#it's so ugly and messy and raw

[belphegor1982]

(softly, but with feeling: YESYESYESYES)

also I want to keep this reblog addition but also @enchantedmerry's tags:

#it's the fundamental conflict of how to respond to a situation where someone's mental health is so bad they're actively harmful#to themselves and the people around them#how do you discuss accountability and responsibility in circumstances where you can't trust someone to not hurt themselves#and they start lashing out at the people close to them with full knowledge that they are going to cause those people pain#it comes up a lot with vm but it's very concentrated here#scanlan shorthalt#cr1#critical role#cr1 spoilers#cr meta (x)

so, not to be insane about it on main again but a bard’s lament is one of my favorite episodes and i really think it’s gonna happen this season so i’m just gonna get into it again.

so, i like things that are emotional and messy and difficult because they can be incredibly human. and a bard’s lament is one of these things! however, i also think there’s, a lot of times, a sort of inherent misunderstanding about what is actually happening there. and to be fair, i think it’s totally natural to misunderstand on instinct and that’s kind of the point.

it’s easy to get caught up in what scanlan’s saying because sam delivers it all so well, but i think what gets missed a lot is why scanlan is actually saying it.

i think most people’s instinct is to say “oh it was vox machina’s fault for being bad friends, they reacted poorly” and “oh it was scanlan’s fault for only ever lying or joking when they questioned him” but the thing about situations like this is that both things can absolutely be true. no one won in a bard’s lament because no one ever wins in a situation like that.

scanlan was in a situation where he says most of what he says because he’s in an absolutely awful place mentally. everything has been building up and has lead to this exact moment and it was a perfect storm of across the board miscommunication and emotions and confusion. he says things that he knows will hurt the others because he’s angry and embarrassed and deeply depressed and the safe thing for him to do in that moment, in his head, is to push everyone away.

and yeah, vox machina react somewhat poorly to his outburst but at the same time why wouldn’t they! they were terrified they were going to lose their friend and now they also feel extraordinarily shitty and guilty and they’re faced with a reaction that none of them have the tools to handle. depression is an extraordinarily powerful and immensely illogical force sometimes, so yeah! scanlan said stuff about situations that he was interpreting in the WORST possible way and yeah the group didn’t know where to put that. so it’s not really about them not knowing his mother’s name. and it’s not even fully about the pudding or the prank. it’s about how it, to him, reiterates what he feels about himself. that he’s embarrassing and useless and no one really cares about him. BUT THAT’S WHAT MAKES IT SUCH AN INSANE PIECE OF RP!

because logically, of course they care about scanlan even if they aren’t perfect at showing it. there are MULTITUDES of examples of that! but scanlan doesn’t care about scanlan right then. and not much can get through that level of self loathing in that moment.

[luna-azzurra]

Write Rivals With Chemistry So Hot It Hurts

╰ Rivalry isn’t hate — it’s obsession True rivals aren't just like, “ugh, I dislike you.” They’re watching each other. Studying. Matching moves. Thinking about each other when they shouldn’t. Hating how much they notice the other person. Rivalry is two sides of the same coin: hatred’s messy little sibling is fascination.

╰ Let them know exactly where to hit—and hesitate The best rivals know exactly where to stick the knife. Childhood wounds. Secret fears. Insecurities no one else sees. But the most powerful moment isn't when they stab, it's when they hesitate. When they flinch. When the reader sees the care underneath the kill shot.

╰ Make every win personal Every victory between rivals should feel like flirting with a knife’s edge. They don't just beat each other; they get under each other's skin. "I outsmarted you" translates directly to "I'm the only one who really sees you." (And no, they're not ready to talk about why that makes them insane.)

╰ Layer the attraction under everything You don't have to write "he found her hot" every five seconds. (Please don't.) Just lace it into the friction. The way they notice each other’s hands. The way a sarcastic smile feels like a slap and a kiss at the same time. Let it be unspoken, which somehow makes it ten times louder.

╰ Give them one private, honest moment and then destroy them for it That one late-night conversation. That brush of honesty. That accidental partnership in a bar fight. That glimpse of trust that leaves them both raw and feral because now it’s personal. Now it hurts. And guess what? Neither of them is stable enough to handle it like adults.

╰ Let them wound each other in ways no one else can Rivals with chemistry are like: “I know your softest place. I know where you hurt. And maybe I’m the only one who could ever touch it.” Terrifying. Intimate. Sexy. Self-destructive. Delicious.

╰ Don’t make it easy to flip to love If they hook up too soon, it’s cheap. If they confess too soon, it’s fake. They have to fight it. They have to screw it up. They have to almost kiss and almost kill each other in the same breath. The reward is sweeter because it’s hard won.

╰ Make them jealous, but make it messy Not cutesy "oh no I'm jealous" moments. Ugly jealousy. Pride-shredding, shame-inducing jealousy. Watching their rival smile at someone else and feeling like they're drowning in acid and denial. Bonus points if they pretend they’re above it and then spiral anyway.

╰ Tension isn’t just in the fighting, it’s in the silences It’s the stare across the room that says “I hate you and I want you” with zero words. It’s the hand that lingers a second too long after pulling them out of danger. It's the unsent text. It's the "accidental" meeting. Sometimes not speaking burns hotter than the screaming matches.

╰ Remember, they don’t want to ruin each other, they want to matter At the core of a rival/chemistry dynamic is one truth: “I want to matter to you more than anyone else does.” And they’ll deny it. And fight it. And wreck themselves over it. (And we, as the readers, will eat it with a goddamn spoon.)

[aila0veyou2death]

𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𖹭 pairing: mohawk!mark grayson x male!punk!reader (A.K.A rage-fueled delinquent with piercings and unresolved mommy issues x grin-wearing misfit with a punk playlist and a history of bad ideas)

𖹭 TW: cheating, blood, violence, cursing, mommy issues, reader is slightly older than mark, depressing thoughts, strangers-to-friends with benefits trope?, slight angst, anger issues, substance use (alcohol/smoking implied), marking, unspoken feelings, unhealthy coping mechanism, overstimulation, 4nal s3x, handj0b, belly bulging, spit as lube, some gay shit, top!mark, bottom!reader, p0rn with a plot.

𖹭 author's note: there's seriously not enough mohawk!mark content out there, and even less mark grayson x male!reader fics—so i said, screw it, I'll just write one myself. This fic was inspired by @asaarii's mohawk!mark x punk!reader—definitely worth to check out ♡

Warning though: this fic is long, messy, and it's my first time writing a bl, so bear with me! Hope you enjoy :P

Mark's knuckles were still sore from yesterday.

He flexed his hand slowly under the cafeteria table, watching the faded bruises bloom purple under his skin like wilting flowers. The skin around his knuckles was split in places, rough and raw. He hadn't even noticed when it happened—he just kept swinging.

Some creature had ripped through a mall parking lot yesterday. Another ugly, screeching thing from god knows where. Mark showed up because it was what he was supposed to do—what Omni-Man's son was meant to do. Be the hero. Save the day. Do it all with a clean conscience and a smile for the cameras.

But he snapped.

He didn't just stop the monster—he beat it down until it stopped moving. Until it stopped breathing. Until it was just a twitching, pulpy mess under his fists. He remembered the sound more than the sight. The dull thuds, wet and meaty, echoing off concrete. He remembered the cameras catching every second of it. Some hero.

He didn't know if he regretted it. But he knew Debbie saw it.

The footage had aired on the news loop last night. Blood splattered across his uniform. His eyes, shadowed behind broken goggles, burned with fury. His jaw was clenched, teeth bared, looking less like a man and more like something barely human. Debbie hadn't said a word when he got home. She didn't yell. Didn't ask if he was okay.

She just turned off the TV.

This morning, she didn't speak to him at all.

She sat in silence, sipping her coffee with that same blank look on her face, like she couldn't even stand to look at him. Like having Mark in the house was a reminder of a mistake she never wanted to make in the first place. He felt like he was losing it. She just sighed, murmured something about being late for work, and walked past him like he was part of the furniture.

It always started the same: the tightness in his chest, the quietness in the house, the echo of his own footsteps. Mark hated that house. It was too clean. Too empty. Too haunted. His mom barely spoke to him anymore, and when she did, it was with that tired voice like she was talking to Nolan again.

He hated being the only damn thing left that tied him to the man he used to call his father.

And what he hated even more was that, day by day, he was turning into him.

Across from him now, Eve was still talking about yesterday's events, about what he did. Her words came soft and careful, like each one might be the one that finally set him off. She hadn't touched her food either, just picking at the corner of her napkin, glancing up every now and then like she was hoping he'd meet her halfway. But Mark was stone still, his silence was heavy and his eyes were distant. The only sign he was even present was the slow clench of his jaw and the flex of his bruised hand beneath the table.

She took a small breath. "You didn't have to kill it like that…"

Mark didn't look at her.

"You know, she called me..." Eve said after a moment. "Your mom. Last night."

That got his eyes on her.

"She didn't say much," Eve added quickly, like it would soften the blow. "Just that… when she saw you on the screen, all bloody like that—she said she could barely recognize you, Mark. And, um… she said it reminded her of your dad."

Mark's lips pressed into a hard line. "Of course it did."

"Every damn thing about me reminded her of that fucking bastard."

Eve shifted uncomfortably, biting her lip, her eyes scanning him, as if trying to read what was behind the hardness of his expression. She finally sighed, the tension between them were too thick for her to ignore any longer.

"Mark..." She began softly, her voice quieter than usual. "Are you... okay?"

He didn't answer right away, his eyes flickering to hers but quickly darting away again. Eve pressed on, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup, trying to keep her tone neutral, but there was a hint of concern in her voice. "You've been kinda ghosting me lately. I get that you've got stuff going on, but..."

He finally looked up at her and his expression was unreadable. There was something vulnerable in his eyes—just for a split second, but it was there.

"You don't have to worry about me." Mark muttered, his voice quieter now. "I'm fine."

Eve didn't buy it, and he knew she wouldn't. She knew him too well. Her eyes searched his face, her brow furrowed in concern. "Mark, don't shut me out. You can't just—" She stopped herself, the words hanging in the air.

"You don't know what it's like," he said suddenly, his voice strained, like he was holding something back. "To always be... that person. The one people expect to save the day. The one that always has to be strong. Or tough. Or... whatever."

Eve took a deep breath and reached out, placing a hand lightly on his. The warmth of her touch, so simple, was enough to break through some of the distance. "I get it, Mark," she said, her voice was soft but steady. "But that's not why I'm asking. I'm asking because I care about you... and I haven't heard from you in days. So... just let me in, okay? Don't push me away."

For a moment, Mark stayed silent, with his eyes searching for hers. There was a flicker of something behind his hardened exterior, something softer—vulnerable, even. But it quickly vanished as he pulled his hand away.

"I'm fine." he said again, the words sharper this time. "I don't need you looking out for me like I'm some damn kid, Eve. I don't need a babysitter—I need a girlfriend who actually gets that."

Eve let out a slow breath, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her voice steady. The frustration bubbling inside her was getting harder to ignore, clawing its way up her throat like something alive. "I'm not trying to babysit you, Mark. I just… want to be there for you. Is that so bad?" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, a mix of hurt and exasperation slipping through.

KRING-KRING-KRING—

The shrill ring of the bell cut through the tension like a blade.

Mark immediately stood, the legs of his chair screeching against the cafeteria floor. He scooped up a handful of whatever was left on his tray and shoved it into his mouth like he hadn't just spent the entire lunch period brooding in silence.

Eve barely had time to say anything before he was already slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Mark—" she started, standing halfway from her seat.

"I'll see you around." he muttered through his teeth, not even sparing her a glance as he walked off, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

She watched him go, still holding the edge of her tray with her fingertips, like she was hoping he might turn around. But of course, he didn't.

He never did.

He went through the day with furrowed brows and a bored expression, dragging his feet from class to class like the world had personally offended him. Professors talked, assignments piled up, and conversations buzzed around him, but it all passed through him like static.

People gave him space—some out of respect, most out of discomfort. He didn't care. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be asked if he was okay.

Not when his head was a mess and his patience was long gone.

By sixth period, Mark's mood was radioactive.

Every hallway felt too loud, too bright. The screech of lockers, the smell of cheap cafeteria food lingering in his hoodie, the way people walked around him like he was a puddle of something they didn't want to step in—it all fed the gnawing thing inside him.

His head was a static storm, and he didn't really heard anything anyone said all day.

So when William slid into the seat beside him, Mark didn't even glance his way. He just stared straight ahead, with his jaw locked and shadows under his eyes.

"Hey..." William started, his voice careful.

Mark's fingers twitched against the desk.

"You okay, man? You've been... different lately."

Silence.

"I mean—different in a bad way."

Mark's lips twitched into a humorless smirk, but he still didn’t look at him.

"You're not answering any of my texts. You skipped out on our group project yesterday. Eve's worried too. She said you've been ignoring her for days. And then the whole..." William trailed off, like he was debating whether to go there. And he did.

"Monster thing. I saw the news. The fight.”

Now Mark turned to look at him, slow and sharp.

"That creature you fought. You didn't just beat it—you ripped it apart. It looked like a horror movie, man."

"It was a monster." Mark said flatly.

"I know," William replied quickly. "I know it was. But still—you usually hold back. You used to at least try to keep it clean. This time, you just..."

"I finished the fight."

"You slaughtered it, Mark." William's voice dropped lower. "In front of everyone."

There was something in William's eyes that made Mark’s stomach twist. Not fear. Not disgust.

Worse.

Pity.

Why?

Mark's fists clenched under the table. The bruises on his knuckles burned.

"It was going to kill a kid..." he muttered.

William sighed and said, "I'm just saying you didn't look like yourself up there. You looked... angry. Almost like a madman."

"I was angry."

William hesitated. "Does this have something to do with your parents?"

Mark's eyes narrowed.

"She called me the other day..." William continued, oblivious or maybe just determined. "Your mom. You're acting out again. Said she didn't know what to do with you anymore."

"You talked to my mom?" Mark's voice was barely a whisper, tight with disbelief. "What is it with you people talking to my mom!?"

"Look, she's upset, man." his friend said, holding up his hands. "She even embarrassed herself, ranting to her kid's friend about everything. She said you've been acting more and more like your dad and—hell, I don't know—it's freaking her out. I didn't know what to say."

"How about you just stay out of other people's business."

"Hey! I'm just worried, okay? I'm your best friend, Mark. I know things are hard right now—with your dad and everything... I-I just... I miss the guy who wasn't trying to pick a fight with the world every time someone looked at him wrong."

Mark's chair scraped back violently.

He stood up, looming over William, with his eyes dark and his mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Mind your own damn business, Will. You don't get to talk about her or what's going on with my fucking family. And don't talk like you know a damn thing about what I'm feeling."

William stood up too, but not to fight—just to try to hold his ground. "I'm just trying to help."

Mark's vision blurred red.

"You wanna help?" he said through gritted teeth. "Then shut the hell up!"

One punch—straight to the jaw. A sickening crack echoed off the walls. William crashed backward into a desk, landing hard and clutching his face with a pained yell.

For a second, the room was still. It was silent.

Then came the chaos.

A few classmates gasped and shouted. One girl screamed. Another guy jumped up and shoved Mark back, yelling, "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

Mark's temper snapped like a whip.

He swung again, this time at the guy who'd shoved him. Fists collided, desks crashed, and chaos exploded around them like a fuse had been lit. Someone tried to pull him back, but Mark jerked away, teeth gritted and eyes blazing.

Bodies scrambled. Chairs screeched across the floor. A girl screamed. The room was warped into noise and panic.

A teacher finally burst in, breathless and red-faced, shouting his name like it was something vile.

"Mark Grayson!"

It was enough to snap everything to a halt.

Mark didn't fight it when they dragged him out of the classroom, leaving a mess of overturned desks, dropped notebooks, and stunned faces in his wake. William was still sitting on the floor, hand pressed to his jaw, staring at him like he didn't know who he was anymore.

Mark didn't apologize. Neither did he explain himself.

He kept his head high and his mouth sealed shut, walking out with his bruised, bloodied knuckles burning like a badge of everything he didn't want to say out loud.

The teacher behind him spat out words about disciplinary action, and how they were going to call his mother.

As if that meant anything to him.

As if she still gave a damn.

They threw out the word “detention” like it was a threat.

Fine.

He could rot in detention.

Better than rotting in a place full of people who thought they knew him. Who thought they had the right to poke at wounds they couldn't even begin to understand.

Let them talk. Let them whisper. Let them stare.

He hates them all equally.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they were trying to get on Mark's nerves. He sat slumped at the back of the near-empty classroom, his cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk. His eyes were half-lidded, locked on the painfully slow second hand of the wall clock as it ticked, ticked, ticked—like it was mocking him.

The room smelled like pencil shavings and old coffee. A single ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to move the stale air. The teacher assigned to babysit them hadn't even looked up from her book since he walked in. Mark figured she probably didn’t want to be here any more than he did.

His knuckles were still split from earlier, wrapped in a shitty paper towel he found in the nurse's office. The sting was dull now, just a reminder. A quiet throb that matched the one in his chest.

William didn't say anything when they dragged him out and just stared.

And his mom—yeah, she was probably ignoring the school's voicemail by now.

Whatever.

Mark didn't regret it.

He just wanted the day to end.

But then—

The door creaked open.

Mark lifted his head off the desk, just enough to glance at you when the door opened.

You stepped in like you owned the place—shoulders loose, boots scuffing against the tile, a lazy grin tugging at your lips like you were in on some joke the rest of the world missed.

Everything about you screamed defiance. From the bold blue and white lettering on your black Hellfire shirt to the layered chaos of your outfit, it looked like you belonged on a fashion runway and in a back-alley brawl all at once.

A red plaid wrap skirt hung over distressed cargo jeans, cinched tight at the waist with overlapping black leather belts that added a sharp edge. Chains clinked softly with every step, swinging from your belt and wrapped around your bag—the shape of it almost like a purse, covered in enough enamel pins to count as armor. A black guitar case rested against your back like a weapon, and a guitar pick swung from your neck, catching the light as you moved.

Mark slowly blinked. You looked like a warning label for every bad idea he was trying not to have lately.

The teacher didn't even lift her head from her desk. "Rules are the same..." she murmured, with her voice flat. "No phones, no talking, no food and try not to breathe too loud. You know how it is..."

You gave her a mocking salute.

Then—only then—you turned your head, catching Mark's eyes. Your grin softened just a little into something more like a smirk. You gave him a casual nod as you walked over to the desk beside him. It was cool and effortless. Like the two of you already knew each other in some parallel universe where the world made sense.

Mark stared at you. He didn't nod back. Just dropped his gaze and set his cheek against his palm like he hadn't just felt something shift in the air.

You slid into the seat next to him, like you were settling into your throne, and dropped your guitar case gently beside you. Then, without a word, you pulled out a sketchbook from your bag and a pencil from your pocket. You flipped to a blank page and started drawing—quiet, focused, like none of this mattered. Like the room wasn't full of tension and apathy and the kind of silence that cracked if you breathed too hard.

After a long stretch of silence, just the ticking clock and the occasional scratch of pencil on paper, Mark felt a light poke against his shoulder.

He barely moved, just flicked his eyes sideways in a slow, tired glance. You were staring at him with a casual expression, pencil still in hand.

"You got any sharpener there, buddy?" you asked, with your voice low but playful.

Mark sighed through his nose. "No, I don't..." he muttered, eyes flicking forward again, already annoyed.

But you didn't back off. "Hm, nah, I don’t think so," you mused, tapping your chin with the pencil. "You sure you don't have any?"

"I already told you I don't." he snapped, barely above a whisper, jaw tight. "Leave me alone."

"Too bad," you said with a shrug, tone breezy. "Looks like I won't be able to give you any hair."

Mark's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "What?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you turned your sketchbook around and held it out to him with both hands. A grin tugged at the corners of your mouth as you pointed at the half-finished drawing on the page.

It was him—the drawing was detailed, sharp, and it was unmistakably Mark. His scowl was perfectly captured, that permanent scorn etched between his brows like it belonged there. The angle of his jaw, which is tight and clenched. Even the slight hunch in his shoulders, like he was always bracing for something, was drawn with care. You'd even shaded the dark circles under his eyes with a soft smudge, capturing the weight he carried in silence.

The drawing was half-body—his arms were folded over his desk, head tilted slightly to the side, just like what he had been doing minutes ago. His hoodie was outlined with quick but deliberate strokes, the texture of it was sketched in with surprising detail.

But the top of his head?

It was completely smooth.

Bald as a boiled egg.

You had shaded it with the same level of dedication, even adding a little shine line on the crown of his skull for dramatic effect. Like you hadn't just forgotten to draw his hair—you had committed to erasing it from existence.

Mark stared at the drawing for a long second. Then at you.

You raised your brows and smirked.

"What the hell, man." Mark deadpanned, with a glare as his eyes flicked between your face and the drawing.

A chuckle slipped past your lips, low and amused as you leaned back a little, twirling your pencil between your fingers. "Don't worry, you'll get your hair back." you said, grinning. "I just couldn't see it right from the angle you were sitting at, so I figured getting your attention was the best way to get a good look at it."

Mark narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying the excuse—or maybe just not used to anyone talking to him like that without flinching.

"But now that I can see it…" You tilted your head, eyes scanning him slowly like you were taking mental notes. "That innocent haircut of yours? Doesn't suit you at all."

You didn't wait for a response, already turning back to your sketchbook. The pencil began to move again, fast and light, making faint scratching sounds as you added new lines. "A mohawk would do you more justice. Maybe throw in a couple of piercings. Eyebrow, nose, lip—hell, all three. Anything to give you a little edge."

Mark blinked, clearly taken aback. "Have you been observing me?"

"Obviously. How do you think I managed to draw you like that?"

His lips pressed into a line, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Annoyance, sure. But also curiosity. No one had ever drawn him before—let alone imagined him bald, pierced, and wearing a mohawk.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, with your lips tugging into that same lazy smirk. "What are you in for, pretty boy?"

He looked away for a second, like he was debating whether he should answer or just let the silence stretch. His jaw clenched faintly, the muscle twitching under his bruised skin.

Then, finally, he muttered, "Got into a fight."

Your smirk widened, pencil still moving on the page. "Yeah, no shit. Let me guess…" You tapped the eraser against your chin theatrically. "You broke someone's nose just 'cause they were breathing too damn loud near you?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Jaw actually... He just wouldn't shut up."

"Ah," you murmured, eyes still on your sketchbook, pencil scratching softly. "Was he a friend of yours?"

Mark didn't answer right away. His expression tightened, the way it always did when something touched too close to raw. He stared ahead, jaw locked, hands curled into loose fists on the desk.

You didn't press, just let the silence breathe.

"He must've hit a nerve." you added lightly, still doodling.

His eyes flicked toward you for a split second, cautious. You weren't grinning like an asshole now—just watching him with that unreadable calm, like you were piecing him apart without asking permission.

"Used to be..." he finally muttered.

Mark looked away again, biting the inside of his cheek. "He kept asking what was wrong with me. Said he was worried. Like he didn't already know."

His voice was tight, edged with something bitter. "Acted like I needed help. Like he knew better. Just because we used to hang out, he thought that gave him some kind of right."

You hummed low under your breath, pencil still moving across the page. "So, you hit him."

"I warned him." Mark muttered coldly, "Told him to drop it."

You leaned back a little, smirk tugging lazily at your lips. "Yeah… that kinda makes sense."

Mark's eyes narrowed at you, like he couldn't figure out if you were agreeing with him or setting him up for a joke. Your tone was too smooth, too casual—like you were letting him fall into something and not warning him about the drop.

Then you spoke again, while still not looking at him. Your voice was calm and detached. Like you were just stating facts.

"It's the classic, you know? People act like they care, when they're really just digging around in your mess. They don't give a damn about your feelings or any shit...They just want to feel like they did something about it."

Mark stared at you, with his brows drawn low.

"And when you don't let them?" You shrugged. "Suddenly you're the asshole."

The way you said it—it wasn't pity. It wasn't even empathy. It was like you were just giving shape to the thoughts that had been bouncing in his head for weeks. Stuff he couldn't even name before. And now there it was, out in the open, like you'd peeled it off his ribs and held it up to the light.

It unsettled him.

He blinked, slowly, still watching you. He didn't know whether to feel called out or understood. Whether to be grateful or pissed off. Your voice hasn't changed, still easy and almost too chill for someone who just cracked his walls open like it was nothing.

Then you looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "Either way, you did what you had to do."

A beat passed.

"I mean, maybe you're not the bad guy. It’s not your fault that loser wasn't listening."

It landed harder than it should have. And Mark wasn't sure why.

"Why are you here, again?" Mark asked, brow furrowing like the question had been burning on his tongue for a while.

You chuckled, low and amused. "Gonna be honest with you, man… I'm not here for detention. Or any real reason, honestly." You leaned forward a bit, resting your elbows on the desk. "I just like coming here sometimes. Sketch people who look like they're going through it. Crisis faces are the most honest, y'know? Raw. If they're interesting enough, I kinda turn them into something else. Give 'em a new look. A better one."

Your gaze flickered down to your sketchbook. You picked it up, flipping it toward him with a small, lopsided smirk. "Look. It's you. Or, well—what I think you should look like right now."

Mark blinked, then tilted his head slightly to get a better look.

It was him—again. Same harsh lines, same intensity in the eyes. But this version had traded his shaggy, too-long hair for shaved sides and a fierce mohawk. You added piercings now too, bold and unapologetic—one pair through his eyebrow, two on either side of his nose, and another pair just beneath his lower lip. Like a version of him from some grungy, punk parallel universe type of shit.

You tapped the page lightly. "See? It works. Matches the storm in your head a lot better than that innocent 'boy-next-door' cut."

"You're weird as fuck," Mark muttered, glancing between the sketch and you, like he couldn’t decide which one was more bizarre.

"Thank you." you replied smoothly, bowing in your seat with an exaggerated flourish. One hand splayed dramatically across your chest like you were accepting an award. "I do try."

Mark snorted, shaking his head, but you caught the corner of his lip twitching—just barely.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Ever since that day, Mark started noticing you more around campus.

You're a chaos in eyeliner and plaid, a walking contradiction—half performance art, half delinquent gospel. Sometimes he'd see you surrounded by others who looked just as reckless and alive, lighting up the dead corners of school with laughter and graffiti. Other times, it was just you—hunched over your electric guitar in some shadowed stairwell or forgotten hallway, the strings humming something raw and distant, like an old song no one remembered how to sing.

And it was weird, how often your eyes would find him. Across the cafeteria, the courtyard, in-between classes. Always with that signature smirk like you already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn't even heard yet. And you'd nod at him—greet him with the kind of ease that felt like you weren't trying to be nice. You just saw him. Like you actually saw him.

And that messed with him.

Because most days, Mark felt invisible.

He walked through school like a shadow with a pulse. Noticed only when someone needed something—answers, help, a target. He didn't reach out anymore. Friends became people he used to talk to. People avoided him now, or they looked at him like something was off. And maybe they weren't so wrong.

After all, the more he saved the day, the worse he felt. Each time he flew off to stop some disaster, each time he pulled himself out of rubble or wiped blood off his hands—something inside him shifted. Got heavier. Angrier.

His mom barely looked at him anymore. Ever since his dad vanished—no, fled—after revealing himself as a monster who killed thousands, she'd been a ghost. Sitting in silence. Staring at nothing. It was like the light inside her died with her marriage. She checked out everything—motherhood included. And Mark had to carry it. Alone.

He couldn't even talk to her about it. He couldn't talk to anyone without angry.

And then there was you.

You, with your sketchbook and devil-may-care grin. You, showing him drawings of himself with mohawks and piercings, like you were trying to see the version of him that still haven't existed yet. You didn't ask him how he was. You didn't tell him what he should feel. You just said the things he was too scared to say out loud. About people pretending to care. About the weight of being misunderstood. About the anger.

It freaked him out—how much you got it.

Because Mark was angry. At the world. At the way it kept breaking, no matter how many times he tried to fix it. At his mom, for disappearing without ever leaving. At his dad, for showing him what strength really looked like and then shattering every part of that illusion. At himself—for still wanting something back. Some recognition. Some thanks. Something.

But all he ever got was more pain.

So yeah. He started thinking maybe you were right. Maybe he should have a mohawk. Maybe he should look the way he feels—like he's been through war and no one clapped when he made it back. Maybe the world didn't deserve the version of him that kept trying to do the right thing.

And every time your sketchbook came out—every time you greeted him with that smug, lazy grin like you saw right through the cracks—he couldn't help but wonder...

Were you mocking him?

Or were you the only one who actually got it?

It was their third detention together that month—when you kinda asked him out.

You were perched on top of a rusted metal desk by the window, one leg swinging lazily, munching on a fried chicken sandwich you'd somehow sneaked in without anyone knowing. The afternoon sun made everything feel hotter than it needed to be, dust swirling through cracked window panes. Mark sat slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed, hood up, eyes glazed in that tired, dead-inside kind of way. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—and maybe he hadn't.

You were in detention for real this time, after one of the faculty finally pieced together who'd been behind the graffiti in the east stairwell and the mysteriously exploding vending machine. Mark was in for, reportedly, beating the shit out of some assholes at lunch. Again.

"You know..." you started, words muffled around your bite of sandwich, "Me and the gang are playing tonight. Not at the club—the city kicked us outta there for good. So we're taking it somewhere more… public."

He glanced at you, brows low. "Public?"

You licked your fingers, brushing crumbs onto your already-ruined jeans. "Yeah. Rooftop by the train station. Abandoned building. Broken elevators, busted windows, rats everywhere. Total dump. But the view? Killer."

Mark looked back at the floor.

You grinned. "Cops don't care about that place anymore. Probably forgot it even exists. And rooftops just feel kinda apocalyptic these days, don't they? Like the perfect place to scream into the void."

His jaw ticked. Lately, it felt like everything annoyed him—people, noise, silence. Himself most of all.

You leaned back on your arms and said, casually, "Bring your little girlfriend if you want."

Mark stiffened, but didn't look up.

"…We're not exactly on good terms."

You raised a brow, feigning a gasp. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Fuck off." he muttered, barely audible, and scoffed bitterly under his breath.

You clicked your tongue. "That sucks. But hey, maybe some loud music and social unrest will fix your dying love life."

He finally turned, shooting you a flat look. "Shut up. You're so annoying."

"And you're so grumpy." You smiled like it was a secret joke only you got. "We balance."

You hopped down from the desk, rummaging through your backpack until you pulled out a worn, creased flyer, edges curled and ink smudged. You handed it over. "Here. It's not official—obviously. Government types don't like it when kids hand out papers anymore. Might catch rebellion or something."

He took it and unfolded it slowly. The hand-drawn logo of The Demonheads screamed off the page: a snarling skull, cracked halo glowing above its head, wings made of rusted barbed wire. Below it was written it's time and place, in a messy scrawl—"NO COPS. NO HEROES. JUST NOISE."

Mark blinked. "The Demonheads?"

"Yup." you said, leaning close enough to see the crease in his brow. "The one and only."

"Ever heard of us?"

He shook his head.

You pressed a hand to your chest with a mock offense. "Ouch. I'm wounded."

He snorted, and for the first time all day, it wasn't sarcastic. Not really.

"The city hates us," you said. "Says we're bad influence. Loud. Unstable. Dangerous. They call us anarchists like it's an insult." You shrugged. "Maybe we are. Maybe we're just angry. But someone's gotta be."

You watched him trace the ink on the paper, his thumb brushing over the crooked halo.

"This whole place—" you added, quieter, "—the world, I mean. It's a joke. Rich assholes sit comfy while the rest of us rot. Government's just another gang in suits. Heroes pick and choose who's worth saving. And people pretend everything's fine 'cause they're scared of what happens if they admit it's not."

Mark didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Because you saw it. That flicker. The shift. Like your words hit something in him that had been vibrating under the surface for a long time.

"Sounds like a riot," he muttered.

You grinned wide, sharp. "Only if we're lucky."

He kept the flyer.

Didn't say he'd go. Didn't say he wouldn't. But something in his expression changed—just a little. A crack in the mask. Curiosity, maybe. Or that quiet desperation to belong somewhere that didn't feel like a goddamn prison.

You just smiled and looked away.

You never asked if he was coming.

You already knew he would.

It was after detention when you met her.

Eve.

She was waiting for Mark outside the school gates, arms crossed tight over her chest, back straight like she was holding up some invisible weight. Her strawberry orange hair caught the dying afternoon light, golden and soft in contrast to the scowl she wore. You spotted her right away—she had that "angry girlfriend about to beat her boyfriend's ass" energy written all over her. And judging by the way her eyes immediately flicked to you, she'd been watching the building for a while.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, the chains on your ripped jeans jingling with every step as you and Mark walked out together. You still had smudges of sharpie ink on your fingers from the flyer you gave him earlier, your boots heavy against the concrete.

Mark slowed the second he saw her.

"…Great." he mumbled under his breath.

You raised an eyebrow. "That her?"

He nodded, already tense.

"Cute," you said with a smirk. "She looks like she could make the toughest guy piss himself just by looking at him."

Eve's gaze sharpened the closer you got. Her eyes trailed over your black spiked vest, the band patches stitched to your sleeves, the silver piercings on your face, the faded eyeliner smudged around your eyes. She didn't bother hiding the way she sized you up. Judging. Reading. Assuming.

You were used to it.

Mark stopped a few feet from her, but you kept walking—slow, unrushed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward.

"Hey," Eve said, but it wasn't to you. It was for Mark. Cold and flat. Her eyes didn't leave you. “Who's this?”

"I'm his detention buddy." You replied, grinning like the devil.

Mark sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"He's a senior." he muttered. "Name's [Y/N]. He's… cool."

"Cool?" She echoed, unimpressed.

You could feel it—her judgment thick in the air like perfume. Like she thought she had you all figured out just from the scuffed boots and chipped nail polish.

You leaned forward slightly, flashing a crooked smirk. "Don't worry, I haven't sacrificed him to Satan or anything. Yet."

Eve didn't laugh.

She just looked at Mark, eyes narrowing like she'd stepped in something foul. "Mark, I thought we were supposed to have dinner at your place tonight. I told you I was gonna grab groceries and everything, and instead, you're busy sitting through detention with...him?" Her eyes slid to you, unimpressed. "Are you serious right now?"

Mark frowned. "I'm sorry, okay? I forgot." he muttered, clearly not in the mood for a fight. "It's just detention."

Eve crossed her arms tightly over her chest, jaw tense. "Is he the reason you're like this?" she asked, casting a sharp glance at you like you were some kind of bad omen. "Skipping things. Picking fights. Getting into detention for throwing punches? What the hell is going on with you, Mark?"

You didn't say anything.

You just stood there, hands tucked into your pockets, quietly chewing the inside of your cheek as your eyes flicked between the two. You could feel the heat of her judgment crawling up your neck like smoke—like she’d already made her mind up about you the second she laid eyes on your boots and torn-up jacket.

Mark exhaled hard, looking away. "It's not like that."

"It looks like that."

Eve's voice wasn't loud, but the weight of it hit harder than if she'd screamed. Her gaze lingered on Mark for a long moment—hurt and disappointed—before she shook her head and stepped back.

"You've changed," she said flatly. "And not in a good way."

Then she turned around and walked off, disappearing into the late afternoon traffic of students still lingering on campus.

For a second, there was silence.

You shifted your weight and finally spoke, voice quieter than usual. "You should go after her."

Mark didn't move.

You gave him a look, more thoughtful than mocking this time. Then you turned, adjusting your guitar case over your shoulder, already halfway down the steps.

"See you around, pretty boy." you added without looking back.

The dinner at Mark's house was quiet—tense in that way where even the clinking of silverware felt too loud. Debbie sat at the head of the table, posture straight, polite smile etched onto her face like a mask she'd forgotten how to take off. The roast in front of them was overcooked, and the potatoes were dry. Not that anyone seemed to notice.

Eve tried. She really did. She made light comments here and there, complimented the food, and asked Debbie about her work. Debbie answered everything with short, courteous replies. She was there, physically, but something about her always felt far away. Like she was operating behind glass, reaching for a life she no longer recognized.

Mark didn't say much. He stabbed his food. Ate in silence. Eve's gaze kept drifting toward him, subtle but insistent—the way she looked at him that said say something, try, she's your mother, but he never returned her looks. Just kept his head down and his jaw tight.

Debbie poured herself a glass of wine halfway through. No one commented.

The air thickened with each passing minute, like the house itself was suffocating under the weight of everything left unsaid. Eve's smile started to falter. Her back straightened. Frustration flared in her eyes.

"So, uh..." Eve started again, clinging to conversation like a life raft, "Mark said he might check out Upstate University soon. They're expanding their programs—might be a good fit."

Mark didn't even glance up when he said, "I'm not going."

Eve blinked, caught off guard. "But… you were thinking about it. You said—"

"I changed my mind." His voice was flat and final.

Debbie didn't look up from her plate, but her grip on her fork visibly stiffened. The sound of her swallowing her wine was the only reply.

Eve frowned, lips pressed tight. She leaned back in her chair, her voice a touch sharper. "You could at least try, you know. Talk to her."

Mark's eyes flicked up at her, the kind of look that could freeze a bone.

"Why?" he said coldly. "So she can pretend everything's okay?"

Debbie still didn't say anything. But her breathing shifted. Just slightly.

Mark pushed his plate away. The screech of ceramic on wood made Eve flinch. "I'm done."

He stood, not waiting for permission or even an acknowledgment.

"Mark—" Eve tried, but he was already gone, disappearing down the hall with heavy steps that sounded like every bottled emotion crashing out of him at once.

Debbie sat still for a moment. Then quietly picked up his untouched plate and began to scrape the food into the trash.

She didn't cry. She just cleaned. Like always.

Eve didn't say another word. She only watched her, and for the first time, maybe started to understand why Mark was slipping further and further away.

Mark locked himself in his room, not bothering to say goodbye when Eve left. The slam of the front door barely made him blink. He laid on his bed, hoodie still on, boots half-kicked off, staring blankly at the ceiling before letting his phone fill the silence.

The screen glowed against his face in the dim room, flickering through news articles, memes, garbage content—and then, a post. A grainy black-and-white clip of a post-punk band mid-performance. It was loud and raw. Screaming into the mic like the world wronged them. The crowd moved like a single beast, thrashing and alive.

It reminded him of you.

That casual chaos in the way you existed. The worn-out jeans, the eyeliner smudged from who-knows-what, the bite in your sarcasm that made him want to respond even when he didn’t feel like talking.

"We balance." You said, with that crooked grin on your face in detention, like the two of you are friends.

Mark stared at the video a bit longer, then typed the band name "The Demonheads" into the search bar.

Then, there it was.

Clips. Posts. Grainy concert footage. Shaky camera angles. Protest posters. A video of a rooftop set, you at the front, guitar slung low, shirt ripped at the shoulder, eyes wild. You screamed into the mic like it owed you money, like the city needed to hear you or it'd die trying not to.

There's another clip—someone caught you between songs, sweaty and laughing, flicking off the camera with a middle finger and a wink.

Mark didn't smile, but something in his chest shifted. Tightened.

He kept scrolling. Watching.

It wasn't just music. It was something else. Something angry and loud and weirdly honest. Like every part of you was up there bleeding out into speakers and cracked pavement.

He watched until his phone screen dimmed from inactivity, only then realizing how long he'd been scrolling. With a quiet sigh, he locked it and let it drop onto the bed beside him. Then, from his hoodie pocket, he pulled out the flyer you'd given him—creased, half-crumpled, but still intact.

He stared at it for a long moment, sitting up with his elbows on his knees, fingers brushing over the sharpie-scrawled ink like he was trying to feel whatever it was burning under your skin when you handed it to him.

Mark's eyes narrowed, then looked up across the room. On his desk, the glow of the digital clock blinked: 8:10 PM.

The concert wouldn't start until nine.

He stood slowly, like something was pulling him up from the weight that had been pressing him down all night. He walked out of his room and into the dimly lit hallway, made his way to the bathroom, and flicked the switch. The mirror greeted him with his own reflection—with his messy, overgrown hair, and his hoodie that had stretched and worn from too many restless nights, and eyes that carried more exhaustion than they should.

He opened the drawer under the sink and reached for the electric clippers. They were still there. Nolan's, probably. The same kind his dad used to trim up his clean, perfect image. That alone made him want to throw it against the wall.

Instead, he turned it on. The sharp, vibrating buzz filled the bathroom, and Mark stared down at it.

Then, slowly, he raised his head to the mirror.

He remembered the drawing you showed him weeks ago—chuckling, half-teasing, as you claimed, "A mohawk would do you more justice." It had been you who sketched him with a jagged mohawk and a jacket scrawled with band patches and flame motifs. He'd rolled his eyes then, said you were weird. But now… he saw it. Felt it. The version of himself in that sketch felt closer to who he wanted to be than the stranger in the mirror now.

He lifted the clippers to the side of his head.

Hair began to fall. Tufts slid down his neck, scattered over the white sink like shedding something that didn't belong to him anymore. The buzz filled the silence, grounding him in each reckless stroke. He wasn't a pro—his hands shook slightly, and it wasn't perfect. The lines were messy, the angle a little too sharp on one side—but he kept going. He didn't stop until both sides were shaved down and the middle was left tall, raw, and real.

He turned off the clippers. Silence then returned.

His reflection didn't look like that innocent Mark anymore. The boy who used to just nod along, keep his head down, try to be what everyone expected him to be. What stared back at him now was someone new—sharper, rougher around the edges, but somehow more honest.

Still buzzing with something raw, he stepped into the shower, letting the water rinse away the fallen hair and whatever else he didn't need anymore. The steam curled around him, clouding the mirror, hiding what he used to be. He stayed under the stream longer than necessary, fingers running through the damp ridge of his new mohawk. It still felt unreal. Bold. Stupid. But right.

When he stepped back into his room, towel around his neck and waist, water still dripping from his collarbones, he crossed to the closet. For once, he didn't reach for the usual hoodie or school-washed jeans. He dug deeper. Past the clothes Debbie bought. Past the ones Nolan once folded for him like it meant something.

He pulled out an old black denim vest that has rips on its shoulders—the one he barely remembered owning. Then a dark long-sleeve to wear under it. He tugged on some beat-up jeans with a few chain loops and grabbed his boots from under the bed, knocking off its dust as he shoved his feet into them.

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't supposed to be.

He glanced at the time: 8:48 PM.

He still had enough time to show up.

To see you.

That thought alone made his chest tighten—some strange mix of nerves and something warmer, something stupid and bold.

So he shoved the flyer back into his pocket, cracked the window open, and slipped out into the night.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

When he arrived at the rooftop, he touched down without a sound, unnoticed by the swarm of bodies and buzzing energy from afar. The music hadn't started yet, but the place was already alive. Neon lights flickered across the open space, casting strange colors onto swaying silhouettes. He stayed in the shadows, taking it all in. You were right—the view was killer. The skyline burned in the distance, and the wind tugged softly at his mohawk, carrying the chill of the night across his skin.

Then, it began.

A girl with wild green hair, dressed in a electric blue and black outfit that flashed under the lights, stepped onto the stage with a mic and a manic grin. She shouted something that was lost to the rising cheers, and just like that, the rooftop exploded into sound.

Lights flared, speakers boomed, and a red handheld flare shot up from the crowd, bathing the chaos in blood-colored smoke. People screamed, jumped, and danced, their shadows stuttering with each flash of the strobes.

But Mark didn't hear any of that. Not really.

Because the second your voice echoed through the rooftop—raw, loud, and commanding—the lights stuttered and then snapped to you. And there you were.

You stood at front in the center like you owned the world, shirtless, the pale light catching the sharp lines of your body. You wore only leather—black and heavy, strapped with rows of silver-studded belts that ran from your wrists, across your pants, down to your boots. Each step you took looked like it was weighed down by chaos itself, and yet, you moved like it was nothing.

You looked like a piece of art, underneath those lights.

And something twisted in Mark's chest.

His breath caught, just for a second. He didn't understand why. It wasn't like he hadn't seen you before—but it had never been like this. There was something about seeing you up there, in your element, drenched in sound and fury, screaming into the mic like you were born to tear the world apart with your voice.

He blinked. And swallowed.

He stood there frozen, with his heart pounding in a way he couldn't quite name.

Was this admiration?

Was it awe?

Was it—?

No. Whatever it was, he didn't have a word for it.

So he stayed hidden, staring. And listening.

He watched as you strummed your electric guitar—each note sharp, cutting through the heavy night air. With every motion of your hand, the lights seemed to respond, pulsing and dancing along, casting glimmers over the metal buckles and silver spikes of your belted pants. You glowed in movement, alive and uncontained.

You sang with that mischievous grin of yours, reckless and free, tossing your voice into the sky like it didn't owe anyone anything. You laughed between lines, bumping shoulders with your bandmates, playing like the world was yours and you knew it. The crowd roared and sang with you, hypnotized, addicted.

But then—something shifted.

In the middle of the chaos, as the next verse rolled in and the bass dropped, your eyes scanned the crowd… and paused.

Mark felt it again. That exact moment.

The exact second your gaze locked with his.

It was brief. Just a flicker.

But it hit him like a fist to the chest.

Time didn't stop—it just warped. The music kept going, the lights kept flashing, but Mark couldn't hear any of it anymore. Not when your eyes found him in the crowd, even from behind the smoke and bodies and noise. Not when you tilted your head the slightest bit, lips curling like you knew something he didn't.

And for some reason… his heart clenched. Hard. Like it was trying to fight its way out of his ribs.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Just watched you.

And wondered what the hell that feeling was.

He watched you throughout the whole show—mesmerized, almost dazed.

Whether you were stepping forward to sing a solo or slipping back to let the other vocalists take the spotlight, your presence never dimmed. You carried the stage even when silent, even when your fingers were the only ones speaking, dragging thunder out of your guitar like it was a living thing. You didn't just play—you breathed life into every chord, every beat. You made the music move.

And god, it was fire.

He had never seen you like this.

Sure, you always looked like trouble—sharp around the edges, untouchable, wild—but now? You looked like chaos. Beautiful, roaring chaos. Unapologetic and magnetic.

Your band's songs burned through the speakers—shouting rebellion, bleeding freedom, aching with love and loss and rage and euphoria. They weren't just songs. They were war cries. Anthems. Screams from the inside. And you were at the center of it all, feeding the storm like it was your religion.

Mark stood still on the rooftop, hidden in shadow, yet feeling more exposed than ever. Something in his chest was clawing its way up, confused and fast and hot. He didn't even realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the railing until his knuckles ached.

He should look away. He should snap out of it.

But instead, he kept watching you like a man who just realized he'd been starving.

It was midnight—closer to 1 AM—when the noise finally began to die down. The music faded, the lights dimmed, and the crowd slowly unraveled into the night, laughing and buzzing with adrenaline. People were saying their goodbyes, shouting thanks for the killer performance. You and your band took turns giving small speeches of gratitude, rough and sincere, before the rooftop slowly began to clear out.

The energy was still buzzing in the air as you helped gather cables and carry down amps, sweat clinging to your skin, your voice a little hoarse from the night.

That's when you saw him.

Mark.

He stepped forward from the shadows, quiet but not exactly trying to hide. The second your eyes landed on him, you froze mid-movement, then a grin curled at the corners of your lips.

"Holy shit..." you breathed, wiping your hands on your pants and stepping toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You actually came!"

You gave a soft laugh, walking closer. "I thought I was just high when I saw you in the crowd, man." You looked him over with a playful smirk, gaze flicking up to his mohawk. "God, you definitely look the part tonight."

He didn't say anything right away—his throat tightened up, words jammed behind it like a traffic pile-up. Up close, with the flickering rooftop lights hitting your skin, you looked even more unreal. The metal on your pants glinted like stars, and the lingering heat from your performance clung to you like a halo.

He swallowed and finally muttered, "You were… insane out there."

Your smile didn't falter. "That's kind of the goal." You said, before your tone shifted into something softer, "I'm really glad you came, Mark."

You didn't let the moment linger too long.

Instead, you grabbed Mark by the wrist, tugging him gently as you said, "C'mon, I gotta introduce you to the gang."

One by one, you brought him around to meet your bandmates—each with a unique look, a different edge, but all warm and welcoming in their own rough way. They exchanged greetings, a few handshakes, nods of respect, and some smirking gratitude for him showing up. One of them even clapped him on the back and said, "Didn't think you were real, man. We were starting to think they made you up."

You laughed, throwing an arm over Mark's shoulder like you'd known him forever. "Well, I told you he's real. Real enough to help us pack up, right?"

Mark blinked. "Wait—"

Too late. You were already tossing him a bundle of cables and pointing to a nearby case. "Come on, rockstar. Earn your afterparty."

He didn't argue. Not really. What else did he have to do? Go home? Sit in that cold, quiet house with nothing but his own thoughts gnawing at him?

Nah.

He helped carry down amps, coiled wires, and stacked boxes with the rest of you, his movements eventually syncing up with the rhythm of your crew. The whole thing was messy and loud and filled with exhausted laughter and the occasional burst of music from someone who just couldn't stop playing.

And when you slung your jacket over your shoulder and looked at him with that wild glint in your eyes, asking, "You down to go celebrate somewhere? For the show, and for, y'know... not getting arrested, tonight." Mark didn’t even hesitate.

"…Yeah." he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Yeah, I'm down."

And just like that, the night wasn't over.

The underground club was like another world—dim neon lights glowing against graffiti-splattered walls, bass-heavy music pulsing like a second heartbeat. It smelled like sweat, beer, smoke, and something else—something electric. Your band blended right in, sliding into cracked leather booths, ordering drinks with familiar smirks, lighting up like they owned the place.

Mark kept close to you at first, still a little stiff, wide-eyed at the chaos—but you handed him a drink, your fingers brushing his, and just like that, the edge dulled.

The alcohol hit him fast. Maybe it was his first real time drinking. Maybe it was the music. Or the fact that you looked like some kind of devil in human skin tonight—jacket unzip, sweaty from the show, with a cigarette hanging loose between your lips as you leaned back with a half-lazy grin, shadows and red light dancing across your face.

God, you looked good.

Mark didn't say anything at first—just sat beside you, his drink nearly slipping from his hand as his limbs got heavier and his laugh got louder. The band was wild, one of them screaming out a chaotic love song into the karaoke mic, their voice cracking beautifully over the synths. Everyone was high. High on smoke, high on adrenaline, high on surviving another night.

You elbowed Mark gently. "Hey, pretty boy..." you grinned, "you alright?"

He looked at you, really looked at you. You had your boots kicked up on the edge of the table, smoke curling from your lips, and the glint in your eye made something twist deep in his gut. He blinked slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over from drink and something else. His mouth opened like he had something to say—but nothing came out.

You just laughed, low and soft, and nudged your drink toward him.

"Don't pass out yet, you're just getting started."

And Mark… smiled.

A real one. Loose. Crooked. Almost smug.

Something was shifting. Something dangerous, something exciting.

He leaned back, head tilting as he studied you through the blur and haze of the club's lights and sound. His lips parted again, just slightly, and even though his thoughts were swimming, one thing stood out—loud and clear through the fuzz:

You were beautiful. And maybe the kind of trouble he was starting to want.

The night blurred in colors and noise, everything spinning in rhythm with the music—your bandmates were laughing at something stupid, throwing arms around each other, play-fighting, dancing like the world might end tomorrow. Mark couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard. Maybe never. The weight that had pressed on him for weeks, months—it lifted. Just for a while, he was nobody's son, nobody's weapon, nobody's disappointment.

He was just… Mark.

And you? You were everywhere. Teasing him with that smirk, knocking back drinks like they were water, shouting out lyrics into the mic beside him with fire in your throat. He didn't know when it started—this pull toward you—but it felt like gravity now.

You leaned into him, chest nearly brushing his as your laugh turned into a shout when the chorus hit, your voices tangled together in that dumb love song. His heart was pounding, alcohol surging through him, his skin was buzzing.

He took another drink—something bitter and burning—and then he looked up.

And there you were.

Suddenly straddling his lap, body close, breath warm, eyes half-lidded but sharp. His hands landed on your waist instinctively, like it was natural, like this had always been building up to this moment.

Then your lips were on his.

And everything else faded.

The music. The crowd. Even the ache he'd been carrying deep inside—it all disappeared as you kissed him like you meant it. Not sloppy or drunk. Intentional. Confident. And Mark? He didn't even hesitate. He kissed you back like his life depended on it, fingers tightening on your waist, mouth parting under yours, breath catching somewhere between surprise and need.

He didn't know what this meant.

But he didn't care. Not tonight.

Tonight, he was yours.

You pulled away with that same cocky smirk curving your lips, your pierced tongue flicking out, a thin strand of spit still connecting you both for a heartbeat before it broke. Your eyes glittered under the club's dim, pulsing lights, and Mark felt like he was falling into something he wasn't sure he wanted to escape from.

From somewhere in the chaos, one of your bandmates let out a loud, slurred cheer.

"Yooo! Let's gooo!"

Another one threw a crumpled napkin in your direction.

"Tongue action! We saw that, man!"

Laughter erupted all around.

Mark let out a breathy, flushed laugh, still a little dazed, still high on the kiss.

"That's gay, bro." he said through his chuckle, voice rough from drinking and from whatever the hell this feeling was.

You just grinned wider, sitting comfortably on his lap like you belonged there.

"Yeah? And? you said, tilting your head, cocky and so damn cool with a cigarette lazily held between your fingers. "You complaining?"

Mark met your eyes, lips still curled into something between a smile and disbelief. He looked away for a second, heat rising to his ears.

"...No" he mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. "Didn't say that."

You let out a low laugh, taking a slow, casual puff from your cigarette, the tip glowing red before you exhaled a stream of smoke right past Mark's flushed face. Then you leaned in again, stealing another heated kiss from his lips—tasting of alcohol, ash, and chaos. The music blared on, people kept dancing and yelling in a haze of neon lights and smoke, but Mark… he was just there. With you sitting on his lap, drunk, kissed breathless, and falling.

It was electric. It was dangerous. It was fun.

But like all things that burned too hot—it had to end.

Eventually, people started trickling out. A few were dragged off by lovers or friends. Others staggered into the night, still singing off-key lyrics or laughing like idiots. Someone shouted their love for everyone. Someone puked behind the bar. The night was winding down, but Mark looked like he didn't want it to.

He leaned against you, heavy and out of it, eyes barely staying open.

"…I don't wanna go home." he muttered.

You didn't even need to ask. You just nodded once and slipped your arm around his waist, hoisting him up and getting both of you back through the city night like it was nothing.

Your place was dark, barely lit by the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds. You dropped him on your couch with a grunt—he landed with a soft, drunken laugh, sprawling out like he belonged there.

You peeled off your layers lazily, kicking off your boots and stripping down until you were just in your black boxers, the cold beer hissing as you popped it open. You sat on the edge of the couch beside him, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, head leaned back as you exhaled into the silence.

Mark turned his head slightly to look at you—dazed, maybe half-awake, with his pupils blown wide.

"You did great out there, buddy." you said, voice low and a little hoarse from all the shouting, singing, and smoke. There was a lazy smile tugging at your lips as you took another swig of your beer, glancing over at him from where you sat, the glow from your cigarette tip briefly lighting your face in the dim room.

Mark shifted on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him as he blinked slowly, looking up at you like he couldn't decide if this was real or a really vivid dream. His mohawk was a little messy now, his cheeks flushed, eyes still glazed.

You raised your brows. "Need anything? Water? Beer?"

He blinked again, then mumbled, "You."

The moment stretched.

Your cigarette paused mid-air.

Then you let out a small chuckle, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek, amused and maybe just a little caught off guard. "Damn," you muttered, taking another drink. "Were my kisses really that good?"

Mark groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "Don't—don't make fun of me."

"I'm not." You leaned back, smoke curling out from between your lips. "It's kinda cute."

He groaned again, face buried in a throw pillow now.

You grinned, biting back a laugh. "Beer it is, then."

You disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and returned with another cold can of beer in your hand. Mark was where you left him—half-slouched, flushed, eyes tracking your every move like a predator trying not to pounce too soon.

You plopped down next to him, handed the can over with that lazy smirk of yours. "Here. Might sober you up a little."

But instead of taking it, his fingers curled around your wrist. Firm and steady.

You blinked, confused for a split second—then he yanked you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widened briefly, your heart skipped, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back with equal heat, until the taste of beer and smoke and something raw took over your mouth.

Then you gasped.

Because the next thing you knew, he pushed you down against the couch, the beer can slipping from your grasp and thudding to the floor with a dull clink!

Mark was on top of you, hovering and pressing you down, with his hands gripping your wrists and holding you there like he was afraid you'd vanish. The weight of him. The heat. The surprising strength in the way he pinned you down—it made your breath hitch.

His kiss grew hungrier. Deeper. His mohawk brushed against your face when he tilted his head. One of his knees pushed between your thighs. His body told you everything his mouth hadn't yet.

And for once… you weren't the one in control.

"You're stronger than you look." you breathed between kisses.

He smirked, lips brushing against your jaw. "You're hotter than you act."

Mark's lips then attack your neck, kissing, nipping, sucking—each one more desperate than the last. You felt his breath against your skin, warm and uneven, and then the sharp pull of his mouth leaving marks where no one else had dared before.

Your fingers gripped the couch cushions, pulse racing. The pressure of his body on yours, the tension in his movements—it was all hitting you at once.

Each nip and suck sends electric jolts straight to your core, your body arching into his touch instinctively. One hand released your wrist to grip the waistband of your boxers, yanking them downwards with a rough tug. The cool air hit your newly exposed flesh, your hardened cock springing free and slapping against your stomach.

"Fuck, you're so hot." Mark murmured and pulls away just enough to tug his own pants and briefs down, freeing his impressive cock. It's larger than you expected, thick and hard, probably around 7.5 to 8 inches long. The head is flushed deep, angry red, leaking pre-cum that he uses to slick the way as he begins to stroke your cocks together, the hot, velvety flesh sliding against your own in a way that makes your toes curl.

He leans in to growl in your ear, his breath hot against your skin as his hand continues to wrap around both of you, stroking and grinding the heat between you two.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and ragged. "Look at us… you're just as hard for me as I am for you."

A shaky breath leaves him, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Shit—you're driving me crazy."

Mark's stroking grew faster, more insistent, his grip tightening around both your throbbing cocks as he chased his own release. The obscene sound of skin moving against skin filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths and desperate moans. His eyes burned with desire, remained locked onto where our cocks were slick and sticky with pre-cum, watching the show with a hungry, almost feral intensity.

Suddenly, your body tensed, back arching off the couch as a shockwave of pleasure ripped through you. You let out a soft gasp as both of your cocks pulsed and throbbed, painting both of our stomachs with streaks of sticky white cum.

Both of you were breathing hard, chests rising and falling as the haze of release clung to your skin. Your body was slack against the couch, a satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you looked down at the mess painting your stomach. You giggled—soft, breathless, a little fucked-out.

Your fingers trailed through the sticky white on your skin, lazy and dazed, until Mark's hand caught yours. He smirked, leaning over your disheveled form, and without a word, he brought your fingers to his mouth—his tongue warm and slick as he slowly licked them clean.

You stared at him with wide eyes, lips parting—until you let out another small, stunned laugh.

"That's so gay, bro."

Mark laughed low, the sound rolling deep from his chest as he leaned in closer, his hand already trailing down your thigh.

"I think it's hot as fuck," he muttered, voice husky and eyes dark.

Before you could respond, he pushed your legs apart with a firm grip, eyes locked on you like you were something he was starving for.

You watch with your heart pounding, as Mark brings his hand to his mouth. He makes a show of spitting into his palm, working the saliva between his fingers until they glisten obscenely in the low light. Your own mouth goes dry at the sight, anticipation coiling tight in your gut.

Without preamble, Mark reaches down and circles your entrance with a slick finger, teasing the sensitive flesh until it's dripping with his spit. Then, slowly, he pushes inside, his finger sinking into your tight heat and making your back arch off the couch.

"Oh fuck..." you gasp, the stretch unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Mark's finger pumps in and out, curling and scissoring to open you up, to prepare you for what's to come.

"Relax for me, baby… Gonna ruin you just right." Mark murmured, voice thick and dark with desire. He works a second finger in alongside the first, then a third, stretching you wider, pushing you open until you're panting and writhing beneath him.

Mark captured your lips again, the kiss rough and messy, tongues tangling like neither of you could get enough. When he finally pulled away, a strand of spit still connected you both. His fingers slipped from your hole, leaving you empty and aching for more, and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, holding you wide open beneath him.

"Tell me what you want." he said, voice low and raspy, his dark eyes roaming hungrily over your flushed body. "I wanna hear you say it."

You bit your lip, your breath shaky as your eyes met his — half-lidded, burning with lust, a cocky smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.

"Shut up and fuck me, Mark." you whispered, your voice hoarse with need. "I'm done waiting."

He smiled and grips your hips tighter, fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass, as he lines himself up. The swollen head of his cock prods against your slick hole.

Then, with a single, powerful thrust, Mark buries himself inside you, his thick length splitting you open and stretching you wider than you've ever been before. You cry out, back arching off the couch as you're suddenly, brutally filled. Mark doesn't give you any time to adjust, setting a hard, fast pace as he starts to fuck into you with deep, claiming thrusts.

"Shit—you're tight!" Mark grunts, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive forward. "Gonna ruin this fucking ass. Gonna make it mine."

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails digging into the firm skin and muscle as you try to anchor yourself against the relentless force of his thrusts. The room is filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your desperate, wanton moans as Mark takes you with a fervor that steals your breath.

"Fuck, yes! Just like that," you cry out, your voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "Harder, Mark! Fuck me harder!"

Mark snarls in response, gripping your hips even tighter as he complies with your demand. His thrusts become more forceful, more demanding, the tip of his cock kissing your prostate dead-on with every plunge forward. The pleasure is intense, bordering on pain, and you can feel your own cock throbbing and leaking against your belly, aching for his touch.

The brutal pace of Mark's thrusts rocks your entire body, each powerful drive forward making the couch creak and shake beneath you. Your stomach bulges slightly with every impact, his heavy cock pushing into your core and stirring up the contents of your belly. It's a lewd, filthy sight and you can't look away, intoxicated by the raw, animalistic way he's claiming you.

"Oh fuck, oh god!"

You threw your head back in ecstasy as Mark pounds into you. The pleasure is overwhelming, drowning out any semblance of coherent thought. Your hands scrabble at his back, trying to find purchase, to ground yourself against the tidal wave of sensation crashing over you.

You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls as he splits you open. It's too much, too intense, and you know you won't last much longer.

"Aah! Gonna... fuck, I can't... I'm gonna... Aah!" you stammered, your voice high and thin with impending release. Your cock throbs urgently against your belly, the head was angry red and leaking steadily.

Mark feels it too, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Fuck, me too!" he snarls, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of bruising. "Gonna fucking flood this ass. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be fucking dripping for days."

His words push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your cock pulses and jerks, painting your chest and belly with streaks of pearly white. Your ass clenches down around Mark's cock, gripping him like a velvet vice as you ride out the intense pleasure.

Mark lets out a guttural roar, slamming into you one last time as his own release takes him, flooding your insides with his hot, thick cum. You can feel each, heavy spurt of his semen painting your inner walls, marking you, claiming you as his. It's an intense, overwhelming sensation that makes your spent cock twitch weakly against your belly.

"Fuuuuck!" Mark groans, his hips giving a few more shallow thrusts as he works himself through the aftershocks of his release. "So fucking good, baby... Took my cock so well."

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions of the couch. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his ragged breaths mingling with your own as you both struggle to catch your breath. Mark's mohawk is damp with sweat, a few strands plastered to his forehead as he pants softly against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both bask in the afterglow. Your body feels deliciously sore, aching in the best possible way, a testament to the thorough fucking you just received. Mark's softening cock is still nestled inside you, plugging you up, making you feel full and claimed.

"Mmmm... that was... intense." you murmured, nuzzling into the crook of Mark's neck. You can taste the salt on his skin, smell the musky scent of sex that clings to him.

Mark chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Gotta be the best sex I ever had." He said, tilting his head to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It's different from the hungry, dominating kisses before - this one is softer, almost tender. "You're fucking incredible..." he murmurs against your mouth.

He rolls his hips slightly, making you both groan at the sensation. "And we're not even close to done." he smirked darkly, a wicked glint in his eye. "I'm still horny, [Y/N]... Still so fucking hard for you. I need more—need to fuck you again."

You shiver at the implication, already feeling your spent cock twitch with renewed interest. You know you should be exhausted, but the thought of more, of endless rounds of this intense, filthy pleasure, makes your heart race with anticipation

"Can't wait…" you say, voice low and breathless, lips quirking into a smirk. "Y'know? I think I need someone to break the bed with me tonight."

You pause, just for a second, softer now. "Stay with me?"

Mark didn't answer right away. Instead, he leans in, his eyes dark with heat, mouth curling into a slow, knowing smirk. Then he crashes his lips against yours again—hungry, claiming, and promising.

And just like that, the night starts all over again.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Everything changed after that night.

You and Mark weren't just two guys orbiting the same messed-up world anymore. Something shifted. Something hot and reckless, magnetic and impossible to ignore.

Mark couldn't stay away from you after that. You'd catch him watching you across the hallway, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, full of unspoken need. He started skipping classes more, just to be near you. Smoking with you behind the school. Slipping into detention even when he didn't have to, just to sit in the same room as you, leg pressed against yours under the desk like it was some secret he wanted someone to discover.

He even showed up at your band's practice, sprawled on the old couch in your little hideout like he belonged there. Head tilted back, mouthing along to the lyrics while his eyes stayed glued to your fingers that were moving across your guitar. Sometimes after those sessions, you'd barely make it to your place before he was on you—pushing you down onto some mattress, kissing you like he was starving, tearing off clothes with shaking, desperate hands.

Sometimes, he didn't wait at all.

The boys' bathroom, after the third period—he'd lock the door and shove you up against the cold tiles, hands already down your pants. Or behind the gym, underneath the afternoon sun, with your back against the bricks, with his breath hot against your skin while he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

It wasn't just sex.

It was desperation.

It was an escape.

It was an addiction neither of you wanted to shake.

And Eve?

You never talked about her. You didn't have to.

She was still there—still his girlfriend, still part of the picture—but when you were around, she barely existed. Mark would ignore her texts while he was with you, glance past her in the halls like she was a stranger.

She didn't exist in those stolen moments when you were on your knees for him, lips wrapped around his cock while he groaned your name and tugged your hair like he'd lose his mind if he let go. She didn't exist when he whispered filth into your ear while you were bent over the school's bathroom sink, struggling to stay quiet. She didn't exist in the heat between your bodies when he panted against your neck, saying how tight, and how perfect you were.

And the scariest part?

You loved it.

Mark had changed. And people noticed.

He was sharper now. Wilder. That brooding, broken shell he once carried cracked wide open, revealing someone louder, cockier, violent—someone who didn't take shit from anyone. If someone even looked at you too long, Mark was already in their faces, eyes sharp and voice dripping venom—ready to throw punches. Like he was ready to burn everything down for you.

And then there were the piercings.

The ones you'd draw in your sketchbook couple of months ago.

And fuck—he looked even hotter than you imagined.

He wore it for you.

He was yours.

And in his own twisted, violent way…

you were his too.

With you, he wasn't numb. He was alive. You brought something out in him no one else could. He smiled more. Laughed harder. Got more reckless, more dangerous, but honest. He stopped hiding. He'd kiss you in the stairwell like he didn't care about hiding anymore. He'd shove a guy for looking at you wrong in the cafeteria. He'd lock eyes with you in a crowd like it didn't matter who was watching—because you were the only thing that mattered.

Mark never said much, not out loud. He didn't talk about how he felt or what any of this meant. He didn't put names to things, didn't label you, didn't explain the way his eyes always found you in a room like you were gravity and he was just trying not to fall apart.

But the way he looked at you?

It said everything.

It was in the heat behind his stare, the way his jaw would clench when someone stood too close to you, the way his hand always found yours when no one was watching. You could feel it in the way he kissed you—rough, deep, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there. Like he didn't know how to be gentle with something he wanted this much.

You had him. Fully, completely, undeniably.

And he had you, just as wrecked.

He was still angry. Still dragging chains from the past he never talked about. Still haunted by things you could only guess at when you caught glimpses of that hollow look in his eyes after sex, like he'd been somewhere else for a second and had to claw his way back.

But with you, something changed.

He let his guard down, if only in stolen moments. You saw the softness beneath the sharp edges—the boy who wanted to be touched, wanted to be seen, but didn’t know how to ask for it.

With you, he wasn't just surviving.

He was living.

And yeah, maybe the whole thing was messy. Maybe it was twisted and wrong and so far past the line of what should've been. But you didn't care.

Because in the end, no matter how fucked up it all was…

you wouldn't trade him for anything.

Not the calm, clean version of love people wrote songs about.

Not the easy kind of boy who smiled politely and stayed in the lines.

You wanted him.

Just like this.

Wild. Possessive. A little broken.

And entirely yours.

"I'm gonna kill you, Mark." you wheezed, body aching as you lay tangled in your sheets—sweaty, sore, absolutely wrecked. "I told you me and the gang were rioting tonight."

You turned your head, glaring at him with zero energy behind it. "Now I can't even stand without my knees shaking, dumbass."

Mark was laid out next to you, with a cocky grin on his lips, eyes still heavy-lidded from the high of it all. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, bruises blooming along his neck, piercings glinting in the low light. He looked like sin personified—sweaty, smug, and so damn pleased with himself.

He let out a short laugh, deep and careless, before blowing smoke toward the ceiling like he didn't just rearrange your guts.

"That's on you for moaning like that." he said, voice rough and dripping arrogance. "You think I was gonna stop when you kept saying my name like a damn prayer?"

“You're an asshole." you muttered, dragging a pillow over your face.

He just grinned wider, sitting up slightly to watch you suffer with a predator's calm. "You love it."

You peeked out from the pillow, watching as he tilted his head back and ran a hand through his mohawk, those wild curls still clinging to his forehead. His body was littered with old scars and fresh scratches—your scratches. He looked like a goddamn menace, and he knew it.

"Gotta admit." he said, eyes drifting over your naked, sore body like he hadn't already wrecked you twice, "You limping into that riot later? Kinda hot."

Mark chuckled, leaning in to press a lazy kiss to your jaw, then tracing the angry red mark he’d left on your neck with far too much pride. "You know…" he drawled, lips brushing against your skin, "If you're going out... maybe I should tag along."

You turned to squint at him. "For what? To start more chaos?"

His grin sharpened. "No, babe. I was thinking I could fuck you behind a dumpster while Molotovs fly in the background."

You blinked. "You're kidding."

He didn't even hesitate. "I'm not. That'd be so hot. Firelight on your face, sirens in the distance, you begging for me to go harder while the city burns a little."

"God, you're deranged."

"And yet," he smirked, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, "you're still gonna let me come."

You snorted, tossing a pillow at his chest. "You're freaky as hell, man."

He caught it with ease, tossing it aside before climbing over you again, voice low and rough by your ear. "Say the word, and I'll make sure you really can't walk straight into that riot."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: listening to Hamilton while writing this is insane :0

[s0lidar1ty]

Rafe x Preacher's Daughter!Reader

read part 2 here!

he’s got you folded—face down, ass up, trembling at the edge of his bed with one knee almost slipping off the mattress. your cheek’s pressed into a damp patch on the sheets, spit-slick and hot from your own mouth, and your whole body jerks when he thrusts in again, slow and deliberate.

“you doin’ alright, pretty girl?” rafe murmurs, sweet as syrup and just as thick, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “or do i need to stop?”

you try to shake your head, but it’s a twitchy mess of “uh-uh” and a whimper as you push back on him, desperate, breath hitching when his teeth sink into your skin. he laughs, low and mean, and smooths a hand down your spine.

“didn’t think so.”

and then he slams back in, dragging a choked scream from your throat.

you don’t curse. not in public, not in private, not even in your head when you stub your toe. you were raised right—voice sweet, spine straight, hands folded politely over your skirt at all times. the kind of girl who says “yes sir” and “yes ma’am” and closes her eyes when she prays.

yet there’s nothing in your vocabulary for what rafe’s doing to you now. nothing in your head but white noise and friction and the thick, aching stretch of his cock inside you.

he’s being mean with it, too. mean and slow. like he’s making a point.

every time you start to get your breath under control, every time your body starts to adjust, he slams back in harder, deeper—pushing past your limit on purpose just to see if you’ll break.

but you don’t. you’re still biting it back, fists twisted in the sheets, panting hard into the mattress while your pussy throbs around him. still trying to be good. still trying to be quiet.

and then he hits a spot that makes your vision shatter.

your spine arches. your thighs lock. and something ugly and raw gets ripped from your mouth before you can stop it—

“fuck!”

he freezes behind you.

then chuckles mockingly like it’s exactly what he wanted.

“there she is.”

and then he starts up again, rougher now, balls slapping against your soaked clit with each unforgiving thrust.

you cry out, pressing your face into the sheets to let out a sob as your vocabulary falls apart, all your mannerisms unspooling into sweat and friction and sin.

“shit—oh my god, rafe, right there, please—” you gasp like the words taste foreign, knuckles turning white from your grip on the sheets.

he groans like they’re the best thing he’s ever heard.

“you hear yourself?” he pants, you can practically hear the grin on his face. “sweet little thing like you—cussin’ like a fuckin’ whore.”

you shouldn’t like it.

you shouldn’t like it—but your pussy clamps down so tight he groans, grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise and dragging you back onto his cock like your body belongs to him.

“say it again.”

you don’t. you can’t. not on purpose. but your cunt answers for you, fluttering around him in a desperate plea for more, and the sound that rips from your throat next is high and helpless and filthy.

“jesus!—i can’t…i’m gonna come—”

he slaps your ass so hard your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“didn’t hear you.”

you shake your head, mouth going slack as he fucks into your g-spot until your entire body is trembling.

“fffuck—” you gasp, “ohmygod!”

that hand on your stomach drags down between your legs, finds your clit and rubs in tight, messy circles that make your hips buck. you’re already so sensitive, already dripping down his cock and your thighs and the sheets beneath you, and now—

now it’s too much.

you sob into the pillow, body locking up as another orgasm punches through you, raw and messy and loud. your eyes roll back into your head and you can feel the drool starting to leak from your mouth. he fucks you through it, muttering filth into your hair, praising you like you’re something holy and ruined all at once.

“shit—oh fuck—rafe, please, please, don’t stop, i want it, i want all of it—fuck me full—”

and he does. of course he does.

he fucks you through it, deep and hard and fast, until you’re babbling and twitching under him, until your voice is hoarse and your thighs are shaking, until he groans your name like a curse and empties himself inside you with a full-body shudder.

he stays there for a moment—cock buried, chest rising and falling, hands still splayed across your hips like he owns you.

and then he leans down, kisses the back of your neck, and whispers against your skin like it’s a secret between you and god:

“knew that sweet mouth could be filthy.”

[horny-marbles]

PLS DO MORE TOBY LIL FICS PLS PLS PLS I LOVED THE OBSESSED READER SHIZZ AND THE ENITRE PLOT wondering if you’ll write more of those bc I deadass loved that fic and everysingle writings you publish

babe... ask and you shall receive 🙏🏻 but thank you so much ahhhh!!! currently working on some requests but i have an extensive list of shit for toby that's clawing at my hands everytime i open my notes app lol THEY'RE COMING

ꋪꏂ꒯ ꒒ꋬꉔꏂ (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

CW: stalking, home invasion, themes of obsession, creep behavior lol, feral drooling toby that curses like a sailor, degradation but in an adoring way, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), squirting, some mild biting and choking, a liiiittle anal play, creampie

summary: you're a regular ass chick that never looks twice over her shoulder because who the hell would stalk you? well...

word count 7k

It started on a night so cold the air cut. Winter didn’t feel like a season—it felt like punishment. Every breath stung lungs raw, wind bit through the alleyways like teeth and the snow—sharp-edged and crusted with ice—cracked under heavy boots. No one with a working brain was outside. No one except you.

You, and Toby.

You stormed down the sidewalk like it owed you money, diner work uniform half-tucked under a coat three sizes bigger, carrying a greasy bag of cold leftovers. The street was dead silent, a graveyard of snowplowed sludge and flickering streetlamps. You didn’t care. You never seemed to care.

“Fuckin’ hell—shit,” you grumbled as your foot skidded on a patch of black ice. “If I eat it and die out here, I hope someone loots my corpse.”

Your voice punched into the stillness like a brick through glass.

That was the moment.

Toby hadn’t been following you. He didn’t do that shit—didn’t have the patience, didn’t care enough about people to watch them. Stalking missions were the worst. All that sneaking around just to gut someone later anyway. Waste of time. He was just... out. He liked the cold. Couldn't feel it, but liked how it made the world shut up. No traffic, no people, just silence and sharp air.

But your voice cut through the air like you were the only thing alive. Sharp, pissed-off, no filter. Not afraid. Not aware.

From the dark between two alley dumpsters, his head tilted.

You looked like nobody. Plain. Tired. Lips cracked from the cold, hair stuffed under a beanie, boots scuffed to hell. The kind of girl people forgot after ten seconds. You smelled like fryer grease and cheap soap. You didn’t check over your shoulder once.

You didn’t give a fuck.

That was what made him follow.

You were pissed at the ground. That was your crime. The moment he saw your middle finger fly up at a mailbox when your elbow clipped it, something ugly flared up in his chest. You weren’t trying to be seen—but he couldn’t stop looking. There was something fucking wrong with the way you grabbed his attention like that. Like instinct. Like hunger.

He trailed you all the way back. A little closer than he should’ve, just to test if you’d notice.

You didn’t.

Inside, you moved like a creature in its habitat—half-unconscious, messy, private. You dropped your keys on the counter, kicked your shoes off, threw your snow damp coat across a chair without shutting the blinds. Your apartment lights made you glow from where he crouched across the street, barely breathing, pupils blown.

He thought about leaving. Just a glance. Just curiosity.

Then you started undressing.

Not slow. Not sexy. Just peeled your shirt off like it was suffocating you, tugged your bra straps down without a second thought, tits bouncing a little as you yanked the whole thing over your head. No hesitation. No audience.

Except him.

Toby’s breath caught hard in his throat.

You stood there, topless, scratching absently at your ribs, red, irritated bra dents across your back and shoulder blades. One hand shoved into your waistband to dig out the edge of your underwear. You kicked your pants off in a pile near the couch on your way to the kitchen, panties riding up the curve of your ass as you bent to adjust your sock. You didn’t even think about it.

Of course you didn’t. You didn’t think anyone watched you. Why would they? You were average. You felt average. Regular job, regular body, regular goddamn life. Who the fuck would waste their time stalking you?

You were wrong.

You were perfect.

Toby’s cock throbbed in his pants. Hard in an instant. Ugly hard. He hadn’t even realized he was touching himself until his hand stilled over the bulge in his jeans, breath fogging the air. Your body wasn’t a fantasy, wasn’t porn-polished—it was real. Unposed. Flawed. Soft in all the right places, limbs heavy with exhaustion, belly relaxed. You moved without self-consciousness, because you believed no one gave a shit.

And that was the first night he knew: you were his. You just didn’t know it yet.

The days that followed bled into weeks. Then months.

And you didn’t notice.

Why would you?

Your life had a shape—small, predictable, unremarkable. The kind that didn’t attract attention. You worked nights at a diner that smelled like stale grease and cheap cologne, mostly because the night shift came with extra tips and less people. You didn’t like people. Or maybe people didn’t like you. Either way, it worked out.

He watched it all.

From rooftops, alley shadows, behind dumpsters—he tracked your patterns like instinct, until he could map your movements by memory. You never deviated. Your world was contained within a few blocks: the diner, a 24/7 bodega you hit for shitty wine and paper towels, a laundromat where your socks disappeared two at a time, and your apartment—a one-bedroom shoebox you barely maintained, where the curtains stayed open just enough to tempt a demon.

You thought you were boring. You acted accordingly.

You stripped in front of open windows, sat in threadbare panties with one leg hanging off the edge of the bed, doomscrolling Reddit and Tumblr while scratching absently under your tits. Sometimes you’d read smut—illegible from where he sat, to his frustration—eyes glazed, one hand creeping down under your waistband, the other holding your phone like a vice. Sometimes you'd finish with a half-hearted gasp and slump sideways, scrolling again like nothing happened.

He watched the way your face changed when you touched yourself—disbelieving, desperate, as if you were grateful just to feel something.

Toby learned quickly how lonely you really were. You didn’t talk to anyone. Not really. The phone never rang unless it was a coworker begging you to cover a shift. You’d slam it down and bitch out loud like the walls were listening. No family visits. No best friends stopping by. No boyfriend. No one.

Just you. You in your weird little world, raw and cracked open and unaware that someone was eating you alive from the outside in.

And it made Toby fucking dizzy. You were starving. Not just for touch—for company. For care. For proof that someone saw you, that someone was just as hungry. And he was already full of teeth.

He started creeping closer. He couldn’t help it. It was a compulsion, like chewing, like scratching, like panting.

First time he broke in, it was almost boring.

The window slid open like an invitation. Not even locked. Not even latched. He stood there staring at the frame, muttering under his breath in disbelief. “What the f-fuck, bitch. Y-You don’t luh-lock your windows...?”

He was inside your room with both feet planted before his heart even finished beating once. You weren’t home. You wouldn’t be for hours. And still, he stood in your space like it was stolen.

It reeked of you.

Faint perfume. Sour sweat. Clean sheets with your warmth pressed into the fabric. Towel on the floor. Pajamas discarded over the bedpost. There was something obscene about how much life you left scattered around.

Toby’s knees hit the mattress fast. Face down. Deep breath. He buried himself in the covers like a dog in heat, nose first, groaning—groaning—at the flood of scent: shampoo and detergent and wet cunt and skin and something hopeless.

He pressed his palm into his dick through his jeans and rocked forward once, hasty.

Then again. Then with both hands—groping and grunting and rutting into his palms—getting off to the made up image of what you'd look like on top of him while he slammed up into you. Spread open, eyes rolled, tits bouncing in circles, fucked out and drooling.

He came messy, fast, gritting his teeth against your sheets, making no effort to stop the noise. It was gross. It was ugly. It felt like worship.

Next night, he came back.

Your drawer was half-open. Sloppy. Like you were in a rush that evening. His fingers dipped inside, careful. He shuffled through cotton and the occasional lace until he found the pair you always seemed to wear right after laundry day. Favorite ones, clearly. Faded black with a cute embroidered skull on the mound. Worn thin at the seams. He stuffed them in his jacket pocket and took one more long breath at the foot of your bed before slipping out again.

You noticed, eventually.

You reached into your drawer a couple nights later, half-asleep, hunting that comfort pair. They weren’t there. You checked the laundry, the hamper, the floor. Nothing.

“The fuck,” you mumbled. “Fucking laundromat probably ate ‘em too. Big and greedy, man."

Brushed it off. Moved on.

But Toby wasn’t finished.

Two nights later, you opened your drawer again—and froze.

Sitting neatly on top was a new pair. Not your style. Not your brand. A blood-red lace thong, crotchless, strappy, slutty, like it belonged in a porn photoshoot.

And resting on top, a torn scrap of receipt paper with something scribbled on it, looking like it was written by someone that hadn't been sober a day in their life.

Fuck those worn out panties, you'd look better in these. —T

Your face went pale. You backpedaled so hard you almost fell. Slammed the drawer shut. Yanked it open again. The note was still there.

You tore through the apartment. Checked the locks. Windows. Under the bed. Inside the closet. No sign of a break-in. Nothing disturbed.

Just that pair of panties. Just that note.

He stayed away for a week. Slipped back into the cold, into the dark, adrenaline still crackling in his bones. And for the first time in his life, Toby waited.

He thought he was fucked. Figured the cops would show up any day now, that you’d call, report a break-in, scream bloody murder about a pervert sniffing around your drawers. That the second he climbed back through your window, there’d be some twitchy beat cop waiting with a hand on the gun at his belt.

But it never came.

A day passed. Then two. Then five.

And the next time he slid up to your building, fingers twitching against the cold brick, he took his usual place by the window—careful not to fog the glass, careful not to make a single sound. He crouched low, eyes barely cresting the sill. Expecting quiet. Maybe the glow of your laptop, maybe you asleep in your usual tangled mess of sheets.

Instead, he found you spread out across the bed, glowing with sweat and heat and that particular, private kind of shame.

He blinked, breath leaving his lungs in one ragged, fuck me exhale.

You were wearing them. His gift, wrapped around your hips like a fucking ribbon. Thin red lace soaked through with slick and need and oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Cutting sharp into your ass, skimpy straps where the crotch should've been digging into the crease of your thighs, framing your puffy cunt like a work of art. One hand between your legs, soaked. The other gripping the pillow behind your head, fingers curled like claws.

You didn’t even look like you were breathing—just panting in short, stuttering bursts, lips bitten red and glossy, that look in your eyes like you were about to cry from how fucking badly you wanted it.

Toby stared and made the quietest, sickest sound in the back of his throat—half tic, half need—teeth clamping into his lip until it bled, muffling a groan. His goggles were shoved up into his hair, but the mouth guard stayed on—habit, maybe. Or maybe it was just the sick hope that, in case you were mentally deranged enough to let him fuck you—like he'd been dreaming about for months—his scars wouldn't freak you out right off the bat.

You didn’t stop.

You hadn’t even noticed him yet.

He watched your fingers work slow at first, hips twitching like you were trying to hold off—trying to edge yourself stupid. Your face was flushed. Brows drawn in tight. Little, messy curses spilling from your mouth as your eyes fluttered shut, back arching up off the mattress like it was too much to stay still.

His dick, heavy and aching, grinded against the seam like it was trying to break through and pull his entire body with it through the window.

It wasn’t just that you were touching yourself. It wasn’t just the panties. It was that you were doing it for him. You didn’t even know he was there—yet the evidence was everywhere.

He couldn’t hold it anymore. He moved to the glass and knocked—once, sharp. Not loud enough to wake the neighbors. Just loud enough for you.

You jumped.

Your head snapped toward the window, eyes wide and glassy, chest heaving. You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. Just froze with your hand still between your legs, blinking at the shape crouched just outside the glass. Face flushed, glistening with sweat. Thighs trembling.

He watched you recognize him—the shape of an intruder, the silhouette of danger. Watched your eyes dart to the goggles pushed up on his head, the mouthguard still in place, hiding the worst of the scar. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave.

Your heart was beating so loud it drowned out the world. A roaring drumline in your chest, crashing against your ribs so hard you swore he could hear it from the other side of the glass.

You’d only just barely started to breathe again. Your orgasm had been hanging on by a string—your body strung up and ready to snap—and then you looked up, and met brown eyes.

Brown, human eyes, burning through the glass, lit with something so famished it made your stomach drop clean through your pelvis. Fear, yes—but also heat, immediate and wet. A sick pulse between your legs that flickered sharp and electric, tangled in the panic like barbed wire. You didn’t mean to leave your hand there, still twitching on your clit, fingertips slippery with need—but the moment froze.

Your cunt was throbbing.

He just stared at you like you were meat—waiting, shoulders twitching ever so slightly, barely contained. But you didn’t pull your hand away.

And that’s when it hit him.

You wanted this. Maybe not in some clean, healthy way—but it was there. That need. That hunger. Just as fucked as his, simmering under your skin. You needed dick like your lungs needed air.

You still hadn’t moved. Just stared right back. But he saw it. The tiniest little twitch of your hips again. Just enough to rub against your palm. His mouth twitched under the mask, equal parts grin and snarl.

You were panting, dazed, wide-eyed—and something in you, deep in the filth of your loneliness and need, made your hand shift. Not down, not back to your clit—but up. A small wave. Shaky. Awkward. A little stupid. Half a question, half an invitation.

And that was all it took.

Toby moved before you could even finish the gesture. One hand slammed the window open with a sharp snap of the latch, and the other hauled him in with the kind of strength that wasn’t fair. He was inside before your gasp even fully left your lips, a blurred motion of boots and gloves and fogged-up goggles before his feet hit your floor like a warning shot.

You shrieked. A real sound, startled and breathless, hands flying to cover yourself—more out of instinctual panic than modesty. Because looked like he was about to fucking devour you.

He stood tall. Taller than you thought—broad-shouldered and twitching with leftover adrenaline, fog and icy air trailing in behind him. His clothes smelled like snow and smoke and him, sharp pine and something raw, and your legs squeezed together without your permission. Because fuck, even though part of you shamefully fantasized about a good looking, well built, kind-of-fucked-up-but-not-entirely-mental stalker, the reality was that it could've been anyone. Anything.

But it was him.

His eyes drank in the whole scene. The way you trembled, caught in the act, heat still clinging to your skin like a fever. The fear in your eyes contradicting your open legs. His jaw ticked under the strap of his mouthguard, and you saw his gloved fingers twitch like they were aching to grab you by the throat and tear you to shreds.

And then, voice low, raspy from the cold, dripping with filth that made your cunt clench, “you really di-didn’t call the c-cops, huh?”

He took a step closer.

“You just s-sat he—slut— here. In my f-fucking gift. Rubbing that p-pussy like I wasn’t about to show up and tuh-t-take it for myself.”

Your breath caught, mouth falling open in a strangled sound, some hybrid of embarrassment and arousal and holy fucking shit.

“You got off thinkin’ a-about me, didn’t you?” His eyes flicked down your body, then back up—slow and nasty. “Say it.”

Another step. “Tell me y-you came thinking about m-me breaking in. Tell me you were w-waiting f-for it.”

Your hand twitched again, almost moving back between your legs, and Toby noticed. His laugh was more like a scoff, crooked and giddy in the filth.

“Nasty b-bitch,” he muttered, almost to himself. “God, you’re sick.”

He didn't even lean forward—he lunged, like an animal that never learned the concept of anticipation.

Your wave—your invitation—hit him like a line of coke. He pounced, hands slamming down on the mattress, body dropping between your legs like gravity had lost all patience with him. The bed dipped hard, bounced, and you let out a startled gasp—but it didn’t matter. He was already there. On you. Over you. Caging you in like something that didn’t understand restraint.

Heat rolled off him in thick waves, despite the cold outside. His breath punched out through his mask, harsh and wet. He didn’t touch you—yet—but his hands trembled where they landed, planted beside your thighs like he needed them to keep from shaking apart. His goggles caught the light as his head jerked—sharp and sudden—and his gaze dropped, fixating on the gap in lace exposing your pussy like it was bait.

He made a sound. Low. Unfiltered. Somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

“Ff—fuck,” he rasped. “You were gonna m-make yourself cum in my panties, huh?”

The way he said it—like it physically hurt—made your thighs tense. You opened your mouth to explain, to deny, but nothing came out but breath. Heat and nerves and shame choking up in your throat.

Toby laughed, short and disbelieving. “Didn’t even know th-th-they were mine and you still—fffuckin’—humped ‘em?” His voice cracked awkwardly, every stutter slicing the words open and bleeding them raw. “G-God. Say it. S-Say it was me.”

You stammered, your voice caught halfway between a moan and a laugh, nervous and breathless and trapped. “I—y-yeah, I—fuck, I didn’t know—I mean I didn’t know it was you, but I—”

He groaned, loud and ruined, like your words were jerking him off.

“You didn’t know,” he gasped, licking his lips behind the mask. “Ffffuck, th-that’s worse. You didn’t even know and still—still touched yourself like a f-fucked up whore.”

“I didn’t—fuck, I wasn’t thinking, I just—needed something,” you whimpered, hands curling into the sheets, chest rising and falling like you couldn’t get enough air. “I—I thought maybe if I put them on it’d be like—like I was with someone—”

He surged forward like that simple explanation was enough to make him fold—face burying in the crook of your neck with a desperate, feral moan. His mask scraped your skin. The lenses of his goggles bumped your collarbone. His whole body jerked—tics dragging him forward, making him twitch and spasm like the sheer effort of not devouring you was pain.

“You don’t even know h-how fffucked that is,” he muttered, breath catching. “L-lonely little slut wh—who doesn’t even c-call the cops when some freak breaks in. Just wears the gift and j-jacks off. That it baby? Huh?”

Your hips shifted, trying to meet his, desperately seeking out friction, a gasp catching in your throat. “I didn’t know what to do. I just—”

He snarled against your throat. “You let me in.”

Your hands found his jacket, tugging, dragging him closer like you couldn’t stand not having him all over you. Your fingers fumbled at his zipper, clumsy and feverish.

“You—fuck, y-you want it off?” he asked, voice cracking into disbelief, like the very idea made his brain short-circuit. “You want me?”

You nodded, frantic, and layers hit the floor in seconds. Gloves flung. Jacket peeled off with shaking hands. His chest rose and fell in heaves, scars catching the light—long and pink and brutal, carved across lean muscle that jumped under your gaze.

Then his fingers went to the straps of his mask, and you froze.

Because you didn't know what you expected to be hidden underneath—shit, you barely realized something was even covering his face—but you weren't expecting a deep, torn chunk eaten right through the meat of his cheek, healed but violent, exposing teeth and a glimpse of raw gum.

But his mouth—fuck, his mouth was perfect. Wet. Parted. Red and bitten raw from chewing on it, tongue darting out to lick the corners like he couldn’t help himself.

He didn’t say a word. Just let you look, let you decide—like it made a difference.

And you did. Eyes flicking over the wound, the lips, down to his chest, the aching bulge suffocating under his zipper, back up. Your breath caught and your thighs squeezed together, still open, still on full display. You were fucking soaked.

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “I need your mouth. Now.”

That broke him wide open.

Toby whined—pitiful, breathless—and grabbed your thighs like they were the only thing keeping him alive. His nails bit in. His mouth twitched.

“Yeah? You w-want my fucking tongue on that messy little c-kh-cunt, huh?” he growled. “Gonna let me ruin it? Sit on my ffffuckin’ face? I’ll make you scream so loud I—I’ll get caught, and you won’t even care.”

“Jesus Christ,” you gasped, head dropping back. “Yes, fucking do it.”

“Beg for it.”

His hand slammed the mattress beside your head with a spasm sharp enough to shake the bedframe.

“Ff-fuckin’ beg.”

Your whisper cracked with desperation, soaked and shaking. “Please… please, I need your mouth—I’ll do anything, I’ll fucking beg, just—”

His eyes rolled back for a beat, chest shuddering as a ragged, broken groan tore up from deep in his lungs, like it hurt to hear how pretty you could beg. Like whatever pornographic sounds his mind conjured up paled in comparison.

He smashed his mouth to yours, hot and open and so fucking wet. It wasn’t a kiss, not really—he didn’t know how to kiss, he devoured. Tongue everywhere, spit and teeth, sucking your lips into his mouth like he needed to drink you. The sheer noise of it was obscene—slick, sloppy, breathless. Your knees bucked and trembled as he knocked them wider with his forearm, your hands clawing at his bare shoulders while he rutted against your thigh like he was holding back from humping you through his jeans.

“Ffffuckin’—say it again,” he gasped against your mouth, panting like a dog. His voice cracked, stuttered. “Say you want me. S-say you want your fuckin’—your s-s-sick psycho stalker.”

You whimpered, brain melted. “I do—I do—I want you, I want you so fucking bad—”

He snapped—body twitching as his hand flew down and yanked those two skimpy strands of fabric surrounding your pussy until they snapped. Two scarred fingers pressed into the heat of your cunt like they belonged there, spreading you open—and the second he felt how soaked you were, he choked.

“Holy sh-shit,” he breathed, like he was stunned. His jaw ticked. “You’re—you’re dripping, bitch. I haven’t even—I barely t-touched you and you’re drenched."

You moaned into his mouth, thighs clenching around his arm, head falling back to expose your throat—and he just stared down at you, trembling, breath shaking like he was holding in a laugh.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he whispered, and suddenly his voice was lower. Threatening. Talking more to himself than to you. “Goddamn lonely. Letting a freak like m-m-me in your room. I could k-kill you right now and you wouldn’t even get the chance to run.”

Your heart dropped. A real, shivering pulse of terror hit your gut. Your body locked up, breath caught, but two fingers pushed inside before you really had time to fully process his words.

And the panic dissolved into a whimper.

He groaned as he felt you clench around him, tight and wet and sucking him in like you were trying to pull his hand deeper, trembling around the stretch. Your hips jolted up into his palm, shame flushed red across your face as your hands clutched at his arms.

“Oh—f-fuck—”

“Yeah,” he growled, voice cracking, lips twitching in half snarl, half mocking grin. “Y-you like that? You sc-s-scared and still letting me fuck you with my fingers like a d-dog in heat?”

But that wasn’t what he wanted. His fingers slipped out with a wet pop and he groaned like he missed the feel of you already. But then he shoved those same fingers between his lips—sucking them deep, moaning around them like he was starving. Eyes fluttered half-shut as he tasted you, mouth shining with spit and slick.

You barely had time to breathe before he dove down.

Tongue first—hot, thick, flat and immediate, dragging a foul stripe from your hole to your clit. He groaned deep in his throat when you jolted, scarred cheek pressed against your thigh, drool mixing with slick in a way that made your eyes roll back and whatever survival instinct you still had vanish.

His mouth latched onto your clit and sucked, tongue flicking relentless and wet, twitching with little tics that only made it worse, better, crueler. His hands locked around your thighs—tight, bruising grip—and held you open like you belonged to him, nose scrunched against your mound and his spit running down to your ass in strings.

You could only kick your legs uselessly.

“Ffffuck—t-tastes like you missed me,” he slurred into your cunt, voice wrecked and broken and gleeful. His lips slipped against your soaked skin, words barely intelligible. “G-gonna fuckin' eat you alive, gonna—mmfuck—”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, hips rolling into his face, loud and shameless as your moans cracked into the quiet room.

“Wh-what the—fuck—oh my—”

He growled. His tongue jammed inside you, licking you open like he was trying to tunnel into your soul, then back up to your clit, where he sucked again hard, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“You gonna cum already?” he grinned into your pussy, teeth catching your clit ever so slightly with every lick. “G-gonna fuckin’ scream for the ff-freak who’s been jackin’ off with your panties under his p-pillow?”

You cried out. Loud. Raw. Helpless. You were right there, stomach tight, walls trembling, thighs shaking around his head when he popped his mouth off your clit, breath hot and sticky against your cunt, and shoved two fingers back inside with no ceremony. Curling them knuckle-deep like he was trying to hook behind your bones, dragging that spot so deep and tender it made your entire body jerk.

Then, with his lips brushing your slick, throbbing clit, he mouthed into you like a threat.

“Say my name, bitch.”

Your jaw dropped, a high, warbled moan catching in your throat as your hands grabbed at the sheets.

“I—I—I don’t—fuck—I don’t know it—”

And he ripped his fingers out, hand soaked to the wrist, only to bring it down across your cunt in a wet crack.

Your whole body seized, a strangled scream bursting from your mouth—shock, pain, heat flooding through you all at once. It stung like fire, too hard, too fast—like he had no clue how strong he was—but you didn’t even have time to reel before he leaned in and kissed your pussy where he’d hit it. Soft, messy, tender.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t matter.

“Toby. S-Say it.”

Your whole body jerked, cunt clenching around nothing as your eyes flew open, lips parting with a whimper so desperate it sounded like prayer.

"Toby—Toby, please, c'mon, just—”

“That’s it,” he hissed, voice warping at the edges with something animal. “K-Keep fuckin' sayin' it, baby.”

Satisfied, his fingers were back. Shoved in to the hilt, curling fast and relentless, fucking up into that sweet spot with punishing speed while his mouth latched onto your clit again like he was trying to suck your soul through it. His moans were shameless, loud and snarling, tongue flicking, chin soaked, breath shuddering through his nose as he devoured you.

Your body snapped with a gasp—froze—then convulsed, crying out his name as your cunt clenched and spasmed around his fingers. Your thighs shook, your hips bucked wildly, wet gushes spurting around his fingers and drenching the sheets under your ass, his arm, his mouth.

He groaned like it knocked the wind out of him.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, voice half gone, still licking through it like he was wringing you out. “Knew you'd be a f-filthy f-fucking slut for me."

You were left twitching, flat on your back, trembling all over and soaked in sweat and spit and squirt, one leg hanging off the bed and the other bent up from where he’d folded you open, pussy still fluttering from the aftershocks.

You barely even noticed him move. Just felt the scrape of his teeth on your thigh, the way he bit his way up to your knee with animal heat in his breath—eyes bugging and fixed on your face, chest heaving, hands tugging open his jeans so rough the zipper snapped open. He kicked them off clumsily and launched them halfway off the bed like they were a personal offense.

The wet, heavy smack of his cock hitting the mess between your legs snapped your attention back. Toby was leering down at you, eyes blown wide and hungry, lips parted, breath shaking as he pressed one of your thighs up, pinned it to the mattress with his palm, and threw your other leg over his shoulder to open you up and fold you like a beloved toy.

His cock—thick, flushed, leaking and twitching—dragged through the mess of your cunt, catching on your clit just enough to make your hips jerk.

"Y-you want it? Huh? You want this dick? After everything I fuckin’ did to you?”

Your breath caught, eyes wide and glassy. He leaned in over you, pressing his cock against your slit, grinding just enough to tease, enough to make your mouth drop open with a whine.

You nodded. Too fast. Too eager. “Y-yeah. Yeah—I want it—fuck—please, Toby, please—”

He pushed in, slow, inch by inch, teeth bared as your cunt gripped him—tight, soaked, vacuuming around him like you were trying to suck the meat off his dick. His arms shook, jaw clenched, eyes rolled back for a second as he bottomed out, torn between making this last—to savor every clench and throb after surviving off the thought of it for months—and needing to fuck you within an inch of your life.

“…God, you're just lettin’ me ff-fuck you? Just like that? Just—fuckin’—goddamn—” He breathed hard, nostrils flaring, his whole body trembling with restraint. “I could f-fuckin’ cry.”

He snapped his hips back and slammed forward, the first thrust knocking the wind out of your lungs. No rhythm, no warning—just piston-fire force, his hips crashing into you, bed screeching with every slam. One hand clamped down around your throat—just to hold you still, thumb brushing your chin as you moaned open-mouthed and raw.

Your hands clawed at his arms, his back, his hair, anything you could reach, mindless with the stretch, the pound of it, the filthy wet slap of skin on skin and the obnoxious slam of the headboard denting the wall behind.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d tuh-t-take it like this,” he grunted, drool on his lip, sweat dripping from his temples, eyes wild. “L-Lonely fuckin' skank… so fuckin’ desperate, you let your fuckin’ stalker in—let me eat you out, let me fuck you—sh-shit—”

Your cunt clamped around him.

“Ohhh my fuckin’ god—do that again—do that a-again and I’ll fuckin' b-break you—I’ll cum so deep you’ll be pissin’ m-me out tomorrow—”

The second your back arched up off the sheets, trying to keep up with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts, Toby’s hands were everywhere. Tits bouncing as he grabbed them in both hands, rough and greedy, mouth latching onto one nipple with a desperate, snarling suck, free palm slapping down over the other, squeezing so tight you whimpered, your legs kicking weakly beside his waist.

"Fuckin’—god, you’re perfect, you—ffuck, these tits, shit—” he slurred around your skin, drooling down your chest, tongue dragging across your tits while he humped against you.

He was losing it. Could barely finish his sentences, just panting and stuttering and grinding into you, overwhelmed. His whole body shaking with restraint he didn’t have, already teetering on the edge. But he couldn't have that. He couldn't end it now, when you were drooling and tearing up and his.

So he pulled out and moved—rough, hurried, no warning—with a snarl that tore through your daze like a serrated knife. Hands snatching at your waist, yanking you up like a ragdoll, flipping you onto your stomach and shoving your face into the pillows as he hauled your hips up with both hands.

You yelped—surprised, breathless, a little laugh punching out of you on instinct.

“W-Wait, give me a s—"

“Sh-shut up,” he barked, voice all gravel and desperation, slapping your ass so hard it rippled. “J-just—stay right there, fuck—stay like that—”

He climbed over you, thighs bracketing yours, one boot planting into the mattress next to your calf as he lifne hand hooked into your waist to keep you impaled, the other palming your ass, slapping it again, fingers pressing into the dip of your lower back to force the arch deeper. Then in your hair, yanking your head back so you had to look over your shoulder as he sank back in with a guttural groan.

“L-Look at me— Look at who's t-tuh-t-FUCK, tearing this pussy up."

The wall behind the bed didn't stand a fucking chance. Paint chipping and flying off like it was being hit with a hammer. His hips slapping into your ass, hand clutching your hair tight enough to burn your scalp as he rutted into you from behind like he was trying to climb inside. You were wailing into the sheets, jaw dropped, tongue out, drooling into the pillow while he made you take every inch over and over again.

“D-didn’t stalk you f-for months for some soft shit,” he grunted, cock buried to the hilt, “w-wanted this—wanted to see you like this, fuckin’ s-stupid, moaning on my dick like a f-f-fucked up nympho, all wet and messy and—fuckin’ m-mine. All m-mine.”

You couldn’t even answer, couldn't even think twice about what he said. Just babbled, breath hitching, tears streaking down your cheeks from how hard he hit that spot inside you, every thrust like a punch to the gut.

Toby whined when you clenched up—when your pussy milked him, fluttering around his cock like your body was begging to be bred—and his voice cracked when he hissed through his teeth. “Cum-cumming again, slut? Fffuck yes, come— Come on t-this fuckin' dick—”

It slammed into you like a fucking car crash.

No warning. No build. Just white-hot, bone-deep release that made your whole body seize and flutter, sobs punched out of you from the inside as your cunt clenched hard around his cock. You twitched—hard, full-body, legs buckling underneath you as he kept your hips up, kept pounding, riding you through the quake like some unchained beast.

And you were crying and grinning, in some fucked-up mix of bliss and madness—head spinning, tears in your eyes, drool on the pillow from how your mouth hung open, panting, trying to form a thought, any thought.

It'd been so long. So fucking long since someone touched you like this. Since someone made you feel like this. Your brain tried to hold onto it but your body was short-circuiting, curling in on itself, torn between wanting more and being too overwhelmed to take one more push.

That’s when his hand came down—slow, dragging from your waist to your head. His fingers swept your hair aside, thumb brushing your jaw, then slipped down until it found the corner of your mouth.

You blinked up at him over your shoulder, still gasping, tears glistening. His lip twitched in a snarl—eyes burning, chest heaving—and he shoved his thumb into your mouth, deep and filthy.

“Suck,” he rasped. His voice cracked. “Get it wet, baby—c'mon."

You whined around it, lips wrapping tight, suckling instinctively, hollowing your cheeks—and he moaned, hips stuttering. His thumb popped free, spit trailing off the knuckle, and he immediately slid it down between your ass cheeks.

You barely got out a breathless little “wait—!” before it was in, his thumb pressing past the rim of muscle—slippery with your spit, buried to the root in your ass—and your vision blurred. Your back arched, your body twitched, everything locking up all over again, cunt gushing around his cock with a sudden squirt.

He fucking lost it.

Toby let out a shattered, broken noise—half sob, half snarl—and his hips snapped forward one final time, so vicious it made you slide forward and knock your head into the headboard. Cock pulsing deep, balls tight, and you felt it flooding you—every rope of cum, every twitch, every grind.

And he collapsed. Heavy like his bones were made of tungsten, weight pressing you down, face smushed into the sweaty curve of your spine, mouth open against your back. You felt his tongue—lazily licking at the salt-slick skin there, huffing like he’d run a marathon, muttering breathless curses into your ribs. Basking in it.

“Fffuck—fuck, oh my God,” he groaned. “Y-you—you feel that, baby? Th-that’s mine, you’re mine, this pussy—fuck...”

You were twitching, still limp under him, breath fogging the pillow in short, shattered puffs. He hadn’t moved, not really, just laying there draped over you like a heat-struck dog, panting into the dip of your spine. His cock still pulsed, softening where it was buried deep inside, every flutter of your cunt making his breath hitch and grin against your skin.

He dragged his teeth across your shoulder—slow, blunt little scrapes that made you shiver—then pressed his mouth to the spot and kissed it sweet and wet. Down your spine, to the curve of your waist. Another bite. Another kiss.

"F-fuckin' beautiful," he muttered, more to himself than you, hands sliding over your ass, kneading where you were sore, where he'd gripped too hard.

He slipped out, and you gasped at the sudden emptiness—whined, actually—left slick and gaping and leaking. His cum, already dribbling down the backs of your thighs in thick strings, stretching between you before they broke.

"H-holy shit, baby," he breathed, sitting back on his haunches, hands spreading your ass cheeks open just to watch.

"Look at this shit," he murmured, voice dipping into a low purr, his grin vile.

He leaned in to kiss your lower back, trailing down to your ass, mouthing warm, lazy kisses across the bruises he’d left. You shuddered, overstimulated and dizzy, still pressed into the pillow, and he laughed—softly, like he adored you.

“Y'gonna m-miss me, angel? Hm?” he whispered, nosing along the swell of your hip, breath ghosting warm over spit-slick skin. “Gonna miss bein’ f-full like this?”

You gave a broken little sound—something between a whimper and a laugh—and he smiled against your skin, all teeth.

“Y-you’re not lonely anymore, baby,” he whispered. “M'not goin' anywhere."

[lazysoulwriter]

only you. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending, lots of love!

---

You knew this part of Pedro's job. You really did.

Late nights on set. Red carpets. Press tours where he had to smile and laugh with people he barely knew outside of the screen. You never thought you’d be the jealous type — not with Pedro. He was warm, and loyal, and yours in every way that mattered.

But lately... lately it was harder to ignore.

You sat curled up on the couch, the TV playing some mindless sitcom you weren’t even watching. Your phone buzzed constantly on the cushion next to you — notifications, articles, tweets. PEDRO PASCAL SPOTTED GETTING CLOSE TO CO-STAR! A NEW ROMANCE BLOSSOMING ON SET? WHERE'S HIS GIRLFRIEND IN ALL THIS?

You hated how easily the words cut through you.

There were even photos — staged or not, it didn't matter. His arm slung loosely around her shoulders, both of them laughing like they shared some secret world you weren't a part of. It was for the cameras, for the movie, for publicity, you reminded yourself. They needed to sell the chemistry. You knew that.

And yet... you couldn’t shake the feeling. That tiny, ugly voice whispering in the back of your mind: What if he realizes he could have someone easier? Someone just as charming, just as magnetic, who understands this life better than you ever could?

By the time Pedro got home, your heart was a tight knot in your chest.

The door clicked open, and you quickly wiped at your eyes, pretending to be engrossed in the TV. Pedro’s voice floated down the hall, soft and tired.

"Baby? I'm home."

You answered with a weak, "Hey."

He appeared in the doorway, still wearing the casual outfit he'd thrown on after interviews — jeans, a soft, worn t-shirt that clung to him unfairly well. His hair was messy, his eyes a little puffy with exhaustion.

And yet, the moment he saw your face, he frowned. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head quickly. "Nothing. Just tired."

Pedro didn’t buy it for a second. He crossed the room, crouching in front of you so you couldn’t avoid his gaze. His hand found yours — warm, calloused, grounding.

"Talk to me, cariño."

You tried to keep it together. You really did. But it tumbled out of you anyway, raw and broken:

"I just... I know it's stupid. I know you’re just doing your job but—" Your voice cracked. "Everyone is saying things, Pedro. About you and her. About us. And I know you love me, but hearing it over and over... seeing it... it just messes with my head. It feels like maybe... maybe you deserve someone better."

Pedro’s face shifted, from confusion to heartbreak to something almost like anger — but not at you. Never at you. He squeezed your hand tightly.

"Baby. No. No. Don’t even—" He shook his head, looking almost panicked. "You’re the only person I want. The only one."

You sniffled, feeling stupid and small. "It’s just so loud, Pedro. It’s everywhere."

He took your face in his hands, gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t afford to break.

"Then let me be louder."

You blinked at him. "What?"

Pedro stood, tugging you up with him into a tight embrace. His heart pounded against your ear where you pressed into his chest.

"I should've seen it coming," he murmured into your hair. "Should’ve realized how this would feel for you. I’m so sorry, amor. I didn’t think— I didn’t think it would hurt you."

You clutched the back of his shirt, feeling the tension bleed out of you the longer he held you.

"I don’t care about the movie, about the press," Pedro said fiercely. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes. "I care about you. I want everyone to know that. Everyone."

You didn’t even have time to ask what he meant before he was pulling out his phone. With one arm still around you, he opened Instagram, switched to his camera, and took a quick selfie — the two of you together, your puffy eyes and his tender smile.

He didn’t even hesitate before posting it with a caption that read:

"Coming home to my favorite person. Every day, every time. Always. ❤️"

Your mouth dropped open. "Pedro— you didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to," he cut you off, setting the phone aside to kiss your forehead. "No more rumors. No more doubts. You're it for me, baby. Always have been."

You buried your face in his chest again, overwhelmed by the way he didn’t just comfort you — he chose you. Loudly. Proudly. Without hesitation.

Later, as you curled up together under the blankets, Pedro whispered against your temple:

"I don’t care what the world says. I only care about you knowing, deep down, that you’re my home. Always."

And somehow, finally, the noise faded away — leaving only the steady, unwavering beat of his love.

-----

[bueckers555]

JEALOUSY — paige bueckers x reader

summary: in which, you and paige have a strict friends with benefits deal. so, why the hell do you feel some typa way seeing her hugged up on someone else?

warnings: smut (w like a LITTLE plot? idek anymore), fingering, spitting (? ho idk)

authors note. this is so bad but idk im lowkey running out of ideas IM NOT CREATIVE so i hope this doesn’t sound repetitive?

You wanted nothing more than to go home and forget everything.

The diner was loud as hell—UConn girls packed around a long, sticky table, plates of fries and half-eaten burgers scattered everywhere, the air thick with grease and laughter.

Paige was at the far end, her blonde hair loose, her hoodie slung over the back of her chair, manspread and leaned back like she owned the damn place. She was leaning in close to Azzi—too close—her best friend, her teammate, her fuckin’ shadow lately.

Azzi said something, her curls bouncing as she laughed, and Paige’s hand brushed her arm—light, casual, but it hit you like a punch to the gut.

It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, but suddenly you wanted to jump across the table and get them far apart from each other.

You forced yourself to stare at your flat Coke, your fries cold, your stomach twisting—jealousy, green and ugly, clawing up your throat.

You and Paige had been fucking around for a while now. Your little friends with benefits deal had been a good idea at first. No strings, no feelings. No jealousy.

That was the deal—had been since the first time she fucked you in her dorm, her hands all over you, her moans in your ear, no feelings, just sex.

It worked up until now, watching her grin at Azzi, her voice low and flirty, her eyes flicking to her like you didn’t exist. You knew you couldn’t say shit—couldn’t storm over, couldn’t claim her—and that might’ve just pissed you off even more.

“Yo, you good?” KK voice broke you out of your trance, elbowing you, her brows furrowed as she shoved a fry in her mouth. “You’re quiet as fuck.”

“Yeah, just—hot in here,” you mumbled, your voice tight, shoving your chair back, the legs scraping loud against the floor. “Gonna hit the bathroom.” You didn’t wait for a reply—stood fast, your shorts riding up, your tank clinging to your skin, your heart pounding as you weaved through the diner, past the jukebox, the buzzing neon signs, ‘til you hit the grimy bathroom door—pushing it open, the door clicking behind you.

The sink was cold under your hands, the mirror smudged, your reflection a mess—cheeks flushed, eyes dark, jealousy eating you alive.

You splashed water on your face, your breath shaky, trying to cool off, trying to shove down the stupid fuckin’ feelings you weren’t supposed to have. The door creaked—fuck—and you spun, Paige slipping in and locking the door behind her, her white tee riding up a bit, her grey sweats hanging loosely on her hips, her eyes low and locked on you, that smirk tugging her lips—cocky, knowing.

“Caught you,” she said, her voice low, rough, stepping closer, the door clicking shut behind her, the diner noise muffled. “You’re all pissy—what’s up?” Her hand brushed your hip—light, teasing—her head tilting, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder, her scent hitting you—sweat, vanilla, her.

You laughed—bitter, sharp—shoving her hand off, your chest tight. “Fuck off, Paige,” you snapped, your voice trembling, stepping back ‘til your ass hit the sink. “Go back to your new lil play thing. See if I care.” Jealousy spilled out—raw, messy—you couldn’t stop it even if you desperately wanted to. And you did.

Her smirk faded, her eyes narrowing—dark, hungry—grabbing your wrists, pinning them to the sink, her body pressing yours, her thigh shoving between your legs—hard, sudden—your pussy grinding against her through your shorts, wet heat flaring.

“Play thing? That how it is?” she murmured, her voice gravelly, her lips close—not kissing, just breathing you in. “You’re my fuckin’ girl—Azzi’s just a friend.”

You tried your best not to roll your eyes. You failed.

“You jealous? That’s cute, ma—turns me on.” Her thigh flexed, rubbing your cunt, your moan slipping out—soft, desperate—her grin growing, filthy.

“Fuck you,” you muttered, your voice weak, your hands tugging at her shirt, pulling her closer even as you cursed her, your pussy soaking—folds slick—your no-strings rule cracking, jealousy fueling the heat. “You don’t get to flirt then fuck me like it’s nothing”

“Nah?” she questioned with an arched brow, her voice thick, yanking your tank up fast—your tits bouncing free, nipples hard—her hands cupping them, squeezing rough, her thumbs flicking, your back arching.

“Feels like I can.” her murmur made goosebumps rise on your skin.

She shoved your shorts down, your cunt dripping—glistening—her fingers plunging in—two, deep—your cum leaking, your moan loud, bouncing off the tiles.

“Paige—shit—” you gasped, your voice wrecked, your hands clawing her shoulders—nails digging—her fingers pumping—hard, fast—your pussy clenching, wet and messy, her other hand gripping your ass—spreading you. “Fuck—this jealous pussy’s so wet—mine, huh?”

“Fuck—yes—yours—” you groaned, your voice breaking, your cunt spasming, cum flooding her fingers—sticky, hot—dripping down her wrist, splattering the floor, your thighs shaking, clit throbbing as she fucked you through it—nasty, relentless—her breath huffing, her eyes locked on yours—wild, possessive.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” she muttered, pulling out—fast—spinning you, your stomach on the sink, your ass up, your pussy dripping—wet, begging—her hand smacking your cheek—sharp, loud—your skin stinging, your cunt clenching, her fingers sliding back in—three now—stretching you wide, fucking deep, the sink rattling, her other hand yanking your hair—hard—her lips at your ear, growling, “Still jealous? Or you gonna cum for me again?”

“Paige—God—please—” you sobbed, your face a mess, her breath hot on your neck, her teeth biting your shoulder—hard, possessive, breaking skin.

Your folds felt fucked raw, pulsing, her fingers ruthless—slamming, curling, her thumb pressing, pinching your clit—nasty, fast—her spit hitting your pussy—wet, messy—her moans loud, her dominance peaking, fucking you like she owned you.

“Take it—fuckin’ take it,” she groaned, her voice rough, her fingers pumping—wild, sloppy—your pussy gushing, cum flooding her hand, splattering the sink, your thighs trembling, clit swollen, her jealousy kink flaring, her top energy unhinged. “Cum—now,”

Your body shook—cum gushing—hot, wet—soaking her fingers, her wrist, the floor, your thighs shaking, ass bouncing, your vision blurring as she fucked you through it—hard, nasty—her own cum leaking, dripping down your leg, her moan loud—real—her body tensing, shuddering, her fingers slowing, her breath ragged, her grip softening, possessive.

“Fuck—Paige—” you panted, your voice weak, your pussy still twitching—wet, raw—your hands gripping the sink, her body slumped against you, her chest heaving, her lips brushing your neck—sloppy, warm—her breath sticky, her cum on you, yours on her.

“Still mad?” she muttered, her voice hoarse, her fingers sliding out—slow, teasing—her cum-coated hand smearing your thigh, her grin faint, cocky, her dominance still buzzing. “You’re my fuckin’ girl—no strings, but mine.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, your voice thick, your pussy still dripping, your head spinning, the diner noise faint outside—teammates laughing, oblivious—the bathroom a mess, jealousy burned out in the heat of her, the no-strings rule bent but not broken, just fucked into place.

[rafessecret]

Instead of smut what about we get some angust. Rafes friends talking shit about reader and she hears and he is laughing with them and she is sitting right next to them ?

⋆˚࿔ step¡sister reader && rafe cameron

I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANYMORE.

You’re there again. Curled into him like muscle memory, your body moulded into Rafe’s side like it always is—your legs sprawled over his lap, his hand settled warm on your bare thigh, thumb stroking thoughtless patterns. He smells like cedar and salt and cigarette smoke, his cologne lingering thick in the humid air, sweet and masculine and so stupidly familiar.

The house is buzzing—beer cans cracking, bass thumping from someone’s speaker, the boys slurring jokes and shouting over each other in that way they always do. You’re half-listening, aimlessly scrolling, your acrylics tapping against the screen, catching glints of sunlight. You feel pretty. Effortless. His. You feel like maybe this is what soft looks like. Until it shifts. It starts like every other conversation does. Topper ribbing Rafe, Kelce chiming in. Dumb stories. Cheap laughter. But then: ❝Man, she’s so fucking dumb sometimes,❞ Kelce says, lazy and loud, like you aren’t right there.

You freeze. Topper’s laugh is sharp and nasal. ❝Cute, sure, but that baby voice? It’s like dating a cartoon character.❞ Your phone slips just a little in your grip. And Rafe? Rafe laughs. That laugh. The low one. The one he gives you when you’re wrapped in his hoodie, whispering sweet nonsense into his neck. But now it’s cruel. Detached. Cold.

❝She means well,❞ he shrugs. ❝She’s just—y’know. Kind of dumb. But she looks good on her knees.❞ The room howls with laughter. You feel everything slow. Muffle. Your stomach turns. You can hear your own heartbeat over the noise, loud and panicked, pulsing in your throat. Still, you don’t move. Don’t even blink. He doesn’t notice. None of them do. You’re a prop. An accessory. Pretty and pliable and easy to mock. At some point, you stand. You don’t remember it. Your legs just take you. Silent. Invisible. You slip from the couch like mist, like a shadow no one saw in the first place.

Your feet carry you to the bathroom down the hall, fingers shaking as you twist the lock. Your back hits the wall and everything collapses. You sink to the floor in slow motion, the cold tile against your thighs grounding you just enough to break. The sob rips out of you before you can catch it, messy and raw. Ugly. You cover your mouth with your wrist, mascara bleeding down your cheeks. You don’t want them to hear you. You don’t want him to hear you. But God, you heard him.

You heard every syllable. The boy who kissed your knuckles, who called you his girl, who told you that you were the only thing that made him feel calm—he laughed. At you. He sold your softness for a laugh. A knock, eventually. Sharp. Impatient. ❝Hey. Open the door.❞ His voice crawls under your skin. ❝What the fuck’s wrong with you now?❞ Now.Like you’re always causing problems. Like your heartbreak is an inconvenience.

You open the door with trembling fingers. Eyes swollen. Lip bitten. He looks annoyed. Arms crossed. Brows drawn. ❝Don’t do that,❞ you say, voice shaking. ❝Don’t pretend you don’t know.❞ He scoffs. ❝It’s always a guessing game with you.❞ That’s what shatters you. ❝I heard you,❞ you whisper. Your breath hitches. ❝All of it. ‘Dumb.’ ‘Toddler.’ ‘Good on her knees.’❞ His jaw tightens. But he doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t reach for you. ❝It was a joke,❞ he mutters.

❝Don’t.❞ You take a step back. ❝Don’t fucking do that. I was right there, Rafe.❞ Your voice rises, not loud, but broken. Frantic. ❝You didn’t even blink.❞ Tears streak hot down your cheeks again. ❝You made me feel so fucking small.❞ He shifts. Looks away. But his pride is louder than his guilt. ❝You’re being dramatic.❞ You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s over. ❝You don’t get to say that. Not after every time I stayed quiet. Not after every time I let you get away with it.❞

His jaw clenches tighter. Anger rippling under his skin. But you’re already gone, aren’t you? ❝I don’t even know who you are anymore,❞ you say, voice a whisper, eyes shining. ❝You say you love me, but all you do is humiliate me.❞ And finally—finally—you say the truth: ❝I don’t think you do love me.❞ Silence. The kind that tastes like goodbye. And Rafe? He doesn’t say a word.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : thanks anon… lowkey this might sound weird but this made me think of cherry waves by deftones for some reason. i actually really like how this turned out. sorry if i’m bad at angst though </3 hope you still enjoy it!

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf @folksriddle @loverliner @delicatelyquiet @rafeysbrat @amelialovesrafe

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[coolgrl111]

JEALOUS!ART X READER.

PART 4.

a/n: hiiiii i’m sorry i’m literally evil.. it’s been a year daddy!!!! i’ve been wanting to write more in my fics, so we have another mix of smaus and writing!!! pls enjoy 💋💋

part 1

part 2

part 3

—

she opened the app with fingers trembling like moth wings. drew’s page. a carousel of screenshots. texts ripped out of context. photos from months ago with captions twisted into knives.

“cheating whore.”

“hope art was worth it.”

“funny how you act innocent when you’re on your knees for your best friend.”

her face burned. the room tilted. the silence screamed.

her first instinct wasn’t even heartbreak—it was shame. not because of what she’d done (nothing, nothing, nothing) but because of what people would now believe.

art stirred. turned. blinked at her with sleep-slowed eyes, the worry rising as he took in her expression.

“what is it?”

she couldn’t speak, just handed him the phone.

he read it once. then again. jaw tight, mouth a straight line that trembled only slightly.

“he doesn’t get to do this to you,” he said, voice low. “he doesn’t get to twist things.”

her throat burned. “but people will believe him.”

art sat up, ran a hand through his hair. looked at her like she was something fragile, yes—but not broken.

“then let them believe what they want,” he said. “i know the truth. you do too.”

her fingers went slack.

the phone slid from her hands and hit the carpet with a soft, traitorous thud.

she folded forward, slow then all at once, like paper creasing under rain—arms around her stomach, head pressed to her knees, trying to hold herself in. but the sob tore through her chest without warning, and then another, and then another.

it was ugly.

guttural.

art was beside her in less than a breath.

“hey—hey,” he said, panicked, the word breaking. “no, please—what—what can i do?”

his voice cracked on please.

she couldn’t look at him. couldn’t speak. the pain swelled inside her like a tide, rising fast, drowning her in shame and hurt and the fear that this—this version of herself, shattered and humiliated—would push him away forever. but art stayed.

he knelt on the bed beside her, his hair messy, his eyes puffy from sleep—a hand hovering before it landed on her back, trembling.

his palm moved in slow circles, but he was shaking too hard to make it steady.

“you don’t deserve this,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “you know you didn’t do anything wrong. you’re no cheat. we didn’t...” his words quietened. it was true. they hadn’t done anything intimate. was it bad if she wished they did?

she shook her head, hands covering her face, tears pouring through the cracks in her fingers.

“they’re gonna think it’s true,” she choked. “they’ll think i lied, that i—that we—”

“fuck them,” he said, too loud, too raw. then softer, “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

his other hand brushed her hair back. his eyes were red now, too.

“i hate seeing you like this,” he said, close to crying himself. “it’s like—god, it’s like someone’s reaching into my chest and ripping everything out. i just want to fix it. i’d do anything to fix it. i never fucking liked drew, you know that? never thought he was good enough.”

and then she remembered.

his text.

“i’m in love with you, y/n.”

last night, amidst her panic about the stanford gossip page posting about her and drew—he’d sent it. she hadn’t replied. couldn’t.

it was only six words.

just thinking about it again knocked the air out of her, just like drew’s horrible messages did—only this was a different panic. because maybe she reciprocated it.

she looked up at him, finally. saw the way his eyes searched hers, desperate. his bottom lip was trembling.

“why did you tell me you loved me last night?” she whispered.

he blinked, startled. “because i couldn’t hold it in anymore. because you were so sad. and you’re so beautiful… and i couldn’t stand the thought of you going home to someone who didn’t see you the way i do.”

her breath caught in her throat.

“and now this happens,” he went on, voice breaking again. “and it’s like—i confessed something real and instead of kissing you forever, making you mine— i’m watching you fall apart because of someone who didn’t deserve one second of your love.”

her eyes filled again. not from shame this time. not from fear.

“i hate drew, y/n. i absolutely despise that fucking prick.”

his words were firm, but from the way he looked at her, so soft, it was like she was all he’d ever waited for.

“i’m sorry i didn’t say anything,” she whispered. “i was scared.”

“i’m scared too,” he said. “but i’m not going anywhere.”

his thumbs were still on her cheeks, catching the tears as they fell, brushing her skin like he was memorising the shape of sorrow. and she was crying again—not from fear this time, but from the unbearable kindness in his voice, the way he held her like she was something sacred.

her hands moved slowly, unsure, reaching to hold his wrists. she looked at him—really looked—and saw him trembling just like she was. his eyes glossy, mouth parted like he was afraid of what might happen next.

and then, almost without thinking, she whispered, “then don’t go.”

and leaned in.

their foreheads touched first, like a prayer. a pause. a promise.

and then, finally their lips found each other.

it wasn’t perfect. it was messy and wet and trembling. he kissed her like he had waited forever but wasn’t sure he was allowed. she kissed him like she might break from it, and maybe she was.

they were both still crying. she could taste salt on his mouth, couldn’t tell whose it was. didn’t care.

his hands slid to cradle her jaw, holding her steady. her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she needed to anchor herself to something that wouldn’t hurt her. the kiss deepened slowly, like a secret unfolding between them, years in the making. it wasn’t lust. it wasn’t a firestorm. it was gentler, more devastating—it was real.

when they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. foreheads resting together. breathing the same air. they both sniffled from the tears.

art let out a soft, broken laugh. “i’ve wanted to do that since we were sixteen.”

she smiled shyly. “me too.”

taglist: @blastzachilles @mrszweig @grimsonandclover @areyoutheregoditsmecelia @hrrysglitter

[luna-azzurra]

Romance List Prompts

Forced Proximity “Oops, There’s Only One Bed” & Other Nightmares (aka: trapped together, forced to talk, and now I’m noticing your eyelashes??)

✧ They hate each other. Of course they do. But now they’re snowed in at the same remote cabin. One bed. No signal. Nowhere to run from each other or their feelings. ✧ They barely know each other, just enough to be annoyed in passing. Then they get stuck between floors, in the dark, and suddenly all the things they don’t say become impossible to ignore. ✧ They agree to a long-haul drive for mutual convenience. Cue broken-down car, sketchy motel, and sharing snacks like it’s an act of war. By night two, they’re sleeping back-to-back and trying not to notice how quiet it gets when the other person isn’t talking. ✧ They’re both responsible for watching someone else's pet/kid/home. They bicker like divorced parents. They bond over chaos. And somewhere between late-night takeout and arguing over dishes, they accidentally become something like a couple.

Forbidden Romance “We Shouldn’t, But God We Want To” (aka: slow burn with a side of inner turmoil)

✧ They were raised to hate each other. But then they meet, outside the context, outside the war, and start to realize they’re not what they were taught. And it wrecks them both. ✧ They’re assigned to protect someone who is completely off limits. Flirting is forbidden. Feelings are dangerous. And yet? Every glance feels like a confession they can’t afford to say out loud. ✧ Teacher/Instructor x Student, but make it ethical and age-appropriate. It’s a short-term class, a writing retreat, a combat training course. The power dynamic is there, but so is the connection. They try to keep it professional. They fail. Beautifully. ✧ Best Friend’s Sibling... They’re off limits. Point blank. But the tension? The tension is screaming. Especially when the best friend keeps leaving them alone together, completely unaware.

 Grumpy x Sunshine “Why Are You Like This?” (aka: emotionally constipated x aggressively full of feelings)

✧ Roommates from Opposite Vibes... One’s all color-coded calendars and 7AM smoothies. The other hasn’t done laundry in three weeks and growls before coffee. They clash. But one rainy day, the sunshine one leaves soup on the grump’s desk with a dumb little smiley note. It breaks them. ✧ Coffee Shop Owner x Frequent Customer... Grump runs the quiet, broody café. Sunshine comes in every morning with messy hair and too much enthusiasm. The barista rolls their eyes, but they always remember their order. Always. ✧ Hired for the Same Job. Grump is practical. Sunshine is chaotic. They’re forced to collaborate. The tension is delicious. Especially when the sunshine one starts to get under the grump’s skin and into their heart. ✧ They're on a team. The world is ending. The sunshine one makes jokes to stay sane. The grump one acts like they don’t care, until the sunshine one gets hurt. Then suddenly they’re soft, scared, and furious about it.

 Extra Angst & Emotional Damage For the Writers Who Like to Hurt (and Heal)

✧ “You Remembered?” They thought the other didn’t care. They’re used to being forgotten. But then, in the quiet, the other person says something, something small, something specific, and it hits like a train. ✧ “I Would’ve Picked You Every Time” They lost each other once. Circumstances. Timing. Fear. Years later, they meet again. And this time? This time the truth comes out. And it’s raw, and ugly, and healing. ✧ “Don’t Look at Me Like That” They’re breaking. Mid-fight. Mid-confession. One of them cracks and says the thing they swore they wouldn’t say. The other just looks at them soft, wide-eyed and it’s too much. ✧ “I Never Stopped Loving You” Classic. Heart-shattering. Should only be used when you want your readers to cry at 2AM while whispering “why did you do this to me”.

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch8

“For good service, and cute waitresses.”

pairing: pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc

warnings: profanity, smut, FLUFF. FUCKING FLUFFFFFFFF GODDDDD, they cuddle ;(, oc getting overwhelmed by it all:(, jungkook really fucking likes her, hes so reassuring:(

smut warnings: morning sexxx!! f!recieving oral, teasing, dry humping, nipple play, kissing, making out, jungkook cums in his boxers.

wc: short and sweet but it really is enough

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020

a/n: its finally here. they finally fuck (kinda?) oh my god. i rlly wanted to emphasize that they didnt need to be drunk to fuck for the first time, and morning sex i felt rlly suited this couple :). they are so sweet together tho;(

masterlist < prev | next >

Jungkook wakes up slowly, blinking against the soft morning light that pours through the gap in the curtains. The bed feels emptier than it did last night, but your arm is still tightly wrapped around his waist, as though you’re holding onto him even in your sleep. He can’t help but move you just a little, his body shifting to face yours, feeling the pull to get closer.

He adjusts, his chest pressing against yours, and before he knows it, you’re fully cuddling—still fast asleep, your soft breaths rising and falling in a rhythm that calms him. He smiles a little, marveling at how natural it feels, how right. The way your body fits against his so easily, like it was meant to be this way. His hand rests on your back, and he takes a moment to just breathe you in, the warmth of your skin against his, the feeling of being so close to you.

He watches you for a long while, his eyes tracing the curve of your face, the way the light hits your skin, casting a soft glow over you. Your hair is messy, sprawled out in every direction, and your face is smushed into the pillow, soft lines marking where you’ve slept. You probably think you look a mess right now, maybe even ugly, but Jungkook can’t help but think you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You look so peaceful in your sleep, so genuine, and he just… can’t look away. The simple beauty of you, so raw and real, pulls him in. He watches the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips part slightly, how your eyelashes flutter with every breath, and he feels something tighten in his chest.

It’s almost as if time slows down, and he loses track of how long he’s been staring. His fingers brush against your arm, feeling the warmth of your skin, and he wonders if you’re even aware of how perfect you are, even in your sleep.

He gets lost in the moment, your soft breathing in his ear, the steady comfort of you next to him. It’s too quiet. Too… perfect. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to break the spell.

And then, just as he thinks he could stay like this forever, you stir. You shift a little, your body moving against his, and Jungkook pulls away just enough so that you can wake up properly, not wanting to startle you. His heart races, but he tries to act casual, his gaze softening as he watches you slowly blink your eyes open.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse from sleep. He can’t help but grin. He’s never felt more at ease in someone’s presence before.

You wake up with a start, the soft light of morning filtering through the window and illuminating Jungkook’s face. For a second, you’re completely disoriented, unsure of where you are or why everything feels so… comfortable. Your body is still wrapped around his, your arm tightly around his waist. His warmth presses against you, and your chest instinctively rises and falls with his.

Your eyes widen as you process everything, panic suddenly seizing you.

“You stayed?” you ask, your voice thick with confusion, panic setting in. “What about Bam—oh my god,” you stutter, the weight of the situation crashing down on you.

Jungkook chuckles softly, his lips brushing against the top of your head as he breathes out, trying to calm you down. “Relax,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “I told Taehyung to take care of him. I wanted to stay.”

You freeze for a second, your heart racing as the truth sinks in. He actually stayed. And as you finally realize how close your bodies are—how tangled up you both are—you feel the heat rush to your face. You can’t remember the last time you felt so at ease with someone, this close, this… intimate.

Before you can process anything further, Jungkook gently pulls your body against his, guiding you to lay up on his lap. His hands hold you firmly, and there’s a kind of possessiveness in the way he holds you, but not in a way that makes you uncomfortable—just in a way that feels natural.

“Relax,” he repeats, and you don’t have it in you to pull away, even though part of you is freaking out internally.

You shift a bit, your face burning from the closeness, but you can’t help but stay where you are. It feels like… like you’ve never been in a moment quite like this before, and the way Jungkook watches you, eyes soft but filled with something unspoken, makes your stomach flutter.

His arms stay wrapped around you, not allowing you to retreat from the closeness, and you don’t even want to.

It feels too good, too right.

You sit in silence, listening to something Jungkook’s faintly humming, you could almost fall asleep- almost.

And that’s when you feel it, theres something pressing against your lower stomach. You seem to be the only one who notices out of the pair of you, since Jungkook seems distracted in stroking your head until you move your hips subtly, and his fingers tighten around the side of your waist and his breath is suddenly hitching.

You move your hips, slowly. Testing the waters, head still on his chest. There’s no form of protest from him, and his heart beats a little faster against your cheek. You let out a breath when your clothed clit brushes against his semi deliciously, and that’s when he breaks the silence.

“Y/N-“ You shush him with a rougher press of your pussy to his bulge, which you’re sure is fully hard now. “Do you want to?” You make sure to question, letting him have a say before things go too far.

You look up at him from his chest, sitting up now. Now you’re looking directly over him, his lips are parted, breathing clipped. His hair is messy from sleep, and his face is puffy from it too.

And you swear you could just bounce on it right there-

“Yeah… I just- I don’t want you to feel like were doing things fast, I wanna do this right, I wanna make everything right-“

You shush him, placing a quick peck on his lips—so brief it’s almost like it didn’t happen. But the softness of his lips against yours is a sensation that lingers, like a whisper in your mind. It’s enough to drive you mad.

“Kiss me, please,” you whisper, breathless, the words leaving you before you can stop them.

His eyes darken with a mix of hunger and something else, something more tender. He smirks before pulling your face down into his, your lips meeting in a fierce, heated clash.

It’s like the world shifts on its axis the moment your mouths connect for the first time. The warmth of his lips floods you, his hands grasping at the back of your head, pulling you closer, your body instinctively pressing into his. The kiss isn’t gentle or slow. It’s raw, desperate, like you both need it more than air itself.

His tongue brushes against your bottom lip, and you let out a soft gasp, feeling the heat coil tighter in your chest. His lips move against yours with a fervor that makes your pulse race. Everything else fades into the background—nothing exists but the feeling of him, the taste of him, his presence consuming you.

You can’t help but lose yourself in it. His hands trail down your back, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go. His body responds to you in ways you hadn’t imagined, pulling you even closer, and you melt into him, your hands finding their way to his hair, tugging him deeper into the kiss.

He groans softly into your mouth, and it sends a rush of heat through you, a want you’ve never felt before, something you didn’t even know you craved until this very moment.

You pull back for just a breath, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls under you, and the connection between you feels so raw, so real. You don’t need words right now, just the heat of his skin against yours and the promise of what might come next.

“Wow.” You laugh a bit, breathing against his own mouth. Inhaling what he exhales, sharing breaths.

The whole mood suddenly changes when your hips start rocking even faster against his hard bulge, letting out little whimpers against his lips. You feel it- his hesitation, it’s obvious and you notice it. The way his arms are awkwardly resting against your hips, so you encourage him. Bring his hands up to your breasts, squeeze them and let him take over.

And suddenly, he’s not so shy anymore. Something in him snaps, it’s carnal. He’s frantically pulling your shirt off, clipping your bra off with too much familiarity that you try to ignore and the heat of the moment is enough to tell you- It’s not that serious.

He’s pulling at your hardened nipples, staring you down while you grind on him, letting out his own clipped breaths as he squeezes your full mounds. The vision of you rocking back and forth is far better than he’d ever imagined at home. Yes, you weren’t the only one.

“Shit, are you gonna take the shorts off? Hmm? Wanna feel you, wanna feel you so bad.” He’s needy with it. Almost begging, but his voice exudes a confidence that has you sliding your shorts and panties off immediately. You moan at his words, he’s so fucking hot and you might die today. And it’s only like… 9am!

The tables have turned. You find yourself underneath Jungkook, he’s fully clothed still, and you’re butt naked, but for some reason- it makes you even fucking wetter.

He’s palming the bulge in his boxers, sliding his sweats off and gripping the base through the material. “You’re so pretty- Better than i’d ever imagine. I’m so fucking hard-”

A pool of precum leaks through where his tip is on his boxers, you whimper, physically unable to reply. He’s so fucking cocky in every way possible and you just need that dick stuffed down your throat-

Suddenly, he’s crawling down, kissing your body. The butterflies are going at war in your stomach, you feel the cool of his lip ring contrast with the warmth of his lips against your skin.

He start’s at your neck, pecking it a few times, you loll your head back, letting out loud, sweet moans, making his cock twitch in whatever fucking room there is in his tight boxers.

Your heart flutters at the way he truly takes his time, hes delicate and rough at the same time, as if he’d break you. But he wouldn’t, and you know it. He can’t- far too sweet for it, and Jungkook isn’t so sure he has the physical ability to break you anyway.

“You’re so beautiful- So sweet, I could kiss you all day-“ It sounds like pure dirty talk, but you can tell when he presses a kiss between your breasts that he means far more than what he’s making it out to be.

He moves on to your breasts next. He moves slow- it almost makes you lose your mind, but you wouldn’t change anything how he’s making you feel for the world.

He licks, nibbles and plays with your nipples for a bit, leaving saccharine sweet kisses around your breasts, showing equal love to both. Until you physically can’t take the pressure between your legs anymore and you’re pushing him down to your dripping pussy with your hands.

He doesn’t protest, however.

You feel the his warm breath skim over your wet folds, squirming at the little contact your pussy’s finally recieving. “Patience, baby.”

He goes in slow, like he’s been doing the whole time. Pressing three long kisses to your mound, he watches for your reaction and he smirks when your head is thrown back against the pillows.

And finally.

After what feels like a million years.

His hand’s reach the top of your thighs, and his fingers part your lips, exposing your clit. You feel a jolt of electricity run through your body as his fingers touch you, and you know you're on the edge already. He look’s at your pussy in absolute awe, convinced that it’s the “Prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen…”

Jungkook looks up at you to find your eyes looking at his, his eyes locked on yours. "You're so wet," he whispers, his voice full of awe. "I love it."

He dips his head down, his tongue flicking out to touch your clit. You feel a scream building in your throat as his tongue moves, teasing you, taunting you. It’s quick, but the jolts of pleasure that shoot through your body aren’t.

"Fuck, Jungkook-," you beg, your hands reaching down to grab his hair. It’s so soft, and you make a mental note to ask him what hair products he uses later. “Please,“

Jungkook looks up at you, a sly smile spreading across his face. "Not yet, baby," he whispers. "I'm just getting started. Wanna make you beg for it."

He dips his head back down, his tongue moving in slow, languid strokes. You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, but Jungkook is holding back, teasing you, making you wait.

You're writhing on the bed, your hips arching up, your hands grabbing at Jungkook's hair. You're begging him, pleading with him to make you come, but he's just laughing, his tongue moving in slow, torturous strokes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jungkook looks up at you, his eyes locked on yours. "Ready?" he whispers.

You nod, your heart racing, your body on fire. "Yeah," you beg. "Make me come."

Jungkook smiles, his tongue flicking out to touch your clit one last time. And then, in one swift motion, he dips his head down, his mouth closing over your pussy, his tongue moving in fast, furious strokes.

You feel yourself explode, your body convulsing, your scream echoing through the room. Jungkook groans into your pussy and you could’ve swore it was the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced in your life, his mouth still moving, his tongue still teasing you.

You realise he’s fucking his cock into the bed and it turns you on even more- if that’s even possible. “Shit!”

Jungkook eats your pussy like it’s his last fucking meal, his fingers teasing your hole as his tongue just ravages your little clit, and you cant help the obnoxious moans that come out.

It’s when he holds your free hand on the bed, rubbing your other hole that you cum. You shove his face deeper into your pussy, grinding frantically against his face- using him. And you can tell he’s fucking loving it- The way his hips stutter against the bed, and how he holds your thighs possessively against his face, moving your waist- encouraging you.

“Jungkook-“ He dosent let up. Going at the same speed. His face doesn’t leave your pussy until you physically have to pry him off from overstimulation, and you regret it immediately- missing the warmth of his lips.

The air between you is thick with something unspoken—something warm, electric, and completely intoxicating. Your body still hums, oversensitive and overwhelmed, your breath uneven as you try to ground yourself in the present.

When he finally detaches from your pussy, he kisses you- slow, deep. You look down and realise the bulge in his pants isnt as prominent anymore, and you realise- he came while eating you out.

——

Jungkook is still pressed against you, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours, the heat of his body keeping you cocooned in something that feels almost unreal. His arms are lazily draped around you, holding you close but not too tightly, his touch gentle, absentmindedly stroking circles into your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

It’s quiet. A comfortable, blissful kind of quiet. Neither of you rush to fill the space with words because there’s nothing that needs to be said. The warmth between you speaks volumes on its own.

You close your eyes, sinking into the moment, the soft rhythm of his breathing lulling you. You almost expect him to get up—to pull away, mumble something about needing to leave, to create some kind of space between you. But he doesn’t. He stays right where he is, his thumb still brushing against your waist absentmindedly, his lips pressing against the top of your head as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink up at him, taking in the sight of his messy, dark hair sticking to his forehead, the way his lips are parted slightly as he exhales, completely unrushed. You realize, then, that he’s not in any hurry to leave.

And for some reason, that makes your heart ache a little.

You exhale softly, shifting against him, and his grip tightens instinctively, like he’s making sure you don’t go anywhere.

A small, breathless laugh escapes you. “You’re really not leaving, huh?”

Jungkook hums against your skin, shaking his head just slightly. “Don’t wanna.”

Your stomach flutters, the simplicity of his answer making something warm spread through your chest. You don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this—not the way he’s still looking at you like you’re something to be treasured, not the way he’s still tracing invisible patterns onto your hip like he’s memorizing the shape of you, not the way he doesn’t seem like he has anywhere else to be but right here, with you.

You let out a soft, content sigh, letting your fingers dance along his forearm, trailing up toward his shoulder. “You’re really warm.”

He chuckles, voice thick with exhaustion and something else, something softer. “You’re really tiny.”

You snort, smacking his chest lightly, but he just laughs again, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before resting against the curve of your jaw.

The way he looks at you makes your breath hitch.

It’s so different from the heated, desperate way he was looking at you just moments ago. This is softer, more delicate—like he’s afraid to break whatever this is between you.

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and he leans in slightly, pressing a barely-there kiss to the corner of your lips.

“Feeling okay?” he murmurs, voice low, gentle.

You nod against him, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze. “Yeah. You?”

His lips curl into a small smile. “More than okay.”

The silence that follows is warm, easy. He pulls you even closer, your face buried into his chest, and you let him. You let yourself fall into the feeling of being held, of being wanted in a way that doesn’t feel fleeting or rushed.

But the moment shifts, something in his posture changing as his fingers gently slide away from your skin. You blink up at him in confusion, but before you can ask anything, Jungkook’s voice breaks through.

“Can you stand?” he asks, his voice soft but full of concern, his eyes scanning your face, looking for any sign of discomfort.

You pause, blinking at him. “Uh… yeah?”

Without waiting for further confirmation, he carefully shifts his weight, sliding his arms under you in one smooth motion, lifting you with surprising ease. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck as he cradles you against him, moving like he’s done this a thousand times, but with the kind of gentleness that makes you feel like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. His muscles flex as he adjusts your weight, and you find yourself sinking into the warmth of his embrace, your body a perfect fit against his.

“I’ll get you to the chair,” he murmurs softly, his tone more soothing than anything.

You don’t even protest as he carries you across the room, and when he gently sets you down into the desk chair, he’s careful to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. He adjusts your legs and makes sure you’re settled, almost like he’s studying the way your body reacts to every small movement. The room feels even quieter now, as if the space between you has become this sacred, unspoken thing.

Jungkook then moves to your dresser, pulling out clothes as if he knows exactly what to do, like he’s been here a thousand times, though you know this is all new to him. He hands you a fresh change of clothes—soft sweatpants and a hoodie—and waits patiently as you slip them on, his eyes lingering on you only for a moment before they flicker away in what feels like respect.

When he returns, the sheets have been stripped, the old ones tossed aside, and the bed is freshly made, though the room still holds that lingering warmth from the night. He doesn’t say anything, just moves around with a purpose, adjusting things until he seems satisfied. His quiet presence is enough, though, and you can’t help but watch him, feeling a swell of affection for the care he’s showing without asking for anything in return.

Finally, he makes his way back to you, sitting beside you in the chair, his hand gently resting on your knee. His eyes meet yours again, that same soft intensity in them.

“Feeling alright?” he asks once more, the sincerity of his voice making you feel completely seen.

You smile softly, giving a small nod, warmth spreading through you. “Yeah… I’m good.”

He gives a soft smile in return, leaning in close to brush your hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. The simple act feels like an unspoken promise, a promise that this—whatever this is between you—will continue, unhurried and real.

But then, Jungkook stands, offering his hand to you with a quiet gesture.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice still soft.

You reach out to take his hand, allowing him to help you back onto your feet. This time, instead of guiding you to a chair, he gently leads you back to the bed, pulling the covers back with one hand and helping you back in with care. You settle back against the pillows, the warmth of the sheets surrounding you like a cocoon, and Jungkook slips in beside you, pulling the covers over both of you.

He doesn’t say anything as he lies down beside you, but his presence is all-encompassing. His arm slips around your waist as he tugs you closer, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. It’s as if the world has narrowed down to just this moment, to just the two of you, and in his embrace, everything feels right.

Jungkook shifts slightly, adjusting until he’s comfortable, and you settle back into the warmth of his body, a sense of peace settling over you.

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulls back to look at you, his eyes soft and gentle.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, feeling your heart settle into the rhythm of his breathing. In his arms, you feel something more than comfort—you feel cared for, wanted in a way that’s both tender and real. You let out a soft sigh, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe in this, in him, and in whatever this is between you.

The silence that follows is warm, easy. He pulls you even closer, your face buried into his chest, and you let him. You let yourself fall into the feeling of being held, of being wanted in a way that doesn’t feel fleeting or rushed.

And as your breathing evens out, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself have this.

Just for a little while.

——

You don’t know when you drifted off, but when you wake up, you feel warm.

It takes you a second to register where you are, the familiar scent of your sheets mingling with something distinctly Jungkook—something comforting, something that makes your stomach flutter before your brain can fully catch up.

Your bed is empty.

Your brows knit together, fingers unconsciously searching for the warmth that was beside you just moments ago.

Then you hear it—the faint clatter of something from the kitchen, the low hum of a voice, and the distinct smell of… food?

Your heart stutters.

You drag yourself out of bed, still groggy, the events of earlier catching up to you in waves as you pad down the hall. Your limbs feel heavy, your mind sluggish, but then—

Then you see him.

Standing in your kitchen, hair messy from sleep, wearing the same sweatpants from last night. He’s hunched over the stove, humming something under his breath, one hand holding a spatula while the other rubs at his chest as if he’s just woken up himself.

The sight is enough to make your breath catch.

You lean against the doorway, watching him struggle for a second longer before you say, “What the hell are you doing?”

Jungkook jumps slightly, turning around with wide eyes before his face splits into a sheepish grin.

“Oh, you’re up.”

You give him a look. “Yeah, because someone is making a racket in my kitchen.”

He huffs a small laugh, turning back to the stove. “I was trying to make breakfast.”

You blink at him. “You were what?”

Jungkook shrugs, poking at whatever’s in the pan. “I didn’t really know what you had, so I just… made the best of it.” He turns to the counter, motioning toward a plate that looks like an attempt at scrambled eggs and toast. “I think it’s edible?”

Your heart is doing something ridiculous in your chest.

You step forward, peering at his so-called breakfast. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I wanted to.”

And that’s what does it.

Because of course he wanted to. Because he’s Jungkook, and he does things like this. Because he stayed the night without a second thought, because he made sure you were okay, because he’s standing here in your kitchen, looking completely at home, cooking you breakfast like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Like he belongs here.

And that thought is what suddenly makes your chest feel tight.

It’s too much.

The night before. His hands, his mouth, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. The way he stayed, the way he wants to be here, the way he’s just so effortlessly treating you like you’re worth waking up next to, worth cooking breakfast for. And that you’re more than just his waiter that he flirted with off one too many drinks.

You don’t realize how quiet you’ve gone until he’s in front of you, brows furrowed, head tilting slightly as he studies you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “What’s wrong?”

You blink up at him, swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat. “Nothing.”

Jungkook doesn’t look convinced. He takes the plate from your hands, setting it down before cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. “Talk to me.”

You let out a shaky breath, forcing a small smile. “It’s just… a lot.”

His gaze searches yours, and for a second, you think he’s going to push, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods, like he understands.

“Come here,” he says simply, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest.

You let yourself sink into him, fingers gripping onto his waist as you bury your face into his skin. He’s warm—so, so warm, and the steady beat of his heart against your cheek is enough to make the tightness in your chest loosen just a little.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, swaying slightly. “I feel you, you don’t have to overthink anything, okay? Just… let me take care of you.”

Your eyes squeeze shut.

Because that’s the thing—you’re not used to this. You’re not used to someone wanting to take care of you.

But Jungkook does.

And that terrifies you.

But it also makes you want to let yourself have this—just for a little while.

Just for as long as he’ll stay.

Breakfast is slow.

Not in a bad way—just in the kind of way where neither of you seem to be in a rush to move. You sit at your tiny kitchen table, legs brushing under the surface, Jungkook stealing bites from your plate despite having his own. Conversation is light, easy, filled with little moments where he watches you too closely, like he’s memorizing you, and you pretend not to notice even though your skin burns under his gaze.

It’s nice.

And maybe that’s why, when he finally stretches his arms over his head and sighs, “I should probably head out,” you feel something in you drop just a little.

You nod, pushing your empty plate aside. “Yeah, you probably should.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth either. Because yeah, you know you need a second to breathe, to process, to call Nari and let her yell in your ear about everything—but that doesn’t mean you want him to go.

Jungkook watches you for a second, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stay. And maybe if he asked, really asked, you would let him.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just pushes his chair back, standing up and stretching again before shooting you a lazy grin. “Alright, let me get out of your hair.”

You roll your eyes, standing up as well. “You act like you weren’t the one who forced your way in here.”

He smirks. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, watching as he walks toward the door. He moves slowly, like he’s waiting for something. You don’t know what, but when he finally turns around and looks at you, eyes soft, hair still a mess, you suddenly feel like you’re the one who’s about to leave instead.

Jungkook hesitates, then reaches out, fingers lightly brushing your jaw before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

And you don’t know what possesses you, but before he can pull away completely, you grab his wrist. His eyes flicker to yours, brows raising slightly.

You swallow. “Text me when you get home.”

It’s stupid. He’s not going far. But the words slip out anyway.

Jungkook’s lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you mean.

“I will,” he promises.

And then, after one last lingering glance, he’s gone.

The door clicks shut, and you’re left standing in your kitchen, staring at the space where he just was.

Your heart is still beating too fast. Your skin still feels warm. The air still smells like him.

You exhale sharply, running a hand over your face before groaning, “What the fuck.”

And then, without another thought, you grab your phone and call Nari.

[love-toxin]

The way you write Tommy is just UUGH

I just wanna pin him down and ride him until he has nothing left to give :((( like gimme his chunky babies!! 😭🙏

oh noooooooo........my gears are turning......tommy with an obsessed s/o that wants to bump uglies constantly......MMMRRRROOWWWW!!!

he's so flattered, but so edgy about it cause momma can't overhear him engaging in premarital sex!!! especially not the type you like where it's just messy and raw and rough and you leave spit and slick everywhere, all over his hairy chest and his lap and your clothes. you have to do it in the barn in the hayloft and its STILL loud, still so sloppy he has to carry you in the house just so none of his family notice the dark stains on your clothes.

but can he complain? no. cause you're the only one who's ever seen him as a man and not just a mistake, and it's not like he doesn't like seeing you so needy all the time. you could be doing this to any other guy but you wanna do it to him--him! a nobody, a wretched defect like him! you must be an angel. or maybe you're a devil cause you fuck as nasty as one. he loves the scrape of your nails through his hair as you drag them down his sweaty chest, when you're perched like a pretty sculpture on his lap. his thighs jiggle every time you bounce on it--his cock, that's what you call it--and you can't help but grip them, squeeze them for balance but also cause you just love the feel of him everywhere. his belly doesn't bother you nor does the grime and sweat caking his skin, nor the dirt under his fingernails or his maddening, untrimmed bush that radiates out to his thighs like a curly black cloud.

it doesn't matter if he's been working in the slaughterhouse all day, shoveling pig shit, or doing any of his other messy chores. when you give him that look like you wanna eat him right up, he's completely at your mercy and he loves every fucking minute of it. you look at him like he's a piña colada in the desert and you'll die if you don't get a sip.

and that's before you start getting hit with baby fever. suddenly, almost out of the blue, you're picking through baby clothes in the trunks upstairs and finding old rattles and toys that are barely holding together. Tommy's baby bottles that Luda Mae kept and never threw away cause she could never bear to part with her sweet baby's things, even after he'd grown up and out of them. it's the sentiment that really gets you and then you're stuck thinking about babies, not just about what Tommy was like when he was that young, but what your babies together might look like. would they have his nice dark hair? his height? would they be hardworking and loyal like he is? would they be so committed to their family they would...

well, that part isn't important right at the moment. you're more concerned with making the babies than anything else--that's the fun part, after all. you keep dropping hints here and there but it's when Tommy finds you sewing together a stuffed bear he loved as a boy that he really starts thinking. you're so gentle with it. you clean him up and polish his little button eyes and patch up a hole on the arm where Hoyt 'accidentally' burned it with a cigarette while he was drunk. you put him back together and he looks almost brand new, newer than when he first had it and Luda Mae tenderly plucked it out of the dumpster to give to him for his birthday.

he gets it then. that night is deplorable when you two sneak out to the barn. Tommy's just as riled up as you are and when you realize he's not just fucking you for pleasure--this time, he's fucking to breed--your sobs and choked-up squeals have to be muffled by his thick fingers stuffed in your mouth. he hooks them and drags your face closer to his chest for you to suffocate between his pecs, cause he needs both hands to grip your waist and jam you down on his cock like he's shoving a cork back in a wine bottle. you're just so little compared to him and such a tight squeeze, he can't help getting a little rough when he wants in! it's just prepping you for birth. you're gonna need to squeeze out plenty of kids for him after this, and with his size? they're gonna be little monsters to try and deliver, just like he was.

but you love him and that's why you're doing this. that's why you let his nuts drag down your ass on every deep, near-painful thrust, and why you let him beat your cunt like he hates you when there's nothing but pure love and possessiveness in his eyes. that's why, when you squirm to get away, he knows you don't really mean it and slams your hips back down for you to howl like a cat in heat. that's why he can't let you sleep until sunrise, when you're half-conscious and spasming with leg twitches, cause the seed pooling in your tummy hasn't stopped leaking out from every time he's planted his roots into your squishy womb. he's gotta make sure it takes just in case you change your mind. once you get pregnant, then you really are part of the family--you'll be a Hewitt just like all the rest of them, birthing the next generation of Hewitts to keep the family roots strong <3

[buckysgrace]

Impression

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Part two to Chemistry, but you don't technically have to read it to follow along :)

CW: Pseudocest/stepcest, unprotected sex, slight degradation, mentions of sex pollen

Steve deals with the aftermath of what he did, as well as realizes that he can't just let you go.

He was pacing.

Back and forth in front of his bed, his steps messy and rough as he tried to erase the previous night from his mind. It had nothing to do with the monsters or the beat down that he had faced, no, nothing like that.

It had everything to do with you. What he had done was wrong, sinister even. He didn't know why he had done it, only that he was sure that he would die if he hadn't touched you. He had never wanted someone so badly before. Not even Nancy.

And you were worse than any drug he had ever encountered. So needy and willingly underneath him, just as desperate and lustful. It was hard to feel like it was wrong in the moment, not when it felt so right.

But now he was left with a sickening feeling in his gut, his guilt eating away at him. He didn't even like you, he shouldn't really care. But it bothered him for some reason, but maybe it was because he hadn't really felt like he had been in control. Like part of his body had been acting without his consent, but then sometimes it didn't feel like that either.

His dad was going to kill him if he found out.

"It can't happen again." He told you the next morning, after he had forced himself away from you that night and scrubbed himself down in the shower until his skin was raw.

He didn't really like to look at you, not because you were ugly or unattractive. But because he was constantly reminded of what he couldn't have. He thought every piece of you was stunning, beautiful. And sometimes it was easier to push you away than to try and pretend to be nice.

"What?" You grumbled, still looking like you were half asleep as you held a glass of juice in between your hands. He huffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You know what." He responded as he waited for you to say something, to bring up what happened last night or to worry about the marks on his face. For a moment he couldn't decide what he would rather have you do.

But you were silent as you downed the rest of your juice, liquid falling from the corner of your lips before you wiped it away. You sighed as you set it down, not looking at all bothered. Or at least wearing a convincing mask.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." You replied as you shrugged your shoulders, eyebrows furrowing together as you walked away from him. He froze for a moment, briefly feeling lost. Leaving him with just enough time to wonder if he had imagined part of this.

No, it had been real. He was sure of it. He didn't want you to blab about it, but he wasn't sure he was happy with you ignoring it completely either. He wasn't sure what he wanted.

But you continued on like that, acting like nothing had happened. And it infuriated him. You had always been a brat, but you were even worse now. And he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

It was wrong. Really wrong. He kept trying to remind himself that, but he had a hard time believing it. Not when his eyes searched for you, when his fingertips burned to feel your skin against his again. He could feel the desperation leaking from him, needy to feel you again.

So he'd try again.

"What are you playing at?" He asked as he forced himself into your room the next night, shuttingt he door swiftly behind him. You looked up, eyebrows raised for a moment before you turned away again.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You repeated dryly, legs crossed as you placed your bookmark neatly between the pages you were on. He breathed in deeply, trying to do his best to keep from staring at your exposed skin.

"Why won't you talk about what happened?" He muttered at last, feeling more desperate than anything else. He had a sudden urge to fall to his knees, to feel your fingers tangled within his hair as he did whatever you wanted.

"Do you want me to?" You questioned as you tilted your head, eyes looking right through him. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to figure out the answer to your question. The truth was that he didn't know. He had no idea at all.

He huffed as he slowly sat down on your floorboards, wishing there was a way to explain what had happened. Or maybe he was wanting to apologize. He wasn't sure. All of it had happened so fast.

"What are you thinking about?" You questioned as you crept closer to him, making his pulse raise against the side of his neck. You were in an oversized shirt, one that just barely covered you. He had a hard time looking away.

"I feel like I'm crazy," he replied, skin burning as you slowly crawled over to him. This didn't feel like before. It was different, but nice. Real, "do you feel that way?" he asked, eyes lingering against your bare thighs.

"No," you said at last, tilting your head as you straddled him fully. He bit back a groan, trying not to buck his hips up against your warm flesh, "you made me feel alive." You added softly, making him feel like he might melt into the floorboards.

You slowly rocked your hips across him, leaving him gripping the floor for support. He felt greedily, desperaetly needing to touch you as he reached down to open the buttons to his jeans. Then his zipper.

He stared at the way you slowly sat up, how you delicately let your panites down down the length of your legs. He watched in fascination, sure that he had never felt this way before. He reached forward, pressing a few kisses against your knee before you settled over him again.

"Are you going to be nice to me, Stevie?" You asked as you fluttered your eyelashes at him, your fingers brushing across his hardened dick. He whined at the feeling, grinding his hips up into until you pushed him back down. You shook your head, giving him a warning.

"Mhm." He hummed in agreement, eyelids feeling heavy as he hungrily watched your movements. He felt greedy suddenly, desperately needing to feel you.

"You're going to be a good boy?" You cooed as you tilted your head, a small smirk pulling on your lips. He felt faint at the feeling of your palm pressing down rougher against his bulge, his dick aching from the feeling. It was more intense than the other night. Real.

"I promise," he whined as he wiggled underneath you, lips still covered with your slick, "please." He pleaded as he pulled himself onto his elbows, watching the slow way that you tugged his briefs down his hairy thighs.

He sighed in relief at the feeling of his cock popping free, bouncing against his skin as a gleeful giggle left your lips. His pulse raced against the crook of his neck, his mind spinning as he drifted his eyes back towards you.

Your fingers wrapped around his thick girth delicately, your teeth shining brightly from the wide smile you sent him as he crooned in response. He was pulsing against your touch, cock throbbing as you gave him a little squeeze.

"I'll take care of you," you promised as you drifted your free hand across his slender torso, eyes slowly dancing across each mole that decorated his skin. He was covered in the little marks, and sometimes found himself hating them. But not right now, not with the way you were looking at him, "just relax."

He did as you demanded, his fingertips relaxing against your hips as you slowly lifted yourself up over him. His cock ached against his skin as the feeling of you hovering over him spread warmth through his body.

The feeling of his tip against your slick walls made his head spin, his heart hammering roughly inside his chest as he watched the way his cock slid inside of your soaked cunt. Your moans were whiny and rough, making his ears sing from the heavenly sound.

"You're such a slut for your little sister," you coeed as you stalled your movements for a second, adjusting to the feeling of his dick pulsing inside of you, "but you like that, don't you?" You teased, making him quickly nod his head in agreement. He'd do whatever you said, whatever you asked.

A low whimper left his lips as you fully lowered yourself along the curve of his cock, your eyes fluttering shut as he resisted the urge to fuck up into your smooth cunt. His fingers twitched against your flesh, trying to keep himself patient so he could savor the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his thick girth.

"God," he whined as he clawed at your hips, lungs stalling from the rough breaths he was taking, "you feel so good around me, honey." He complimented, mind feeling hazy as you slowly began to rock your hips up and down the length of his cock.

Pleasure raced up his spine, the muscles in his stomach twisting in pleasure as he savored the feeling of your walls clamping around his cock. The feeling of your slick coating his skin left him gasping, his lungs swelling in awe each time your cunt squelched around him.

"Fuck," you breathed out, eyebrows furrowing together as pleasure spread across your features. You whined, a heavenly sound that filled his ears as he buried his fingertips into your flesh again. He groaned as he began to thrust upwards, his balls hitting against your skin, "right there, Stevie. Feels incredible."

He sighed in bliss, staring at the way your cunt stretched around him as you continued to drag yourself along the curve of his cock. He reached down to play with your clit, making you squirm atop of him as he savored the image of your pussy stuffed full of his cock. Something inside of him snapped, like you were made to be wrapped around him.

Your hands were warm against his skin, pressing into him as loud moans began to fall from your tongue. The sounds made his toes curl, bliss spreading deep inside of him. He didn't want you to ever stop. No, he wanted to feel himself buried inside of you for a very long time.

"Jesus," he groaned as he began to thrust up into you deeply, his cock brushing against the deepest parts of you as your nails began to dig into his shirt. Your thighs squeezed around his body, tugging him closer, "feels good. feels so good, honey. Fuck, fuck." The words rolled off of his tongue easily as a blush crept onto his skin, hot and sticky from the sweat that had formed against the base of his neck.

It was hard to think, hard to feel anything but the intense pleasure with the way you turned your gaze down towards him. He was sure that he had never seen someone so beautiful before, so stunning as the pleasure etched deeply across your features.

It was hard to feel shame when everything felt this good, but even now, he hated how desperately he wanted to kiss you. How badly he wanted to drift his hands across your curves and feel your warm skin against his own. He thought of how badly he wanted to explore every inch of you, to drag his lips across your skin and to never forget the sweet sounds that fell from your lips.

"Oh God," he whined wantonly as he began to drag his hips up roughly into your soaked cunt, the sound of your bodies meeting bouncing off of the walls, "M'sorry, fuck, fuck!" He cursed as he pressed himself up against you, balls slick against your skin as his cock pulsed against your walls.

A loud moan left his lips as he came deep inside of you, his cum painting your walls white. He moved his hand down between your legs, roughly rubbing at your swollen clit as your body twitched in pleasure.

"Oh God, Steve!" He sat up further, mind foggy in awe at the way your cunt clamped down tightly around his cock. He breathed in deeply, listening to the way you moaned and crooned as you came around his cock. You rocked down against him slowly, licking your bottom lip.

He couldn't hear anything but your moans, his heart hammering roughly inside his chest as he continued to press down against your sensitive bud. He couldn't feel anything but you, his pleasure pulsing deep inside his veins as he stared up at you in disbelief. In awe.

You looked down at him, features twisted into a mixture of satisfaction and smugness. He couldn't care though, not one bit as you traced your fingers across your chest softly.

"What's wrong, Stevie?" you giggled as you pressed down along his hips, eyes twinkling in mischief, "cat got your tongue?" He exhaled roughly as he nodded numbly, feel his cock twitching inside of you once again.

Yeah, you could say that.

[ravenlynclemens]

I love Our Permanent Vacation so much. It’s so nice to see main characters who are allowed to be flawed in very substantial ways, but who you still can relate to and feel sympathy for. Jenny and Chris are complex and messy in a very human way, and honestly that’s pretty realistic for characters dealing with trauma and mental illness. That kind of stuff can be ugly and messy and make you act like the worst version of yourself. You don’t have to be a “good person” for your problems to be real and for you to deserve help and sympathy. I’m not a lot like either character, but there are still aspects of them I really relate to, and I like how raw and realistic a lot of their traits and issues are. I’m excited to learn more about them and maybe see them grow as people! sorry if i’m rambling, I’m just really attached to these characters and this comic, and really like your art and writing.

thank you!

[jjaehyunzs]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ let him — j.jh

pairing: jaehyun x f!reader genre and content: toxic relationship, heartbreak, emotional manipulation, second chances that shouldn’t be taken. angst. mdni. wc: 2.5k

loving jaehyun felt like the safest thing in the world. he kissed you like he’d waited lifetimes. held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him steady. every message came with hearts, every touch with intention. you were always laughing. always close. you memorized every line around his eyes, every dimple, every sleepy sigh. you wore his hoodie more than your own. he’d text you good morning, baby before his eyes were even fully open. he told you things he’d never told anyone.

it was soft. golden. like sunlight through a window on a sunday morning. unwavering. like no matter what, he’d always choose you. love that didn’t ask questions. love that stayed. unconditional.

but somewhere along the way, the air got thinner.

a forgotten “good night,” a change in his tone. less smiles. shorter replies. more silences. you told yourself it was stress. that he still loved you, just quieter. but the silence grew louder. and when you reached for him, he started pulling away.

“you’re being too much,” he’d say. “i just need space.” “stop making a big deal out of nothing.”

and you tried. you tried so hard to not be “too much.”

but when he didn’t notice when you stopped smiling. didn’t ask why your voice always sounded like it was about to break. how you’d stare at your phone for hours, waiting for a message that used to come without asking. you started changing, too. overthinking every word. every pause. every sigh. you checked his phone. scrolled through his socials. reread conversations. you tested him. accused him. shut down before he could. you started keeping score. every unanswered text, every forgotten thing, every time he made you feel like needing him was wrong.

you hated who you were around him, but you couldn’t stop. you mirrored his coldness. matched his distance. you screamed when he was quiet, and ignored him when he tried to care. you both were hurting each other, over and over, like it was the only way you knew how to be close.

one night. he came home late. again.

you were already angry. already on edge. every word landed like a blade.

“where were you?”

“out.”

“that’s all you’re gonna say?”

“i’m not in the mood for this.”

you asked why he didn’t answer your messages. he rolled his eyes. you said you felt like he didn’t care. he scoffed.

“you always do this,” jaehyun muttered, tossing his jacket on a chair. “you always make me the bad guy.”

you blinked. “i’m just asking for a little effort.”

he laughed, low and bitter. “you mean control. you want to control everything. when i text, where i go, what i feel—”

“don’t you dare,” your voice dropped. “don’t turn this around on me.”

his voice rose. “i’m tired, okay? i’m fucking tired of walking into this house and feeling like i’m already doing something wrong.”

and suddenly, you snapped. “because you are!” your throat was raw. your chest felt like it might burst. “you shut down, you pull away, and then you make me feel crazy for noticing.”

the yelling started. messy, ugly. you called him a liar. he called you suffocating. he said he was exhausted. you told him he was killing you.

he turned away from you, dragging a hand through his hair. “jesus. i can’t breathe with you anymore.” he finally said, louder than he meant to.

you stood there. humiliated. burning. your heart dropped. “then leave,” you whispered. “if it’s so hard to love me, leave.” you didn’t mean it. not really. but part of you wanted to see if he would.

he looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time in weeks. then softer: “baby…”

you flinched at the pet name, he noticed.

“i didn’t mean that,” he said, gently now. “you know i didn’t mean that.” he stepped closer. slowly. carefully. his voice softened like the calm after a storm.

you didn’t move. your anger had collapsed into sadness. your arms were crossed, lips trembling. “you don’t look at me the same anymore.”

he stepped forward, cupped your face with both hands. eyes wide and wet, not crying, just guilty.

“i know. i’m sorry. i don’t want to fight like this. i’ve been stressed and i take it out on you. i’m sorry, baby.”

and you hated how easily those words melted your anger. how quickly you let your guard down when he spoke like that. like the old jaehyun. your jaehyun.

his forehead rested against yours.

“can we just… not tonight?” he whispered. “can we just be okay?”

you nodded. you always did.

you let him kiss you. because his lips still felt like home. you let him hold you. because love, even broken, is hard to turn away from. you let him whisper that he still loved you. and you believed him, even when it didn’t feel true anymore.

and you told yourself this time would be different. that he meant the apology. that love like this, loud, broken, messy, was still worth saving.

but it wasn’t.

days passed. then weeks. things didn’t get better. just heavier. colder. and deep down, you knew. you knew you were losing him. and you were losing yourself trying to hold on.

he had barely said a word all day.

you felt it before he even opened his mouth. the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. the way he sat on the edge of the couch like the air was too heavy to breathe.

you stood by the kitchen sink, your fingers curled around a glass you hadn’t taken a sip from. your chest was tight. something inside you already knew.

he exhaled slowly. rubbed his hands together. cleared his throat like he was practicing the speech in his head.

“i think,” he began, “we both know this hasn’t been working for a while.”

your heart cracked right down the middle, but you didn’t let it show.

“so that’s it?” you asked, voice low. brittle.

he looked at you then. and it was the kind of look you never forget, the look someone gives you right before they stop being yours.

“i don’t want to keep hurting you,” he said. “i don’t want to keep pretending that i’m still in love when i’m not.”

you had imagined a thousand endings. maybe a final fight. maybe infidelity. maybe silence. but not this. not him sitting there and admitting out loud that he just… didn’t love you anymore.

you blinked fast, trying to keep it together. your hands were shaking.

“when did you stop?”

he looked away.

“was it when i started crying more than laughing?” you whispered. “was it when i stopped being easy to love?”

“don’t do this,” he said. “please.”

you laughed, bitter and broken. “why not? we’ve done everything else. why not ruin each other one last time?”

he stood. walked toward the door. for a moment, you thought he might turn back. might hold you one last time.

but he didn’t.

he just grabbed his keys. said, “take care of yourself.”

and left.

no last kiss. no apology. no closure. just the sound of the door closing behind him.

and you? you sank to the floor and let yourself break in all the ways you never did when he was still around. because that’s what grief is. not loud. not cinematic. just quiet. endless. a weight you learn to carry.

the days after were a blur. your bed felt too big. chest too tight. you stopped listening to music. stopped answering texts. you would reread your old conversations until the words turned cruel.

he didn’t check on you. didn’t ask if you were okay. and maybe that hurt the most. you hadn’t heard from him in 97 days. not that you were counting. (not that you weren’t.)

he became a ghost in your world. you stopped going to the places he liked. muted his name everywhere. you tried to erase him, but love doesn’t delete like that. you hated him. you missed him. you hated yourself for missing him.

and then, at 1:42 a.m., your phone lit up.

jaehyun: hey. can we talk?

you wanted to throw the phone across the room. wanted to say no. to tell him to go to hell. but your heart whispered what if.

you stared at the screen. yeah. you answered and sat in silence until the knock came.

you opened the door and there he was, he looked the same. same face. same tired eyes. same scent that lived in your sheets long after he didn’t. “you look…” he started, then paused. “different.”

you did. you weren’t the same desperate girl he left behind. but you weren’t quite whole, either.

he stepped inside like he still had a right to. sat on the couch like it remembered him. looked around like it was a museum of what used to be his life. “i’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

you didn’t answer.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “i just… i missed you.” he said it like a confession. like it cost him something to speak the words out loud. he moved closer. slow. cautious. like approaching something fragile. “you can tell me to leave,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “i’ll go.”

you didn’t. you should have. but you didn’t.

because yes, a part of you hated him. but the other part, the weaker, had been starving for this. for him.

he raised his hand and touched your cheek, gently, like he thought you might disappear. and when his fingers brushed your jaw, god, it was all it took. something inside you broke open, sharp, aching, hungry. he leaned in, and you let him.

the kiss started slow. unsure. but it didn’t stay that way. it turned desperate. like he was chasing something in your mouth that he couldn’t find. your breath caught in your throat. your fingers gripped the back of his shirt. his mouth was warm and familiar and wrong and right and everything you had both tried to forget.

you let him press you down onto the couch, his body covering yours, soon his hands were in your arms, on your waist. shaking just slightly as he touched you, pulling you into him like he was trying to remember all the parts he used to know by heart, but didn’t know if he was allowed to anymore.

and still, you let him.

his hands were under your shirt, pushing it up slowly, carefully, like he was afraid you’d change your mind. you let him. he’d peel your clothes off like nothing had happened. like he hadn’t left. like he hadn’t shattered you and vanished into silence.

your breath caught when his fingers brushed over your stomach. he waited, then moved lower. you didn’t say yes. you didn’t say no. you just pulled him closer. his lips trailed down your neck, warm and familiar, the stubble on his jaw scraping against your skin.

you gasped when his tongue flicked across your collarbone, when his hand slipped under your waistband and cupped you with that same quiet certainty he always had. you arched into him, your body betraying your mind. you hated how easy it was to remember, how good it felt.

you tugged at his shirt and he pulled it off, your hands gliding over his chest like they used to, fingertips tracing the lines you had memorized in another lifetime. his mouth was on your breasts, sucking gently, teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you moan. you felt yourself pulse under his touch, heat pooling low in your belly, that ache you hadn’t felt in months returning like it never left.

he whispered your name once. just once. then pushed your legs apart, settling between them. you let him. his fingers slipped into you first, slow, deep. you grabbed at his shoulders, breath stuttering as he worked you open. his hands moved like they used to, confident, familiar, like he never forgot how.

and next, he was inside you. so slow it hurt. like he was trying to feel everything. every inch. every second. your bodies moved in sync, rhythm remembered, sweat-slicked and breathless. you held him tight, fingers digging into his back, thighs trembling around his hips as he thrust deeper. his lips traced the curve of your shoulder, your neck, your chest, like muscle memory. but after all that, you felt it.

the absence.

he was there. his skin against yours. his breath hot on your neck. but he wasn’t really with you. not the way he used to be. and god, it hurt.

you buried your face in his shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t hear the way your breath hitched. you kissed his throat to keep from crying. let your body lie for you, while your heart whispered don’t do this, don’t do this.

you came first, with your head buried in his neck, tears slipping down your cheeks before you even noticed. he followed not long after, with a low, broken groan against your skin.

afterward, silence. just the sound of your breathing, uneven and raw and his weight on top of you, heavy and familiar and unbearable. he stayed there for a while. but eventually, he sat up. pulled on his shirt in silence. his fingers lingered on the collar like he was stalling.

you hated how fast the cold returned.

you turned your head slowly, watching the side of his face. he looked calm. almost peaceful. like he’d gotten what he came for. but you hadn’t.

you already knew what was coming next. you saw it in his eyes, that haunted distance. the words came. softly, carefully, as if that would make it hurt less: “i thought maybe… it would feel like before.” your stomach twisted. he looked at you then, finally. “but it doesn’t,” he said. “i don’t think it ever will.”

his words hung in the air like smoke. toxic. suffocating.

you didn’t say anything. what was there to say? you already knew. you had known since the moment you opened the door. he stood. walked to the entryway slowly, like part of him hated this too. but he didn’t touch you. didn’t kiss your forehead. didn’t ask if you were okay.

he just whispered, “i’m sorry,” and left.

but this time, when the door clicked shut, you didn’t cry. you just laid there. naked. still warm from him. but colder than you’d ever felt in your life.

[zombieplaygrounds]

cw: drunk sex, car sex, casual intercourse, not proof read

Simon - a man intimidating on several different levels - did not know how to handle a crying girl. Especially not one of your caliber, drunk, babbling to him about god knows what. All he could do was sip his shitty liquor, stare at you and your group of friends giggling behind you. And of course you just had to blurt out magic fucking words: "Do you think I'm ugly?" He took a moment, not out of hesitance, but consideration; you and your big glossy eyes, flushed face, even the messy hair somehow you-

"No." Simon's voice was a low rumble, and for a moment it comforted you, made you shut your eyes and nod for a bit. Only a bit, before you choked out another sob.

"Then why does he not wanna fuck me?" It was immature, really. Simon shouldn't enlighten your bold behavior, but he couldn't help it. You were cute. But that didn't change anything. You were still sobbing before him, rubbing your face raw of steaming hot tears and drunken frustration. Ruining your pretty face. Simon leaned back for a moment, considering your words. Whoever broke your heart was a real, damn idiot.

Sure, you were a bit whiny, annoying; but it was easily overlooked with how sweet you seemed. Maybe it was the drinks Simon had indulged in himself, because he was actually considering this.

Another choked cry from you rushed him to blurt out his next words, "I'll fuck ya."

Something about your silence said more than words did. God, forgive him for relishing in this small victory - you were a virgin. Evident by your slight hesitance in his words, the flinch, the cute quivering lip like you really wanted it. But you were scared. Smart girl, should honestly know better than to fuck this big, scary man. And still -

"Okay." You nodded, huffed. Your friends by now had wandered off to do whatever the fuck drunk gals do. Looked just about as broken up as you were. Simon chuckled a bit, pocketed his keys, wallet, and offered your hand a place in his.

It was shocking, the moment you felt the scarred callouses along his palms. It made him laugh breathily, "Like it, do ya?"

"Mhm..!" Such a puppy. You practically scooted a snuggle against his arm, wrapping around his muscles while he led you out. Didn't deserve to be fucked in a bar like a common whore; he'd give you the benefit of some privacy with his darkened windows, turn the cooler on so the heat of the moment didn't overwhelm you so much.

You were so compliant, something he'd be sure to correct if this ever went anywhere; couldn't have you seeking cock from just anyone. But Simon understood, poor thing. You needed your pussy to be filled up, and he was willing to help you out. Let you cry on his cock, tighten up just a bit as your arousal drooled down and stained his pants with your fast orgasm.

Your hands attempting to cover your face, which Simon just couldn't have. He'd correct that with a single hand, tightening your wrist in his grip and holding them behind you. His freehand guiding your hips, while he tutted praises against your breasts. Panting roughly, either he was out of shape, or you felt much better than he anticipated.

Regardless, you were reduced to nothing but a mewling bitch. Burying your face against him while be babied you with each thrust. "Poor doll, needed someone to show your place. mm?"

"Don't worry, bird, Simon's gonna make ya feel real good."