it all slide off his back. Behind him, the band was already dissolving into post-rehearsal chaos—Cal was likely off making something overly complicated on the stovetop again, maybe pasta at midnight like a pretentious stoner, and Ethan was definitely finding Taylor to swap spit like they hadn’t already spent the last four hours groping each other under the guise of "I think I’m on the wrong note, can you help me?" Rafe didn’t care. He didn’t want to be around people. Not even them. Not right now.

He made a beeline for the kitchen and opened the fridge with the kind of rough familiarity that made the old appliance rattle. He reached straight for the whisky—his whisky—the same bottle that had been there since last week, but only because he kept topping it off like it was a living thing that needed feeding. He didn’t go for a chaser. Didn’t pour it. Shot glasses were either all dirty or lost in the Bermuda Triangle that was their sink, and he didn’t see the point in pretending. He took a slow swig, letting the burn drag down his throat in that way that made his shoulders relax. It was the one bridge between versions of him he hadn’t bothered to tear down. If the old Rafe—the country club menace with too much money and not enough adult supervision—had to cohabit the same skin with the city boy drummer wrapped in thrift store denim and frat-party confidence, then whisky was the only neutral territory. That and the fact he still wore polos sometimes. Some outfits required them. Didn’t mean he liked it.

He hadn’t even capped the bottle again when a voice floated in behind him—slightly slurred, overly casual, like it had been waiting for a lull. “Smells Like Teen Spirit is literally my favorite Nirvana song,” she drawled, and Rafe turned slowly, lowering the bottle with the kind of weighty stillness that said more than words ever could. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Definitely not in the mood for groupies. The girl was short—barely up to his collarbones—and she had the kind of dirty blonde hair that curled softly at the ends, the kind of face that would’ve blended in at any crowded house show if she didn’t smile like she knew more than she should. She wasn’t dressed to scream attention, which made her seem even more intentional, and her expression was soft in a way that didn’t quite match the game she was playing. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear like it was a shy reflex, but Rafe had seen enough of these interactions to clock it as strategy.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice flat, sarcasm curling the edge like smoke. “Looks like it.”

His eyes roamed over her once—just once—more out of habit than desire. She was decent looking. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that she was here, talking to him, when he very clearly hadn’t invited it. He took another swig just so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at her, his tongue curling against the sharp bite of the liquor like it was bracing him for the next eye-roll-inducing thing she’d say. She didn’t disappoint.

“I’m Gen,” she said, her voice all soft introduction, and he heard the step closer even if he didn’t see it.

Gen.

His fingers tensed slightly on the neck of the bottle. Gen. Oh. That Gen. The one who was in, like, every single Instagram story Sofia ever posted for six months straight. Pool parties. Halloween photos. Coachella outfits that were more about posing in the hotel bathroom mirror than actually hearing the sets. One of Sofia’s best friends. Or maybe former best friends, judging by the fact she was here, smiling at him like he didn’t remember any of that. Like she hadn’t sat front row at the last campus party Sofia cried her way out of because someone mentioned Rafe’s name too casually.

Didn’t girls have a whole moral code about this shit?

He blinked once, slowly, and leaned back against the fridge without giving her a reaction. He didn’t know what her angle was. Maybe she wanted a story. Maybe she wanted to be the girl that finally got Rafe’s attention after weeks of seeing him brooding behind a drum kit like he was too tortured to care. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing and was hoping he’d be drunk enough to play along. Either way, he wasn’t biting.

“You know,” he said finally, voice low and bored, “for a friend of Sofia’s, you’re either really fucking bold or really fucking stupid.”

Gen blinked, her smile faltering just slightly, and Rafe finally looked at her—really looked—just to watch the flicker of uncertainty cross her features. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. Just tilted his head slightly and took another swig, licking the whisky off his bottom lip like punctuation. This wasn’t a night he was interested in being charming. This wasn’t a night where he felt like putting the mask back on.

This was the kind of night where he drank straight from the bottle and remembered why the old Rafe never liked being looked at like a trophy.

And the fact that you weren't here?

That made it worse.

“Maybe I’m a secret third thing,” she offered with a grin, recovering like she hadn’t just taken a direct hit. Her smile was tilted and self-satisfied, like her attempt at flirting had landed perfectly, even though Rafe looked more bored now—less patient, more unhinged around the edges. The kind of expression that cracked only when something annoyed him to the point of stimulation. Her answer was equal parts predictable and grating, and it hit him then, not just how uninterested he was, but how deeply the old Rafe would’ve hated this interaction. Hated the cutesy power plays. Hated the fake humility of it all. The kind of girl who tried to wear sarcasm like perfume. Maybe that’s why he'd suggested Dirty Diana for the setlist earlier this week without even realizing it—something in his subconscious recognizing the type. A song for girls who smiled too easily and thought flirtation was rebellion.

His grip around the bottle tightened as he tilted it toward his mouth again, the whisky hotter this time, less comforting. He clenched his jaw before speaking, tasting the sharpness not just on his tongue but in the words building in his throat. He had to work to keep his voice casual, to disguise the disgust curling like smoke in his chest.

“Yeah. I know you’re a lil’ groupie,” he said finally, eyes flicking over her like he was checking for a price tag. His tone was flat, sharp in the way that cut deeper the more casually it was delivered. “Didn’t think you were the type to chase scraps, though.”

That should’ve hit harder. It should’ve been enough to wipe the smirk off her face and send her back to whatever frat basement she slithered out of. But instead, she rolled her eyes, slow and playful, like she was indulging him. Like she thought she was still in the game. Like he hadn’t just called her a leftover.

“Flirting with the campus’ hot drummer is called chasing scraps now?” she asked, arching a brow as she shifted her weight against the counter, her hip just barely brushing the edge of it. She was trying to look casual, effortless, like this was just some cheeky little moment she’d retell to her friends in the morning. Her posture said “God, he was mean but it was so hot,” and Rafe could already hear the retelling, could already picture her voice weaving the interaction into something it wasn’t. Her leaning in. Him playing hard to get. The tension exaggerated and romanticized into something cinematic. It made his skin crawl.

He exhaled through his nose, low and annoyed, and placed the bottle down with a soft clink against the counter, but didn’t let go of it entirely. His other hand braced against the edge of the counter near her waist, not close enough to touch her but enough to make her feel the space shrink. Not enough to give her ideas—but just enough to make her realize she was out of her depth.

“You think this is flirting?” he asked, voice a notch lower now, not aggressive but steady—like he was genuinely baffled, like the whole thing was some kind of cosmic joke. “Jesus. Maybe I’m giving off the wrong energy.”

She blinked, and her mouth parted just slightly like she didn’t know whether to laugh or defend herself, and that’s when he finally let the silence stretch, let her sit in it. He watched her blink twice, slowly, trying to gauge whether he was teasing or if this was him actually shutting the door in her face. And Rafe did nothing to clarify. That was the thing about him lately. He didn't clarify. He just let people guess. Let them project whatever they needed to onto his silence until they made themselves uncomfortable enough to leave.

And still, she lingered.

Of course she did.

He almost smirked, but it didn’t reach his mouth. Just a twitch at the corner of his lip, a sliver of something tired and unimpressed. “You’re not the first girl to get bored of watching from the crowd,” he added, glancing at her up and down again, more clinical this time. “But you might be the most obvious.”

And maybe it was mean. Maybe it was cruel. But it was true.

Because the moment you weren’t in the crowd? It was like every girl suddenly thought there was a vacancy. And Rafe didn’t want to be touched by girls who couldn’t tell the difference between a setlist and a persona. He didn’t want to be wanted by people who didn't know that the reason he played like his life depended on it was because it actually kind of did.

And Gen?

Gen didn’t even remember the first time she met him.

You did. Even if you didn’t know it yet.

“That what you said to your little girlfriend?” Gen broke the silence again, this time her voice a little lower, a little less breathy—flirty with an edge now, laced with something sharp and cracking beneath the surface. The shift was small but obvious, like she was trying to land a hit out of spite rather than playfulness, faltering under the weight of her own misread confidence. “Or does she not show up to gigs and rehearsals enough to be called a groupie yet?” she added, the word groupie now sour on her tongue, her lips curling like the taste of it disgusted her. Glossy and glinting under the kitchen light, her mouth twisted around the bitterness of envy she clearly didn’t expect to feel. She’d misjudged the game. Misjudged the stakes. Misjudged him.

And the best part? Rafe didn’t even flinch.

He could’ve snapped. Could’ve sent the whisky bottle flying across the room or shattered it clean on the counter just to see her jump and backpedal. That would’ve been the default Rafe reaction—dramatic, explosive, neck vein bulging with heat and irritation, all rage and no patience. But this version? The post-counselor’s-office, PR-smoothed, "we’re keeping an eye on you, Mr. Cameron,” version? He’d evolved. Or rather, he’d learned to channel the combustion into something quieter. Something way more unnerving.

So instead of screaming, Rafe smirked. Slowly. Deliberately. Not the cocky kind you flash when someone calls you hot, not the soft, warm kind reserved for late-night bullshit with people who matter. No, this was the kind of smirk that looked like it belonged to someone planning a crime. Barely there but electric. The therapy kind of worked, he figured. Not that he believed in it—but that one forced session the school mandated after the "library stairwell incident" taught him one thing: internalize it. Wrap your hands around the rage and squeeze until it becomes leverage instead of liability. It was progress, technically. Until he realized that bottling it up made him sociopathic rather than psychotic. Cool little swap, right?

“What I call my girlfriend behind closed doors,” Rafe murmured, voice low and decadent, almost purring with control as he tilted his head slightly, “is really none of your business, Genevieve.” The name came out like velvet dipped in venom, and the way he lingered on it made it feel like he was personally unwrapping her shame. His tone carried just enough weight, just enough cadence, to sound intimate without being kind. There was no affection in it—just precision. Just dominance. Just the cold, glittering thrill of knowing he’d won without even trying.

And fuck if it didn’t light him up inside to refer to you as his girlfriend. Maybe it was fake in theory—unspoken in name but real in blood—but every time someone threw it at him, he caught it with both hands like it belonged to him. Because it did. In his head, in the space you unknowingly lived in rent-free, you weren’t a temporary narrative device or a placeholder for his pent-up feelings—you were the goddamn plot.

Genevieve didn’t reply at first. Her mouth parted slightly, as if waiting for a retort that didn’t come. Her confidence was slipping like lip gloss on a humid night, and Rafe knew it. He watched her face twitch with the effort of holding her composure, with the realization that she was being boxed out with such elegant cruelty she couldn’t even accuse him of being an asshole without sounding bitter.

“Didn't peg you for the committed type,” she finally muttered, almost like a last ditch effort to reestablish footing. But it was weak. It was lazy. And she knew it too.

Rafe just hummed, pushing off the counter and stepping around her like she was a misplaced chair, not worth the energy to move—just something to sidestep. “Yeah,” he said, reaching for the bottle one last time, giving her a glance over his shoulder, all sharp teeth and wicked control. “People say I’m full of surprises.”

When Rafe finally stepped out of the kitchen, shoulders loose with the kind of calm that only came after someone said exactly what they wanted to say—sharp, cold, cruel enough to count as a sedative—he felt the tension slink off him like steam. Cruelty really did soothe something in him. Like a dog getting scratched behind the ears. His fingers still buzzed faintly from gripping the bottle too tight, his throat raw with leftover heat, but it didn’t matter. The crowd had thinned. Most of the party bled out onto the porch or scattered upstairs in pairs and trios, and the ones still in the living room had dulled, faces blurred by music and weed smoke and the slow pull of whatever was left of the night. No one stood near the amps anymore. No one was clinging for his attention or asking for photos or talking about the band. He could clock out mentally, drag himself upstairs, maybe smoke and pass out with the lights on. Monday didn’t feel real yet anyway.

But then he saw it.

Saw you.

Not your face—not at first—but the stance. The posture. The unmistakable stiff tilt of your shoulders that immediately stopped Rafe mid-step, stunned like he’d just been tasered in the ribs. He knew that stance the same way he knew how to spot a cop car from miles away. You were facing away from him, but every muscle in your body was tense, planted, like your feet were gripping the floorboards in case you needed to launch yourself. Rafe’s gut twisted before he even had a chance to blink. And then he saw her. Sofia. Of course. Of fucking course. Standing across from you, angled just enough for him to catch the full view of her face—and god, was she smug. Lips curled in satisfaction, eyes glinting with poison, like she just dropped a grenade and stepped back to enjoy the fireworks. He couldn’t see your face, but hers said enough. Said too much.

Rafe didn’t remember starting to move, but suddenly he was walking, slow and careful like approaching a wild animal mid-bite, unsure if he was interrupting the predator or the victim. And honestly? He wasn’t even sure who was who. It could be you baring your teeth, or Sofia sinking the knife in. Either way, this wasn’t safe. He forced his jaw to unclench, forced his arms to hang loose instead of balling into fists. Tried to paint a lazy smirk onto his face like he hadn’t just survived one verbal bloodbath only to stumble onto the next one. But it probably looked crooked, plastic. Because he felt like he was hallucinating. “You didn’t even text me when you got here, babe…” he muttered once he was close enough, voice a bit too low, trying to test the waters, watch your expression shift.

You turned slightly, eyes narrowing at the word babe like it left a foul taste in your mouth, but you didn’t call him out. Not in front of Sofia. And that silence spoke volumes.

But then—then—you did something that nearly made his knees buckle like a preteen. You stood on your tiptoes, leaned in slowly, and pressed a kiss against his cheek. Soft. Gentle. Like it was muscle memory. Like it meant something. Rafe went stock-still, blood rushing to his head and then dropping all at once. Because it didn’t feel flirty. It didn’t feel casual. It felt intentional, calculated, almost cruel in its sweetness. Your smile was barely there, just enough to count, like you were playing a role he hadn’t auditioned for. And the arm you slid around his waist? He felt it like a chokehold. Like a fuse being lit. “Hi, baby…” you said, saccharine and smooth, and if Sofia looked smug before, now she looked like she’d been slapped. Her mouth parted, visibly stunned, blinking once, twice, like she couldn’t believe she was watching this version of events unfold.

“I just got caught up saying hi to everyone,” you added lightly, tone breezy and casual, a laugh slipping out that sounded faker than anything Rafe had ever heard from you. He knew your real laugh—he obsessed over it. This one was all teeth and strategy. “You know how it is. Being the girlfriend of the drummer…” you drawled, eyes flicking briefly to Sofia with a smile too tight to be genuine. It was a hit. A direct one. Rafe felt it echo through his chest even though he wasn’t the target. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to high-five you or fall to his knees.

His voice came before his thoughts caught up. “I didn’t know we did cheek kisses now…” he muttered, still half in shock. What he meant was that he didn’t know you’d willingly touch him in public, let alone with that much practiced affection. But he recovered fast. Reflexive. “Thought we were more of a mouth-on-mouth kind of couple,” he added, turning his head just enough to catch your profile, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, forced playfulness humming beneath the awe and barely suppressed panic.

You didn’t even blink. Just smiled up at him sweetly, gaze flicking to his mouth and then to Sofia. “Oh, we are,” you said, tone syrupy and lethal. “But I didn’t wanna make her uncomfortable.” Your hand gave a soft pat to his lower back as you pulled away slightly, like you were doing him a favor. Like you were already in charge of the narrative.

Rafe had never felt more aroused and more terrified in his life.

Sofia looked like she might spontaneously combust. “Right…” she muttered, taking a step back, trying to catch her footing again. “Well… I’ll see you around.”

You just nodded. “Sure. I’ll be around all the time now, actually. Like a real girlfriend should be.” That was the final blow. Rafe didn’t even know what Sofia said to you before he got there, but whatever it was? You obliterated it. You turned it inside out and served it back to her with a bow.

And the moment she was gone, disappeared into the hallway with stiff shoulders and one last backward glance, Rafe leaned down, breath low and stunned, eyes locked on you like you were a completely different person than the one who threatened to set him on fire two days ago.

“…What the fuck was that?” he whispered.

You still didn’t look at him. And maybe that was the worst part for Rafe. The way you kept your gaze levelled slightly to the right of him, glasses glinting under the hanging lightbulbs, like looking at him directly would be a disservice to your pride. Your fingers wrapped tight around the strap of your bag like it was the only thing tethering you to your composure, your voice clean and sharp like a blade being drawn. “That, you pest…” you repeated, slower this time, your head tilting slightly with theatrical cruelty, “was me fake dating properly.”

Rafe blinked. The word pest hit harder than you probably meant it to. Or maybe you meant it with precision—maybe you wanted it to land like a slap. Either way, it stunned him momentarily, and the worst part was how much he liked the attention. Even when it burned. His mouth parted, only slightly, and his brows ticked in a way that screamed both guilt and confusion. He hadn’t done anything wrong—had he? Sure, he’d entertained the conversation. Sure, he could’ve shut Gen down faster. But he didn’t touch her. He didn’t flirt. Not really. Not the way he could. Not the way he would’ve before you.

"Instead of sitting in the kitchen and flirting with groupies..." you continued like you were reciting a report of crimes committed, your voice devoid of heat but not of consequence. The type of cool, delivered disappointment that twisted inside Rafe’s gut like a knife. His jaw clenched as he tried to remember if Gen had actually touched him—he didn’t think so. She just smiled a lot. Talked a lot. God, did she talk.

“Wait, cherry…” Rafe’s voice dropped an octave, deeper, more serious, with the kind of restrained urgency he only pulled out when you really had him cornered. “I wasn’t flirting with her.” His palms raised halfway, not quite in surrender but like they were reaching for something invisible between you both. Maybe trust. Maybe patience. Maybe you. “I didn’t even know who she was until she opened her mouth and started talking like we were best fucking friends or something. I told her to fuck off, basically. I—” he paused, exhaling like he couldn’t believe he was explaining himself over a girl he didn’t even look at twice. “That’s not what that was.”

But you weren’t even looking at him. You just scoffed, like his words were radio static. “Is that why you asked me to fake date you?” you shot back suddenly, your eyes finally rising to meet his, and the heat behind them almost made him flinch. “Just so you could humiliate me? So your little ex could get some kick out of seeing me strung along while you flirt with some mini skirt version of her in the fucking kitchen like a bad 2000s frat movie?”

Rafe’s head jerked back slightly. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he hissed, a little too loud, then reeled himself back in when a few heads turned. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice but not the intensity behind it. “You think that was for her? You think I give a shit if Sofia sees me with you or not?”

“She obviously thinks you give a shit,” you snapped back. “She was smiling like she had something to prove. Like you handed her the win on a fucking silver platter.” You exhaled, taking a shaky breath, not because you were fragile—but because you were mad enough to unravel and were barely containing the thread. “I don’t do this, Rafe. I don’t play fake relationships and mean girl pissing contests and pretend like it’s all fun and games. And if that’s what this is for you, then fine, congratulations. You’ve successfully humiliated me for the weekend.”

Rafe stared at you like he didn’t understand what planet you came from. His hands flexed at his sides, and his mouth opened like he had about four things he wanted to say at once. But none of them made it out immediately. He didn’t know how to explain that Gen meant nothing and that Sofia's smile wasn't a win—it was a warning. That being around you, being touched by you, even in the most performative ways, was starting to unravel him in ways he didn’t understand. That your kiss on his cheek had buckled his knees more than any night spent tangled up in bed with someone else.

Instead, what came out was, “I didn’t do this to humiliate you.”

You didn’t respond. Not immediately. Your lips pressed together in a line so severe he knew anything he said after that would land in a warzone.

“She asked if I was your charity case,” you said finally, voice flat but heavy. “Said I must’ve gotten in your head real deep if I had you playing boyfriend in public.”

That was what did it. That was the thing. That was the knife. Rafe’s eyes darkened, his jaw ticking again, and for a second he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill Sofia or punch a hole in the wall. “She said that to you?” he asked slowly, but his voice had dropped into something colder than ice. Something calm enough to be dangerous.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t need to. Rafe knew it was true by the way you said it, by the way your voice didn’t crack but still sounded hollow.

He stepped closer, head tilting as his eyes locked onto yours with a kind of severity that burned. “You’re not a charity case,” he said, voice low and rough and final. “Don’t ever let that bitch get in your head again. She’s not even on the same fucking planet as you.”

That shut you up. Not out of shock, but maybe because the sincerity in his tone felt like a direct hit. You looked away again, arms tightening slightly, like you didn’t know what to do with that kind of truth from someone like him.

Rafe took the smallest step back, the tension now roiling between you instead of through you. “You wanna be mad at me? Be mad,” he murmured. “But not for shit I didn’t do. Not for people I don’t care about.”

You didn’t answer. Again.

And the worst part? Rafe didn’t even blame you.

You didn’t say another word as Rafe opened the door to the side hallway, that shadowed corridor behind the main area of the house that led to his soundproofed practice room—like a secret hideout built specifically to house his noise, his rage, his rhythm. You followed him without asking where he was going, without giving away how badly you needed the distance from everything outside that door. The voices. The party. The fake looks. The real ones. Sofia.

The heavy door clicked shut behind you both, sealing the space in a padded, too-quiet hush. The room smelled like guitar polish and sweat and something darker, something like isolation. Rafe’s drum kit loomed in the far corner under dim track lights, cymbals gleaming like armor. There were posters on the wall, messy piles of cords, forgotten shirts on hooks, and a single cracked stool by the amp. It felt like stepping inside his chest—loud, violent, a little disorganized, but intensely private.

You hovered by the wall, arms folded loosely, like maybe you were shrinking from yourself more than from him now. The silence between you both was the kind that usually demanded explanation, but neither of you rushed to fill it. Rafe stood closer to the door, back leaned against it like he was guarding it—or you. Maybe both.

He glanced up. “You good?” he asked finally, voice low, not taunting or smug, just… level. Real.

You inhaled through your nose, eyes darting away from his. “Yeah,” you said too quickly. Then quieter, “I didn’t mean to… come at you like that.”

Rafe didn’t move. Just watched you, arms crossed now, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, exposing the veins down his forearms and the slight tremble in his fingers. Like he was still shaking off the tail end of the argument, even if he’d managed to keep it wrapped tight under his skin.

“You were mad,” he said simply. “I get it.”

“No,” you shook your head, brow furrowed, almost disgusted with yourself. “It wasn’t fair. I don’t know what she said to me exactly that got under my skin that much, but… I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You didn’t deserve that.” You looked over at him again, and this time, your gaze didn’t cut like glass. It felt more like rain—soft, steady, uncomfortable in a vulnerable way. “I’m not usually that petty. I don’t let people get to me like that.”

Rafe let out a low breath through his nose, like he was trying not to smirk at how full of shit you sounded, even though he knew you meant it. “You sure? You let me get to you all the time.”

Your eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of something dry in them now. “You’re a special case.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “Lucky me.”

A beat passed. You started pacing slowly, dragging your fingers along the edge of the amp like you needed something tactile to tether you. “I think it’s just—this whole thing, the fake dating thing—it’s… it’s getting a little murky. I didn’t think I’d care. But tonight it felt like I was—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

Rafe’s eyes didn’t leave you. “No, say it.”

“I said never mind.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, like he couldn’t help himself, “It’s not stupid.”

You met his gaze again, and it was different this time—quieter. Not guarded, but not exposing either. Somewhere in between. The kind of look people give each other when they’re both holding the same secret and refusing to say it out loud.

“I think I just forgot it wasn’t real for a second,” you admitted finally, almost in a whisper. “Like I kissed you in front of her and it was just supposed to be for show but part of me really wanted to make her feel something. And that makes me the exact kind of girl I swore I wasn’t.”

Rafe’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn’t move toward you. Didn’t make a joke. Just nodded a little, solemn. “You didn’t look like someone faking it,” he said quietly.

You let out a small, almost breathless laugh, head tipping back. “Yeah? You didn’t either.”

That pulled the corner of his mouth up in the faintest smirk—one of the real ones, the kinds that weren’t built out of arrogance but recognition. Like he could feel the same wires twisting under both your skins.

“But it is fake,” you added, quickly, voice tight.

“Right,” he said immediately, like he needed to remind himself. “Obviously.”

You looked at him again, this time with something slightly softer in your eyes. Not forgiveness—but understanding. Maybe a truce. Maybe just quiet. “I’m sorry for calling you a pest,” you mumbled, almost sheepishly.

Rafe snorted. “You’ve called me worse.”

“That’s not a defense.”

“No, but it makes it kind of hot.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t hide the reluctant smirk tugging at your mouth. There was a long pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… full. Like something was settling between you both that neither of you had the tools to name.

“Can we just… stay in here for a minute?” you asked, glancing toward the door. “I’m not ready to go back out there and pretend I’m not still annoyed.”

Rafe stepped forward, kicked the stool toward you gently with his foot, then sank down onto the floor beside the drum kit like he lived there. “Take your time,” he said, tossing you a look that was strangely careful. “You fake dating properly kind of scared the shit out of me anyway.”

You huffed out a small laugh, sitting on the stool like you belonged there. “Good. You deserve to suffer a little.”

Rafe sat on the grimy floor, elbows propped on his knees, the shadows under his eyes making him look more worn down than usual, like maybe he hadn’t been sleeping right—or maybe that was just the effect of whatever was going on between you two lately. The room was thick with that humid quiet that came after a fight, not quite resolved but slowly cooling, like embers under ash. He allowed himself a side glance, his gaze ticking over to where you stood balanced on his worn-out stool, arms crossed, legs tense like you were still half-ready to bolt. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, head tilted, and if he’d still been annoyed by your outburst from earlier, he wasn’t anymore. Because there it was—that quiet, reluctant vulnerability in your expression that slipped through the cracks when you thought no one was looking. The kind of guilt you didn’t know what to do with. The kind of awkwardness he’d never once seen painted on your face until tonight. You adjusted your glasses again with a small huff, fingers brushing against your temple like they were trying to erase the flush from your cheekbones. And his mouth twitched before he could stop it—an almost imperceptible smile at the rare sight of you looking uncertain.

"Why don't you just sit on the couch..?" you asked suddenly, nodding toward the worn leather couch against the wall like it was the obvious choice, your voice quieter now but still laced with that edge of exasperation you hadn't quite let go of.

He glanced over his shoulder at the couch and shrugged lazily, adjusting the brim of his snapback before lifting it to rake a hand through his hair. “I could ask you the same thing,” he muttered, letting his palm smack lightly against the back of his neck before dropping it. “And besides, I end up sitting on the floor at least four out of five times when I get drunk.”

You raised a brow. “You’re not drunk now.”

“I’m emotionally wasted,” he deadpanned, tone dry.

You blinked. “That is the most dramatic thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

He tilted his head at you. “You just called me a pest and accused me of trying to publicly humiliate you in front of your arch-nemesis. I think I earned a little bit of floor time.”

You bit back a reluctant smile, one hand reaching out to the nearby mic stand like you needed something to hold onto. “She’s not my arch-nemesis.”

“Okay. What is she then?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know. Just—someone I didn’t want thinking I wasn’t good enough. I guess.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked back to you again, this time slower. Softer. “You are.”

The words hung there between you, too honest and too quiet to be passed off as just part of the game. You didn’t respond. You just looked at him for a second longer than you should’ve, your mouth opening slightly like maybe you were about to say something that would ruin everything if you let it slip.

But you didn’t.

You stepped down from the stool instead, your shoes making a soft sound on the floor as you moved closer, not quite toward him, but toward the wall beside the amp where there were still a few battered vinyls stacked sideways and a tangle of old cords. You crouched, eyes trained on nothing in particular.

“I know I came at you sideways back there,” you murmured finally. “I just… I guess I didn’t think you’d look so comfortable talking to her. I didn’t like it. Which is dumb, because none of this is—” you paused, “—none of this is supposed to be real. So, yeah. That’s on me.”

Rafe didn’t look away from you this time. His stare was steady, serious, like he was trying to decide whether pushing this conversation forward would unravel whatever thin peace had settled in the room.

“You weren’t wrong,” he said. “I mean, about the groupies part. Sometimes I do flirt just to get out of my own head. Or because it’s easy. But it didn’t mean anything. And it sure as hell wasn’t about her.”

You looked up slowly. “Then what was it about?”

He held your gaze. “You think if I knew, I’d be sitting on the floor like a fucking sad boy right now?”

A breath caught in your throat, and you hated the way it made your stomach twist. You hated the part of you that wanted him to keep talking like that, to say something that made all this mess feel like something you could reach for instead of just pretend.

You crossed your arms again, standing upright now, back leaning lightly against the wall. “You’re not a sad boy.”

Rafe lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a small snort. “Then why do I feel like I just got broken up with in a fake relationship?”

You didn’t answer that. You just gave him a look that made his mouth go quiet again.

The silence stretched, taut and humid, the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be broken, just hung there—alive and pulsing. You hadn’t moved. Rafe hadn’t either, though the atmosphere between you both had shifted, charged now with something far more volatile than irritation or ego. His fingers twitched a little against his thigh before they dropped to the guitar propped lazily against the amp.

He reached for it.

The motion was slow, almost deliberate, like he was deciding in real time whether or not to say what he wanted to say—or play it instead. You watched him lower back to the floor, legs stretching long in front of him while he dragged the guitar into his lap and adjusted the strap across his shoulder. He didn’t look at you at first. He just tuned for a moment, then pressed the pads of his fingers down and slid effortlessly into a familiar riff—low, groovy, with a bite to it. You recognized it instantly.

Dirty Diana.

Your brow lifted. “Seriously?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to you once, a glint under his lashes that made the corners of his mouth twitch again—but this time, there was nothing faint about it. He was baiting you.

The first few licks melted into the room with a heat that was almost tangible. Gritty and controlled, but smooth. Seductive. He didn't need lyrics—you could hear them in the way his hands moved. Each note was coaxed out of the strings with a lazy kind of mastery, and he wasn’t showing off. Not in the usual Rafe Cameron way. This was something else entirely.

This was intentional.

You leaned your back harder against the wall, arms crossed but your fingers curled just slightly inward now, as if your body had started betraying you before your expression could catch up. Your gaze narrowed, but your pulse had picked up, and he fucking knew it.

“You know that song’s about a girl ruining his life, right?” you asked finally, tone sharp to cover the way your knees had started to feel unsteady.

Rafe didn’t stop playing. His voice was low, gravel-soft and cocky when he spoke. “Yeah. That’s what makes it hot.”

You stared at him.

He gave a small shrug of one shoulder, the guitar still purring under his fingers. “Some girls just get under your skin. Into your head. They make you do shit you wouldn’t usually do. Makes everything else feel... kind of dull after.”

You didn’t know if he was still talking about the song.

He looked up at you again, this time holding your stare longer. The lighting was low, the corner lamp casting him in warm amber shadows, his jaw sharp, his wrists flexing as he moved to a deeper, more sultry part of the solo—letting the note hang a beat too long like he wanted to watch the way it made your throat tighten.

You licked your bottom lip before you could stop yourself.

“That’s why you picked this song?” you asked, quieter now.

He hummed a little in the back of his throat, fingers dancing up the neck of the guitar again. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see what you'd look like if I played something that sounded like the way you made me feel in the kitchen earlier.”

You exhaled. It wasn’t a sigh. It was something tighter, more unstable. “Rafe…”

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, eyes cutting down to the strings again. “Still fake dating. Still just a game, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not with the way he looked sitting there, broad shoulders slouched, legs spread, that guitar curled up against him like a second skin and his voice thick with something that wasn’t teasing anymore. It was darker. Softer. Realer.

His fingers slowed, the last notes of the riff trailing off like smoke. He set the guitar aside, leaned back on his hands, and tilted his head at you like he was waiting for you to say something.

You didn’t.

But you moved.

Not toward the door. Not to storm out again. Just a few quiet steps forward until you were in front of him, your arms still crossed, the air between you pulsing with whatever the hell this had turned into.

You stared down at him. “You know you’re impossible, right?”

His smile returned, this time lazy and sure. “Yeah, but you like it.”

You shook your head slowly, the corner of your mouth twitching against your will. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to hit you over the head with that guitar sometimes.”

“I’d let you,” he murmured, not missing a beat, voice low and velvety.

Your lips parted, caught between a retort and a breath you weren’t sure how to exhale. But before you could decide, he was already shifting forward, just slightly—not enough to touch you, not enough to break whatever line you’d both drawn between what was fake and what wasn’t. Just enough to make it feel like you wanted him to.

But he stopped himself. Sat back again. Smirked.

“Don’t worry, cherry. Still keeping it professional.”

And that might’ve been the worst lie of the night.

"Keeping it professional by playing a seductive song about a groupie stalking a famous star for me?" you asked, voice dipped in disbelief, brows knitting tightly as your eyes narrowed in that way that always knocked something loose in Rafe’s brain. That practiced glare—the one you wielded like a blade—somehow felt sharper under the amber haze of the lamp, made worse by how unbothered he looked sitting on the floor beneath you, like your judgment only spurred him on. His eyes dragged up the length of your figure, taking in the way you loomed over him like you weren’t sure if you wanted to kick him in the ribs or drop down and straddle him. Both options aroused him in equal parts, and he had to bite down on a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching at the flick of your wrist as you adjusted your glasses with a scoff, like he was just another headache you were tolerating.

He leaned back on his palms again, legs still lazily sprawled, and tilted his head at you like he was genuinely considering your accusation. "I mean… when you put it like that, it sounds like I’m asking for a restraining order."

"You’re always asking for a restraining order," you deadpanned, arms crossing again, but your weight shifted—one foot angled like you were inching closer despite yourself.

"And yet, here you are. No mace. No pepper spray. Just standing there, looking like you’re about to throw me across this room… or maybe sit on my face. Jury’s out."

Your lips parted in immediate offense, but the sharp inhale that came out was something more tangled than fury. You were trying not to laugh. Or scream. Or worse—flirt back.

"You’re disgusting," you muttered, but your voice cracked at the end and your posture betrayed you, one shoulder relaxing just enough for him to see the splintering under the attitude.

"And you’re bad at lying." His voice was smooth now, thick like honey poured straight from the jar. He cocked a brow, his gaze flicking down to your lips, then back up with no shame. “You liked it. The song.”

"I didn’t."

“You did.”

"It’s objectively a good song."

“Mmm,” he hummed, grin unfurling slow like cigarette smoke. “But you didn’t just like the song. You liked the way I played it. You liked that I played it for you.”

“I didn’t ask for a fucking concert, Rafe.”

“Didn’t have to.”

That shut you up.

The heat prickling at the back of your neck spread down the column of your spine and pulsed beneath your skin like something hot and angry trying to disguise itself as indignation. You looked away for half a second, like the eye contact would combust into something neither of you were quite ready to name yet. But he saw it—that shift, that tell—and god, it made him wild.

“You ever think maybe you’re the Dirty Diana in this situation?” he added after a beat, voice almost lazy now. “Following me into soundproofed rooms, getting all worked up over songs, hating me so hard you have to be near me just to keep it alive.”

You stared at him like you wanted to kill him.

“You’re out of your mind,” you muttered.

“And you’re standing over me like you’re trying to burn a hole in my face with your eyes. So who’s the obsessed one now?”

Silence.

A long, stretched-out silence where neither of you moved. You were still breathing heavily, arms still crossed, but your fingers had curled tighter into your sleeves, and your weight had shifted again—closer. Barely, but enough. Just enough.

Rafe watched you like he watched storm clouds—fixated, spellbound, waiting for the first crack of thunder to split the sky and the rain to come pouring down in sheets so he could stand in the middle of it and feel it soak through to his bones. You were the lightning. The heat. The pressure that built behind his ribs every time you opened your mouth and spat something smart or mean or a little too honest. And sometimes, late at night when his ears were still ringing from rehearsal and your voice echoed sharper than the feedback in his monitor, he wondered if he’d still be this obsessed with you if you didn’t hate him so much. If you acted like Dirty Diana—if you chased him after sets, lingered at the edge of backstage in some tight little dress, batting your lashes just to get his attention, just to get in his pants for bragging rights. Would he still want you? Still ache for you the way he did now?

He didn’t know. Didn’t really care to know. Because the truth was, he was already too far gone. Too deep in the spiral you created just by existing around him like you were trying not to tempt him when everything about you did. At this point, you could’ve burned his guitar and he’d still write a love song about it.

"Diana was into Michael," you said suddenly, like the debate had been swirling in your head long before you opened your mouth, your voice sharp but calm, factual with that bitter edge you used when trying to pretend you weren’t riled up. "She wanted him for the fame and the fast life. She even homewrecked his relationship."

Rafe leaned back on his palms again, eyes not leaving your face as he nodded slowly, like he was agreeing with you just to see where this rant was going.

“She basically threw herself at him,” you continued, folding your arms across your chest like a challenge, like you already anticipated him twisting your words. “Said, ‘I’m all yours tonight.’ When have I ever done that?”

Your voice cracked a little at the end, not from emotion, but from the audacity it took to even entertain the idea that you—with all your glares and sarcastic comebacks and stubborn pride—could be reduced to that kind of girl. Rafe didn’t answer right away, just let the silence hang there like a taut string, eyes scanning your face for the little things—your nostrils flaring, your jaw clenched so tight it ticked, the way you pushed your glasses up your nose with an irritated flick like the mere idea had physically offended you.

Then, just when you were starting to shift again like you might walk away, he grinned wider. That smug, boyish, trouble-seeking grin that usually came right before he said something that made you want to slap him. And then he started to hum. Not any old tune—no, he had the gall to hum Dirty Diana, eyes still on you, the melody lazy and suggestive like he was trying to push every last one of your buttons on purpose.

You glared. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m accurate.”

“I don’t throw myself at you,” you snapped, indignant now, your voice rising with the kind of flustered heat he lived for.

“I never said you did,” he shrugged innocently, humming again between words like a mosquito buzzing in your ear. “I said you were like her. All sharp tongue and mixed signals and secret glances when you think I’m not looking.”

“Secret glances?” you repeated, scoffing so hard it bordered on a laugh. “Please. If I’m looking at you, it’s probably because I’m calculating how to hit you over the head with that amp.”

He lifted an eyebrow, slow and amused. “Sexy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re in denial.”

You stared at him hard enough to kill if glares worked like bullets, and he stared right back, unbothered, that damned grin still carved into his face like he was enjoying every second of watching you unravel. You weren’t sure if you hated him more for the fact that he was wrong or the fact that—just maybe—he wasn’t. Because if you were being honest with yourself, something about him playing that song for you had made your stomach twist. Something about the smug way he looked at you while doing it, like the lyrics meant something only the two of you understood, had made your skin prickle.

But you couldn’t let him know that. Not yet. Not when everything between you was still wrapped in the safety net of fake dating and pretend irritation and all the things left unsaid.

So instead, you scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re lucky you’re not actually famous.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you were, I would be Dirty Diana. But not to sleep with you—just to ruin your fucking career.”

And that? That made him throw his head back and laugh. Loud and real and just a little too happy for someone being threatened. “God,” he breathed out between chuckles. “Marry me.”

You crouched down in front of him, elbows resting on your knees and hands hanging limp like you were trying to keep them occupied—like the urge to actually deck him across the face was still real enough to warrant physical restraint. Your brows were drawn together in tight concentration, not because you didn’t know what to say, but because too many things threatened to spill out at once. Things you didn’t mean. Things you maybe did. Rafe stilled at the sight of you lowering yourself to his level, chest rising slow, the smirk tugging at his mouth fading into something quieter, more focused. His lashes dipped, his grin lingered, and there was something else in his expression now—like he was watching a storm move in across the ocean. Like he already knew he was about to get caught in it.

“I would only marry you just to poison your coffee,” you said lowly, each word deliberate, lips barely moving around the venom you packed into them, like you were doing him a favor by not spitting it straight into his face.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink. “I’d drink it,” he replied without hesitation, voice low and steady, shoulders shrugging as he licked his bottom lip in that slow, deliberate way that made your stomach drop like an elevator. “Hell, I’d drink the whole pot if you made it.” He said it like a dare. Like your hatred was foreplay and your threats tasted like affection if he tilted his head and sucked the meaning out of them. You hated that about him—hated how easily he made everything you said sound like flirting, how he twisted every line you drew into a fucking knot he was already halfway through tying around your throat.

“You’re unwell,” you muttered, voice tinged with both genuine annoyance and something you couldn’t quite place, your eyes not leaving his even as you spoke. You stayed crouched there in front of him, still not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. It was a precarious little distance—intimate and maddening and entirely too dangerous for the silence that stretched between you.

Rafe didn’t speak immediately. Just tilted his head slightly, watching you like you were some rare animal that had wandered too close, like you might bolt if he breathed the wrong way. “You say that like it’s news,” he finally murmured, voice softer now, not teasing but not entirely sincere either. Just honest in that offhand way he always got when things got quiet and you didn’t know if you wanted to run from the weight of his gaze or fall deeper into it.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Your fingers flexed against your knees, jaw clenching with the effort it took to hold your position—both physically and emotionally. And the worst part was that you weren’t even mad anymore. Not really. The anger had burned off like fog under sunlight, leaving only that slow, seeping guilt and the awkwardness that had curled around your chest ever since this morning. You shouldn’t have lashed out. Shouldn’t have called him names or treated the situation like it didn’t mean something to you. Because it did. And even though you hadn’t said it outright, you knew Rafe could feel it too—lurking underneath your digs and sarcasm and every time you stayed in a room longer than you needed to, like you were both daring the other to make it real.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t stand up. Maybe that’s why your knees ached and you didn’t care, why you stayed crouched in front of him like you were examining him for signs of damage, like he was some cracked sculpture you’d thrown across the room and now felt sort of bad about.

“I wasn’t really mad at you,” you said finally, voice quiet, like it cost you something to admit. You didn’t look at him when you said it, choosing instead to fixate on the stitching on his jeans, on the curve of his knuckles splayed against the floor.

Rafe blinked slowly, processing. “No?”

You shook your head once. “I was mad at everything else. You just happened to be the easiest target.”

A beat. “I am a pretty convenient target,” he said, voice light but not mocking, more like he was trying to keep you from crawling back behind your walls. “Tall. Loud. Punchable.”

“So punchable,” you murmured, almost smiling, and he caught it—saw the little quirk of your lips like a flicker of sun through clouds.

“But,” he added, tilting his head again, “You didn’t punch me.”

“Yet.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes still on you. “You wanna get off the floor now? Your knees are gonna lock up.”

You finally looked at him again, and there was something different in your expression now—less armor, less fire. Just you. Unfiltered. Unapologetically exhausted and guarded but trying, somehow, not to push him away this time. “Only if you promise not to play another Michael Jackson song.”

“No promises,” he smirked, “but I’ll play something slower next time.”

“Next time?”

He met your gaze, steady and warm. “Yeah. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Diana.”

Rafe didn’t know when the air started to feel like it belonged in a movie. Like the lights above had dimmed on purpose, like the soundproofing around the room was sealing them in with something heavier than silence. You still hadn’t moved, crouched in front of him like a fuse halfway to sparking out, your features all soft with reluctant vulnerability now, but your eyes still sharp—still you. He wasn’t sure if it was the low lighting or the fact that you weren’t yelling at him for once, but something about the curve of your lips, the tired slump of your shoulders, made his fingers twitch against the floor.

You were letting him in. Not with some grand gesture or dramatic confession—but in the quiet, careful way you said yet after threatening to punch him. In the fact that you admitted you weren’t mad, and even worse—for him, anyway—that you sounded like you maybe regretted being cruel. That was all he needed. He didn’t do much with softness when it came to you. He teased, taunted, tugged like a kid yanking pigtails, and most of the time you gave it right back. But when you let yourself be still with him like this, when you looked at him like he was human and not just another reason to roll your eyes, something in Rafe bent. Not broke. Just bent, like it had been waiting for the right kind of pressure.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” you asked, shifting your weight to one knee, voice dipped in suspicion but softer now, without the venom.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes dragging across your face like he was searching for something he’d missed all this time. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something that’s gonna make this weird.”

He smiled, slow and lazy, not denying it. “What if I just do something instead?”

Your brows twitched, and your mouth parted a little, like you were gonna argue. But you didn’t. And he didn’t give you the time to, because he was already moving—leaning in, just enough, slow enough to give you time to pull back. But you didn’t. You just blinked once and stayed still, like your body was trying to trick your brain into not running away. Like part of you wanted to know what it would feel like to let him kiss you even if the rest of you would pretend it didn’t mean anything after.

So he did it.

Rafe leaned in, brushing his lips against yours like he was tasting a fucking hallucination. Like he didn’t believe it was happening until your mouth responded, until you tilted your chin a little and matched the pressure with a softness that knocked the wind out of him. It wasn’t a firework. It wasn’t fast or heated or cinematic in the way people assumed first kisses should be. It was slower. Stranger. A delicate balance of stubborn mouths pretending not to care even as they leaned closer, breathed deeper, stayed just long enough to know they’d think about it later when they were alone.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt—it was natural, like the end of a sentence you didn’t want to finish but had to. His eyes didn’t leave yours, and yours didn’t leave his, and for a second, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t tense. Just loaded.

“Okay,” you said finally, like you were filing the kiss away into some locked drawer in your brain. “That was… not awful.”

Rafe scoffed lightly, tongue peeking out to wet his lips like he was tasting the last of you there. “You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not not disappointed,” you said, standing slowly and dusting off your knees, trying to play it casual, trying not to give yourself away. “I just thought if we ever kissed it’d be like… during a fake public fight or something. Not in your soundproof sad-boy dungeon.”

“Don’t knock the acoustics,” he murmured, still seated on the floor, watching you like he hadn’t just kissed you, like he wasn’t still thinking about the way your breath had hitched just before it happened.

You crossed your arms, glasses sliding down your nose slightly as you looked at him from above again. “So what, you’re gonna pretend this didn’t happen?”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Rafe replied, standing finally and brushing the back of his hand across his jeans. “You’re the one who made a spreadsheet for the fake relationship rules, Diana.”

Your eyes narrowed at the nickname, but you didn’t correct him this time. You just let the quiet settle again, not tense, but charged—like everything was different now, and neither of you wanted to be the first to say it. He moved past you to his guitar, picking it back up with a little shake of his head.

“I’m still gonna finish the song,” he said casually, fingers sliding across the strings like nothing had happened. “But don’t worry—I’ll pick something less seductive this time.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a pillow from the couch, chucking it at his back.

He caught it one-handed without even flinching.

You didn’t speak again as he started to play. Neither did he. But when your eyes met again across the room, both of you tried not to smile too obviously—like that kiss was already folding itself into the fine print of your arrangement, slipping quietly between the lines neither of you had agreed on but both of you kept following anyway.

author's note: hey peaches! it's been almost two months since the last update and i feel like ya'll don't like this story anymore. but we're just getting started. i'm sorry i took so long, but enjoy guitarist rafe singing dirty diana and him keeping the contract in his wallet next to his ID. i've been having some trouble writing chapters and almost ripping my hair our from writers block and applying to university so please, forgive me! Join the taglist for all my works, and talk to me!😊❤️

↳ ❝ [masterlist] ¡! ❞

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandom @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain @ordinary-barbie, @p45510n4f4shi0n @literallylexie, @polli05927 @holyfootie @artbymin @boredpretty, @backyardzombie @vicki1031 @kelsteysworld @cherrywriterrr @jesuiscielle @pinklovr @itrainswhenurhere @thxtmarvelchick

[gh0stly-mp3]

Faz um headcannons de um male!reader!Bllk player aonde o reader não é tão agressivo na maioria das partidas mas quando irritado começa a agir que nem um monstro? Pode ser um headcannon geral com os times do NEL

Nunca pensei que iria ver um Br q escreve Bllk x m!reader, principalmente aqui no Tumblr 😭😭 amei teus trabalhos, continue ;DD

Mto mto obg! Tô muito feliz q meu primeiro pedido veio de um BR ♡ - Espero q goste! Pelo q entendi vc sabe inglês, mas se quiser a versão em pt-br, só me mandar msg ou outro pedido :D

(Thank u so much! Im really happy that my first request was made by a brazillian ♡ - I hope you'll like it! From what I understand you know English, but if you want the br version, just send me a message or other request :D)

Rage burst -> NEL hcs

neo egoist league teams x bllk male!reader

synopsis: you, a calm and collected player, suddenly have an outburst and get really angry

tags: bllk characters reactions, headcanons, NEL arc, soccer rage, calm to angry reader

warnings: manga spoilers, mature language, suggestive comments, pet names (kiddo, good boy, etc)

a/n: hey! requests are open! (if you speak the language you can send the request in pt, but i"ll do it in english :D)

masterlist.

Hcs scenario

The game was intense, the ball switching sides between the two teams at an impressive speed. Your team was holding up, but it seemed to feel the pressure of the match. You were on the field, with your usual calm expression, absorbing every move.

Then, at some point, you were knocked down hard by one of your opponents. It wasn’t something too serious, but you, usually so calm, got up with a different expression, clearly angry at this dirty move.

The anger in your eyes was something new, something no one would want to face. The opponents were tense, trying to organize their defense as you regained the ball, but the speed at which you advanced was unimaginable.

Finally, with a strong and accurate shot, you sent the ball straight into the goal, beating the entire defense and stopping only in the net.

You simply looked at the field, the anger still pulsing in your chest, but with a smile subtly appearing. When you let go, there were no limits to what could happen. And this time, it was for the victory.

Bastard München

Noa was observing the pace of your run with a serious expression. "This is what we need." - He thought, clearly satisfied with the burst of energy you brought to the team after your goal.

Isagi's eyes widened; the last thing he would have considered in his plan was you getting angry. But soon, a sense of satisfaction took over his face, along with a touch of curiosity. He approached and said, - "You never told me you had that kind of strength in you, I'm impressed!"

Yukimiya quickly joined you and let out a soft laugh, placing a hand on Isagi's shoulder. "He's good even when he's angry. Now, let's see how far this rage can take him."

"Yeah, I really liked the way you acted, it was a great goal" - Hiori commented, showing no surprise, but with a slight admiration.

The rest of the players were also slightly surprised, especially Ness and Kurona. They had never seen you lose your temper like that. They knew you were a composed player, but that fierce anger was something they never imagined seeing.

At last, Kaiser and Kunigami remained silent, but Kaiser looked at the scene with a smirk. "Now, that's what I call attitude" - He thought, enjoying the aggression radiating from you.

FC Barcha

The whole team cheers as they watch your goal! Both Bachira and Lavinho break into wide smiles when they see you in action. Bachira runs to you after the goal and grabs you, celebrating. - "Yippie! I didn't know you could get that angry! That was amazing!"

Meanwhile, Otoya, noticing your aggressive movement, runs along the sideline to keep up with your play. He also celebrated when he saw you score, and soon after ran over to congratulate you.

"Caralho [fuck]! That's ma boy!" - Lavinho shouted, he was really surprised, after all, he didn’t expect this from you, always so calm and composed. It was a great surprise! The whole FC Barcha team would be very warm in celebrating your goal.

Paris X Gen

The team wasn't too surprised, except for Shidou and Charles, who were extremely excited by your sudden burst of anger! - "Wow! So that idiot can have explosions! I like that~" - Shidou exclaimed.

Karasu immediately flashed a sly grin and repositioned himself to get involved in your play, while trying to figure out what you were thinking. Loki also smiled, but this time it was more of an "I knew it" kind of smile.

Charles and Shidou were the ones who celebrated your goal the most, lifting you up and shouting nonsense like two idiots. - "Yippie! Do that again, ya?" - Charles shouted.

Manshine City

Chris was the first to comment: "That was awesome! You really got those legs working, huh? Everyone, take notes!" - examining which muscles were used and, of course, turned to the cameras of BLTV, the rest of the team was stunned.

Chigiri had tried to follow up on your attack, in vain. - "Good boy! But I'm still faster than you" - He could only congratulate your attention to the field, which didn't let your speed back down while crossing through the flock of enemy players. He was amazed.

But even more were Reo and Nagi. They chit-chatted away from you, but their wide eyes didn't hide a thing: the shock was a lot. Reo studied your movements to later repeat such beautiful agression, and Nagi thought how - or even if - he could take a pass from you.

Ubers

Your sudden disattachment to the "teamwork" ideals made Snuffy initially worried, but that wasn't all that he payed attention to. Your anger was evident. He came to you, put a hand on your shoulder and asked: - "Are you alright, kiddo?" - and then, you nodded. He seemed to get the mensage, and was happy to see your potential in action.

"Tsch...Not bad." - Barou said, with a grin. He seemed a bit jealous of such a violent goal, but also satisfied. Lorenzo, on the other hand, didn't say anything, but was clearly paying attention to the entire play. Maybe, he found an even stronger spark of strenght in you.

Aiku cheered for you, messing you hair a bit. He was surprised, as was everyone else. In a rare momento, you could see Niko's expression behind the hair. A mixture of shock, fear and excitement. If you were on the enemy team, you would have been a huge problem. But here, you could be one of the Ubers' secret surprises.

[mirisss]

Hot & Nerdy

Murata Fuma x female reader

Wordcount ≈ 3.1k 

Warnings: It’s a little suggestive at the end, some insecurities from Fuma’s side but nothing much, I think that’s it

Summary: Murata Fuma is hot, and he knows it, everyone knows it, especially his newfound girlfriend, (Y/n), one thing no one but the absolut closest people to him know though, is just how much of a nerd he is, what will his girlfriend think when she finds out just how much he likes Pokémon? 

Please reblog and comment! Hope you enjoy!

Third Person POV

Murata Fuma is hot, and he knows it. Everyone knows it. It’s not arrogance, it’s just a simple fact, backed by the kind of confidence that comes from years of being effortlessly cool. With his tall frame, broad shoulders, and the kind of jawline that could have been sculpted by the gods themselves, he had no shortage of admirers. But right now? Right now, he was a bundle of nerves.

Because Murata Fuma, the hot guy everyone fawns over, is hiding a secret. He’s a huge nerd. And not just any kind of nerd. A Pokémon nerd.

Not the casual, “Oh yeah, Pikachu is cute” kind. No, Fuma was full-on, encyclopedic-knowledge, merchandise-collecting, shiny-hunting, emotionally-attached-to-his-favorite-team kind of nerd.

And no one outside of his inner circle really knew the extent of it. Most people just saw the charm, the looks, the muscles, the dancer. Not the guy who still kept his Game Boy Advance SP charged for nostalgia or who got teary-eyed when he rewatched the episode where Ash lets Butterfree go.

The only one who might find out now… was her. (Y/n).

They’d been officially dating for a month now, it was intense, fun, and sweet. Everything felt new and exciting. She was funny, smart, confident, and she made him feel like he could breathe. He’d been to her place a few times already, her aesthetic was clean but warm, a few bookshelves stacked with novels, plants thriving on windowsills, a throw blanket that always smelled faintly like lavender, like her. He liked it there.

But he hadn’t invited her to his place yet. Until now, when she was coming over for the first time.

~~~

Fuma sat at the edge of his bed, glancing around his room like it was enemy territory. There was a big plush Lucario on his dresser. Framed limited-edition artwork of legendary Pokémon lined one of the walls. His Nintendo Switch dock was flanked by tiny figurines, Eevee, Gengar, Charizard, and a few others. His closet? Well, there were Pokémon shirts. Several. Some still in their packaging. Of course, he had his ‘normal’ shirts as well, the ones he wore outside of his own home. 

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair, “this is fine. You’re fine. She likes you. Right?”

As if on cue, his phone buzzed.

(Y/n):

“I’m heading over in about an hour 🫶 Should I bring snacks or anything?”

He smiled a little. She was always thoughtful like that. But the knot in his stomach tightened.

Fuma:

“Nah, I got it covered! Can’t wait to see you 😊”

After hitting send, he flopped backwards onto his bed, hands covering his face. “What if she hates it?” he mumbled. “What if she walks in and just turns around and leaves? What if she thinks I’m a man-child?”

A knock on his door made him jump. He sat up quickly as his neighbour and friend since many years back, Kei, poked his head in.  “You good, man?” Kei raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been pacing like you’re about to go into battle.” Kei had heard it all the way into his own apartment. 

“I am going into battle,” Fuma replied solemnly. Kei stepped inside and looked around. “Against what? Team Rocket?” Fuma shot him a look. “Against my girlfriend potentially discovering that her cool boyfriend is secretly a dork.” Kei snorted. “Hey, it’s not a secret to me. And honestly, that’s what makes you cool. You’re passionate about something. That’s attractive.” “Not to everyone,” Fuma answered. 

“Have you met (Y/n)?” Kei folded his arms, sitting down beside Fuma on the bed. “She seems pretty chill. I don’t think she’s the ‘ew, Pokémon’ type.” “But I’ve downplayed it! Like, I told her I ‘grew up with it’, not that I still play, or that I spent a ridiculous amount of money on that life-size sleeping Snorlax.” “Yeah, that thing’s absurd, by the way. Comfortable, though.”

Fuma groaned and buried his face in a pillow. “I’m not ready.” “You don’t have to hide this part of you, man. If she likes you, and she clearly does, she’ll like this, too. Or at the very least, she’ll think it’s cute.” Fuma peeked up at him. “Cute?” “Hot nerdy guys are a thing now. Embrace it.”

He sighed, but it was a little less heavy this time. “You think so?” “I know so. Worst case scenario? She teases you about it for like, a week. Best case? She asks to play with you.” Fuma gave a small, nervous smile. “I guess…” Kei clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself. The rest will sort itself out.”

As Kei left the room, Fuma stood slowly and glanced around once more. Maybe he didn’t need to hide everything. Maybe he could let her see the real him, nerdy, awkward moments and all. 

He picked up his Lucario plush and set it gently on the bed. “She’s gonna be cool with this, right?” The plush stared back silently. Fuma checked the time. Thirty minutes until she arrived.

~~~

Fuma paced around his apartment like a man awaiting judgment. He checked the clock again, six minutes had passed since the last time. He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “To hell with it,” he muttered and turned toward the kitchen. Distraction. That was the goal now.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a couple of chilled drinks, one peach soda, one lemon sparkling water, remembering that (Y/n) said she liked both but never could decide between them. He placed them carefully on the counter and grabbed bowls for snacks. Chips, some chocolate-covered almonds, and those little gummy candies she loved. 

Totally casual. Super chill. The very picture of a man not internally spiraling. As he turned to grab some glasses, a knock at the door made him flinch. His heart jumped into his throat.

The glass in his hand nearly slipped from his grasp and he barely caught it against the counter. “Holy, okay, okay, it’s fine,” he whispered, placing it down with both hands like it was a sacred relic. He wiped his slightly sweaty palms on his jeans and stared at the door.

This was it.

He took a deep breath, then another. “You’ve got this,” he told himself under his breath. “Just be cool. Be normal. Do not start talking about Pokémon evolutions five minutes in.” As he made his way to the door, a quiet thought popped into his head, and for once, it was a relief.

At least he’d kept his Pokémon shrine of sorts confined to his bedroom. The living room looked like a regular guy lived there. Minimalist decor. A few band posters. A record player he barely used but liked to keep out for aesthetics. Nothing that screamed nerd alert.

One more breath. He opened the door. And there she was. (Y/n), with that easy smile he liked way too much, standing in one of his hoodies and a pair of jeans, a small bag slung over one shoulder and her hair a little wind-tousled. She looked like home. He felt his nerves loosen slightly at just the sight of her.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice warm. “Hey,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped aside to let her in. “Come on in.” She walked past him with a little grin. “You okay? You look like you just ran a marathon.” “I’m fine,” he said quickly, then winced. “Okay, not fine. Nervous. But not like bad nervous. Just, you know, first-time-you’re-here kind of nervous.”

(Y/n) gave him a curious look as she set her bag down. “You’re nervous about me seeing your place?” “Yeah. Kinda.” She tilted her head. “Why? It’s nice. Smells good. You have snacks.” “I do,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen with mock drama. “Behold, the effort of a man trying very hard to impress his girlfriend.”

(Y/n) laughed and stepped over to the counter, peeking at the drinks and snacks. “Well, you succeeded. These are my favorites.” “I remember.” He tried to play it cool, leaning on the counter casually, but there was a clear flicker of pride in his voice. She glanced around, taking in the room. “You know, I expected your place to be messier.” “Wow. Rude.”

“I mean it in a nice way,” she said with a teasing smile. “Like a little chaos to match your energy.” “Excuse you, I’m extremely composed.” She snorted.

They stood there for a moment in the soft lighting of the apartment, the music from his playlist humming gently in the background. Fuma watched her closely as she took it all in. She hadn’t seen the bedroom yet. That was where the real test would be. But for now, she was smiling. Comfortable. And he could breathe. Maybe this wouldn’t be as terrifying as he thought.

The couple sat comfortably on the couch, snacks and drinks spread across the coffee table like a casual little feast. A movie played softly in the background, mostly forgotten as (Y/n) leaned into Fuma’s side, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. Her voice was animated as she told him about a customer from the day before, some irate man who had stormed into the store demanding a refund for something they didn’t even sell.

“I swear, he looked like he was two seconds away from flipping a display table,” she said with an exasperated laugh. “All because another store messed up his order. Like, what was I supposed to do? Teleport him to the correct branch with the power of retail rage?”

Fuma chuckled, eyes warm as he looked down at her. “You didn’t? Wow. I thought you were the best employee there.” “I am,” she shot back with a playful smirk. “But even I have limits.”

His arm rested snugly around her waist, his fingers toying absentmindedly with the hem of the hoodie she wore, his hoodie, though she’d claimed it so casually he hadn’t bothered to ask for it back. Not that he minded. She looked good in it. Too good, if he was honest.

For a while, he felt completely relaxed. Her laugh, her warmth against him, the softness of the moment, he didn’t think about his bedroom, or the Lucario plush, or the looming possibility of her discovering that he was, in fact, a massive nerd.

Until she shifted slightly, stretching her legs before sitting up a bit straighter. “Hey,” she said, brushing a crumb from her lap. “Mind if I change into my comfier pants? These jeans are plotting my demise.” Fuma blinked. “Oh, uh, yeah. Totally. You can use the bathroom.” “Cool. Where is it?”

And just like that, the bubble popped. His heart skipped a beat. The bathroom was at the end of the hallway. Right past his bedroom. Which currently had the door wide open and full view of a world he hadn’t yet revealed.

“Oh,” he said, trying to sound normal. “It’s, uh, down the hall. First door on the left.” (Y/n) started to get up, stretching again as she grabbed her bag. “Awesome, thanks.” Fuma stood too, a little too quickly. “I’ll walk you over, just in case you get lost in the hallway of mystery,” he joked weakly. She arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow. That long, treacherous ten-foot walk? Thank god I have a guide.” He laughed, nervous, but he hoped she didn’t notice. “Hey, you never know. Could be traps.”

She rolled her eyes fondly, waiting as he stepped ahead to lead her down the hall. But as he took the first step, Fuma’s mind raced. Was the plush on the bed or the chair? Did he leave his binder of Pokémon cards open on the desk? Did he put away that Poké Ball replica or was it still sitting on his nightstand like some kind of nerdy trophy? As they neared the hallway, he subtly glanced toward the bedroom door. Still open. And she was walking right behind him. His stomach twisted again. “Traps,” he muttered under his breath. “Yeah. Starting with this one.”

Each second stretched like taffy as they reached the open doorway.

Fuma’s breath hitched slightly. His bedroom door stood wide open, betraying him. The Pokémon posters, the plushies, the neatly arranged figurines on the shelves, they were all right there, glowing under the soft ambient lighting like they were proud to be seen.

And then, she looked.

(Y/n) paused at the door, peeking inside. Her eyes flicked over the room quietly. Fuma’s pulse thudded in his ears as he watched her expression closely, searching for a sign, laughter, shock, horror, anything. But she didn’t say a word.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly and asked, “Can I go in?” Fuma blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, of course.” She stepped inside, and he stayed behind in the hallway for a moment, frozen. Why wasn’t she teasing him? Or backing out slowly with a polite “I just remembered I left the oven on”?

(Y/n) walked calmly around the room, her fingers brushing lightly over the edge of a shelf. She picked up a small Pikachu figure, studied it with quiet curiosity, then set it back down gently. Her gaze wandered across his framed art, the plush collection stacked neatly in one corner, his Switch and special edition controller, and the binder on his desk, before moving on like it was all just interesting.

Fuma still hadn’t moved. He hovered near the door like some kind of awkward hallway ghost. She finally turned, walked over to the bed, and sat down casually, as if she’d done it a hundred times before. With a small, amused smile, she reached for the Lucario plush and picked it up, hugging it gently to her chest.

That did something to him, seeing her like that, perfectly at ease in a space he’d built but always felt a little too embarrassed to share. She looked up and gestured. “Come sit.” He hesitated for half a second before stepping forward and joining her at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees, shoulders just a bit too tense.

Then, her voice came, light and teasing.  “So, you just grew up with Pokémon, huh?” Fuma groaned softly, covering his face with one hand. “Okay, okay, I might’ve undersold it a little.” “A little?” she laughed, nudging him with her shoulder. “I didn’t want you to think I was, like, I don’t know. A man-child or something.”

She gave him a look. “Fuma. You dance in glitter and so many different things on national television, I already know you’re extra.” He barked out a nervous laugh. “That’s different! Glitter is cool.” “So can Poké Balls be,”

He looked at her, surprised. She was lying back now, arms stretched above her, holding the Lucario plush as high as she could without dropping it. The soft light from the hallway pooled around her, catching the edges of her smile.

“This is cute,” she said simply. “All of it.” His brows knit together. “You’re not… weirded out?” She turned her head to look at him, still holding the plush above her like a floating guardian.

“Fuma, honey, I love hot nerdy guys. You think this makes me like you less? If anything, it makes you even more adorable, you’re muscles are nice, sure, but this, the cute adorable side or you, that’s the best part,” 

Fuma didn’t respond at first. He just stared at her, stunned into silence. “You’re serious?” She dropped the plush onto her chest and propped herself up on her elbows. “Dead serious.” The wave of relief that hit him was so strong it nearly knocked him off the bed. He let out a breathy laugh, hands running through his hair again.

“You have no idea how much I stressed over this.” “Yeah,” she teased. “I noticed. You walked me to the bathroom like I was headed into a dungeon.” He flopped backward onto the bed beside her, staring up at the ceiling. “I kinda felt like I was.” (Y/n) turned her head, grinning at him as she reached out and poked his side. “Well, good news. You survived.”

He smiled back at her, the tension finally melting from his shoulders, and reached over to gently take the Lucario plush from her chest, moving it away from the two of them before he leaned over, putting his arms around her, pulling her along with him until she ended up on top of him. 

(Y/n) laughed as she stared down at him, her hands propped beside his head to keep herself up. His hands rested on her hips, her knees on either side of his torso. “Well, hello there, my confident, Fuma, welcome back,” She joked, his face still a little red from the embarrassment; however, he composed himself, pulling her back a little until she was sitting up, and he held her tightly as he sat up as well. Her arms now rested around his neck, their faces close. 

“What can I say, you bring out the best in me,” (Y/n) chuckled before leaning in and kissing him, Fuma quickly reciprocated the kiss, his hands holding her waist just a little harder. As their kissing continued, Fuma’s hands soon ended up moving under her hoodie, resting on the skin of her waist. Her hands migrated to his hair, gently raking through it. 

And so it continued for quite some while, non-stop kissing, until the two were out of breath. “If I knew, showing you my nerdy side would lead to this, I would have done it weeks ago,” Fuma joked. “I meant what I said, I love hot and nerdy guys, and that, my darling, describes you more than anyone,” (Y/n) poked his nose at the end of her sentence, causing Fuma to scrunch his nose before laughing heartily, hugging (Y/n) tightly before releasing her and helping her get off his lap. “Okay, I’ll show you the bathroom now so that you can actually change pants and we can get back to our movie date,” Fuma said, scratching his neck a little in slight embarrassment. “Sounds like a plan, oh, and-” Fuma looked at (Y/n) with a questioning face, “-I claim the plushie for tonight,” She gave him a teasing smile. 

“Fine, as long as I get to claim you,” Fuma joked back, once more his confident usual self, (Y/n) gasped and jokingly hit his chest before turning and walking back out into the hallway, Fuma followed behind, much calmer now that he knew, his girlfriend still loved him, despite his pokemon obsession.

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

I don’t think people understand how smart Leon actually is. That man had high marks from the police academy, hence why Chief Irons (in the orientation letter Leon has in RE2R) says that his grades are commendable and that R.P.D. are proud to have him on the force.

This got me thinking a lot because at first I thought being a police officer didn’t take much given that anyone today can be in the force.

But that wasn’t the case in 1998.

I did a little research because I thought it would be interesting to see just what Leon had to go through to become a police officer.

Back in the 90s, cellphones and modern technology didn’t exist such as DNA identification and body cams/car cams. This definitely made the job a bit harder than it is today because there was a need for more evidence to be collected and the overuse of your brain. Nowadays, technology is an important factor in the police force and almost everything is done by the computer now.

So let’s picture this: It’s the late 90s right before he got sent to Raccoon City. He’s in the academy and he has to go through training. Especially with weapons since most academies switched from revolvers to semi-auto guns (already something a bit modern for that time).

For those who’ve played the game, when you go into the Shooting Range room, you can clearly see just how old the room is compared to modern shooting ranges. Not only is the design of the target paper old, it’s also very simplistic compared to today’s (in 2024, most markings have numbers and more lines for accuracy than back in the day).

This meant that Leon had to train a good amount of time to perfect his aim. It also meant that he had to go through driving training—which was mostly Emergency Vehicle Operations Courses (EVOC: safe and defensive driving for cops in other words)

I’d like to think that his determination (when he told Ada that the reason he joined the force was for people like Emma and Gunshop owner) really helped him advance through his academic route of the training and I’d like to believe that he go high scores because of that.

The 90s were a pivotal time for new policies to be introduced in police academies. When Leon was a kid, presumably during the 80s, he probably saw just how different it was back then than it is now (in 1998) lots of “new” technology were introduced to him when he first started the training. And he probably had to adapt quickly to the technologies and new techniques.

Leon is quick on his feet, he grasps a lot of things and I’m tired of people making him out to be as some dumb blonde with muscles. He’s very smart and we see that throughout the games and films.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he was GT when he grew up.

EDIT: MB YALL😭 GT is a program for students K-12 where they’re put in advanced classes like AP or IB. It stands for Gifted and Talented (something like the Magnet Program in some schools in the US)

[coochiequeens]

Ladies if you know any pregnant women of color tell them about Irth

NEW YORK (WABC) -- One mother has used her own personal experience as motivation to help other expecting women find the best care possible.

"You're really not being treated as a person, it really felt like we were being treated like a number," said expectant mother Solaire Spellen.

Spellen got a little extra help switching providers after an unsettling experience early in her pregnancy.

"Now we're receiving care at a beautiful clinic, it's actually called Uah," she said. "They have great ratings on the app."

That app is called Irth. It's a free Yelp-like platform where you can find prenatal, birthing, postpartum and pediatric reviews of care from other Black and brown women.

"It's often referred to as the Green Book of hospitals," Spellen said. "It's a shame that we need it, but we do. We need to be able to tell one another where it's safe to deliver."

Journalist and maternal healthcare advocate Kimberly Seales Allers developed and launched the app in 2022 after her own birth trauma.

Black pregnant women in New York City are almost four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white pregnant women, according to the latest data from the health department.

"I wanted to create a place where we could let each other know that we were not alone," Allers said.

She also aims to teach hospitals how to treat pregnant women of color better.

The mom of two and NYC native says through her app, her team has collected data from women across the country.

She is currently working with eight healthcare systems in six states to improve care.

"Right now in our national database, the number one negative experience being reported in Irth is 'my request for help was refused,' number two is 'my pain levels were dismissed,'" Allers said.

Irth is available in the Apple and Google Play app store. It shows you which hospitals allow doulas, C-section rates, plus data on vaginal births after C-sections.

Spellen, who has a background in maternal healthcare research is due next month. She is also a member of the Irth team.

"Being able to work in the space of advancing maternal health has been incredibly rewarding," Spellen said.

[mejaemin]

many more - hong jisoo

wc: 1.1k

summary: you never fail to give joshua the best birthday every year, and he hopes to spend them with you forever

warnings: very fluffy, also very suggestive, making out, allusions to sex

an: here’s my real birthday fic for joshy :33 i literally finished ctqy and then started this bc i felt bad making a bday post for him just for it to be so sad… but it’s okay here’s this !!! another gift for my love, joshua. i hope you all like it <3

(part two here !!! nye edition <3)

───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────

the morning air is so peaceful, and when joshua wakes up it almost feels like a fairytale.

you’ve opened up the curtains, and lit a few candles matched to his favorite scent, the breeze through the window being the perfect temperature despite it being the dead of winter. after the third call of his name, his eyes open to you, leaning over his frame, with the most beautiful smile in sight. your hair tickles his face, and you’re full of so much light that he doesn’t even know what he’s done to deserve it. what a beautiful way to wake up, he thinks.

“good morning, love.” you coo, stroking his cheek that rises with a smile to return your own.

“good morning.” he backs away for a moment to stretch before sitting up, pulling you into his lap with a kiss.

you lean into his embrace, smiling up at him as you twirl his stray hairs around your finger. “i’ve got so much prepared for you.”

his smile turns a little more mischievous as he leans back, letting the light hit his face better for dramatic effect. “oh, really? what’s the special occasion?”

you know he’s seeking attention, but you’d be mad to not give it to him. “your birthday, of course!” you cheer, straddling his lap to give him just a portion of the many birthday kisses he’d get today. you leave a few on every single spot of his face that you enjoy, which is just about everywhere. a few for his forehead, some for his eyebrows, a couple on his cheeks, and finally, you give him the biggest one atop his gorgeous smile.

he hums, hands finding your hips with ease. “really? i thought it was just a random monday. nothing special.” he teases.

“oh, today’s super special. i’ve made it my job to make sure you feel special today, ‘kay?” you giggle.

he leans in to kiss you once again, holding your lips against his for a sweet moment before pulling away. with a dramatic pout, he continues his teasing, “but baby, i don’t know if you’re doing too good of a job.. i don’t feel so special right now, i think i’ll need a little more convincing…”

without responding, you lean in once again, eyelids drooping as you kiss him once again. he pulls you closer, large hands gripping your skin. you sigh, sinking into his body, and he uses the opportunity to let his tongue into your mouth. his hands begin traveling over every inch of your body, and before you can let out a whine and indulge in his advances, you pull away.

“i’m saving that for the end of the day, okay..? let us celebrate first.” joshua’s affect on you is so strong that kissing him in such a fashion is all it takes to leave you feeling dazed, and he knows it, running a finger over your pink, glossy lips in admiration.

like a switch flips in his head, he’s sitting up, letting you get up before following behind. “alright, darling, let’s go celebrate.”

after collecting yourself, you take his hand and lead him out to the kitchen. on top of the island there’s a plethora of gift bags among the most beautifully decorated cake. in front of it is a letter, and it’s the first thing you lead him to.

you hand it to him before bringing your hands together, fidgeting nervously. “i know i’m not the best at saying this stuff out loud, so i wrote it down. i had to show you my gratitude somehow, and i felt like gifts weren't enough, so…”

it’s almost as if he can’t stop smiling today, and if it could get any bigger it does. with a kiss to your lips, he goes and sits down at the dining table to read it. you follow, sitting on the table in front of him to watch. he rests a hand on your thigh while the other opens up the folded paper, and you can see the shock on his face at the length of its contents.

he says nothing, choosing to read it instead. you poured your entire heart and soul into it, and there’s quite a few tear stains on the paper. at some point the ink from your pen bled due to it, and he asks a few times for you to help decipher what the smudged penmanship means. you haven’t always been the best at expressing your feelings and gratefulness for your boyfriend, yet you have so much to share. after an emotional night post argument a few months ago, you sat down and wrote this out for him. there’s a second paper that you wrote yesterday to follow up, and you can see how touched he is. it’s a bit complicated being with someone so into words of affirmation while not being the type to be that way, but you made sure to give it to him for his special day.

when he finishes reading, he looks back up at you. “wow, darling, this is.. so sweet. i can tell how much thought you put into this, thank you so much.” he stands up to hug you, and with your head in his chest you squeeze him that much harder. he strokes your hair, keeping you there for a beat longer. he walks away to presumably put the letter away somewhere before returning.

“i know that must’ve taken a lot of thought for you to write for me. seriously, it means a lot. thank you, love.” he hugs you once again, kissing you once more before turning to the rest of your setup. “now, let’s celebrate.”

he spends the rest of the day with you, no other people being spared your time, opening gifts and eating his favorite foods with you. not that it’s any different other times, but he pays no mind to his cellphone, spending his special day offline with you, celebrating another year of life by your side, and above his candles he wishes for there to be many more like this.

in the late hours of the night, you’re laying together, skin to skin, basking in the afterglow of your final present to him. it’s then that he expresses his gratitude one final time before falling asleep. “thank you so much for today, love. i enjoyed it so much.”

you kiss his bare chest, too tired to move any more than that. “of course, shua. happy birthday.”

“mm, thank you. i hope i get to spend a thousand more with you.” he grabs your hand, kissing your ring finger. he thinks you say something in response, but he’s already lost in his thoughts, wondering if it’d be too much to give you a ring the next day, new year’s eve, to make sure his wish comes true.

───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────

[slushycoookie]

Put A Ring On It ~ Miguel O'Hara x AFAB! Reader 18+

★Word Count: 2.6k ★Content: You and Miguel try out some cock rings, praise kink, role switch between you and Mig, oral sex, vaginal penetration ★A/N: Starting off my sex toy series with something "light"! I hope you all enjoy it, took me a lot longer to write this. If you all want to be tagged for next ones, let me know! Dividers by @/rookthornesartistry

Masterlist | Commissions

You've been staring at him for the past ten minutes.

Miguel noticed right away when you kept idling by the hallway to the living room, wanting to ask him something but proceeded to do anything but that. He was curious but wanted to play the game a little bit longer. So he continued to read his book.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore when you approached him, hands behind your back.

“Took you long enough.”

“Be quiet.” You muttered as he chuckled, putting his book to the side so you have his full attention. “I wanted to ask you something…”

“Clearly,” Miguel says, brushing off your glare.

“This is serious.” You're trying to persuade him, even though he would do whatever you ask.

“Okay, well tell me.”

Immediately you show him a bunch of mini packages filled with rings- not the rings worn on the finger. These were of silicone material and in different colors. Miguel immediately knew what these were. “Can we try these out?”

“The cock rings?”

“Yeah! I got a bunch of different sizes. And you're a pretty girthy guy so I gotta make sure they fit.”

Miguel was holding back his ability to blush at how forward you were. He wished you would return to stalking him from the hallway, “If they don't fit, you have to take them back?”

You shake your head, “No, but don't worry about that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Miguel.” You shimmy, getting antsy about not receiving a yes or no answer from him.

“Okay. I guess it's good to test them before we… use them.”

“Yay!” You jump with joy, saying you'll be right back as you suddenly disappear. A silence loomed over him as he wondered what he had gotten into. He didn't have much time to regret if he wanted to as you returned with the rings wrapped in a towel and a bottle of lube.

“Get hard.”

Miguel laughs, “I know we've been married for a few years but I can't just get hard on command.”

“Your little friend says otherwise.” He facepalms at the small imprint in his pants. It was the cock ring talk, that's all.

You sit next to him, ring in one hand and some lube in the other. “Let me know if it gets too tight, okay?

He nods and watches you slick up his length before placing the ring on it. Currently, it was loosely placed around the base of his cock. The ring looked a little funny since you had chosen pink out of all colors.

Miguel didn’t get to laugh about it with you when your lips pressed along his neck. He immediately tilted his head to give you more access. Your soft lips left an invisible mark on his skin. His hand clenched around nothing while the other was on the small of your back. Nostrils take in your natural scent, ready to be absorbed by you.

A tightness formed around his cock. He glanced down at the ring fitting against his shaft and blinked.

“Does that look…bigger to you?”

You look down, “Oh yeah. The website said the rings do that.”

“Ah.” Miguel shifts, trying to tear his eyes away from how big he is. He was usually big but now he's huge.

“Does it hurt?”

He grunts when you run your thumb around the tip, collecting some pre cum. “No. Not at all.”

“Good.” You give him a reassuring kiss but he pulls you in for a deeper one, hand inching down to the curve of your ass. It lasts for a second as you pull away, “Miggy, we got a few more to do.”

“I'm sure they all fit. I trust your judgment.”

You dodge his advances, your index finger on his lips. “You get some after we're done.” He sucks his teeth but obliges, not wanting to ruin your plans. “Now, think of something nasty. You need to soften up again.”

“I don't know what that is.” He rolls his eyes.

“Don't be difficult.” You flick his shoulder, “Remember that time Peter explained to you in detail what Mayday's vomit looked like when she was sick?”

Miguel held his face in his hands, “Please don't remind me-”

“Like I'm talking the color, down to the texture of the vomit.”

“Okay, okay I get it.”

You glance down and he isn't as erect to your satisfaction. So you slip the cock ring off to grab the other one. Another simple ring, in a different color, black, with the same silicone material.

Instead of kissing his neck, your hands go under his shirt, stroking the hairs of his happy trail. He lets out a low groan at your teasing. Your eyes stare back at him with a glimmer of lust. And he knows you'd want to go all the way if you didn’t have a goal in mind.

“You're doing such a good job for me.” Your cooing words unexpectedly make him shiver.

“Don't say that…”

“Say what? The truth?” Your hand glides up to his pectorals, a thumb across his nipple while you still gaze at him. “My wonderful husband is doing a great job trying new things. You don't usually jump to explore new options. I'm proud of you.”

As you speak, your nails drag against his taut muscles. Your other hand gently gripping the curls in his hair. Miguel sighs your name and that familiar tightness comes back around his cock. His shaft stood tall and proud, the ring closed around him perfectly.

“It doesn't hurt right?”

“No.” He takes in a deep breath. Not at the tensity around his length but at the urge to pin you down against the couch. All because you praised him.

You notice his change in demeanor, “You sure? Don't act all tough now.”

“I'm fine.” He insists, “Are we done now?”

“No. We got one more.” You hold up an oddly shaped ring in a dark purple color, “This one has a vibrator attached to it.”

The push to get him to soften his cock works as you take the ring off, replacing it with the one that vibrates. He notices your face light up with excitement and he wanted to grab the back of your neck, wrap your pretty lips around his dick. Coat it with your saliva as it presses against the back of your throat. Almost making you gag if you weren't an expert in sucking him off. God, he hoped you would let him get what he wants.

You didn't need to do anything this time. His cock raised once again while his mind filled with obscene thoughts of you. Grabbing and fucking up into you in desperation. Feeling your wet cunt easily take him in as you beg for him to not stop.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask with a smirk.

Miguel gazes at you with hunger in his eyes, “Thinking about fucking you.”

“We’re not done yet…” That excuse falls on deaf ears when he reaches over to grab you. A shriek escapes your lips as you're now trapped under his arms, flushed along his chest.

“We are. You said this is the last one.”

“I did-”

“Then why can't I fuck my beautiful wife?”

“I didn't say you couldn't-”

“So let me.” A talon comes out, gently pricking your lower back. He grins at your back arching a little when he hits your favorite spot. Your hands digging into his shirt. “You don't want me to rip off your clothes, hm?”

You squirm, escaping his hold to shirk off your jeans and underwear. Before you took your rightful place, you grabbed a little remote and turned on the cock ring. The vibrations were sending a pleasant feeling along his shaft but it wasn’t enough to send him over the edge.

He smelled your arousal wafting in the air, getting him harder if possible. Miguel beckons you on top with the look in his eyes. So you oblige, smearing more lube on his dick before sinking yourself.

“Ooh…” Your walls involuntary squeeze him once the vibrator hits your clit.

“That's it…” He lets out a shaky breath, hands on your sides. “That's it, baby.”

Miguel thrusts up into you, your hands on his shoulders. The vibrating ring makes you whimper, forcing him to grip your sides with restraint. You sounded so pretty for him with a twinge of desperation. The lazy rise of your hips before you sunk back down was driving him insane. He unknowingly held his breath while watching you.

“You like that? Does that feel good?” Your nod fell short as you cried out from another thrust.

“M-Miguel...”

“I got you.”

With his occasional thrusts and the ring still vibrating on your sex, your breathing was getting heavier. Faster. He knew you were close as he rolled his hips into you. Making you incoherent. Unable to get back that pleasant, dominant aura you radiated. Now, you were at his mercy. He felt you trying to pull away, to escape the impending doom of your climax. Instead, Miguel held you close to him for your release. When you cried into his shoulder, your walls molded around him perfectly. He held the nape of your neck, keeping you still as he thrust up into you. Shaking your entire body with his actions. For his cum to coat your walls and the vibrating ring.

A sticky mess pooled between both of your thighs. The two of you holding each other to come down from your high. You didn’t say anything, but Miguel knew you were going to get back at him later.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･

“Please, I’ve been good…” He said while on his knees, hugging your exposed leg as that was the only thing he could do without facing your wrath.

“Have you?” You were unfazed, scrolling your phone as if it was more important than him groveling.

“Yes. I don’t know how long I can take of this, mi ángel.”

“You sure?” Now, you were looking at him, a slight tilt to your head. “I thought you were fine when we made out in your lab earlier.”

Miguel huffed at the memory. All day, you were teasing him. Stroking his dick during your morning shower. Sticking your tongue in his mouth before he left for work and back to his lab. Where you wrapped your legs around him while sitting on one of his consoles. Grinding your hips against his hardened length, with the intent of making him cum under his suit. Only for you to stop, saying you didn’t want to distract him from work. He was in desperate need of you or else he was going to explode.

“I was-am fine.” He swallowed, “But it’s been a long day and I need…” Miguel travels up your bare thigh, feeling the fatty part of your body while looking at you.

“Say it.”

“I need you. Please.” He kisses the palm of your hand when you cradle his cheek and you take mercy on him.

“Okay. You did do well in holding out for me today.”

Miguel can already feel himself getting hard from your praise when he stands to coat your face in kisses. Each filled with relief and gratitude. He doesn’t take over just yet, unsure if you were going to switch things up for him at the last minute. Which you do when your hands gently push at his chest to get him to stop.

“You think you can be good for another twenty minutes?”

He nods with fervor, “Yes, yes I can.”

You kiss his lips to thank him before telling him to stay by the kitchen counter. You disappear for a moment, coming back with the signature bottle of lube and one of the cock rings. When your lips combine, Miguel moans against them, in need for any type of contact. He feels your fingertips glide along his forearm to his watch, pressing a few buttons to reveal his semi-erect cock. Inches from his face, you swiftly coat him with lube, putting the ring around his shaft.

“Don’t cum until I say so.”

Miguel doesn’t trust his voice so he hopes his nod is enough. A knot forms in his chest when you slide down, your lips leaving a wet trail down to his cock. You gaze at his shaft with intrigue, it being hard and ready for you. “Don’t choke.”

“I won’t.” You flash him a look of appreciation before wrapping your lips around him. A shudder escapes him and he grips the counter for dear life. Not focusing on how warm your mouth felt. How easily you were vigorously sucking him off, careful to not slip the ring off and catch in your mouth. He shuts his eyes, trying to focus on not orgasming until you say.

“Look at me.”

It took all the willpower he had to not cum when he looked at you. A mixture of saliva and lube on your face creates a mess. But you didn’t care when you took him in again, moaning amongst his shaft. Eyes locked with his own. So you could see his face twisted in undeniable pleasure. He wasn’t sure if he was going to last five minutes. His body ached for release, but he wasn’t going to defy you again.

Miguel took deep breaths to stabilize himself. The need to coat your mouth with his seed lessened and he kept his self-control. He wasn’t sure how many minutes passed since you started, but suddenly you pulled away with a wet pop. Wiping off your drool with the back of your hand. He honed on your frame as you stood, slowly removing your panties. Only leaving you in the oversized shirt, his shirt while bending over the counter. The shape of your wonderful ass in his view.

He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if this was another play at him.

You look behind you, wiggling your ass a little. “Come on, big guy.”

Miguel was on you instantly.

With one swift motion, he entered you, letting out a loud groan at how soaked you were. His large hands grab your hips, making sure you don't move an inch. His thrusts were rough, a bit out of sync. He was too absorbed in finally fucking you the way he wanted all day. Hearing you squeal and moan underneath him while railing you to submission.

“Ooh right there…” He notices your back arch when he pounds into that sweet spot, your feet dangling in the air when he lifts you. The palm of his hand sprawled across your stomach while the other was so close to breaking the countertop.

His balls clenched, almost tipping over in his relief. But you haven't told him if he could come yet.

“C-Can I?” He grits his teeth, still trying to hold back for your permission.

“Yes-oh!”

Miguel presses you flat on the counter, a final thrust before he releases inside you. An intense orgasm that causes him to be more vocal, whimpering and groaning in your ear. Slow thrusts inside to get as much stimulation as he can before pressing along your head. Your sweaty scent and arousal linger in the air.

When he slipped out, he took the ring off before giving it back to you. He didn’t make eye contact, knowing the smug look you'd have on your face when he asked, “Can we go again tomorrow?”

[theguywithaplan]

List of Games Turning Twenty (20) Years Old in 2025

Advance Wars: Dual Strike

Advent Rising (they started planning the trilogy before the first game was out lmao)

Age of Empires III

Animal Crossing: Wild World (the DS one)

Arc the Lad: End of Darkness

Area 51 (the FPS that was low-key kinda creepy)

Banjo Pilot (the Banjo-Kazooie racing game on GBA).

Battalion Wars (the spin-off of Advance Wars).

Battlefield 2

Brothers in Arms: Road to Hill 30

Brothers in Arms: Earned in Blood (yep, they released two mainline games in one year).

Burnout Revenge (this cleared Burnout 3, and I will fight you on that).

Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth

Call of Duty 2

Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow (go play the Castlevania Dominus collection. It has this game and a few others and it's GREAT).

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness

Civilization IV

Cold Fear (answering the age old question: what if Resident Evil 4 was on a boat and not as good?)

Condemned: Criminal Origins (a launch title for the Xbox 360 and a pretty solid horror game).

Conker: Live & Reloaded (maybe a controversial opinion, but this is WAY better than the original).

Crash Tag Team Racing

Dead or Alive 4 (aka, the one with not Master Chief in it).

Destroy All Humans!

Devil Kings (all the sequels would be under it's non-translated title: Sengoku Basara).

Devil May Cry 3: Dante's Awakening (let's rock, baybeeeeee)

Donkey Kong: Jungle Beat

Dragon Ball Z: Sagas (I saw a stream of this game a few months back, and oh my god, this looks so shitty/funny).

Dragon Quest VIII: Journey of the Cursed King

Dynasty Warriors 5 (who's excited for Origins???)

Far Cry Instincts (a console version of the PC exclusive original game)

Fatal Frame III: The Tormented

F.E.A.R. (if you haven't played this before, change that. it's fantastic)

Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance (the one with Ike the Bisexual in it).

Forza Motorsport (the very first one).

Gauntlet: Seven Sorrows

Geist (the rare M-rated Nintendo game).

The Getaway: Black Monday

God of War (the very first one).

Gran Turismo 4 (one of the few PS2 games that could be played in HD, along with... Jackass: The Game...)

Guild Wars

Guitar Hero (the very first one).

Haunting Ground (a very rare PS2 horror game from Capcom).

Hot Shots Golf: Open Tee

The Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction

The Incredibles: Rise of the Underminer (since the second movie came out, this game is now considered non-canon).

Indigo Prophecy/Fahrenheit (the second game from known hack/fraud David Cage).

Jade Empire (the last game that BioWare made before they got acquired by EA).

Jak X: Combat Racing

Judge Dredd: Dredd vs. Death (there was a for real-ass Judge Dredd game on the GameCube).

Kameo: Elements of Power (another Xbox 360 launch title, this one made by a post-acquisition Rare. It's pretty fun).

Killer7 (from the greatest to ever do it, Suda51)

Peter Jackson's King Kong: The Official Game of the Movie (you guys think it's based on the movie or what...?)

Kirby: Canvas Curse (a really fun DS game that only used the stylus)

Klonoa 2: Dream Champ Tournament (i think klonoa would get along really well with sonic)

The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap (the one where Link gets really small)

Lego Star Wars: The Video Game

Lunar: Dragon Song (one of the worst RPGs I've ever played. Don't play it).

Mario & Luigi: Partners in Time (the one with the Baby Mario Bros.)

Mario Kart DS (the first one with online play).

Mario Party Advance

Mario Party 7 (my personal favorite)

Mario Superstar Baseball (we didn't get a Mario Baseball game on the Switch. Because they're saving it for the Switch 2).

Mario Tennis: Power Tour (so many Mario games...)

Dance Dance Revolution: Mario Mix

Marvel Nemesis: Rise of the Imperfects

The Matrix Online (an official continuation from the movies)

The Matrix: Path of Neo

Medal of Honor: European Assault

MediEvil: Resurrection

Mega Man Battle Network 5 (the only one in the series to have a DS version)

Mega Man Zero 4

Mercenaries: Playground of Destruction

Metal Gear Acid (a launch title for the PSP, and a card game set in the Metal Gear universe. It works better than you might think).

Meteos (a puzzle game made by Masahiro Sakurai, the Smash Bros. guy)

Metroid Prime Pinball

Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks

Myst V: End of Ages (the final Myst game)

Need for Speed: Most Wanted (did you know that this game outsold the entire Halo series?)

Neopets: The Darkest Faerie (is Neopets still a thing?)

Nicktoons Unite! (a crossover between Spongebob, Fairly Oddparents, Jimmy Neutron, and Danny Phantom).

The Nightmare Before Christmas: Oogie's Revenge (an honest to god sequel to the movie that plays like Devil May Cry).

Ninja Gaiden Black

Nintendogs

Oddworld: Stranger's Wrath

Pac-Man World 3

Perfect Dark Zero (yet another Xbox 360 launch title, also made by Rare, and a sequel to one of the best FPS games ever made. It was fine).

Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney (it had been out in Japan for a few years, but us Yankees got this four years after it came out).

Pokemon Dash (a Pokemon racing game. It was not very good).

Pokemon Emerald Version (I sunk like 500 hours into this game).

Pokemon XD: Gale of Darkness (a sequel to Pokemon Colosseum where you could capture other people's Pokemon).

Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones

Psychonauts

The Punisher

Quake 4

Ratchet: Deadlocked

Resident Evil 4

Serious Sam 2

Shadow of the Colossus (one of the best games ever made. Play it if you haven't yet).

Shadow the Hedgehog (pretty good to be a sonic fan right now).

Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga (parts 1 and 2).

Sly 3: Honor Among Thieves

Sonic Rush

SoulCalibur III (RIP, SoulCalibur. Tekken is just too powerful.)

Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory (RIP, Splinter Cell. Ubisoft just sucks too much to make you anymore).

Spyro: Shadow Legacy

Star Fox Assault

Star Wars: Republic Commando

Star Wars: Battlefront II (this game's story mode is permanently etched into my brain).

Stubbs the Zombie in "Rebel Without a Pulse" (presenting it to you with no context. Look it up. It's hilarious).

Super Mario Strikers

Super Monkey Ball Deluxe

Tak: The Great Juju Challenge

Tekken 5

TimeSplitters: Future Perfect (RIP, TimeSplitters. Embracer Group killed you before you could come back).

Trace Memory (got remade in 2024 as Another Code)

Twisted Metal: Head-On (another PSP launch title)

Ultimate Spider-Man (you could play as Venom in this one)

WarioWare: Touched!

WarioWare: Twisted!

We Love Katamari

Wild Arms: Alter Code F (a remake of the first game)

Xenosaga Episode II

X-Men Legends II: Rise of Apocalypse

[noorpersona]

omgggg you're the sweetest (T_T)♡

oh! can i request a fic about rivalry with kita? i'd love to see him fuming and stuff since he rarely mad about anything. by anything, i mean ANYTHING. and... i don't mind a pinch of nsfw in it btw (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ but if it's not necessary for the plot you can take that away, that's okay. thanks in advance ^^♡

(you don't have to rush, take your time writing it (*ゝω･*))

Thank you so much for the sweetest request!! ♡ I had so much fun exploring what it would take to actually get under Kita’s skinn heheheh

no smut just yet! but trust me—I’ve got some spicy ideas brewing for part two 👀

Thank you for reading lovely 🥰

--

The gym echoed with squeaking sneakers and shouted drills, the clash of balls against hardwood punctuated by the shrill calls of coaches on either end. Co-ed training camps were chaos on a good day. On this day, it was warfare—at least, it felt that way to Kita Shinsuke.

Across the net, you stood with your hands on your hips, eyes cool and sharp, as if you could predict every move his team made. And worse—you smirked when you were right.

“That’s the fourth time your middle’s fallen for the cross,” you called out across the net, voice far too casual for his taste. “You might wanna switch it up before he tears his ACL.”

Kita’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t respond. He rarely did. But he filed it away. Like he always did.

Osamu muttered beside him, “They’re good.”

Kita hummed in agreement. “Too chatty.”

You were, admittedly, talented. Strategic. A good captain. But the way you barked directions with a bite of sarcasm, the way you smirked when things went your way, the way you carried yourself with this insufferable looseness like volleyball wasn’t sacred—

It got under his skin.

And you knew it.

You took every opportunity to needle him. Subtle things. Walking just a little too close when switching drills. Offering sly suggestions to his players during breaks like you knew them better. Commenting on his rigidity with a grin that never met your eyes.

Today was only day three of the camp. And he was already counting down to the end.

Later that afternoon, the teams broke into a scrimmage. Mixed lineups, random assignments.

Unfortunately, you were on his side of the court.

“Wow,” you said, eyes scanning the rotation chart as you stepped into place beside him, “I didn’t think they’d actually put us together. Do you think they’re trying to test how long you can tolerate me?”

Kita didn’t even glance at you. “Keep your mind on the game.”

“Always do,” you chirped.

The first serve came, and to your credit, you didn’t miss a beat. Your timing was perfect. Your approach was clean. You called the ball clearly, landed sharply, and turned back with a smirk.

“What, no feedback?” you asked breathlessly. “Not even a little pointer?”

Kita stared at you, flat and unimpressed. “You were slightly late on your first step.”

You blinked. “Was not.”

He turned away. “Yes, you were.”

You scoffed. “Kita, if I was any more precise, I’d be a stopwatch.”

He didn’t reply.

You, of course, took that as a challenge.

Practice ended, finally, after a brutal hour. Kita dismissed his team with a bow and collected the stray balls with quiet efficiency. You lingered, sweat still clinging to your brow, hair pulled back, muscles humming with exertion.

You approached slowly, ball in hand, rolling it against your palm.

“You know,” you said mildly, “I can’t tell if you hate me or if that’s just your default personality.”

Kita didn’t look at you. “Is there a reason you’re still here?”

“Yup. I like the view.”

His jaw ticked. His shoulders squared just slightly, a subtle but unmistakable signal of irritation.

You came a step closer. “What is it about me, huh? The fact that I don’t shut up? That I challenge you? That I coach with instinct instead of a clipboard?”

“You coach with your ego,” he replied, finally turning toward you. His voice was sharp—colder than you’d ever heard it. “You don’t respect the game. You treat it like a stage for your mouth.”

You raised a brow, momentarily taken aback by the vehemence in his tone.

“And you treat it like a religion,” you said evenly, though the smirk had faded from your voice. “But not everyone worships like you, Kita.”

He stepped forward once, not quite in your space but close enough to make your breath hitch. His posture was tense now, fists loosely clenched at his sides, back straight like he was trying not to launch into a full tirade. His voice was low, deadly quiet.

“You think being loud makes you better. You think swagger makes up for gaps in discipline. But this—this isn’t your team. These aren’t your players. And I’m not going to stand by while you make a spectacle of the game I’ve spent years building.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, all your usual wit dried on your tongue. Your hands curled tighter around the volleyball in your grip. His jaw was set, the muscle twitching, and his brows were drawn low, eyes locked on yours with a kind of restrained heat you didn’t expect.

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just anger. Real, burning anger.

You hadn’t expected that.

“You’re mad,” you said finally, voice quieter.

“I’m focused.”

“No.” You took a step forward this time. “You’re mad.”

His nostrils flared. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

“And why is that?” you continued, cocking your head. “Because I’m not like you? Because I don’t worship your little routines? Or is it because someone finally rattled that polished little mask of yours?”

His mouth parted slightly, but he didn’t answer.

“Right,” you murmured, taking another step closer—close enough to see the veins in his neck standing taut, the slight tremble in his fingertips. “Because someone like you would never snap, right? You’re too composed. Too perfect.”

Kita didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because you were right. And he hated that.

The silence buzzed between you, thick and electric. And something shifted in the air—sharp, magnetic, inevitable.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Say you hate me.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, firm but not painful.

You sucked in a breath.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, voice low and strained. “I just don’t know how to stand you.”

And that was the moment.

The shift.

The crack in the dam.

Your fingers twitched. His hold tightened. And for one suspended heartbeat, it felt like the entire gym faded around you.

Then—

“Everyone outta the locker rooms!” a coach barked from the entrance.

Kita dropped your wrist like it burned. You took a full step back, breath sharp, eyes wide.

No words passed between you.

The look he gave you said everything.

He was absolutely going to snap.

And you were absolutely going to be the reason why.

[littlemssam]

New Mods & Mod Updates

As always delete old Mods Files and the localthumbcache, when updating my Mods!

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New small Mod & new Bug Fix

Small Lactose Intolerant Overhaul This small Mod edits the Plant Milk so it is useable for more Recipes, and it changes how Sims with the Lactose Intolerant Trait react to Food a bit.

Vampire Run Fix This Mod fixes Vampires not using the Vampiric Run, and played Vampires changing their preferred Walkstyle, when switching Households.

---

Mod Updates

Foster Family Various Tweaks:

Increased the Duration potential Adoptives are visiting from 4 to 8 hrs.

Added Greeting Status to potential Adoptives, so you won't have to invite them in. They will more likely come in and interact with Foster Kids/Pets now.

Added a Send Home Interaction to potential Adoptives, since they now stay longer. This way you can send them Home with one Click.

Adopted Foster Kids will get the Son/Daughter Relationship added now and should show up in the Family Tree.

Mod Setting Option via Phone is only available, when a Sim has registered for the Foster Family Network.

Added new Cheat Menu (Shift Click) to Sims (Sims who registered for the Foster Family Network), where you can trigger the Foster Family Network Notifications to get Foster Kids/Pets.

Added new Cheat Menu (Shift Click) to all Kids/Pets ingame, where you can add already existing Kids/Pets in the World to become your Foster Kid/Pet.

Fixed an Issue with Foster Family Network Notifications for Cats, when you did not enable all Ages for them.

Vampire Powers | “Be able to eat Human Food”, “Enable own Mirror Reflection”, “Stop Hissing” and more Addon NPC Disable Special Walkstyle removes hidden Walkstyle Traits only from never played NPCs.

No Auto Food Grab after Cooking Fixed a small Issue with the Icon on the custom Get Leftover Interaction not showing up, when Choose Leftover is not installed.

Sul Sul Weather App Added Support for Ciudad Enamorada. Reworked Icons a bit. Script File is obsolete now. Pls remove.

Send Sims to Bed Added Support for Sleeping Bags

Social Activities (Visit Friends, Family and more) Fixed an Issue, where the Interactions got cancelled, when your Sim was on a Business Lot they own.

Random Small Mod Updates

Auto Brush Teeth Reworked Mod to make it compatible with EA's Bathroom/Kitchen Settings for Sinks. The Addon File "DisabledBrushTeethSinksWillAllowWashDishesOnly.ts4script" is obsolete because of that now, pls remove that File. I did keep my own "Allow/Disallow Brush Teeth" Options though, which you can still set via Cheat Debug Menu (Shift Click) in case the EA Settings don't work well for you. When you don't use EA's Settings or my Mod Settings, Sims will be allowed to use all Sinks however they like. The Addon "AfterEatingToo.ts4script" is changed to be compatible with the XML Injector now, and is changed into a Package File. Remove the Script File pls.

Auto Use Picnic Table when Eating Added Support for two new Picnic Tables from Lovestruck and Growing Together. Added an extra Addon File for "Umbrella Tables" from Base Game and various Packs.

Claim All The Things Added "Frying Pan", "Collectible Other/Treasure Map", "Canvas", and "SackLunch" to be supported

Prefer Leftover Added Addon for Bread to be blocked from autonomously Eating/Grabbing a Plate.

Release all Ghosts & Get Urn for Added the Interactions to Mailboxes (Shift Click), so you don't need to get Urns via Debug etc first.

Craft More Nectar Bottles and more When Crafting 5 Bottles, the Dynamic Skill loot for Nectar Making is multiplied by 1,5.

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Translations

Advanced Birth Certificate - Update of Dutch by Willowtree My Pets - Update of Dutch by Willowtree Online Learning System - Added Finnish by MaijaEllen

---

My Site with all possible Download Links: lms-mods.com

Support Questions via Discord only please!

[shadamyheadcanons]

Which do you prefer, Amy using flip phone or touch screen? (I have the most dense questions I swear)

I just don't see Amy using her touch screen phone other than for photography reason, she'd probably use it for a moment and then got bored of it lol

I prefer her using flip phone because they are from the 90's, she's old fashion girly (head canon) and she loves collecting cute things

I can see Amy using these, it's cute, it's girly, it's her, it just make sense

I 100% agree with you! I don’t see her spending a lot of time on her phone, either; she lives in the moment. She takes pictures, sure, but you won’t catch her on her phone if there are people she can talk to physically in front of her. I like to give her 2000s girlypop accessories. Let her have an old Nokia flip phone, and when someone asks if she can even get decent pictures with it, have her take one of these out of her hammerspace:

[Source]

When other people ask her why she has the old phone, have her say she loves it and there’s no modern phone that can survive being hit by her hammer.

She’s tried.

If she went to school, she’d use Lisa Frank folders and notebooks and write in them with glittery gel pens. She’d keep a Chao-style tamagotchi for as long as she could until it stopped working and only consider a smart phone so she could switch to a Chao app. I gave her one of those old-fashioned girly corkboards on her wall in Headcanon #261 so she could keep pictures of her friends.

I was going to say she’d wear big pink heart sunglasses, but she already did that:

[IDW issue #69]

This is her car, for crying out loud:

[IDW issue #33]

It’d be really funny if she has an “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” kind of mentality toward her older tech and it drives Tails insane. He’d try to get her to try advanced new stuff, but she’s just fine with her flip phone, thank you very much.

[raccoonscupoftea]

🎮A Gamers profession

Timeskip!Kenma Kozume X F!Y/n

Summary: Y/n and Kenma are a couple, also living together. While Kenma is streaming and struggling with a game, he soon admitted to need help from you, a professional game breaker.

Warnings: Nerd talk, SFW, possible grammar mistakes, cause english is not my native language.

| MASTERLIST | REQUESTS |

//----//----//----//

You love your job. It's fun, well paying and not so stressful. Kenma, your boyfriend, also likes your job, but sometimes he just wants you to stuff your face with a pillow when he's playing, especially when he's livestreaming.

You often get to know the next top game before everyone else. You get information on a game while it's still in the making and you have to play the game for endless hours before it's officiall release.

You're not designing the game or anything. No, you're here to break the game into pieces, testing limits, testing the code, testing AI. If it breaks, then the developers have more work to do. Or they simply just decide it is going to be a 'feature'. It's their choice. You just deliver the bugs to them.

So, then why does kenma want to shut you up sometimes?

Because of your job, you have developed a very good sense for game mechanics, attack patterns and the more advanced stuff on how a game is build. When Kenma encounteres a boss, he just knows you could beat it in a few minutes. He knows you could rush to an over the top overpowered boss and never get hit once, thou it would take longer to beat it.

It's when Kenma's visibly is frustrated, staring at his screen with an unhealthy posture, you then sometimes get up from your couch and take a look at what he's struggling with. As soon as you got into frame the viewers will start to spam the chat with messages about you.

Mostly just spamming your name but others will write absurd things like "mama's here to help" or "the professional is watching"

You just have to stand behind the chair and kenma starts to tell you to not say anything.

"Don't you dare tell me, I want to find it out myself" he complains and you just put up your hands "I didn't do anything, I'm just watching, but tell me if you need help"

So far he never needed help from you. He of course is an intelligent and very good gamer himself. Never have you doubted him.

___

You're currently on your own pc in a separate Office in your and Kenma's home. With a switch controller in your hands and feet up on a footrest, you happily enjoy playing some animal crossing on the bigger screen of your gaming setup.

Today's quiet cold so you're wearing a wearable blanked with a hoodie combined. It looks like a cat. On your table is a steaming hot tea, waiting to be cooled down a little. You were fishing all around the island in game to get the last fish of the museum collection, but the sporadic waves of tiredness are definitely not doing you a favour when it comes to pressing the right button at the right time. The game definitely knows how to get you so relaxed you could fall asleep right then and there in your gaming chair.

Another wave made you a little more tired than the usual waves. This time you had doze off for a few seconds before jolting back awake and continued your fishing spree. Work definitely was a bit to much with the winter holidays coming up and a lot of new games wanting to be released in early spring. Is also added up to your tiredness.

You glanced over to the time on your Pc and realised it's only 4pm, definitely to early to sleep now. You also know that Kenma was streaming for an hour now, since he always starts at 3pm.

Thou you don't learn from your mistake to play animal crossing while nearly dozing off and just continued, but rather than fishing you instead decided to continue to decorate the island.

It went well for the first hour. You made a plan and checked on the internet if there's the suitable furniture for it. The first decorations had been placed on their right spot, paths has been made but just a few minutes after the first hour, the tiredness has claimed you back.

While you were in the office relaxing every bone to a complete flat line, the person in the other office was nearly about to destroy a keyboard. The boss he was fighting was beating kenma every time to 0 HP. Kenma had stopped yesterday's stream in a near rage quit but today he had to beat it to get further in the game. He hasn't got past the boss and was getting more and more frustrated as well as confused. Sometimes he swears the boss just doesn't take damage and gets a massive attack bonus. Chat is convinced the boss wasn't beatable and was begging to kenma to bring out the game breaker, aka you.

Of course, he denied it at first but after an hour of trying and dying he finally gave up. Without a word he placed down his headphones, pushed his microphone back a little bit and walked out of the frame. His viewers were ecstatic and surprised that he'll need help from you.

As kenma was busting open the door to your office, the loud noise of the door made you jolt up from your chair. Your hair went places and the hoodie blanket went all the way up to your chin, telling kenma without a word that you were sleeping in your chair just now.

"I was definitely not sleeping" You stated in your defense with a sleep drunk voice, but Kenma did not believe you and smiled at how cuddly you looked. With a quick glance at the time you asked the streamer "Quit already? You're usually up till late at night"

Kenma placed his hands in the pocket of the black hoodie he's wearing and sighed, remembering why he's here in the first place "I think the game's bugged. I can't defeat the boss. I tried so many times" He slightly looked away, feeling a bit embarrassed about asking you.

At the word 'bugged' you stood up, placed the switch controller on the desk and walked over to him. You slipped your hands into his hoodie and took his hands in your own. "let's see what I can do"

The two of you went to his streaming room, but before you entered, the hood from your blanket hoodie went over your head to hide this atrocious mess of hair on your head. You quickly checked your appearance in the hallway mirror. As soon as the viewers got a glance at you and what you're wearing, they all typed in chat 'You're looking so cozy rn' 'where did you buy it?' 'looks so fluffy' 'I want to cuddle with you'

You waved at the camera to greed the viewers and kenma gestured you to sit down in his chair. You smiled at your boyfriend and placed your feet also on the chair, making you a cozy fluffy blanket ball.

He then quickly explained to you what he was doing and what was happening. Kenma then also pulled over another chair to sit down and watch you. You first tried your best max out attack and defence with his current equipment, but there wasn't even a slightest chance. You voiced out a small "Huh?" Before trying again.

The viewers could see on your face that something was up. You aren't a streamer and wasn't talking while playing the game and kenma knew to not disturb your concentration, but the viewers still seemed to enjoy watching you trying the best you could. It was the first time you were seriously playing a game with the intention to win and they were all very ecstatic as you tried to not get hit. One could tell how everyone was excited at this moment, the chat also was getting slower.

After half an hour, you had placed down the controller. The boss could hit the hero, because they weren't dodging anymore and the player dies in an instant. The question marks around your head were very visible. Something definitely is not right here. As soon as the game went to its pause menu, the viewers knew something serious it about to happen.

You grabbed the laptop from Kenma, booted it up, put in his password without a fail and went to the internet. The website from your work company appeared after a few clicks and at this moment Kenma realised what was happening.

He looked over to his camera and explained laughing "Guys, I apparently found a bug. Stuffs about to get serious now" The chat was then filled with suprised emojis. It didn't took 5 minutes and a donation came in.

Kenma glanced over to the donation site and read out loud "Thank you catlover51 for the..." He stopped a second as he saw the amount that was donated and was clearly surprised "Thank you for the 100$ and you had written down 'For Y/n, a little compensation gor having to work now' again thank you very much. You really didn't neet to donate so much"

As Kenma read the donation out loud you had began to smile behind the laptop sceen. Others then jumped onto the train as well and donated money from a single dollar to a little lager than 50$. Kenma was slightly overwhelmed my the sheer amount of donations that came in and couldn't stop thanking everyone, nearly shutting down the donation site so no one could waste more money on them. It was then you who calmed them down after finishing your research. You looked back to the camera and placed the laptop to the side "You don't need to pay me for this. It's my job and I love doing it. Also I get paid whenever I work, so I'm currently earning my money. But thank you for your concern" you smiled brightly at them before continuing to try out stuff in the game.

After some time nothing came out of the testing and you sighed. You glance over to your boyfriend, looking like a vet having to tell the owner some bad news. "You can't progress at this point, I'm sorry" His eyes widend "That's a joke right?" You just shook your head "Unfortunately not. You have found a very devastating bug, which stops you from killing the boss. As soon as an attack misses, the supposed damage gets stored and well... When the boss does hit you, then all of that stored damage gets released. That explains the bug with the one shot kill. This bug alone is manageable and already a known issue, but combined with the boss not taking any damage" you smiled at him with a sad face. "I'm sorry"

Kenma sighed and ruffled his hair "It's not your fault" he smiled and ruffled your hair as well. "Guess my save is busted then"

You took his hand in yours and looked him in the eyes. He squeezed your hand a little and looked back at you. There's a little spark in your eyes, telling him that there's something you could do "What are you up to?" He asked directly. Your eyes shift away, making you look innocent, scratching your cheek a little "I could force you out of the situation, by glitching you through a wall"

Usually kenma is against using glitches and exploits in his runs, but this is maybe the first occasion he'll consider it. He first looks at you with squinted eyes but then stood up "I'm going to the bathroom. Whatever you'll do, I'll don't know about it"

You're smile got bigger as he finished talking and went outside. He closed the door and after a little happy dance, you pressed onto respawn and forced the player to another part of the map. The viewers were watching your every step and were happy about you breaking a game infront of them.

As you were finished, you quickly saved the game and stood up, ready to leave.

"In my defence" you started talking into the camera a little bowed down to fit into the frame "I did not test this part of the game. Not my fault" You grabbed the open laptop and blew the viewers a goodbye kiss before you exited the streaming room.

On the way back to your own office, Kenma has finished his bathroom break. He grabbed your wrist before you could vanish into your room. He also grabbed the laptop and placed it on a sideboard. One hand of his wandered over to your waist, so he could pull you a little closer to him. "Thank you" he whisperd and gave you a little kiss on your cheek. "I'll make sure to finish today's stream a little earlier. Can't wait to cuddle you with this fluffy hoodie" he then again kissed your other cheek and headed back over to his room to see an alive character on a giant grassy field.

You on the other hand smiled and had to control your inner fangirl to not just scream and jump around. The viewers for sure could hear you if you were to loud.

You quickly grabbed Kenma's laptop and hid in your room, filling out a formula to get the new bug over to the Developers.

[amongemeraldclouds]

haunted escape room with mattheo riddle

Your heart thumped loudly in your chest as the line brought you closer and closer to the entrance of the haunted escape room. You stood on your tiptoes trying to see past the heads at the adventure that awaited you.

When it was finally your turn, the attendant dressed in a grim reaper costume announced the minimum for the attraction was two. When they called for another individual in line, you were fine with settling for a stranger as long as you got to experience the spooky thrills ahead. Except you recognized the boy with the curly hair and smug smile as he approached. It was your rival, Mattheo Riddle.

“Fancy seeing you here, partner,” he said sarcastically. Of course he had known you’d be there, it was all you could talk about the entire week.

“Just don’t slow me down,” you narrowed your eyes and accepted your fate as you walked past the door.

“Bet I could escape faster than you. Do try to keep up,” he taunted because of course, everything had to be a competition with him.

“We’ll see about that,” you smirked. You felt quite confident having played multiple games that included puzzles and required strategy.

When you entered the first room, you inspected everything. Turning items over and opening cabinets to look for clues. You each searched half of the room, collecting items that seemed significant and piecing them together.

You solved the first clue faster than expected and were ready to advance to the next room when the lights turned off. You yelped and instinctively grabbed Mattheo who held a protective arm around you.

He backed you into wall beside you, shielding you with his body. You felt his hot breath against your forehead and it sent delicious jolts of electricity through you. Bodies pressed together, you could feel his heartbeat drumming quickly, matching yours. You reminded yourself to stay focused.

When the lights flickered on again, you both made a run for it, hand in hand. You inspected the next room and just as you opened the cabinet, a headless body fell out. You jumped back and screamed.

Within seconds Mattheo was beside you, alert for any threats. When he saw the headless body, which turned out to be a mannequin, he laughed. Just as he was about to open his mouth to tease you, a hand closed around his leg.

It was his turn to yelp and jump back. A woman in a white gown with long hair crept away from where she hid and scurried off the opposite side of the room. It was your turn to tease him and talk about instant karma.

“Let’s just get out of here,” he huffed. Surprisingly, you both figured out the lock’s combination numbers quickly after solving clues, and moved to the next door. You hated to admit it, but you both worked well together.

As you moved to the next door, the lights switched off once again. Breaths held, looking cautiously around, Mattheo moved you behind him protectively.

You were about to argue how you could protect yourself when up ahead, you heard the zap of electricity. It was accompanied by a blue electric current illuminating a scary face. The effects were so convincing, you had to remind yourself it was just a fake taser and a mask.

Mattheo, however, let his instincts take over. He was always going to choose fight over flight. In the next second, you heard the impact of fists and the taser clattered on the ground. Red lights flooded the room as the warning sound blared through the speakers.

A security guard charged in, hauling away the scare actor from the frenzied boy. When you had a chance, you wrapped your arms around Mattheo to stop him. He melted under your touch and the fight went out of him. He was shocked how nice and comfortable it felt to be held by you.

You got kicked out the horror escape room.

“Well, that’s one way to escape,” you remarked, looking back at the attraction as you walked away.

“I’m creative like that, darling. Told you I could get us out faster,” he winked at you.

“That was not a complime-”

Before you could complete your sentence, he sidled up beside you, lowering his lips to your ear. “The next time you want to hold me like that back there, just tell me directly. No need for excuses, I can keep a secret.”

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