#like without talking it out beforehand

[kiseiakhun]

Has tiktok been teaching the hypnokink femcel bimbo girlies about safewords

[buckevantommy]

AU where s7!tommy is still closeted (he knows he likes men but isn't out and is struggling accepting he's gay) so when The Kiss inevitably happens, instead of checking Buck is okay and making plans for a date he freaks the fuck out ie. the fear replaces the want and he apologises and runs out of the loft before Buck can remember how words work.

[cinnamon-phrog]

I don't trust someone whose' never interacted with my art before to ask for art like c'mon

[hp-lonesome-actual-art]

Uhm, quick batch of rough doodles from today. Nothing too impressive here just trying to strengthen my muscle memory and ability to recreate his given expressions. First two where using an image reference since I feel like I always go off model whenever I try on my own (hence the two last ones being more stylized) :/

Also another photo close-up of this one in particular because OOOOOH SIR I love when people draw him with thick glossy eyeshadow I can’t stop staring at his eyes like that help he’s just too damn gorgeous or something. I’ll try to give an update on how much I would allow myself to simp because with me being aroace I can never tell how to gauge these kinds of things with my fictional fixations << for now we’re chilling with some standard platonic admiration tho so it’s all good (…I think. A particular artwork would beg to disagree with me on that but shush we will get to it later lol. Innocent until proven guilty verdict)

[kickbutts-singsongs]

You know what would be really funny? (bnha spoilers)

I’ve seen quite a few Dad For One theories lately, especially discussing Izuku maybe having the AFO quirk locked away behind that vault, and bringing in Yoichi’s commentary of that quirk having the potential to be the “kindest in the world”

And while I’m not really a DFO theorist, it’s still compelling (cuz I mean— why was Garaki Izuku’s pediatrician?? and he’s related to the dragon wing boy Izuku used to play with??? suspicious…)

Anyway, in light of this most recent chapter (412), Kudou’s encouraging Izuku to give up One For All

Sooooo ummm

what if instead of Izuku inherently having AFO, in the end, he and Shigaraki just—

switcharoo.

[bekahdoesnerdshit]

Thinking about how a lot of Ransom's callousness and like, performative boisterousness comes from how profoundly lonely she is. She doesn't have any family to speak of: she's an only child, her parents died when she was a kid, her grandfather died a couple years ago. She's divorced, she sees her kids like once or twice a month, she's had a string of fun but ultimately shallow romantic relationships. She's too high-energy to fit in with her more bookish colleagues, but too tied to her work at the university to give it up to become a full time adventurer. She doesn't have a Place, she doesn't have "her" people, and she's been telling herself for so long that she doesn't care that by now she actually believes it. It doesn't sting if no one wants you around long term if you beat them to the punch and push them away first.

[onomonopetabread]

If Instagram has a thousand haters, I am one of them. If Instagram has one hater, it is me. If Instagram has no haters, but very existence has been wiped off this plane of existence

[savethepinecones]

so so sick of being yelled at for being depressed

[sugussugar]

boyfriend! satoru with a reader who struggles with an eating disorder and body image issues.

boyfriend! satoru who, before finding out, steals your food all the time. it's intended to be silly. “ooo, haha, we're sharing food that was supposed to just be for you!” is essentially what he thinks; he unintentionally stays ignorant to how he's the only one eating, how he's the one who finishes the whole plate of food, not both of you.

boyfriend! satoru who, before finding out, pokes your stomach a lot. it's mindless, like a habit. he doesn't notice how badly it affects your vision of yourself. he doesn't see how you stare at your naked body in the mirror and remember how he poked your stomach; “does he not like my body? is this his way of saying i look fat?” you think to yourself as tears bead up on your waterline.

boyfriend! satoru who finds out by pure accident. you were in the bedroom, on a phone call with a girl friend of yours, and somehow your eating disorder came up as a topic. you didn't think he'd hear, he was all the way in the living room, after all. but what you didn't know was that he'd started to miss your presence and went to your shared bedroom to relieve the ache, only to hear what you and your friend were talking about.

boyfriend! satoru who starts picking up on all the signs he neglected to notice before, such as you never wearing certain clothes he bought you if you deemed it ‘too revealing’, your stomach growling at the most random of times, when you would poke at your own stomach and frown, how you'd always hug a pillow to your stomach when you're sitting in bed or on the couch, eating slowly, never scolding him for stealing your food, skipping meals by ‘accident’, always ‘not hungry’, ect.

boyfriend! satoru who feels so ashamed for not noticing beforehand, because how could he not? the signs were there, he just wasn't looking hard enough.

boyfriend! satoru who has no clue how to bring it up after that. because, realistically, how would he? “hey, babe! the other day i heard you telling your friend about how you hate your body and have an eating disorder, wanna unpack that?” no, that sounds intrusive and insensitive.

boyfriend! satoru who, instead, tries to do little acts to try and get you to like your body without directly bringing it up.

boyfriend! satoru who litters little kisses all over your tummy right before bed. it turns into a nightly routine.

boyfriend! satoru who rubs your stomach whenever he's spooning you from behind while kissing your shoulder every now and then.

boyfriend! satoru who murmurs soft: “you're so pretty”'s, and “such a beautiful body”'s every time the two of you get sexually intimate.

boyfriend! satoru whose new favorite position is missionary, because it means he can watch your face heat up while he tells you how gorgeous your body is.

boyfriend! satoru who stops stealing your food.

boyfriend! satoru who starts cooking homemade meals for you. he makes a mental list of all your favorite foods alongside a list of foods your friends have said you liked and gets to work. he knows you're more likely to eat it if you know he made it, rather than if it's just an instant can of nothingness like normally.

boyfriend! satoru who watches your plate whenever the two of you eat together. it isn't an intense stare, just looking down at it every now and then, smiling a little whenever he sees you actually eating.

boyfriend! satoru who realizes it's working when all the tiny things you used to do stop happening. you eat at a regular pace now, you slap his hand when he steals your food, you tell him when you're hungry, you eat three meals a day, you wear all the clothes he buys you, you stop hiding your stomach, you're happier.

boyfriend! satoru who is ecstatic to have you feeling happy with yourself again. he thinks you're so pretty, you deserve to feel that way just as much as he does.

[ko-eko-ev-go-ms]

The struggle of putting yourself in the position of having to do a bunch of social stuff for a good cause but meanwhile you have SO MUCH social anxiety

[tobeholyistobeempty]

joel miller • be quiet, or i’ll make you

“Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

WARNINGS - smut smut smut mdni, porn with some plot, forced proximity, feral!joel, risky/secret sex, brutal sex, size!kink, dubcon if you squint but mostly a mutual want situation, reader and joel have an unspoken relationship, copious amounts of dirty talk, piv, creampie, daddy dom joel.

The world ended in disaster.

You’ve lived with that knowledge for years now, and you think you’ve finally come to terms with the kind of things you’ll get from it. Pain. Loss. Destruction. The same chaos, day in day out, just in different forms.

You know that at this point you’ll be lucky if you survive until tomorrow; so you take it in stride.

And it’s with that thought that you find yourself following Joel into the city, your steps just as reluctant as he was to agree to this. You don’t particularly want to be out here — and neither does he — but you’ve been wanting to look for more medical supplies for a while now and Joel wasn’t about to let you go alone. Despite how much bitchin’ he did beforehand.

You can’t tell which is more depressing; the streets covered in broken glass and littered with remnants of a life long gone, or the buildings that are nearly crumbling to the ground. Neither are very pleasant to look at, but not many things are these days, so you keep moving. You have a job to do, and you don’t have too much time to do it — the sun won’t be up much longer, and you want to get the fuck out of here before the real dangerous kinds of people come out lookin’ for their next meal.

Or, whatever Joel had said earlier. Mostly just in attempt to scare you.

Minutes feel like hours as you keep your gaze pointed forward, and when you pass a shattered window belonging to some old broken down building, you don’t dare look inside.

You’d rather not know what lingers inside death eaten walls.

But it’s while you’re doing that, keeping your gaze ahead, that you miss the fact that Joel has stopped walking. When it finally registers that the world around you has gotten quieter - and when you finally do turn around - you’re surprised for two reasons.

The first being that he even stopped at all, and the second being the fucking look on his face.

“You alright?” You ask as you edge closer, glancing at the abandoned building that’s in front of him. It doesn’t look like anything remarkable, but there’s definitely something in the way he stares at it. “Joel, you still with me?”

He isn’t saying anything, his expression is rather blank — but you know him well enough to know that he’s not just seeing what’s right in front of him. He’s seeing something else entirely. He snaps back to attention faster than you would have expected at the sound of your voice, and when his eyes land down on yours - there’s something inside them that makes your heart sink.

“Somethin’s wrong.” Is all he says before he’s grabbing your wrist, and yanking you inside.

Your heart starts pounding faster, but you try your best to stay calm. He isn’t the kind of man who would panic without cause, so you know he must have seen something - or heard something - and you’re doing your best not to let that scare you.

“Joel—shit—what the hell—“ you stumble over rubble and pieces of broken furniture. “What’re you—“

He’s pulling you deeper into the building, not giving you a chance to stand still long enough to say more. When you get to a staircase he yanks you down a few steps, waiting for the sound of the door shutting behind you before shoving your shoulders back against the wall.

“You listen to me—“ he’s panting, words spat through grit teeth. “You’re gonna’ shut up, and you’re gonna’ stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

The tone of his voice alone forces you to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from talking. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve seen him this serious. You’d almost forgotten that he was capable of producing this kind of tension - the kind that’s so palpable it could be cut with a knife.

So, you just nod, lips pressed into a thin line, and you hope that it’s enough.

“Alright.” He doesn’t seem certain of your answer, but he nods anyway, reaching for your wrist again and dragging you down the remaining stairs.

When you get to the bottom, he opens the door slowly, eyes darting around until they land on a nearby closet - and it’s only after the first step you take towards it that you hear noises on the floor above you.

Footsteps.

And way too fucking many for you to be comfortable.

The kind of heavy, laden-boot marching you’d dread to hear on good days - nevermind while you’re out in dangerous territory, trying your damnest to flee unseen. It’s only seconds before the steps grow louder, and you can feel your heart rate speeding up again - while Joel is staring at the ceiling with such intensity you think that he might just be able to will it to break if he so much as blinked at it.

Then, in a flash, he snaps out of it - dragging you toward the closet and shoving you inside before you can even think about protesting.

And god, is it fucking cramped.

The closet is small. Small enough that you have to force yourself closer to the wall so that he has space to squeeze inside behind you. And it’s within the first second that he shuts the door, and the darkness swallows you both whole - in which you realize you have a new problem altogether.

“Joel—“ you choke out as a heavy palm snakes around your waist, pressing tight against your belly. He’s a solid wall behind you, his front flush against your back, and all you can fucking feel is his hot breath against your ear - his stubble tickling your cheek. “What’s—“

“No talking.” And then he brings his free hand up to cover your mouth, and you have to stifle a noise that threatens to explode in your chest. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

You take solace in the fact that he can’t see how flushed your face becomes, but your stupid brain is working overtime - overanalyzing the feeling of his calloused palm against your lips, the heat of his mouth way too fucking close to your ear, his free hand that seems to be sliding lower down your abdomen—

“Stop squirming.” He whispers, all heat as his fingers press a little harder against your lower stomach.

You long to bark at him. I can’t control it.

But you can’t. So instead you try to focus on the sounds of the people upstairs. You try to pay more attention to the way your heart is threatening to break free through your sternum. Anything to try and take your mind off of the way he’s touching you - but he makes it so, so hard.

You’re certain you would have a better fighting chance if you were to try and move mountains.

Without even thinking, your hand comes up to wrap around his wrist, and it’s then that his lips curve into a smile against your ear. And when the realization comes crashing down - the realization that he’s fully aware of what’s happening to you - you think you may just collapse.

Oh, god, this is torture.

If it were anyone else, you’d think this was a joke. You’d think that perhaps the way he’s touching you was some kind of attempt at making the terrifying just a little more tolerable, a little more exhilarating for different reasons - but this isn’t just anyone. This is Joel. And you know his mind never works like what. Instead, he simply acts on instinct - in ways that usually leave you reeling and your thoughts in a whirlwind.

You’ve been through this a million times with him.

Unsurprisingly, this time is no different.

And as you try to focus on the footsteps above you - desperately searching for a thought, a train of any kind to follow - his hand moves again, fingertips tracing the waistband of your dirt covered cargos - barely dipping between fabric and skin.

It’s slow, teasing, but it’s enough. And you don’t currently have enough control over yourself to stop your back from arching, pressing directly against the bulge in his jeans that’s growing impatiently despite himself.

And it’s the way he exhales in your ear, the way you hear him inhale right after before his nose brushes the shell of your ear — before his hand dips lower to trace the zipper of your fly — that you find yourself fighting for your life to swallow the moan that threatens to spill because the people on the second floor are now shouting and hollering, and the whole floor seems to quake under the force of their heavy boots.

A second passes. Then two, and then ten — there’s silence. You’re pretty sure the steps are now heading away from where you’re hiding, and you think Joel must agree because he slips his hand from your mouth, sliding it down your jaw.

“Joel—“ you choke out, the last syllables of his name sounding desperate. “I-we—“

And yet again, you aren’t able to finish, because he has a habit of taking the words you think you want to say straight from your chest. You aren’t able to process it until a moment later - when his mouth finds your neck, fingers slipping into your now unzipped cargo pants.

This isn’t what you meant.

You don’t have the chance to tell him that. You don’t have the cognitive ability to push the idea that this isn’t the time. You don’t even have enough room in your head to acknowledge how this could go so badly, so quickly. You’re too drunk on the high of his touch to think straight.

And when his fingers drag the lace of your underwear to the side - all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to a God you’re sure you’ve never actually believed in that you’ll survive this without the shame over how fucking soaked you are eating you alive first.

His fingers find your clit, making slow, small circles. Just enough to make you keen. Just enough to make you forget who you are, and what you’re doing. You think if he keeps it up for any longer, the sounds trapped behind your teeth are going to jailbreak before you can get a handle on them. He knows it too - because it’s only a split second after that thought enters your mind, that he whispers gravel in your ear again.

“If y’can’t stay quiet, I’ll make you.” And it’s said with enough sternness to let you know that it isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. “Be good f’me.”

You don’t know if you can. You don’t know if you can possibly keep yourself silent. Not when his lips are teasing your burning flesh, not when his fingers are rolling your clit, not when he’s whispering promises of heaven in your ear.

But it’s then, that you hear the floorboards creak, and you know then, that you have no choice.

Either find a way to stay silent, or throw yourself headfirst into danger.

“Mm.” He hums as his fingers slip lower, sliding along your slit until they find your embarrassingly wet heat - to which you find yourself widening your feet despite yourself.

And this time, the noise that slips isn’t audible. Not to him anyway. But you can feel the sound vibrate the back of your throat. You can feel the way it glides over your tongue - and when you have the wherewithal, you bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it’s almost painful. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you’re glad because you know he’d only find it funny.

He pushes a finger into you, and holy fuck—

“Oh—“ the sound gets out of your mouth before you can stop it, involuntarily defying his direct order to shut the fuck up.

You hope, foolishly, it was quiet enough for him to not hear.

It isn’t, and as a result the hand that had been sitting lazily around your jaw slips firm over your mouth again, yanking your head back against his shoulder. You feel his fingers tighten as if to let you know that it’ll only get harder as his finger pushes deeper, and then retreats, pumping into you slow and steady.

“F-fuck—“ your whine is smothered against his palm, and you somehow have half the mind to realize the footsteps have stopped. Vanished. “J-joel.”

You’re expecting some type of response, some biting be quiet — but instead, all you get is a deep grunt in your ear and a roll of his hips against your ass as he slides another finger into your cunt, thumb brushing your clit.

And there’s almost no fight in you left to resist this - to resist the pleasure he’s pouring into your veins. You’d curse him if you could, if you could put more than four coherent words together to do it - but all there seems to be left in your mind is his name, which he’s using against you like he always does.

“Good girl.” He praises between slow, steady thrusts and you have to wonder what kind of game he’s playing to get you like this - to get you so undone you don’t even remember your own goddamn name.

Then again, you know better than to think there’s a game, at all. There are no games with Joel. He does what he wants and you’re either the benefit of it, or you’re the object of his ire.

But when a third finger slips into you, stretching and stuffing your cunt wider than you were mentally prepared for - you forget about any of that as you bite down on his hand as hard as you dare because it’s just too fucking much.

“J-joel—“ you try again, shaking your head. The footsteps haven’t returned. You have to believe they’re gone. You know Joel knows it too. “P-please—“

And like someone struck a match in a room full of gasoline, he seems to have decided that you’ve waited long enough. In the blink of an eye, you feel his palm leave your mouth, and move to the limited space between you. He’s unbuckling his belt.

“What’s the matter, huh?” He all but growls in your ear, still pumping his fingers deep. “Three too much for you? How d’ya think you’re gonna’ take my cock if you can’t even take my fuckin’ fingers.”

God. His voice is deep, dripping like sin. It goes straight to the center of your chest and you feel like the walls of your rib cage are cracking open. You have no idea how you’re going to be able to take him like this - especially when he’s so far gone it’s like he’s forgotten himself.

“I-I don’t know—“ and it’s the truth. You have no concept of how you’ll take a single drop of him in this state. But he’s already shifted himself free, pulling his fingers out to yank your pants down and slide his throbbing shaft into the slick space between your thighs. “F-fuck. You’re crazy.”

“Worse.” And you already know what he’s going to tell you just by the way the word drips into your ear. “M’insane.”

Truer words.

You never imagined that you’d ever find the thought of Joel Miller going insane so enticing. You imagine all kinds of ways you would have pictured it if someone had told you back when you first met - but somehow, this was never one of the things that came to mind.

“What does that make me?” You hiss as his fingers find your clit again, as he kicks your legs a little wider to slide his leaking tip against your slit.

“A goddamned fool.” He answers as he sinks into you, and there’s never been a more divine connection in the world. He groans into your ear, and you have to bite your lip again until you’re sure you might draw blood. “But you already knew that.”

And somehow, even still - you do.

Yeah. You do. He isn’t the type of man someone can ever know fully. He’s got walls and barriers built high - a fortress, impenetrable and vast - but somehow, you still manage to squeeze your way through it. It isn’t lost on you that you’re the only one who has.

“J-joel—go fuckin’ easy, please—“ you’re grabbing at the wall infront of you as he splits you open without so much as giving you a chance for breath. “It’s—been a while—“

And that stops him for a beat - but not for long, and not long enough. He still doesn’t go easy, still thrusts right to the hilt with the kind of power you’d associate with a man half his age - a man who (if the world hadn’t gone to hell) would be so close to retiring that he could taste the future on the back of his tongue - but you wouldn’t want him to anyway.

“I know, babygirl. I know. Just take it nice n’ deep, f’me. Just take it.”

And then he grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you back so he can get even deeper, your spine arching just enough.

Fucking hell.

The sound that’s almost impossible not to make threatens to rip from the pit of your chest, but you bite down in time and it turns into something between a strangled cry and an elongated whimper. You know you’re going to be walking funny tomorrow - but right now, there’s no such thing as being able to imagine tomorrow.

“You—fuck.” It’s a whisper so pained someone might think you’re actually being impaled. In some ways you are. “Oh, god, Joel. Ohmygod you’re deep—“

“There she is.” He all but growls into your ear. “There’s the tough woman I know.” If he wasn’t holding you so tightly you might’d fall at the way he suddenly slams into you. “Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

You almost bite your tongue in half at the very thought of him doing that. Your mind is a wasteland of icoherent thought - and it’s then that you know with all the certainty in the world that you’d been done for the moment he came into your life. He always had a rough edge to him - but back then, when you first met, you thought it was just the product of a shitty life. But now, you know better - now, you know he’s just a good-natured person with an innate drive to protect - and you’d go to your grave knowing that you’d go there loving him for it.

Even though, right now, it feels a lot more like he’s trying to kill you rather than protect you.

“Ohhh, fuck—“ you hiss through grit teeth as he pulls out, dragging slow at tight, wet walls. “M’close to cryin’ now.”

“Mmm.” He all but purrs. “That’ll mean I’m doin’ my job right.” There’s heat in the way he speaks that you swear would burn even the toughest person. But then again, that’s always been something you’d only ever been able to say about Joel. “M’not gonna’ be gentle. You know you ain’t deserving of it right now.”

Another time, you’d tell him he was wrong. Another time, you would have argued that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong - but right now, your thoughts are just as lost as your voice.

Still, you try your best. “W-why? Because I—mmf—dragged you outta’ bed?”

“Wrong.” You can’t see it, but you’re sure there’s a smirk on his face. “You really wanna get into it? Wanna’ make a list?”

You don’t, but you have the horrible feeling that this is going to happen either way.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask with what little breath you can find.

“No.” The word sounds so simple - but in that moment, it might as well have been a dagger. “You don’t.”

He pulls out just so he can drive back into you harder, hand sliding from your hair and back over your mouth.

“First, you dragged me outta’ bed. That right there? Shoulda been spanked for it. Next, you got yourself pinned in a goddamn closet with me after raiders chased us down. Almost got us killed.” Another painfully slow draw out, followed by a hard drive back in - smacking your cervix. “An’ for what? Cause’ you don’t wanna’ listen when I say it’s too dangerous to be out here.”

There are a million retorts you could have - most of them have something to do with you being able to take care of yourself - but none of them even find the beginning of your tongue.

He’ll take that win. Just like he takes everything else.

“Not t’mention you’ve kept this perfect ass from me for far too long.” He’s fucking you hard now, head kissing your cervix with each long thrust and you’re crying out under his palm but the sound doesn’t escape. He makes sure of it. “Mmm, yeah. Far. Too. Long.”

You want to tell him to shut up - that he’s being an ass - but you’re two broken breaths from wailing at the sting on your cervix and the pressure he’s now swirling on your clit. The only thing that’s left for you to do is the only thing you can do.

Take it.

You roll your hips, shoving back against him with every thrust just to have him hit that much deeper - and if he has something to say about it, he doesn’t say it. But he seems satisfied with just that, and suddenly, you think he’s just as close as you are.

“That’s it.” His voice is tight. “Good girl. Just like that.”

His hips snap against your ass so hard you think you might end up bruised tomorrow, but the thought only adds to the haze in your mind.

“Ffffffuck—Joel—“ you mewl, pathetic desperate and needy as a whore, against his palm. His fingers speed up against your clit. “Oh!”

“Take it, baby. Make me fuckin’ proud.” He hisses in your ear, a groan slipping out between it. “So good. Pussy feels so good.”

“Gonna’ make me cum.” You try to speak - maybe another time you’d be embarrassed by how desperate you sound, but this isn’t that time and it’s not the time to be anything other than truthful. “Mmm—gonna cum J-joel—“

“Yeah you are.” He grunts, the rhythm of his thrusts stuttering just a little. “Squeezing my cock so goddamn tight. Fuckin’ cum on it, babygirl. Wanna’ feel you.”

The sound that pushes past his palm at just the last moment doesn’t sound like you - but you know it is. It's the sound of the kind of pleasure that you’ve never experienced before that makes your entire body feel like a rubber band that’s too tight, and you have the vaguest sense of your walls squeezing the life out of him but there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening at all - becuase your climax hits you like a goddamn freight train and its run you over hard.

You think he’s saying something - you know he is - but you can’t hear anything aside from the blood racing in your ears. Even still, you know exactly what happens next, because you’ve experienced it so many times. The way he loses himself, like he forgets every bit of control he prides himself for having and the need to empty himself inside you takes over.

He spills into you hard - and you love every second of it for the simplicity of the comedown.

It’s the kind of feeling that washes you in warmth. It’s the kind of feeling that tells you that the world is going to be okay, so long as you’ve got him and he’s got you. He groans and his hands come out to brace against the wall infront of you to hold himself up as he shoots hot jets of cum deep inside your cunt - and you can’t remember the last time you’d heard him breathe this hard. Though, truth be told, you can’t remember the last time you heard yourself breathe this hard, either.

Your mouth feels dry, your mind feels hazy, and your legs feel weak - and as he leans over you, he can surely tell all three - but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he drags his mouth over your ear with an inhale.

“Mmhmm.” He grumbles as he presses a kiss to your jaw. “Look what you made me to do ya.” Your cheek gets the same treatment, and a breath later as he turns your head slightly, your lips do too. “Gonna’ have my cum leakin’ out of ya all the way back to camp.”

The sound you make doesn’t even seem human, but it’s muffled before it even comes - because he’s kissing you. And it isn’t a hard kiss like you’d expect - it’s slow and steady, and you know he’s doing it in a way to say sorry, as if he realizes he might’ve gone a little too far.

You smile into it, and he does too.

“You really are insane.” You whisper as he pulls back slightly. “My cervix gonna’ need a week vacation after that.”

“M’not a good man, darlin'. If I was, I’d say sorry for that.” He whispers with a small kiss against your lips. “But I ain’t. So, I’ll just tell you I’ll take care of you later as much as you like. That good enough for now?”

There’s only one answer for you. Only one that’s ever been the answer with him.

“Always.” There is a beat of silence, and you smile in the dark. “I love you.”

He pulls out of you, finally, leaving the part of himself behind that tells you how much he loves you too without verbalizing it. Soon as he fixes his jeans, he helps you fix yours.

“And I love you.” He whispers, calloused palm finding your own. “Let’s get outta’ here. The sooner we’re back, the better.”

And that, you can’t agree more with.

[babycharmander]

(BOOK OF BILL SPOILERS)

I just finished reading The Book of Bill and I am kindof losing my mind over some of this stuff.

I had wondered if Alex Hirsch might make Bill sympathetic in some way and oh boy I was not expecting him to do it so successfully (and without cheapening Bill's character).

So, we learn that Bill was born into a 2D world... as a mutant who can see into the third dimension. He claims he was absolutely loved by all, but when talking about his powers, he mentions under Pyrokinesis:

"Cipher, Cipher, he's insane / Starting fires with his brain." The kids in grade school could be so cruel. But where are they now, huh? WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

So probably not quite as liked as he was letting on. To add to that, there's the silly straw page, which looks like silly nonsense until you decipher some of the codes:

"EYE DOCTOR OF A DIFFERENT KIND / WHO WANTS TO MAKE HIS PATIENTS BLIND" "THE DOCTOR SAYS / THREE SIPS A DAY / WILL MAKE THE VISIONS / GO AWAY"

I wasn't sure what this meant until I saw someone point out... he was seeing a third dimension that no one else could see. His parents probably took him to the eye doctor to try to "fix" him. Which, speaking of his eye doctor, the coded message in the section about human eyeballs says something interesting:

"MY OPTOMETRIST NEVER SAW IT COMING"

It could be a joke given beforehand he's talking about dissecting a human eye, but given the previous hints of medical abuse, I wouldn't put it past him that he tried to get revenge on his eye doctor.

Oh yeah and the whole thing about him setting his entire dimension on fire? Yeah it turns out it was entirely a mistake (he just wanted everyone to understand the third dimension he was seeing so they could be free of only two dimensions), he was so traumatized by it he blacks out when trying to recall it. He deeply, deeply regrets it, and...

"What? Your ENTIRE home dimension? destroyed? How? By what?" Bill looked distant, more distant than I'd ever seen him. "By a monster."

He sees himself as a monster.

And yet, he's not some innocent, misunderstood being. He still revels in causing pain and chaos. He's terrible in general, but becomes incredibly abusive toward Ford.

"YOU'RE MY PROPERTY. DON'T FORGET IT. The hillbilly abandoned you, your father won't want you returning without millions, you have no friends, and if you died out here in the snow, who would even miss you?"

Which... speaking of him and Ford...

Yes, yes, I know people ship them. But like, whether you see their relationship as romantic or platonic (I see it as the latter), there's some interesting parallels to be made here.

Both Bill and Ford are mutants who were mocked for their being different. (Bill was not physically a mutant, as far as we know, but more in the sense of him having vision stronger than that of everyone else in his dimension, and also having special powers. And he does describe himself as a mutant.) Both became social outcasts, separated from their families but still haunted by them (Ford seeing commercials of Stan on TV and running across old photos of him and his brother, Bill being haunted by his family in some form). Neither could return home for one reason or another. Both more powerful than their peers (Ford intellectually, Bill in terms of actual powers). Both of them isolated and alone. (Yes, Bill does have the Henchmaniacs, but they seem like shallow friends, and only really seem to follow him out of a desire to have a place to party.)

Ford was not aware of most of this, aside from knowing that Bill could not go home because his dimension was destroyed. But Bill absolutely saw himself in Ford. There was no other person he tried to use whom he felt a stronger connection to.

And he actually seems to care about Ford--he actually gave him a birthday present, and when Ford didn't like it, he decided to get drunk and party with him instead to make up for it.

And then when Ford realizes what Bill's plan actually is and refuses to go along with it, and fights back no matter what Bill does, Bill completely breaks down.

After living for trillions of years, he met someone who was like him, and that person rejected him.

He goes berserk, wreaking havoc, being caught by the dimensional authority that he's been taunting for most of his life.

And then after dying and being cast out of hell for being too annoying, he winds up faced with the Axolotl, who sends him to therapy, where he continues to break down further, sending out the book in a desperate attempt to find someone, anyone who will help him break loose and wreak havoc once again.

"You have no friends, and if you died ... who would even miss you?"

I don't know, Bill. Who would even miss you?

In short,

[ID: The front and back of one of Bill's Valentines cards. On the front is a black void with Bill Cipher lying down without his hat, gazing blankly upwards, with the text "I DON'T WANT TO DIE ALONE" above him. On the back is a simple white "TO/FROM" in red, with a red outline illustration of Bill spontaneously growing a mouth and eating a realistic, bloody heart. /end ID]

[salem-s]

18+ mdni

STONEPIT FINALS AND SPRING CHAOS (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS rafe's been your best friend since forever, and you thought he'd be ecstatic to see you after a three week trip; however, you overhear him telling his friends that it's been nice without you clinging to him every five minutes. so that's what you give him: space. every attempt to get you back falls short, and rafe's confusion only augments when he sees you running with a different crowd.

WARNINGS suggestive themes, language, half smut (??? everything's over the clothes, lowkey switch!rafe), swearing, angst and miscommunication but with a happy ending. 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 16.9k... That's genuinely not okay...

SONGS OF THE CHAPTER guilty pleasure by chappell roan | transparentsoul by willow | misery business by paramore. we're gonna pretend these are original songs by their band, alright?

“It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip.”

You've been replaying his words in your head all night.

Sure, you invited herself over with the intent to surprise him after being gone for three weeks. Coming home a day earlier than expected was a set in stone plan all along, and thought nothing of walking into one of his renowned parties like you always have.

The familiar crowd greeted you like an old friend, throwing around heys and you’re back already? and all the other surprise lingo. You truly did your best to smile and nod to all of them, however these people weren't really your friends, instead mere acquaintances in an adjacent social circle.

The one person you really wanted to see was, undoubtedly, out back smoking a joint or nursing a beer away from the crowd with his two close friends, so you knew exactly where to find Rafe Cameron whenever his six foot something height wasn’t peaking above the crowd.

So on you walked: through the yard, in through the kitchen, and out towards the back porch. 

Along the way, you bumped into his younger sister, Wheezie, who greeted you with a genuine hug and sigh of relief that, finally, she’d be able to tolerate any social gatherings held at her house, as long as you were there.

You mostly (always) sought out refuge in Wheezie's room when you didn’t feel like entertaining these rich kid assholes, or whenever you were getting bored with whatever conversations you'd been dragged into just for the sole purpose of keeping him company.

Wheezie, too, knew exactly where Rafe was and even grabbed your hand to lead you to him. 

"It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip. The clinginess has really been pissin’ me off. It's like she can’t do her own thing."

And of course, Wheezie heard it, too, gripping your hand tighter out of pity - or compassion - you couldn’t tell.

Before Wheezie could do anything, you slipped her hand away and took a step back. The young girl looked mortified at her brother’s words, her mouth gaping open and closed like a fish to attempt to defend his words or spin them to make them mean something different.

But you both knew her fruitless attempts wouldn't mean anything.

They were jarring, the words he spoke.

And, frankly, they really pissed you off.

You only stuck around his hip at these things because he always told you to beforehand, something about not wanting you to wander off into trouble (which you had a tendency to do), or because you always grounded him when he was overstimulated.

Rafe was the one who held you close at night, whispering sweet nothings in your ear when he’d snuck in through the window after particularly rough fights with his father. He was the one who needed to hold you, to tether himself to someone, to something, just to make it through the night.

So why the fuck was he talking about your clinginess as he's the one who couldn't go one night without you? 

You scoffed when you heard it because, pfft, he must’ve been talking about someone else, surely. There’s no way he said that to his friends, and had the audacity to join in with their laughter.

Oh, it pissed you off.

Because if he really wanted space, sure, you could do that. No problem.

If there's one thing you prided yourself over, it was your dignity and stubbornness. You could give him space. You'll give him all the damn space and go find your own thing. 

Which is what you did later that night. 

Rafe had advised against it when the proposition was broached to you a couple weeks ago: a music gig.

Here's the sitch: you had a voice people would stop and listen to – not that you particularly liked boasting about it. It just came to you naturally, and you liked producing in the quaint privacy of your bedroom, mashing songs and creating unheard harmonies on audio software for fun.

You didn’t participate in the school plays or drama programs because, no, those were too on the nose and not the kind of music you'd like to sing (in front of people, anyway). Plus, all of the theater kids in the area are even more annoying than the preconception of the stereotype. Your voice was mainly barricaded inside the shower tiles or sitting pretty in the passenger seat of Rafe's car, or occasionally when you found yourself alone at the beach or on a walk in the dark. 

After a particularly grueling and obnoxiously abhorrent gala earlier in the summer, you found yourself separated from the party and wallowing with a stolen drink in the back alley of the country club. Rafe was off entertaining whatever girl he had his eyes on for the night and Wheezie wasn’t feeling well so she didn’t attend.

You were bored, tipsy, and feeling pathetically lonely. So, naturally, you started singing softly to yourself in the quiet solitude of the alley, thinking you were alone.

What you didn’t know was that the staff – a group of Pogues who needed a quick cash grab in the catering gig – were having their smoke break, and conveniently needed a new lead after their old one transferred schools to the mainland. They were friends with Sarah, Rafe's other sister, who you haven't been close to since you were kids.

You were weary of their proposition, the group not normally being the kind of people you'd hangout with due to them being intimidating, almost too cool, to where you thought you wouldn’t fit in.

Oh, but you did. You did well. 

Rafe's overly protective words echoed in your head as you instantly beelined for the door despite Wheezie's pleas, leaving his home and immediately driving to the Cut.

You were told where they practice, a quaint house on the far side of the island where they could riff and rehearse without a noise complaint. You found herself standing in the garage with the mock stage, with a rising sense of pride and retribution.

You told them, fuck it, you were in, that you'd do anything to take the spot that was so graciously offered to you all that time ago, to contribute to their band and to the competitions held in the rough part of the island. 

And in you were. 

Meanwhile, Rafe had never felt so fucking lost in his life. 

Not when he got into earth-shattering arguments with his dad about his spending habits, his overflowing temper, or anything he did under the sun (because anything he did seemed to piss his dad off).

Not when he’d spent those months of endless fighting in a hole of self pity, drowning himself in partying and occasional lines to numb the phantom ache in his heart.

Not when he’d lose girlfriend after girlfriend because he was incapable of doing what was expected of a boyfriend, not what was expected of Rafe himself. 

He was constantly told growing up that feelings were weak, and wearing them on your sleeve was even worse. Being sad was just an excuse to get a pass, to draw attention to get people to feel bad for you. Being sad meant being weak. Being emotional meant being weak. Caring too hard about things meant being weak. 

Normally, Rafe was able to move past these episodes because he always had you to seek solace in. But he lost you.

And he had no clue fucking why. 

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone breathing that he’d been counting down the days until you arrived back from your trip, not even his closest friends that he clung to in your absence.

Because Rafe had a reputation to uphold, and revealing such strong feelings for his best friend would definitely damage his stone cold apparatus. People would see his walls broken down for you and they would assume they were entitled to the same treatment. 

No. Rafe liked being unapproachable. Feared, even.

He liked that you clung to him at parties, at the stupid gala events their families would organize to flaunt their money in expensive garb and even more expensive donations that they announce with a bullhorn and neon sign. He liked that you clung to him because he asked you to.

He always asked you to.

And you always complied. 

Deep down, Rafe knew that you'd rather go off and stir up some trouble instead, or not attend all together and get into even deeper shit somewhere else, but that meant that you'd be away from him, not under his protective eye, and that always stirred up something ugly in him.

Rafe had to come rescue you one too many times, most times you didn’t even need to ask.

He was just there, waiting for you to be done with whatever you wanted to do, then he’d drive you home and (almost always) stay over.

You would tease him relentlessly, you and your smart mouth riling him up to tremendous heights. But he relished in it. He craved it. Because he’d rather you drag him every time you opened her mouth instead of what you were doing now, which was ignoring him. 

And the radio silence was killing him. 

Rafe was ecstatic the day you got home, waiting in your driveway to bring you to school like always. But after waiting for what felt like ages, he found himself on the doorstep yelling at you to hurry up.

Instead of being met with your pretty, Rafe had to hear it from your fucking mother that you had already left, that you got a ride from someone else. 

That was just strike one. 

Arriving at school with a rise in his temper, Rafe was already having a bad morning.

He was irritated. All week he’d been texting with you about how you both were gonna get coffee and catch up in the car before parting ways for classes. It didn’t help that he was nursing a minor hangover, and he felt even more like an idiot bringing in your coffee that he’d gotten for you anyway. 

Strike two was when Rafe saw you in the hallway, and the weight in his chest immediately lifted at the sight of you, glowing with a new gleam in your eye that had him yearning to know more about what you were up to.

The prior anger fizzled away the closer you got. You were walking straight to him as Rafe grinned and stuck out the coffee for you.

But as you got closer, Rafe's smile slowly faded as he noticed you were looking beyond him, brushing past him with that beautiful smile – the smile meant for someone else.

He spun around to see who you were ignoring him for, and scoffed when you were greeted with open arms to his sister and her friend group of wannabe rock Pogues that pissed Rafe off at any chance they could. 

Rafe was confused and irritated, and he didn’t want to be holding your coffee anymore, frankly. You fit in with them in a sick way that had him aching. 

Without thinking, he said your name quizzically with a slight edge to his tone.

A warning, almost. 

You had turned around, surprised to see him. He wasn’t sure if you were feigning naivety or just pretending you didn’t see him to piss him off. “Oh, hey.”

He felt stupid, all of a sudden, with all the eyes of your new friend group on him, Sarah even tilting her head at him quizzically.

Rafe held out the coffee. “Here. You ghosted this morning.”

“Sorry,” you smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. He hated the way it looked. You took the coffee. “Thanks.” Then you flicked your gaze over your shoulder, at them, and turned back offering him a curt nod. “I’ll catch up later.”

You spun on your heel and joined the group, walking away down the hall sparking an animated conversation as if he was just a bump in the road. 

And that’s how it started. 

You slowly fizzled Rafe out of your life.

You slowly stopped responding to his messages, stopped showing up to his parties, stopped everything in your life that involved him and, god, it broke his fucking heart.

Every time he stopped over, your parents would say that you were out with friends and he would scoff, not that they would care where you really were. Sometimes they’d say you were upstairs studying, and when they would let Rafe in to go see you, he’d be met with an empty bedroom and slightly ajar window.

Pathetically, he’d stay in your room because he was usually too embarrassed to go back downstairs and show his face to your parents. Sometimes he slept there in the spot he always slept in on nights where he just couldn’t fucking bear to go home. Sometimes he’d just climb out through the window and leave. 

Whenever he’d see you in school alone, Rafe would jump at the chance to talk to you.

You would entertain him for a walk to class or a quick chat in the library, nothing short of politeness. But Rafe didn’t want polite. He wanted you, and you wouldn’t fucking come back to him.

Instead, you would just give him the same tight lipped smile you gave all the other rich kid assholes that you hated, and then go about your day. 

God. Rafe needed you.

He needed a friend, a real friend. Someone he could trust unequivocally, without hesitation. Rafe needed to hold you, and that realization made him want to throttle something.

To be so dependent on you felt weak. It felt horrible, really, to have it suddenly stripped from him with no warning. But the longer he went without you, the more he realized he needed you to hold him. That epiphany had him pissed off more than ever.

Naturally, Rafe resorted to anger because if he didn’t, he would just wallow in sadness and that scared the shit out of him. 

But an opportunity blossoms – a real chance – to get you talking to him again, even if it’s just for one night. 

The annual fall donation gala is tonight, and Rafe knows that you won’t be able to get out of this one due to your mother’s incessant inclination to attend as a family, to uphold your image, whatever the hell that means.

Each season the wealthy families on the secluded part of the island gather in their overpriced suits and gowns, flaunt their money, spew some fake bullshit on how much they love charity and specifically how much money they were going to spend towards renovating the rougher parts of the island and the public institutions, all while they down their drinks and snort lines in the bathroom and plaster on fake smiles of grandiose.

Your family and the Camerons go together every season, being neighbors and all, pairing you off with Rafe while Wheezie and his other sister, Sarah, would stick with each other.

Sarah, being just a year younger than him, mostly always brought a random boy as a date. Wheezie often soloed, but would steal you for a better portion of the night. Rafe normally allowed it, but tonight he refuses to let his sister have the time of day.

No matter how much shit Wheezie gives him, he has to have you all night despite her premature protests, which will probably be a lot given the circumstances from the past few weeks. 

That's another thing as of late: Wheezie's been uncharacteristically cold to him, making him do ridiculous shit for her to get back on her good side, like taking her out to eat or reviewing her essay or watching a stupid show with her that he never would agree to watch in the first place.

Sure, he’ll set himself back a few pegs with Wheezie, but he has to get you back tonight. 

But of fucking course you just have to look that beautiful, so it takes Rafe a while to even say anything to you besides a pathetic hello. 

As tradition, you and Rafe lock arms as you enter the gala. He notices that you don't hold him as tight. 

You notice that he’s clenching his jaw so tight it might break, probably pissed that he has to be here in the first place. 

You loathe the idea of coming to this pathetic excuse of class performance, but public appearances are the only thing your parents are interested in.

They’ve been lenient about how much you leave to hang out with “Sarah” when in reality you're high tailing it to the rough side of the island getting up to all kinds of trouble (also with Sarah, but that's besides the point). However, they started to get suspicious of where you run off to every weekend, and god forbid they find out you sneak out basically every single night.

Things with the band are going great, too good to jeopardize.

So you figure if going to this gala will satisfy your parents’ consciousness and keep their noses out of your business, then you'll be able to deliver with elegant poise and limited back talk.

It doesn’t help that you and your band have a gig later tonight. The gig. The Stonepit finals. It also doesn’t help that you're stuck here.

But you have a plan.

Since you're here, your bandmates take on the event's catering gig so you'll all leave together an hour before the gala is supposed to end.

It’s slightly embarrassing to be walking arm-in-arm with Rafe under their knowing stares, especially since they have a vague idea of what really went down between you and the Kook prince.

They’re familiar with the island royal because of Sarah anyway, and despite not entirely liking him due to Rafe's douchebag tendencies, they’re sympathetic to you for choosing to step away from someone you once called your best friend.

Your friends, your new friends, care for you and know the hurt that came with ending things with Rafe, even if you never explicitly cried or showed any ounce of emotion when it came to him. They can just tell. And it reflects in the music, much to your dismay. 

And sitting next to him all night doesn’t help.

You're polite, saying your please and thank yous. Rafe is quiet, especially with his dad sitting on the other side of him.

One thing you both unintentionally agree on, though, is the synchronized stifled laughter on the faux-emotional speeches the PTO housewives make about the charity of their choice. Rafe and you know of the falsehoods that run through this community, that it’s all a stunt for public decency, and you always bet each year how many times they shed crocodile tears before dinner’s served. 

The last ripple of applause begins to die down after the last housewife steps down from the microphone, her lip curled up from a previous sob reforming back to a nonchalant tight lip as soon as she’s out of the spotlight. You push food around your plate with your fork, stifling a cold laugh that will undoubtedly earn a scolding from your mother. 

“I counted seven,” you say softly, indulging. 

It surprises Rafe. Immensely. His brows raise at the jab and he looks over to see if you were talking to yourself or actually to him, to see you staring at him in anticipation for his response.

Rafe's heart does a weird thump. “One of the better years, for sure.”

You laugh quietly and Rafe nearly sighs at the sound. 

Noticing a few older couples heading to the dance floor, Rafe bites the bullet, clearing his throat to get your attention as he holds his hand out. 

“Dance?”

You dart your gaze between his hand, his eyes, and the dance floor, uncertain. This makes Rafe's heart thump even wilder, and he’s certain you can hear it through his all-too-expensive suit jacket. He notices your apprehension, and he pushes down the hurt that springs to his throat. 

Despite it, he chuckles nervously. “It doesn’t have to…mean anything. Just to get away from this.”

Rafe gestures towards their table, their parents having a little too much to drink and starting to ramble on about shit they don’t care about. Sarah’s off with her boyfriend, John B., who should be working but doesn't look the slightest bit concerned about slacking off, while Wheezie talks to one of her friends off to the side, rueing the day in pre-teen style.

As much as you want to say no and stay cordial to your dignity, you're starting to get a headache from your mother’s high-pitched laughter and dad’s intolerable business talk, so, reluctantly, you accept and takes his hand.

It takes everything in Rafe to not visibly sigh in relief as he leads you to the dance floor. Your friend, JJ, smirks behind the seafood buffet table, watching them. You throw him an eye roll that Rafe doesn’t see, to which JJ just shrugs and winks. 

Slinking your hands around his neck, your heart skips a beat at the close proximity. Rafe's hands settle on your waist.

It draws in a sense of comfort, of familiarity that he’s been yearning for all this time without you. He takes a deep breath, embarrassingly deep, because for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like he can finally breathe again despite the intoxication of your perfume and the stench of cigarettes wafting from the balcony. 

Rafe takes the time to study you up close.

You cut your hair in a more edgy way, drastically different from your previous untouched hair that he was used to twirling between his fingers under Egyptian cotton sheets. It’s different, but he likes it. You looks comfortable, like yourself. He also notices the excessive added jewelry that you've been wearing lately.

Although Rafe frowns after his inspection, noticing it’s none of the jewelry that he’s given you over the years. Your makeup is clean, effortless. 

Beautiful, he thinks. 

Fuck. 

He doesn’t realize you say something until you pinch his neck. 

“Hm?”

“I asked if you were okay. You were brooding,” you tease quietly.

It feels like old times again. “I don’t…brood,” he attempts to defend. 

You snort. “Sure.”

And that’s that. 

Rafe doesn’t really know what to add from that, nor where to start on what he really wants to talk about with you.

It takes everything in him to not scream in frustration. He’s not good with his words, he doesn’t know how to vocalize the sensitivity that he feels in fear of being perceived as weak. He’s only good at physically projecting his anger, his irritation, his emotions that make him feel strong or, more so, his actions that make people fear him and submit to what he wants.

It’s easier that way, to not have to use words to convey what he wants done and what he needs people to do. 

But not with you, never with you. 

“I…” he starts lowly, trying to calculate his thoughts but they’re just a whirlwind in his mind right now. “How have you been?”

Rafe cringes at himself. 

You frown, moving forward with caution at his uneasiness. The classical band plays something slow and melodic and so fucking romantic that it makes you want to throw up. “Good. Really good, actually. Been busy.”

“With?” Rafe attempts.

“With…stuff.”

He swallows. Of course you won’t tell him, why would you?

“How about you?” you ask timidly, noticing his sunken expression. “Are you okay?”

Rafe hesitates.

No, he’s been at his lowest. He’s been losing his mind without you at his side to anchor him to his real self. He’s been lost trying to figure out what you've been up to, why you've been running and hiding from him ever since you got back from your trip all those weeks ago. He’s especially lost in trying to figure out why you've been running with his sister and her annoyingly arrogant Pogue friends. 

Rafe assumes you tell them all your tidbits now, like what you did that day or what show you're watching, talking to them how you used to talk to him.

It makes him sick. He feels like a fucking idiot trying to figure out what he did wrong, always coming up blank on answers but never having the courage to just ask you what the hell happened that rendered such coldness from you. 

“Yeah. Been okay,” he settles on. 

Despite the strain on his voice, you manage to smile at him, but there’s an ounce of worry in your expression that throws him off.

He’s confused: do you still care about him? Is that still on the table? Are you really going to dance around the elephant in the room? Are you going to keep acting like nothing is wrong? Are you ever going to tell him what he did?

“It’s a busy time of year, I wouldn’t-” you start nonchalantly, but Rafe suddenly scoffs at your attempt to small talk with him. This earns a pointed glare. “Is something wrong?”

Rafe scoffs again. “Of course something’s wrong." No going back now. "Everything’s fucking wrong. We’re standing here making useless bullshit small talk as if you haven’t been ignoring me for weeks.”

Curse him and his temper, he wants to immediately apologize for his tone. But you frown even further and loosen your grip around his neck but Rafe tightens his.

“No. We're talking about this. Stop running for a second.”

“Running?” you hiss. “I’m not…I haven’t been-”

“Yes, you have,” Rafe says, trying to stay even but his voice betrays him as it shakes. “I don’t know what’s going on with you but I’m losing my mind because you won’t talk to me, shit, you won’t even look at me anymore.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. “I just…need to know.”

Your frown turns into a thin lipped line. Isn’t this what he wanted? Space? 

Your mind is reeling. On one hand, you're pissed.

How dare he act ignorant to the fact that he was bitching and moaning for some peace and quiet to his friends, how desperate he was to have some space from your oh-so-overwhelming clinginess, how you couldn’t even do your own thing due to how much you depended on him for everything: friends, a social life, style, a personality. Like, what the fuck?

But on the other hand, you sees Rafe. Your Rafe.

The Rafe who climbs through your bedroom window in tears from his father’s vocal bullets, searching for solace and warmth that he simply can’t get in the comfort of his own home. The Rafe who rarely knows how to express himself in anything other than rage because that’s how he was taught to deal with his emotions: through instilling fear. The Rafe who would truly do anything for you if you asked nicely. The Rafe who, behind closed doors, is kind, loving, and sweet when he cares, like getting you your favorite ice cream after you failed your exam or staying up until sunrise with Wheezie finishing the show she’s been raving about.

You sees Rafe, a boy who needs answers. 

“Please.”

His tone of desperation pulls you from your thoughts, a tone he only saves for late night confessions under starlight, just for you. 

You can’t help but teeter between the two hands. 

“Rafe,” you start carefully, “I came home a day early from my trip.”

He frowns. The music is too slow, too beautiful. He’s confused. “You did?”

You nod. “Yes. I wanted to surprise you.”

The gesture is so fucking sweet that it makes Rafe melt in agony. What did he ever do to deserve your love and friendship for as long as he had it?

“I walked around looking for you, and assumed you were in the back with Top and Kelce. You were, but I heard what you said. All of it.”

Rafe reels back in confusion.

What?

What are you talking about?

You notice his confusion and scoffs lightly, the sound heavy with hurt instead of bitterness. “Of course you don’t remember.” You take a breath, replaying the words that have been on repeat in the back of your mind for weeks. “‘It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip. The clinginess has really been pissing me off. It's like she can’t do her own thing.’ You don’t remember saying that?”

What?

Rafe's mind is spinning because. What. 

“I…” he starts, but then stops, piecing it together. No, he couldn’t have. 

But you nod, confirming it. “I heard it. So did Wheeze. I didn’t want to make a scene and just figured it would be easier to give you what you wanted. So I backed off. Gave you your space. Found my own footing.”

Rafe stares at you in disbelief. The words come back to him, each one hitting him harder than the last. 

“It’s okay,” you say before Rafe can get a word in, noticing his internal conflict.

He hates the small, understanding smile you're wearing. You should be hitting him or cussing him out.

Instead you're fucking smiling at him, even though it's laced with sadness, it's still a smile. “I’ve…come to terms with it. I just wish you told me I was being too clingy instead of complaining to your friends about it. I would’ve backed off if you asked.” 

Rafe shakes his head, because of course you would do something if he asked you to without any hesitation.

He can’t believe it, how you heard him say something so horrible (and completely untrue) and aren't cursing him out or going around telling people his deepest darkest secrets and demons. He deserves worse. He deserves nothing good after making you feel so unwanted, like you had to completely remove yourself from his life in order to give him what he – seemingly – wanted. 

Rafe can only say your name.

“Really, Rafe,” you say after he can’t form the words he wants, “it’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not,” Rafe snaps, chest heaving. “It’s not fucking… I didn’t mean it.” 

Okay. Now you scoff and he frowns.

You're not gonna sit here and listen to him spew out excuses, bullshit excuses, so he can get back on your good side. You're not gonna forget how those words made you feel. If there's one thing bigger than your ability to hold a grudge, it's the need to defend your dignity.

“If you didn’t mean it, then you wouldn’t have said them – fuck – you wouldn’t have thought them in the first place.” You try to loosen your grip once more to escape but he holds you tighter. You huff. “Rafe, let go. Seriously. I said it was fine. Let me go.”

It isn’t fine, you both know that, but you personally don't want to entertain his fragment words.

But Rafe can’t let you go. Not like this. 

“No, I need to– fuck…” Rafe curses.

Why can’t he just say he’s sorry? Own up to it? Push his pride down? No, because that would mean admitting defeat. That would mean admitting something he’s tried to push down for years and years in fear of ruining your friendship. 

Well, he’s already ruined it, so what’s left to lose? 

You, he realizes. He’s losing you, and he’ll lose you forever if he doesn’t get his shit together at this given moment. 

His chest is heaving, he realizes.

His heart feels like it’s in his throat and he’s gripping you as if you're going to disappear if he lets go. Rafe doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that the world keeps spinning around them. Couples keep slow dancing, people keep laughing and drinking, the song still plays. No one knows what’s going on within your bubble right now, the emotional turmoil sizzling between you both speaking in hushed breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” he says low and heavy with emotion.

You take that as irritation. “You’re sorry you got caught.”

Rafe shakes his head, furrowing his brows as if that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “No. No. I’m sorry for saying that stupid shit. I didn’t mean it, Snips. Not really.”

The nickname makes your heart leap to your throat, but you swallow it. “Not really?”

Rafe curses. “No, I…fuck-”

“You what? What, Rafe?”

“I–”

“Wanted to impress your friends?”

He grimaces. “No–”

“Needed to brag about how I’m always at your beck and call? Your bitch waiting at your disposal?”

“No!”

You laugh humorlessly. “Then what-?”

“Because I need you more than you need me, and it scares the shit out of me.”

You freeze, your next retort dying in your throat as you look at Rafe's desperate expression.

His eyes bore into yours, those piercing bright blues, and you don't notice until now that his hands have been shaking, his chest is falling up and down rapidly, how the crease in his brow is more prominent than ever. You study him, looking for any signs of duplicitousness but coming up short.

Instead you see how broken he really is. 

Rafe notices your pity and hates the expression, so he shuts his eyes. “I…I think I said it to pretend it was the other way around. That…maybe if I said it and put it in words, I could pretend that you needed me in the same way. I hated the way I felt for those three weeks without you, and it scared the shit out of me.”

Silence. 

Your hand travels from the back of his neck to caress his cheek, which makes him open his eyes to meet your gaze. 

“It doesn’t make it okay,” he quickly adds. “What I said wasn’t okay. At all. I hate that you heard it.”

Rafe leans into your touch instinctively, your palm boring into his cheek. His heart thumps for a different reason now, for your silence. He doesn’t know what to make of it. The tension is thick and he hates the way you don't say anything.

Something foreign pricks in his chest, an unsteady murmur.

“Please, say something,” he pleads pathetically, feeling stupid at the desperation. 

You feel flustered from his words, speechless.

Your heart lurches in your throat at the confession that probably ached in his soul all these weeks, that gnawed at him every time you brushed him off or ignored his messages and did exactly what he was afraid of: leave.

What Rafe said was wrong, very wrong, you know. There’s no if, ands, or buts about it.

Your heart sinks, though, at the thought of him pushing down his feelings, his real feelings, so deep to the point where he was drowning in his own mind. This is the boy you grew up with, who held you when you were upset, who knew your every thought before you could formulate it, who begrudgingly took you to prom after your date stood you up.

Your Rafe, sharing something so raw and scary. 

You hold him with such lightness, such care, murmuring quietly, “Rafe–”

Suddenly, a throat clears next to you.

Rafe's anger flares back up when he sees fucking JJ Maybank looking at you, feeling tidal waves of stupidity and irritation that he confessed something so raw to you. He wants to rip you away from this crowd, from JJ, to talk somewhere in private, to even sit in silence if it means he can hold onto you like this for a little while longer.

Call him selfish. 

“Sorry to…interrupt,” JJ says, darting his gaze between the two of you, finally settling on you after a moment of taking in…whatever was happening here. “We gotta go. Now. Rumlow pushed our slot up.”

Your hand falls from Rafe's cheek and he gets even more irritated. What business does JJ Maybank have with you? Who the fuck is Rumlow?

You step away from Rafe and, this time, he lets you. “What? You’re kidding.” You groan and curse, “The whole deal about winning Greengate was that we’d get first pick of the Stonepit slot.”

JJ huffs. “Freddie slid him a fifty to make sure we go right after his band, so second to last.”

Band? Rafe furrows his brows. 

His confusion is put on the back burner as you ball your fists tight at your side. “Damn it.” Then, you take a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go out the back.”

JJ glances at Rafe wearily, whose stare couldn’t be more piercing. “Uh, what about your stuff?”

“It’s at the table. My mom will definitely ask too many questions.”

“Blame the period?”

You snort. “You still clearly know nothing about women. Not believable. Best chance is to just slip out. I’ll deal with my mom later.” 

JJ moves to leave, walking a few steps away until he notices you aren't following. You hesitate, looking up at Rafe who has been awfully quiet and confused, watching your conversation happen in front of him. His blue eyes bore into yours, a twinge of pain hidden within his features that makes your heart lurch.

You have the sudden inclination to grab his hand, to comfort him for a moment more. 

Silence. 

Clearing his throat once more, JJ rubs his forehead at the tension between the two. “Uh, I’ll give you guys a minute.” He shoots Rafe a warning glare, one that makes Rafe narrow his eyes, before turning his attention back to you. “Meet us out back when you’re done.”

And like that, JJ walks off the dance floor and disappears through the staff doorway.

His absence is felt, the air thick between you and Rafe as unspoken words yearn to come into fruition. The slow, romantic melody continues to play as couples sway around you and the emotion behind it makes your tummy feel weird. 

“You’re leaving?” Rafe manages to ask thickly, the words feeling like lead in his throat. "With...Maybank?"

You look up at him once more, and this time, you actually do grab his hand.

He gazes down at your intertwined fingers as your other hand comes up to graze his knuckles, fingertips smoothing over his rough, calloused skin in such a delicate manner it allows him to breathe for a moment. Your cool rings feel like ice against his hot skin, and he nearly flinches from the contrasting feeling. 

Your next words are cautious and slow. “You’re truly sorry?”

“Yes,” he immediately answers. “More than you’ll ever know. More than I’ll ever be able to say.” Rafe squeezes your hand. “Let me make it up to you. Please.”

You meet his gaze.

His pretty blues no longer glisten with sadness, but instead hold their own. Promising. Genuine. Home. You find herself suppressing a smile because, fuck, you missed him more than you'd like to admit. 

Glancing back towards the family’s table, you notice your parents are still talking to Rafe's, the waiter coming over to top off their drinks as they obnoxiously laugh over something that probably wasn’t very funny. Nevertheless, they’re distracted for the night and clearly not caring about the whereabouts of their children. 

An idea - a really stupid idea - pops into your head when you turns back to Rafe, a newfound determination gleaming in your eye that he only knows as trouble. 

“Come with me.”

Rafe's lips part in confusion. “You want me to?” Then, more uncertain. "With...them?"

Pushing down the impending fight night that'll probably happen between him and the Pogues, you quirk a brow as you teasingly squeeze his hand.

“Thought you wanted to make it up to me.”

“‘F course.”

“Then let’s get into some trouble.”

He finds himself narrowing his gaze, but there’s no real strictness behind it as he tries to suppress a smile. “Snips, what are you getting me into?”

You tilt your head to the side and bite the inside of your cheek, taking one last glance at your parents – more occupied than ever – before you start pulling Rafe off the dance floor, dragging him through the crowd and through the same staff door that JJ disappeared into earlier.

You don't let go of his hand as you swerve past the catering staff and waiters, beelining for the backdoor leading to the alley. 

Noses scrunch at the smell, reeking of garbage, cigarettes, and gas. It’s not the worst thing out there, no, because Rafe tries his best not to grimace when he sees your new group of friends, the Pogues he oh-so despises, hanging by their clown minivan as they all change out of their catering uniform into their own clothes, their performance clothes, just shamelessly half naked and laughing as if it isn’t ridiculously intimate. 

Sarah is slipping her ripped jeans on under her dress and shimmying on a tank, a cigarette poking through her plump lips. Kiara is applying lip liner in mirror, perched in the passenger seat. John B. finishes buckling his belt, taking the cigarette out of Sarah's mouth to take his own hit. Pope is sitting in the driver’s seat, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel and checking the time on his watch anxiously. JJ's putting on a shirt when he sees you and Rafe emerge, hand in hand. 

“Country Club, you comin’ with?” JJ teases as he throws his ratty t-shirt on, wearing a smirk that Rafe wants to smack off his stupid face. 

You speak before Rafe can start an argument. “Guys, Rafe's gonna tag along tonight. Any issues?”

Everyone stops what they’re doing to stare between you and Rafe, and he squirms under their judgemental stare. He knows he hasn’t been the nicest to them, and vice versa, as their social circles often clashed with ferocity. He also knows that they’re aware of the previous animosity with you based on the way the girls, Kiara and his own damn sister, are glaring at him with such a deep warning that it makes him shiver. 

It’s Pope who breaks the silence. “I don’t give a fuck if he shits gold. We need to go now if we want to warm up.”

JJ snorts. “We’d be lucky to make curtain call.”

“Have some hope, Jay,” Kiara mumbles to not mess up her lipliner. “Pessimism gives you crows feet.”

Sarah hums low as she steals the cigarette back from John B., who looks Rafe up and down. The two of them have had their fair share of qualms. Rafe truly can't keep track of how many times he's gotten a black eye from his sister's boyfriend, and vice versa.

But, no, he can't be getting into fights tonight. Not while he's on your probation.

Pope groans and rolls his eyes. “Crows can’t drive. Now, can we please all get in the car before that shitbag gives our slot away?”

It's muscle memory when Rafe lunches forward to snatch the cigarette from Sarah's mouth, throwing out the cigarette butt onto the concrete with a narrow gaze. She sends him an eye roll, but wordlessly climbs into the minivan with John B. behind her, and to Rafe's surprise, all of the back seats are folded down so they all sit in a circle in the trunk.

His mind races at the hazardous set up.

You notice his concern as you sit down next to him, stifling a laugh and squeezing his hand once out of comfort, pulling it back before Rafe can even process what is happening. 

“We throw all the instruments back here, so the seats stay down,” you say softly, just to him. Rafe straightens up a little, feeling a sense of pride that you're only talking to him. “You get used to it after a while.”

But that beaming pride doesn’t last long as JJ sits on the other side of you, a little too close for his liking, smirking at the two of you.

Rafe bites his tongue as the blond grins toothily at him. “Don’t worry, Country Club. You can hold my hand if you get scared,” JJ teases, wiggling his fingers at him. 

Rafe rolls his eyes and fights the urge to jump him right here and now. The only thing pulling him back to reality is the sound of your laughter.

“Fuck off, Maybank,” is all he manages to pathetically muster up in response. 

Pope drives sporadically, ranting about how they’re not gonna make it now that their slot is moved up, how the lights are never green when he needs them to be, how John B. didn’t fill up the gas tank since he was the last one to drive, and so many more complaints that Rafe loses count.

In the back circle, however, they’re talking business and spewing vocabulary Rafe's never even heard of.

John B. is going on about JJ needing to remember to wait a beat before the chorus on their first song, and how Kiara needs to be a second step harmony above you, not just one, and how he himself wants to remember one specific rhythm in a riff he’s been practicing.

Rafe feels a little outdated due to his outright confusion, feeling like he’s at a tennis match just watching them pull out notes back and forth and back and forth. 

It isn’t until Sarah tosses you a bag where Rafe truly short circuits.

Your confusion is apparent when you hold up the bag, raising a pointed brow.

Sarah gestures to the bag. “Change. You won’t have time when we get there. I put in some cute earrings for you.”

Such a Plan A girl, you think, smiling at her as you open the bag: a sultry tank top, black mini skirt, and your mile high boots that you know and love. At the bottom there’s a little baggie full of jewelry.

“Thanks, Sare.” You shuffle to slip your heels off, nudging Rafe's shoulder on accident as you do so. 

He nearly winces when you take the black mini skirt and starts to roll it on under your long, expensive dress, catching a glimpse of your dainty underwear. Next, you let the shoulder straps slip down your goosebump covered arms.

Then, with complete fucking nonchalance, you turn your back to Rafe, cheekily looking over your shoulder at him.

“Zip?”

Rafe stares wide-eyed back at you, his gaze flicking between your dress zipper and your smug expression.

His heart races in his ribcage at the thought of you changing in front of all of these people with no question. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but the fact that you're ready to completely undress in the back of this dingy van has his head spinning. 

JJ snorts, bringing him back down to Earth. “She asked you a question, Country Club. Angel, want me to do it?”

That snaps Rafe out of his trance. His nimble fingers immediately go to the zipper, delicately pulling it down. “Don’t play around, Maybank.”

“CC, you’re my favorite person to play around with.”

“Watch it.”

You roll your eyes at the two. “Alright, brats, let’s simmer. Now, I was thinking–”

Rafe tunes out the rest of what you say when you let your dress slip down off your shoulders, exposing a strapless bra barely fucking covering anything as your long dress pools down on the dirty van floor. Continuing to yap about whatever notes you have, you grab the sultry tank top from the bag and pull it over your head, not breaking your thought process while Rafe's thoughts have been completely broken to begin with.

He coughs quietly to himself to get his shit together, especially when you unapologetically adjust your bra and tank top to how you want it. 

Now dressed, you shift again to sit back down on your ass, brushing Rafe's shoulder once more.

But Pope takes a wild turn, everyone shifting from the force of it. John B. smacks his head on the window as Sarah plummets into him, JJ holds his own as he grabs onto the door handlebar, and you fly into Rafe's lap, his hands instinctively thrown up to catch you, or at least attempt to, as you scramble to get up. 

“Fuck, sorry,” you murmur, placing a hand on his thigh to push yourself up. “You good?”

But JJ's laugh interrupts. “Oh, he’s great.” He holds his fingers up to wiggle at Rafe again, wearing a shit eating grin that, pathetically, turns the tips of Rafe's ears pink. 

He ignores it. “You wanna see great?”

You sit back down on the floor in your original spot, sliding on your socks and boots. “Boys, play nice. You’ll have to get used to each other at some point because you’re both not going anywhere.”

Kiara pipes up from the front seat. “Maybe we can lock them in a closet together. That’s what John B. and Sarah do whenever they fight.” 

“Usually we end up fucking instead of actually making up, but, who knows? That could probably work for you guys, too,” John B. chides, earning a slap to the chest from Sarah.

Rafe rolls his eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine. 

He feels your hand brushing his thigh as you laugh and, despite his rising temper, it manages to relax Rafe just a fraction. Especially when you lean more into his arm. Christ, your perfume scent is the only thing he can think about. 

Then, Pope makes a screeching halt and everyone is thrown around once more. Before you can fly across the van into Sarah, Rafe grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against him.

Everyone waits a beat, then two, then sigh in relief when they realize the van isn’t going to be moving anymore. 

Pope turns around with a giant grin. “We’re here, andiamo!”

Everyone blankly stares at him, hair askew and clothes out of place. He frowns at the crowd. 

“What? At least I got us here with ten minutes to spare!”

It only takes one minute for shit to hit the fan. 

It’s already unnerving enough for Rafe to realize where they are: in a dingy basement nightclub in the shitty part of the Cut where he normally wouldn’t even think about coming to.

A slice of anger rises in his throat, to cuss you (and Sarah) out for being so reckless if this is where you've been spending all of your time, in a place that doesn’t feel safe to him in a part of town that isn’t meant for girls like you.

He hates thinking like that, knowing damn well you're capable of protecting yourself – Henry Kennedy's permanently crooked nose can attest to that – but there’s a sliver of primitive instinct in him that wants to constantly protect you, shield you from everything and everyone. If he ever found out something happened to you in a place like this, there's no question that he'd burn it to the ground.

Rafe's hand ghosts over the small of your back when they enter the venue, which earns a finger wiggle from JJ, teasing him. Thank god you don't see it, or Rafe would’ve really had to punch the fucker in the face. 

But the play time’s over when the group watches the slot before them get on stage, the Pogues (including you) collectively booing them and flipping them off. Rafe looks around to see if anyone’s pissed at the Pogues for, once again, creating a public disturbance, but they just sort of let it happen.  

You nudge Rafe, nodding to the lead singer who all but gropes the microphone. “That’s Freddie.”

Rafe studies Freddie: tiny, skinny, shaggy hair and a crooked smile that’s directed right to you. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he immediately straightens up protectively, sizing the scrawny guy up and down, narrowing his fixated gaze as Freddie grabs the mic and introduces their band with a deeper voice than Rafe expected to come out of him. 

“You know,” JJ nudges Rafe as if they’re best buds and he darts his gaze from the spot JJ nudged back up to the blond boy to try and find the audacity in the space between, “Angel here beat him up once. It was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen in my life. I won ten bucks out of it.”

Rafe quizzically looks between JJ and you, stunned. 

JJ laughs. “What? You didn’t think his teeth are naturally that fucked up, did you?”

But his attention leaves the nuisance and solely focuses on you. Rafe snorts, suppressing a beaming grin. “Snips, how hard did you hit the guy?”

“What?” You feign innocence, shrugging as if the thought of it doesn't make Rafe's head spin. “I hit him as hard as he deserved. He did touch my ass.”

Rafe stills. 

“He what?”

“Easy, Rafey. I took care of it,” you joke. Then you notice the stone cold glare in Rafe's eye as he sizes Freddie up and down, suddenly frowning and grabbing his hand to pull him out of the trance. “Rafe. Jesus. Don’t actually kill the guy.”

JJ's cackle just pisses Rafe off even more, especially when he claps a big, audacious hand on Rafe's tense shoulder. “You know, I wasn’t sure what part Country Club would play in our show tonight. But I think we just found our new bodyguard.”

You squeezes Rafe's hand once. Twice. He relaxes his shoulders, shrugging JJ off but still keeping his hold on you. 

The glue of the group, Pope, claps his hands together. “Personally, I don’t give a fuck about Freddie’s set. Before I get up there and strangle Rumlow myself for being shady, let’s go backstage to–”

All of a sudden, Freddie's band starts playing their set, and the first few notes cause the group to freeze, including you.

“Are they–?” John B. starts in disbelief.

Sarah gasps so dramatically it gives Rafe whiplash. 

Pope grips his hair so hard it might rip out. “I knew it. I knew something was up. Those cock sucking, donkey bastard motherfuck–” 

John B. slams his hand against the wall, cursing. Sarah tilts her head back in frustration. JJ and Kiara attempt to wrangle Pope from jumping on stage from throttling the lead singer. Each Pogue crashes out unexpectedly, though their actions and waterfall curses are drowned out by the amplified music. No one even bats an eye.

Rafe glances from the scene happening with your friends, to the stage, and down to you, brows furrowing in confusion as to why everyone suddenly started crashing out as soon as they stepped in the building, the band on stage playing a song he vaguely recognizes. 

“Uh, what’s going on?”

You watch the stage, unnerved. “They stole our set.”

Rafe follows your gaze beyond the stage, to a burly guy standing behind the curtain, shrugging at you mockingly in a way that makes Rafe straighten up and fight the urge to pull you to his hip.

“What?”

“Our songs. Fuck.” You curl your hands in a fist. “Of course Freddie paid for us to get bumped. He knew our setlist, and paid Rumlow to bump us so we wouldn’t have time to figure something else out.”

Rafe places a cautious hand on your shoulder, testing to see if you'll shake him off. You don't, so he keeps it there and gives a gentle squeeze. “Why would he…do that?”

“Because he’s an asshole, Country Club,” JJ jabs, walking into their conversation with a struggling Pope under his bicep in a headlock. “He knew we’d beat him so he fucked us over.”

John B. joins the circle, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What’s our play?”

“Kill Freddie with a gun,” Pope quips from his headlock, trying to break free but failing. 

Kiara places a hand on Pope's head and Sarah follows, as if they’re trying to summon something. “Use that brain of yours. Think about something other than murdering Freddie for one second.”

It’s JJ who speaks up. “What about using the same set from Greengate?”

“We can’t reuse those songs, Jay,” Kiara murmurs, lost in thought. “We’d get points off.”

“What about ‘I’d Rather Die’?” Sarah suggests, rubbing Pope's head like a crystal ball. 

Kiara's face upticks in disgust. “That song is way too outdated. The ratio between boys and girls is too drastic, we need more girls here for that song to hit.”

“Pink Floyd?” John B. suggests. “Or even Zeppelin. Something to get people on their feet.”

Rafe watches the group like a tennis match, gaze shifting from person to person as they spew out ideas that ultimately get rejected due to some reasonable excuse. He can feel their anxiety radiating off of them, bubbling in the air between them. He hates the way your brow is permanently furrowed, lost in thought yet pinched a fraction in worry.

Sure, he has no idea what’s going on, nor can he really offer any help, but he hates the dejected look on your face. 

Before he can speak and embarrass himself, Pope squeaks from underneath JJ's arm. 

“What about our originals?”

The group ceases their arguing, freezing as the only sound heard is Freddie’s not-so-bad singing voice, singing their songs. They gawk at each other, waiting for someone to bring up a counter argument but no one offers one.

Noticing the contemplation, Pope wiggles to free himself from the headlock and JJ eventually lets him, joining the circle and stretching his neck from the kinks. He shoots JJ a glare that has him throwing his hands up in surrender. 

“It could work,” Pope defends cautiously. “I have the hard drive with all the backing vocals on it. We’ll still have Sarah, Kie, and JJ on backup vocals, but I can relay Angel's adlibs and prerecorded harmonies during the performance.”

Pope's the tech guy, Rafe realizes. The guy behind the curtain, and it suddenly makes so much sense why his anxiety was severely heightened on the drive here: he has to manage the sound check, the back tracks, the entire performance. Despite the guy being a little crazy, Rafe can’t help but nod in respect despite the tense moment. The group is right to elect him as the brains of the group. 

You speak up so quietly Rafe barely hears you. “We’ve never shown anyone our originals.”

Nerves prick at your voice, straining it.

It doesn’t take an idiot to notice your apprehension, even Rafe, who has no idea what’s happening. You don't even want to look at him, at the concerned look you know he’s wearing.

There’s a lot of fear surrounding the originals, mainly because they’re your originals that you wrote sporadically in journals over the last few months, never expecting the words to actually see the light of day. Recording and creating their own originals was more of a passion project, something never meant for the general public to hear.

Especially when the words on the page were mainly about the guy standing next to you. 

What if they’re not as good as your friends say they are? What if the recordings don’t match up with the live audio? What if the judges and crowd hate it, ruining their chances of winning the competition and getting the money? 

Kiara is the first to move towards you, gripping your hand so tight it hurts. “We should. We all worked really hard on them.”

“Kie’s right,” Sarah pipes up. “Plus, it kind of gives us an advantage. Shows people we actually give a shit, and we’ll surprise them.” She leans against John B., who wraps an arm around her and holds tightly. 

Pope holds his arms out in a well? gesture. 

JJ beams, latching one hand onto Rafe's shoulder and the other on John B's, shaking them as he whoops.

Rafe almost shoves him off with his death glare alone, annoyed with his assumed immunity since you'd break up any sort of fighting that could happen. Plus, he's really trying to be on your good side, to get back in your good graces, even if this blond fuck is making it really, really difficult not to drop everything and deck him across the face right now.

“I’m all in. I vote we do ‘Guilty Pleasure’, ‘Transparentsoul’, and ‘Misery Business’. Those will get the crowd bumping.”

You snap her head up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And in that order.”

Pope nods. “That works. I can do that.” His anxious gaze darts from the stage and back to the circle. “I need to know right now so I can start setting it up. Pinkies?”

JJ holds his left pinky up first, his hand still resting on Rafe's tall shoulder. He attempts to tickle Rafe's ear until he gets shoved off. John B. holds up his pinky, actually sticking it in JJ's ear. Sarah and Kiara follow, wiggling their pinkies at you, who hasn’t held up anything yet.

With a sigh of great reluctance, your eyes meet Rafe's for a fraction of a second before you hold up your own pinky, grimacing when JJ whoops. 

“Country Club, you in?”

Rafe blinks out of his daze of staring at you, looking up to face the group who are all looking at him in expectation. His heart skips a beat. “Uh, wh–?”

JJ nods towards his hand. “Bodyguards get a say too. What’s your move?”

Rafe hates the way his face feels warm, and he thanks the world silently for making it dark in this venue. He clears his throat to push away the feeling, holding up his pinky without much convincing as he looks over to you, gazing up at him with your big pleading eyes that makes the room spin. 

Pope claps. “Okay. Good. You guys head back and go to our room, the guitars are in there and so are John B's sticks. CC, you stay with me.”

You grab Rafe's hand quickly, giving it a reassuring squeeze and you're not sure if it’s for him or yourself. Your palms start to grow sweaty due to the pressure of the upcoming performance, so you drop his hand as fast as you grabbed it. Rafe nearly whines at the loss. 

Everyone except Pope starts to move, and instinctively Rafe follows you like a lost puppy, but a strong hand backhands his bicep and Rafe stops, looking at Pope, the culprit who wears a confused look. 

“You’re CC now, you hear me?” Pope commands.

Rafe nearly laughs in his face at this five foot something spitfire barking orders at him, but his smirk slowly fades when he sees the craziness behind Pope's eyes.

He remembers the way he drove the band here, nearly killing all of them, as well as how he was seconds away from jumping the stage and taking out everybody in his line of sight, an aura of scrappiness surrounding him that makes Rafe believe he would rough up anyone in his path as a street rat would protect its food.

He decides that Pope is not the kind of guy you want on your bad side, not because of physical strength but because his mind would probably come up with something deeply concerning to torture you with. 

Rafe straightens, expression turning serious as he just nods stupidly.

That satisfies Pope. “C’mon. We need to set up.”

To say that the tech stuff is confusing is an understatement, it’s a foreign language.

But Pope seems to know what he’s doing, and all Rafe can do is watch, ask questions that he probably assumes are stupid due to the way Pope snorts as if there’s an obvious answer, and scan the crowd looking for you. He’s unnerved that he doesn’t know where you are, especially when he knows you've been hit on quite ferociously before, which makes his cheek hurt from the way he’s biting it. He doesn’t have a great view of the crowd but tries to crane his neck to see out from the side of the stage. 

All he sees is Freddie’s band exiting the stage, right towards them. His black beaded eyes meet Rafe's piercing blues, and he straightens up, fury bubbling in his chest after remembering what he did to you. His girl.

Freddie sleazily sizes Rafe up and down before clapping Pope on the shoulder. “You guys hire a guard dog?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Pope mumbles distractedly, his eyes not leaving his computer and sound board panel in front of him. “Nice set, by the way. Sounded familiar.”

“Ah, that old thing?” the douchebag laughs. “Came up with it all on my own. Just another stroke of my ingenuity.” He then pauses, noticing Rafe's button down rolled up to his elbows and dress pants, which makes him chuckle darkly. “Lookin’ pretty Kook-y for a lap dog. Wanna twirl for me, pretty?”

“Careful,” warns Pope, still fumbling with his sound board. “He bites.”

Freddie holds his hands up in surrender and it takes everything in Rafe not to knock the guy out cold where he stands. Noticing the gleam of unbridled fury in Rafe's gaze, Freddie takes a step back, partly in fear. “Alright, I’ll heel.” He finally looks at Pope as he stalks away. “Can’t wait to see what you guys planned.”

His words fade as he disappears into the crowd, Rafe noticing he's immediately handed a drink and a girl saunters into his other arm. He scoffs, fingernails digging so harshly into his palms he’s sure to draw blood.

The thought of that douchebag laying so much as a fingertip on you makes his blood boil, his heart lurching in his throat in regret that he didn’t lay out the bastard while he had the chance. 

“At ease, CC,” Pope murmurs. “You’ll get a crack at him one day. But not right now. Here, I need you to hold this button for me.”

After completing Pope's various tasks, the lights dim on stage. It piques Rafe's attention as he sees five silhouettes sneak onto the platform, noticing the glittery undertones of your top as you march right up to the mic.

The lights fade in ever so slowly, but the crowd recognizes them instantly as they begin to hoot and holler and cheer in a way that surprises Rafe. He reels and suppresses a beaming smile that, holy shit, his girl is…kinda famous? 

“Hi Gally’s,” you purr into the mic, the vibrato making Rafe's heart skip a beat. You look so goddamn pretty it hurts. “Didn’t expect to see us so soon, hm?”

The crowd jeers at your improv. You twirl the mic chord and whimsically stalks back and forth on stage, playing into the bit. 

“Now, I know you guys love to hear the stuff we usually play, and I only know that because of all the free drinks we get after we finish.” 

Someone in the crowd whistles, causing you to breathlessly chuckle into the mic. 

“And as much as we appreciate your love, we thought we’d do something a little different tonight. Instead of covers, we’ll be singing our own stuff. Hope you enjoy.”

Rafe catches a glimpse of Freddie’s face in the crowd and stifles a laugh. There’s no longer teasing amusement coating his eyes, instead it’s fear.

And if you're nervous, Rafe can’t tell because you carry yourself as a beaming enigma that can’t be brought down, a supernova. Your cheshire cat smile is enough to pierce through any heart willing to give into you. 

JJ's on guitar and he meets Pope's gaze, who counts down on his fingers, three, two, one, then Pope hits a button as JJ plays the opening notes to the song. Rafe realizes Pope cued backtrack vocals, a soprano yodeling fading into the audio. It starts slow, the spotlight beaming onto you as you start to sing low and sultry.

You get to a particular line that has Rafe raising his brows: “I fantasize what we would do, and how would it taste and the way you move–”

His breath hitches.

“--Oh, but some good girls do bad things too,” you sing slowly. 

Damn you, because you find Rafe's eyes and throw him a quick wink that has his knees nearly buckling.

You spin around to face the crowd as the lights beam on, coating the entire stage as everyone gets cued in. John B's on drums, Sarah's on backing vocals and keyboard, Jackie’s on his guitar, Kiara's on backing vocals and the bass. 

“I want this like a cigarette. Can we drag it out and never quit? And, oh my god, you are heaven sent with your dirty mind, yeah, you’re perverted.”

The song is good. Too good. The people in the crowd are feeling it, cheering and jumping and clinking beers. It could also be the way you're bending over and twirling on stage like you own the place, regardless of rhyme or reason or anything under the sun. 

Rafe watches you with a stupid grin that he can’t suppress, because here you are in all of your glory.

He can’t believe this is what he was missing out on, this is what you've been up to: looking too damn fine in a mini skirt and boots with a voice like honey, spice, and nothing nice, especially with that glint of trouble in your eye that means you're up to no good. 

“Feels like pornography watching you try on jeans,” you sing after the guilty pleasure chorus, and it has him reeling. 

You've totally been jean shopping with him before on multiple occasions. You always claimed to know what style was trending so you insisted on accompanying him whenever you felt his pants were getting a little outdated.

Rafe never thought anything of it, as you both went out and bought stuff together all the time, tried on clothes in the same dressing room, gave opinions on items and then went about their day as if nothing was intimate about it.

“You’re a pothead, you’re a cinephile, it’s been a while since you turned up the dial.”

Jesus, he knows he’s wearing a ridiculous expression on his face as his mind catches up to the notion that, shit, is there any way this is about him?

Rafe's head spins with two distinct things: is this about him, and if the answer is yes, then, holy shit, do you like him? Is he your guilty pleasure? Do you feel the same? Have you suppressed years of a school-girl crush like he has in fear of fucking up the one good thing in his life? Have you both been wasting all this time dancing around each other, caught up in the will-they, won’t-they?

Then he freezes. He doesn’t know if you wrote this one. It easily could've been Sarah or Kiara. Why would you? Why would he automatically assume that?

Rafe sucks in a breath of clarity. He shouldn’t assume it’s about him just because you're the one singing it. Maybe Sarah did write it about John B.. Disgustingly, Rafe wouldn’t be surprised, with the way that they look at each other. 

After a whole chorus of disassociated reeling, Pope nudges Rafe, shaking him from his trance as you keep on vexxing. "Chill. It’s about you. No need to stress.”

Rafe coughs, covering up his dumbfounded expression as he watches you in a different light now, a deeper one.

The bridge is just a vocal array of chaos, Sarah and Kiara and even fucking JJ belting yeahs as you fucking yodel, voice breaking in and out of pitch as you shut her eyes, avoiding looking in Rafe and Pope's direction. You belts your last hey, the chords in your neck prominent as you pour your soul into the note.

The backing vocals, the prerecorded harmonies, your powerful belt– it’s all too much and the realization hits him like a truck. 

He’s in love with you. 

You suck in a big breath after your long note, diving right back in. “You give me guilty, guilty pleasure.”

You repeat the line, over, and over, and over again until you build up to the end, “Pleasure, pleasure.”

Then you suck in a big breath, practically moaning, “Pleasure!”

The crowd wastes no time roaring their applause, hooting and hollering tremendously louder than they did for Freddie’s performance. You're spinning, as you can barely see three feet in front of you with the spotlight being so bright.

You instinctively looks backstage to Pope to see when he’s cueing the next song, but instead locks eyes with Rafe's piercing blues, wearing a smile so fucking big it makes your heart melt. You feel your cheeks burning red, that song written from the confinements of your journal, not that you'll ever tell him that.

But with the way he’s beaming, you have a feeling that he already pieced it together. 

You jump right into ‘Transparentsoul, starting off with a crazy drum riff that John B. formulated when he was drunk off three margaritas. It’s manic, but fuck, it works too well. You get right back into it, riffing and belting as if your life depends on it. John B's performance is one to note for the books, helping craft a nearly impossible song for drummers to replicate. He switches back and forth from double time, half time, and then free styling in the short breaks in-between right before the chorus. 

The three thumps of the drums and the lingering note from you end the song, sucking in a big breath to steady yourself. The crowd goes crazy, most people pointing to John B. and cheering for him. Sarah walks over to him, placing a messy kiss on his lips that leaves a red lipstick mark on his grinning smile, to which Rafe involuntarily rolls his eyes.

They take their places for the last song, ‘Misery Business’, and you nod to Pope to start the track that begins with a non-instrumental lead. 

Then JJ and Kiara jump into the riffs, this song being more punk rock that allows you room to show some attitude, and attitude you'll give as you see the dejected look on Freddie’s face, angrily sipping his beer with a blonde bimbo hanging off his arm. 

You wrote this one, the lyrics and melody originally being slower and more of a sad ballad.

Pathetically, it’s about Rafe and one of his past girlfriends that you just couldn’t fucking stand for the life of you. She’d ice you out, make you look stupid in front of your friends, belittle you, cling onto Rafe as if he was going to fly away with her and start a life in a different country.

She couldn’t handle being Rafe's second girl, so you showed her what it means to be his first choice, always.

It was originally slower, pitiful, and regretful. But when JJ read them during their pitch meeting, he said it feels angry, vengeful, hateful, and you liked the idea of making it a power ballad. Sure, it strains your vocals on the practical screams, but it’s all for the show. All to emulate the emotion. 

And, god, if Rafe doesn’t smirk the entire time.

He knows this one’s about him because you've fully said to him once that his misery business is finally over, when he told you that he broke up with Ada, his girlfriend of eight months.

Usually he’s the one dripping in jealously when it comes to you, shit, he could barely handle you spending all your time with different friends that weren’t him, but here you are – wearing green like it’s meant for you. And, dammit, if you don't rock green. 

They hit the bridge, and JJ and Kiara absolutely shred it for a few bars until you get real nice and close to the microphone.

“Whoa, I never meant to brag, but I got him where I want him now.” 

Your vocals riff up the line, throaty and raw and angry. 

Oh, and Rafe cannot wait to tease you about this one. He gets (and deserves) an eyeroll when he turns to Pope with a stupid smirk. “This one’s also about me.”

“Congratulations,” Pope deadpans before focusing back on the board. 

You belt out another note, then delivering your last line with that same sultry tone you began the night with. There isn’t even a moment of silence between the end of the song and when the crowd starts cheering – no – roaring in applause.

You linger in it for a moment, taking a breath of relief when you see that they like it. They actually like your stuff. You feels JJ clap a hand on your shoulder, shaking it back and forth in excitement, as Kiara comes up to bow while Sarah ambushes John B. 

You can barely see out in the crowd anyway, the spotlight being unbearable. Taking a step back from the front, you glance over to Rafe and Pope.

Pope prays up to the sky like he always does when he orchestrates another successful performance. And Rafe...

Rafe just stands there with his arms crossed, a cheeky smirk splayed on his lips. That dress shirt does him wonders, and you have to physically roll your eyes in order to tear your gaze away from him. 

Finally, finally, they exit the stage towards Pope and Rafe as the announcer comes up to say that there’s one more band going on before they pick the winners for Stonepit.

Rafe murmurs a good job to everyone – even JJ – as they pass by him. Realistically, he’s waiting for one person who happens to exit the stage last.

And for someone who was so confident and sultry on stage, you sure look sheepish as you approach him. 

Rafe tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, feeling a fresh sense of confidence that he certainly didn’t have before the performance.

“You could’ve warned me that you were some kind of rockstar.”

“Stop,” is all you can muster, fighting a smile. 

“What? Don’t get all shy on me now.”

You playfully shove him away, but you both know there’s no true malice to it.

The group walks through backstage back to their dressing room. Rafe trails you, this time firmly placing his hand on the small of your back as you weave through other bands and stage managers, and he admits the notion is nothing short of wildly possessive, but he doesn’t care.

You just sang about wanting him twice on stage, so, yeah, he’s gonna make sure they all know who it was all about. 

The group enters their private room, two giant couches and an open space with empty guitar cases and bags full of clothes and makeup. JJ puts his guitar back in the case and collapses on the couch with a dramatic sigh, his grin wide as day. 

Kiara sits next to him, nudging his dropped head so he can readjust for her. “We’re so fucking winning this thing!” she yells, JJ whooping and hooting next to her.

John B. and Sarah shack up on the opposite couch as she practically sits on his lap. Pope squeezes in next to them with an annoyed eye roll but knowing smirk. You move to sit on the couch with Kiara and JJ, and motions for Rafe to sit first since there’s only room for one more. 

So he does. And when you moves to sit on the arm, he grabs your hips so you're planted firmly on his lap.

You roll your eyes and smack his chest. The act is nothing short of normal, there’s been plenty of times where you've sat like this at one of his parties, at family gatherings, on his boat, you name it. But now there’s a new underlying meaning, especially with the way his fingertips are light as feathers against your hips, almost teasing you.

You decide this is your favorite place to sit. Your throne. 

John B. shamelessly fondles Sarah and no one bats an eye. “We have fifteen minutes until we find out. I dapped Sean up before we came in here, so he should be bringing us drinks.”

“Thank god,” JJ groans, letting Kiara mess up his hair and Pope's hair reluctantly. Her boys, happy as sinners in church. 

“You guys were fucking crazy,” Rafe finds himself saying before he can stop himself. You turn your head to look at him softly. “Way better than that piece of shit who went on before you.”

Pope snorts while everyone looks to Rafe in surprise for even saying anything, Sarah looking lovingly at her brother's words. “Country Club scared him away without needing to say anything.” He leans over Kiara to look at JJ. “JJ, I support your decision to elect CC as our official bodyguard. It was great. I didn’t even have to look up or throw a punch or take out my knife or anything. He just…fucked right off.”

JJ hums in satisfaction. “Ah. See, CC? You fit right in.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, but surprisingly there’s no poor intentions behind it. Just mild irritation and a bit of swelling pride. 

Suddenly, the door opens and in comes a buff looking guy with a platter full of beers, Sean, Rafe assumes. Sean sets the beer down on the table between the two couches, wordlessly dapping John B. up one more time before exciting the dressing room. 

You lean forward to grab two, one for you and one for Rafe, and his grip tightens when you bend down enough for him to see a sliver of underwear peeking through.

But you sit back within a second, back flush against his chest as you hand him a beer. He reluctantly takes a hand off of you to grab it, clinking the bottle to yours and taking a sip. 

The group gets lost in conversation about the show, but your gaze focuses on Rafe's, faces inches apart.

Despite the chaotic and irritatingly loud conversation happening in front of them, it’s as if you're the only two in the room.

You look into his piercing blues, his gaze softening when he realizes you're not gonna look away and contribute to your friends’ conversation. His hand is searing hot against your hip, especially when his fingertips play with the hem of your top with eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin.

It’s like a second nature to him, to touch you like this, like you're the only thing that matters in this given moment.

To him, you are. 

God, you missed this. It’s embarrassing how much you do. You know you shouldn’t have, but your dignity is already out the window because you, frankly, forgave him as soon as he brought you on that dance floor. 

“What’re you thinkin’, Snips?” he murmurs, a contrast from the yelling going on around them. 

You purr, the adrenaline from earlier starting to wear off. “I’m happy you came tonight,” is all you say without giving in that easy, even though he probably knows how much you missed him from that performance alone. 

His gaze alternates from looking into your eyes and your lips. He hums, almost distant. “Thank you for letting me. Thank you for sharing it with me, even if it’s just for tonight.”

Your posture straightens when you feel his hand smoothly running up your back, leaving your hip and making it all the way to your flaming cheek, brushing that stray piece of hair away from your face once more and tucking it behind your ear, careful not to brush against any of the piercings that he definitely hasn’t noticed before. Rafe's hand comes back down to ghost over your cheek, his palm barely caressing it, almost afraid.

But you lean into his touch, making the contact for him. He hums low in his throat, almost in praise. 

Rafe's next words send shivers down your spine. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight. Especially when you were singin’ about me.”

Your cheeks unabashedly turn a deep shade of red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Out of embarrassment because, fuck, you got caught, you go to pull away from his hold but he slides his thumb to your chin and grabs your face gently, holding your gaze to his. 

“Baby, if watching me try on jeans got you all hot and bothered, you could’ve just said so. Instead of, you know, writing a song about it,” he teases as you groan, trying to pull away again but he tightens his grip just slightly. Then, softer, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Probably had a girlfriend at the time,” you mumble right back, but a knowing smirk forms on your lips. “Wrote another one about that, too. Maybe you’ve heard it?”

Rafe hums in acknowledgement, running his thumb down your chin to the column of your throat, then back up to ghost over your bottom lip.

“Mhm. I have. Might need to hear it again, though. The girl who sang it kept distracting me the whole time. Could barely even think straight,” he admits, his eyes flickering to your lips for a fraction of second before meeting your eyes. 

“Yeah?” you challenge quietly.

“Yeah,” he confirms immediately. “Could barely even stand up knowin’ you feel the same way.”

You quirk a brow. “Hmm? And what way is that?”

“The way I can’t breathe when I’m not with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at the confession, the cool-girl facade fading as you take a second to look at him, to really look at him. Your brows furrow when you take note of the sincerity of his tone, or how his eyes don’t leave yours.

Or how his brow furrows and his lips barely part when he shifts his hips and you can suddenly feel him. 

Suddenly you're the only two people in the room, everything else drowning out besides the sound of your syncopated breaths and heartbeats thumping out of ribcages.

Rafe's hand lowers from your face and stalks down your spine, taking its rightful place back on your hip and squeezing ever so slightly. Your beer-free hand instinctively comes up to the back of his neck, fingers splaying on the nape to intertwine with the ends of his longer hair. His chest raises with a particularly deep breath, brushing against your ribcage for a fraction of a moment that sends a shock through your body. 

“Fuck, they’re starting the announcement,” Pope interrupts, causing you and Rafe to jump away from each other of surprise. 

Everyone in the group stands, excitedly bouncing towards the door and running out to the backstage. The last one to leave is JJ, who looks back to hold the door open for them but notices you and Rafe unmoved from your position, looking sheepish as if you've already been caught in a scandal.

After a moment of silence, JJ's face changes from confusion to understanding, and he barks out a short laugh. 

“Ahh. Okay. I get it,” he teases, quickly glancing at the group leaving before turning back to them with a wink. “I’ll put my sock on the doorknob.”

And with that, JJ shuts the door, leaving you and Rafe in the same emotional position as he did when he left you on the dance floor, the thick tension in the air growing between you as you take a moment to stare at the door, prolonging the inevitable.

Eventually, you move your gaze from the door back to Rafe, who’s already staring at you. 

You're nervous all of a sudden, the consequence of flirting and fooling around catching up to you. Months of assuming there were unrequited feelings – feelings you buried deep down to maintain the strongest friendship you've ever, and probably will ever, have – being disproved in the matter of the last twenty minutes.

But now he’s here, sitting pretty in front of you with such a serious expression on his face that it makes you suck in a deep breath at the intensity of it, the gravity of the situation and where it’s about to lead to.

Rafe notices immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, running the pad of his thumb over your hip bone, this time out of comfort. “We don’t need to do anything.” Then, he manages a genuine chuckle. “I just got you back. Being with you is enough f–”

He doesn’t get to finish before you're pressing yourself forward, taking the leap of faith and pressing your lips to his.

Rafe makes a noise of surprise, the words dying in his throat as he stays still for a moment, processing that, holy shit, this is happening. 

You, however, take his apprehension as rejection, and sheepishly begin to pull away.

But Rafe doesn’t let you as he leans forward to kiss you again, leaning far enough to place his beer on the floor without breaking contact. His new free hand allows him to caress your face, greedily pulling your body closer and closer to his to which you let out a noise of surprise.

He swallows the sound, his hand leaving your chin to slowly trickle down your arm and to your hand, where he takes the beer away and reiterates the same action he did with his bottle, allowing you to have your hands free to roam and touch and feel as you shamelessly make out like your lives depend on it.

Your fingers instantly grasp at his dress shirt, wrinkling the nice material as his other hand smooths up your thigh to grip the base of your ass, shamelessly fondling it like he has every right.

And, fuck, you whine so quietly that he barely hears it, but it makes him twitch underneath you.

The sound is music to his ears, so he does it again, and this time you lift your hips off of him, swinging your leg over to straddle and press back down against him, a sensation that sends warmth to your core and makes your eyes roll back. 

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs against your lips before hungrily taking you back in as he shifts underneath you. 

Hips stilling, you focus on kissing him fervently first, to which he gladly accepts. Rafe manspreads so god forsaken arrogant that it allows you all this room, but also forces your hips to spread wider.

You test the waters, gradually pushing your thighs down to further mold into his body. The act causes your skirt to push up your legs, your underwear shamelessly meeting his slacks right at the zipper as you grind down into him. 

You both moan at the sensation, you stilling with worry that you went too far.

But Rafe death grips your hips as he guides you down again, teasingly urging your body back and forth against him that has you quietly moaning into his mouth. He seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue to meet yours, kisses getting messy, sloppy, dirty. But neither of you seem to care, solely focusing on the high you're both chasing. 

Rafe grips your ass and hips so hard it’ll probably bruise, refraining from letting his hands do what they normally do and dive in recklessly.

He wants to do this right the only way he knows how – by slowing himself down. For you, he needs to be patient. The last thing he wants is to scare you off.

But you sense his reluctance, his hesitation, and nearly groan in frustration. You slow down your pace and find his right hand, putting your hand over his.

Rafe tenses in fear of hurting you, but instead you grip his hand and guide it up your body, over the curve of your ass, under your shirt and up your tummy, fingers splaying over your rib cage and, finally, just stopping under the swell of your breast. 

His breath hitches, then he hums quietly. “Gonna let me touch you there, baby?”

You nod against his lips. “Yes. Anywhere, Rafey. All yours.”

“All mine?”

You nod again, squeezing his hand to wordlessly assure him it’s okay. He mirrors your action, giving your breast a test feel and you sigh in relief.

Jesus. He nearly groans at the sound, the feel, the everything that’s happening right now. He doesn’t have a moment to process it because your hands are traveling further and further down his chest until they toy with the belt of his pants.

You tease him, running your fingers delicately under the waistline of his underwear, cool hands smoothing over his warm skin. Rafe unintentionally bucks his hips up at the sensation, his lips parting all pretty in a way that makes you cheshire-cat smile. 

“Am I yours, pretty?” you mumble, low and teasing, relishing in his fucked out gaze at the mere thought of you touching any lower.

He nods dumbly and you reel with the sight of it. It makes your tummy pool with anticipation.

“Will you let me?”

“Fuck, always,” he manages pathetically, chest heaving as he watches you undo his belt and zipper. Rafe nearly whines when your fingers ghost over his length, barely even touching him and you've got him a writhing mess. “Makin’ me go crazy, looking at me like that.”

You frown, feigning naitivity. “Like what?” you pout, pressing your thumb to his tip through his boxers that has him gasping in the shell of your ear. “Am I gonna have to ask nicely? Or will you be good?”

Slowly feeling him up over his boxers, Rafe bites his lip so hard he’s sure he’s gonna draw blood.

“You’re being a real fucking brat right now.”

“Hm? Am I?”

You squeeze around his length, causing him to huff, getting sick of the anticipation and just wanting to pin you down on this couch and make you eat your words. “Yes.”

Then you tilt your head so you can meet his gaze, taking note of his brows furrowed in frustration, and you can’t help but smile for knowing every trick in the book to push his buttons. 

“So punish me then,” you purr, sending chills down his spine. 

Before Rafe can pick you up and throw you down on the dingy couch, the door swings open and his irritation sky rockets as your friends hoot and holler obnoxiously, flooding the room.

Your pretty little fingers leave his boxers and settle on his tummy, your arm shielding the compromising hand placement.

Pope holds an envelope, undoubtedly filled with the money the first place winner is promised, while JJ thrusts a makeshift trophy in the air as if it’s the Stanley Cup. John B. holds Sarah bridal style, settling in on the couch across from you. Kiara runs over to the pair, ignoring the scandalous scene in front of her and gripping you by the shoulders and shaking you in such ferocious motion that it makes Rafe wince. 

“We fucking won!” she shrieks. “The whole damn thing!”

You beam, ignoring the fact that your skirt is pushed past your hips and that Rafe's hand is settled on your ass and how his belt is unbuckled. “You’re kidding?”

Pope waves the envelope in your face. “You should’a seen Freddie’s face. I wish I had a picture of it, I’d print it out and leave it on his doorstep every day for the rest of his life. Stupid fuckin’ prick.” He waves the envelope once in front of your face then in front of Rafe's face, then pulls back and starts doing it to everyone individually. 

What makes this whole situation worse for Rafe is that JJ decides to sit right next to you both, exhaling as if he’s had a long day at work.

In his nimble fingers, he admires the trophy that looks like a third grader made it, sighing and smiling. You make no effort to move or conceal what you were doing, so Rafe tries to push down your skirt to cover up a little bit with a huff, irritated even further that JJ's arm is brushing against Rafe's.

Oh, the audacity-

“Oh! Hey, guys. Didn’t see you here,” JJ says. He holds up the trophy. “You see this? Pretty fucking sick, right?”

“It would still be pretty fucking sick if you were three feet away from us,” Rafe spats, gripping onto you so tight to hold back from knocking his teeth in.

JJ pushes his luck by gasping and nudging Rafe's shoulder. “Aw? You like it, too? I knew you had a soft spot, Country Club.”

You laugh, chest bumping Rafe's in the process. “JJ, you could’ve at least knocked to let us know you guys were back,” you scold playfully, wrapping your arms around Rafe's neck and smushing your cheeks together, which makes the situation a little better.

Besides, it gives Rafe a better grip on your skirt, pulling it down over your ass successfully.

“Oh, please,” JJ chuckles. “No one gives a shit if you were fist deep in here. Sarah and John B. basically fuck all the time in front of us. We’ve seen more scandalous stuff than this, guys.” JJ gestures to their position. “Honestly, it’s a bit prude in comparison. We were brainstorming that there would at least be an ass in the air,” he teases, then wiggles his fingers at Rafe, “whose ass, we didn’t specify.”

Rafe seethes. “Anybody ever tell you to shut the fuck up and mind your own business?”

“All the time, actually.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and you hum in contentment, knowing that this is going to be their version of getting along from now on. 

The group lingers in the room for another hour or so, as you remain in your rightful place on Rafe's lap with the exception of getting up to use the bathroom with Sarah.

During your absence, JJ relentlessly teased Rafe when he fixed his slacks and belt to zip them back up. John B. jabbed that, hey, at least he was getting some, and for that he earned Rafe's slight respect.

Pope had complained that it wasn’t anything they weren’t used to seeing, then shooting John B. the most diabolical glare he could muster. Kiara had cooed that it was nice to see you so giddy and smiley, and Rafe liked the way it made him feel. 

Rafe can, truly, complain all he wants, but your friends aren’t that bad.

With the exception of JJ being the most annoying human being to grace the planet, but the others are situationally tolerable, including his sister who he (really) enjoys spending time with.

Plus, Rafe likes the smile that you wear when you're around them, a smile once reserved just for him. As much as he wants to be selfish and have it all for himself, he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one. It’s glorious. He likes that you share it with the people you care about, even though he really hates sharing. 

You come back with Sarah and retake your seat on his lap, Rafe wrapping his arms around your middle to pull you back flush against his chest. He places a gentle kiss on your exposed shoulder, relishing in the moment.

You turn to look at him, a soft look in your eye. 

“Hi,” you say quietly, bringing your hand up to brush some hair out of his face. 

“Hey, Snips” he responds even quieter, resting his chin against your shoulder. He notices your sleepy expression and manages a small smile. “Tired?” 

You nod slowly, mirroring his smile. “Had a long day, if you could imagine.”

He hums. “Hm. No. Wanna tell me about it?”

You yawn, and before you can say anything, someone claps.

“That’s our cue,” Pope interrupts, suddenly standing. “Everyone in the van.”

Everyone groans, JJ louder than everybody else. “No! C’mon, man we’re just getting–” he interrupts himself with his own yawn, “--started.”

Pope simply shakes his head.

Minutes later, they’re all in the car packed to the brim with bodies and equipment. A little while later, the van stops in front of your house, the low whir of the engine being the only thing heard on the quiet street. Pope shuts the lights off and puts the car in park, John B. opening the heavy door with ease. 

Pope turns around to look at Rafe awkwardly. “You, uh, going home? I can drop you off with Sarah.”

You stand and exit the van, speaking before Rafe can. “He's staying with me,” you say, shooting Rafe a knowing look. 

Rafe quietly sighs in relief, since the idea of going home alone crossed his mind more than once and he did not like the thought one bit. So, without further coaxing, he exits the van behind you and slides an arm around your waist. 

“Uh, congrats on tonight,” Rafe says awkwardly. “It was great.”

“Such enthusiastic words, Country Club,” JJ taunts. “We were serious about that bodyguard offer if you’re up for it. Unless you’re scared of jackasses like Freddie.”

“You just can’t get enough of me, huh, Maybank?”

You roll her eyes, lazily pushing Rafe towards your house. “Okay, recess is over. I’ll see you guys on Sunday for the fire.”

The group choruses a goodbyes to Rafe, goodbye Country Club to Rafe (along with a quiet yet grateful 'bye, Rafe' from Sarah), and the two of you head up the driveway towards your house. 

You both sneak in the way you've always snuck in, climbing up the porch gate and onto your balcony (with Rafe's help, of course), as you quietly slip into the confinements of your room. Granted, your heavily decorated bedroom is on the opposite side of the house from your parents’ but you're always extra careful to avoid any suspicion. 

Standing in the dimly lit room, you sigh and shut your eyes, fatigue coming over you more harshly than you'd prefer, swaying gently when you feel Rafe's cool hands steadying you on your hips.

Then, you feel him hug you, his broad shoulders caging you in as he rubs his hands up and down your back soothingly, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head. God, it feels so nice and your knees nearly give out at how much you missed this, missed him.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

You nod against his chest, drunk off the way you feel in his arms, letting him gently push you to sit on the edge of the bed while he grabs your favorite pajamas from the bottom drawer.

He comes back over to you, kneeling in front as he sets the pajamas down next to you. First he unzips your boots, delicately pulling your feet out of the shoe and rolling your socks off over her heel and past your toes. 

Once they’re off, Rafe gently taps her knee. “Hey. Your pajamas are ready.”

You pout. “Can you do it?”

Rafe lazily grins, his hands running up and down your thighs gingerly. “Of course, baby. Arms up.”

You do as you're told, raising your arms over your head as Rafe pushes your tank top up past your rib cage, over your bra, and up over your shoulders until it’s off. It leaves you in your bra, one that he caught a glimpse of earlier in the van, but he doesn’t move to pull it off.

Instead, Rafe grabs your pajama shirt, pulling it over your head and covering your torso protectively, then he reaches behind and unclasps the strapless bra, which falls into putty in his hands. He tosses it carelessly to the side.

Rafe pats your thigh gently. “Can you stand for a second?”

You whine in protest, but again do what you're told, pushing yourself up to stand while Rafe stays on his knees. He pushes your mini skirt down your thighs until it pools at your ankles, making him eye level with your core for a fraction of a moment. It doesn’t last long before he’s coaxing your feet to step through the pajama shorts, pulling them up your legs until they rest comfortably on your hips. 

He presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand before standing, making his way into your en-suite bathroom to rifle through the drawers, looking for makeup wipes. When Rafe finally finds them, he brings it out to you and gingerly rubs circles on your cheeks, forehead, neck, all over to get the remnants of tonight off your pretty face.

Discarding the wipe in your bedside trash bin, Rafe pushes stray hair pieces out of your face. “All done. You ready?”

You nod gratefully, crawling onto the bed and slipping under the covers on your usually side of the mattress. Rafe quickly undresses out of his dress shirt and slacks, leaving him in his underwear – his normal attire for whenever he sleeps over – turning off the bedside lamp before sliding in next to you, practically caging you in. 

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you hum when you notice the lights are off. Although the befuddlement doesn't translate, because Rafe settles in, wrapping an arm around you and slowly rubbing circles on your back as he slowly gets comfortable in a bed he missed so damn much. 

“Wait, hang on,” you murmur against his neck, “the light’s off.”

“And?”

“Well, I…”

“You wanna sleep with the light on?”

You nearly groan in frustration. “Are we not… finishing what we started earlier?”

Instead of initiating like you want, Rafe simply chuckles, the vibrato rumbling your nerves. He pulls you flush against his chest. “No, baby. Get some rest.”

“But…” You trail off pathetically, almost whining. “I want to.”

“You’re tired.”

You fight a yawn. “No, I’m not.”

“Snips,” he warns. “Sleep.”

“Ugh, Rafe.”

He says your name mockingly, his tone insinuating he’s wearing a lazy grin. 

Your shoulders sag against him as you huff, fanning hot breath over his chest. If you were standing, you probably would’ve stomped your foot, and he definitely would've poked fun at your desperation. 

But not tonight, because the way he’s holding you, shit, you can feel yourself sinking into the mattress.

Nonetheless, you reach out to press a palm on his chest, yawning once more but gently slapping him for emphasis on your next promise.

“Fine. But in the morning, I’m giving you the best head of your life.”

Rafe chuckles, amused at your determination. “Brat. Go to sleep.”

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes this was a long spiel of absolute brain garbage, genuinely. if you understood the snips nickname, shoutout. hope you somewhat enjoyed????

[alexiroflife]

jjk men reactions & aftercare when you use your safeword…

headcanons list

MDNI, highly suggestive content, smut themes, overstimulation, mentions of discomfort/pain, spanking (suguru), etc.

gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna

-> all i could think of when writing safe words was this from that one rick & morty episode please help

satoru gojo:

satoru gojo, before his relationship with you, was a full-fletched virgin.

while people close to him like suguru, before he left jujutsu tech, or shoko would have been able to tell anyone this fact after having known him for so long and so well, in satoru's later years, he finds that everyone assumes he has a rather promiscuous past before settling down with you.

he understands. quite frankly, it doesn't surprise him at all. he's a flirty personality with a sickenly gorgeous face, with the confidence and arrogance of a well-seasoned slut. he does not exude the energy of a person who went twenty-four years of his life without having sex with anyone. he had received and given oral maybe a few times in his early twenties, but he had never gone beyond that.

you're his first at twenty-four and you're his one and only from then one.

despite his lack of physical experience, satoru, unsurprisingly, is incredibly skilled with the use of his body. there's truly nothing that gojo can not do perfectly. he's seen enough, studied the physical reactions you have to him even when you're just speaking, knows you enough to treat you well without having had to fuck a million people beforehand.

and because you are satoru's one and only, he fucking worships you. he gets drunk off of you. he goes insane for you every single time the two of you are together intimately. while his stamina is incredibly high, his desperation proceeds him and his ability to maintain control is drastically lacking whenever he's got your pretty legs quivering over his head as his tongue licks greedy stripes over your puffy clit.

satoru is spoiled. he gets what he wants and does what he wants when he wants it, and he absolutely expects to get exactly what he wants from you when the two of you are in bed, which is to make you as much of a mess for him as he is for you. he wants you shaking, he wants you begging, he wants you crying for more as you struggle to handle just how good he makes you feel, and every single time, he succeeds.

the thought alone of pleasing you renders him dizzy, and his mind often wanders in the middle of meetings when he's supposed to be focused on the course schedule for the first years over the upcoming next few months. satoru is completely and utterly whipped for you, and with his greedy, mindless desire to hear you moaning for him into the early hours of the morning, he can tend to get a little out of hand.

satoru has never made you feel any less than heavenly, any less than adored, any less than cherished. he satisfies you in indescribable ways, and you're admittedly as head over heels for him as he is for you. he's soft, but then he's wild, whiny, relentless, sloppy, yet always so damn good. he pushes you to just the right limits, drawing out physical reactions you hadn't even known to be possible before him, and talking you through it all. though he's always on the brink of going too far, he never has.

so that is why you are close to panicking now that your legs and your throbbing, overstimulated pussy have gone numb with a rather unfamiliar tingling sensation.

you don't even think you can see anymore. you're long past an acceptable point of lack of functionality, and you can't even think. you hear satoru's voice murmuring as it always does, babbling on in his far-gone state as he pulls you closer for another round. the two of you started this when the sun was out, midday, and now, the sky is pitch black and the clock reads almost midnight, not that you can even tell.

you can feel satoru everywhere, hands flying to any patch of skin he can possibly find, yet the sensation is detached from you. you take a few seconds before realizing that you can hardly breathe, and your body is so spent you can barely move.

satoru, above you, is gone. exceedingly pussy drunk, having came more times than he could count in your mouth, on your stomach, on your back, inside your cunt, and yet he still seeks more. it's like his mind and body are on autopilot, searching for you blindly without any indication of how far he has gone or when he should stop. he's just as fucked out in the brain as you, but the only difference is that he somehow has more energy to spare. his dick is somehow still jumping to life, and you suddenly remember that this is satoru gojo you're talking about.

on the battlefield and in bed, he's a monster, unlike any other.

"c'mere, pretty, just-just one more, gotta feel you," he rambles, panting heavily as he tugs you closer and roams his crystal blue eyes over your trembling body. his sense of logic is skewed, the flags are not registering. he only sees you, and he is eager. he's so in love, so intoxicated by you, he's lost his damn mind.

"y'so gorgeous for me, baby, such a good pretty girl. my good pretty girl. love this pretty girl's pussy, so-so good for me. so good."

and there he goes, on and on about how he wants you, what you do to him, how perfect you are, and you can't even hear it. your ears are ringing. where the hell even are you?

satoru's moving to caress over your body, detailing the softness of your soaked skin beneath his palms before his hands meet your soaked cunt again. he's prying at your weak thighs, ghosting his fingers over your clit hungrily, and the second you feel the tip of his finger so much as graze your bundle of nerves, you're momentarily revived. you're gasping and pushing him away, crawling back.

satoru watches you, brows drawing together. he goes to reach for you again, but then you hastily breathe out. "purple! purple, purple, purple," you wail, body twitching as you curl in on yourself.

the moment your safeword falls on satoru's ears, he's snapping out of it. his blown pupils suddenly shrink and he reconnects with the world around him, with you, the way your heart races, the way you can hardly speak, the way you can't even lift your head from the pillow.

he looks down at the drenched state of your sheets, then back up at you, shaking, and he's finally back.

"baby," he coaxes in concern, crawling up to meet you. you don't even open your eyes when he hovers over you. you simply squirm, murmuring nonsense as chills rack you and your feet kick out. you're absolutely done. "fuck, baby. hey, you there with me? (y/n)?" he cups his hand over your hot cheek, worried eyes taking in the sight of you. he's never seen you like this before, and it's jarring. how long have you even been like this? did he seriously not notice that you had been spent for a while?

your hands go to push at his chest, but he stops you gently, holding your wrist and hushing you. "it's okay, princess, you're okay. you're alright... fuck, baby, look at you. you can't even understand me, can you?"

as expected, you don't show any indication that you can hear him. instead, your body slowly melts back into the sheets as though registering the shift in satoru's mannerisms and tone. you relax, slumping, and satoru almost thinks you've passed out.

"uh uh. don't pass out on me, pretty. come on," he urges you gently, patting your cheek. you groan and stir, at least showing him that you are still conscious. "okay, that's good, baby. that's a good girl, come here."

he pulls you into his arms, enveloping you in his safe embrace. your cheek falls against his bare pectoral and you hum, nuzzling into him as he holds your head close, petting over your hair and watching you carefully. satoru struggles to gather himself as well as he holds you, breathing heavily and twitching against your body whilst bringing himself back to reality.

you continue to rub your face against him, and he looks down at you, brows knitted together. fuck, he feels awful. he hadn't meant to push you this far.

"(y/n)?" he calls your name again, a rather rare occurrence. you take a moment to hum drowsily after a few minutes have passed. "can you hear what i'm saying?"

"...mhm," you hum again brokenly.

"yeah? you can?"

this time you only nod, and he sighs. "are you okay, pretty? are you hurt?"

"mm-mm."

"you sure?"

"y-yeah, tor..."

you don't even finish his name as you sink further into him. satoru kisses your cheek, then your temple. "okay, i get it now. i did too much? i went too far?"

"mhm," you whimper, and his arms tighten around you.

"i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, i should've known better," he apologizes profusely. "i got carried away, i wasn't even thinking. i wasn't even there myself- but that's no excuse. i'm sorry. stay with me, pretty."

slowly, your arms slide to wrap around your boyfriend's neck, and he melts like sap into you, cooing gently and showering you with kisses. he can feel your rapid heartbeat against his chest, your soft pants fanning on his cheek, your abdomen tightening and releasing with your shivers.

"you're so sensitive. i got you good, huh?" he observes. "i'll go easier, next time, pretty. okay? you did so good for me. you always do such a good job. just keep those pretty eyes closed and rest. i'll clean you up in a bit."

you nod meekly once more, cuddling impossibly further into him. you doze to the sound of his assurances, of his tender voices telling you that you’re safe, that satoru’s got you, that he’s so proud of you. he lets you rest before he has to wake you again to help you get ready for bed and to clean you properly.

he loves you so much. so so much, and despite him going overboard, his heart swells with relief at the fact that you feel comfortable enough to tell him to stop.

suguru geto: suguru is truly a kind and loving man. he's gentle and meticulous in the way he cares for you. he always makes sure that you have everything you need and that you're cared for the way you deserve to be cared for. and in bed, he's almost teasing with the way he loves you. he's sweet, keeping his searing lips to your ear as he floods your brain with declarations of future promises, of making you happy, of practically laying down his life if it means listening to you call his name over and over.

he's got a mouth on him, one full of filthy affections, and he gets you off on the sultry sweetness of his sugary tone constantly. he'll be knuckles deep inside you, kissing your cheek almost innocently as he murmurs seductively to you his devotions.

"you squeeze me so nice, sweet girl. you look so fucking beautiful like this. that's right, angel. feel it. feel my fingers stretching you out so good. fuck, i could finger you like this every day for the rest of my life. would you like that, angel? hmmm?"

he always makes sure you respond, as well. he's pulling orgasm after orgasm from you and urging you to speak while doing so, no matter how far gone you are. he's not satisfied until your angelic little voice is breathing out to answer him unsteadily, your words warming his heart and hardening his dick without fail.

nevertheless, despite suguru's generosity, he has the tendency to be so mean when he's agitated.

suguru has a pretty terrible attitude, and though it's not often on display when he is irritated, particularly by something you say, he's an entirely different beast.

his honeyed tone still remains when he punishes you, yet it's laced around far less pretty words. he teases, mocks, judges, and at times, it's enough to make you cry or second guess yourself if you were to hear him go on like this in any other setting.

suguru's presence is incredibly domineering aside from his normally gentle demeanor. when push comes to shove, he is still a man capable of murder, a man harboring the hatred of an entire species, and a man who manages to uphold his connections and his legacy through his cult by means of manipulation.

suguru is nice, yes, but he's also kind of a bully.

the dark-haired man doesn't find himself taking out his irritations on you often. he only deems it necessary to do so when his irritation is inspired by you, and while he has attitude issues, you mirror his tenfold... and he does not tolerate you doing so one bit.

now, you know suguru very well and are very accustomed to how he handles you when he's pissed off, but tonight, he's showing no mercy.

he's had you splayed over his lap for what feels like forever, your ass pointed upward and your wrists bound before you as you muffle your whimpers as best as you possibly can. you don't even remember what you had said or done to get suguru so worked up, but you know that your ass is stinging horribly and is likely marked up with several red angry hand prints, yet suguru is seemingly still far from finished with you.

you've tried crawling away multiple times, but his strong hands always pull you right back, keeping your back arched and your ass up for his access.

"don't cry now, angel," he says, voice dark as his hands roam over your ass. you tense as he gathers a handful of the fat into his fingers, squeezing tightly before raising his hand to smack down hard again with no warning. you lurch forward with a sob, your legs trembling harshly. "you weren't crying earlier when you were running your mouth so much, were you?"

"sugu," you hiccup, desperate for a break. "p-please..."

"nuh uh. you can't 'sugu' you're way out of this one," geto says, eyes heavy and dark as they look over the marks he has left behind. "after all, you're the one who wanted this."

"n-no," you deny pitifully.

"no?" he bites down hard on his teeth as he smacks you again, watching your plump flesh jiggle with the motion. he groans under his breath, sliding his hands over you again as you cry. "really? i could have sworn by the way you were talking to me, this was the only outcome you were looking for."

you can hardly hold yourself up anymore. your face falls flat on the bed as your body shakes with your laments. you don't know what number of spanks you're even on. was there ever a set count to begin with?

you try to reach a hand back, but you forget that your wrists are tied before you, leaving you with absolutely no defenses and suguru with the upper hand.

suguru roughly grabs a handful of your hair and pulls you up, looking over your tear-stained face with a quirked brow. "what's the matter? can't handle your punishment?" he taunts, eying you intensely.

you sniffle, eyes unfocused. your lips part to answer him, but he beats you to it, landing two more smacks to your backside, and you're seeing stars. the strike of his hand is starting to burn, stinging agonizingly over your skin. your ass is buzzing, throbbing with its own bruise-induced heartbeat.

you feel more tears break past your eyes and your brows scrunch up. "that won't do, angel," suguru says. "i must've gone too soft on you."

who goes to land one last strike, and you can't take it anymore. you're kicking away as best as you can, panting with your cries as your voice goes ragged.

"rose!!" you call, completely beyond yourself. "please, no more, please- i'm sorry! rose!"

suguru freezes, his hardened facade washing away. he breaks past the air of anger that he's been submerged in and sees the way you cry as he holds you up, your pearly tears dribbling past your chin as you continue to beg him to have mercy on you under your trembling breath.

"shit," he curses, slowly releasing your hair and easing your head back down. "i hear you, angel. loud and clear."

he hastily undoes your bind and tosses it to the side, setting your wrists free. you quiver, sinking over his lap. suguru catches a glimpse of the marks he has left once more, watching the blooming of purples and reds spread over your poor bum. he hadn't realize how bad it looked before, but he sees now just how hard he's been hitting you.

"fuck, angel, i'm sorry. i'm sorry."

his hand runs over the small of your back and he ducks down to the side of your face, which is still concealed as you cry. his brows curl and his heart lurches forward, his touch upon you now soft and delicate.

"(y/n)?"

"why'd y'spank me so hard," he hears you question into the blankets, speaking unstably amid your tears. suguru's heart drops then and there, and his entire demeanor shifts upon seeing what he's done to you.

"oh, sweet girl, i'm so fucking sorry. i'm sorry," he whispers to you soothingly, attempting to calm you. you're a wreck over his lap, shaking violently. "i don't know what happened. i don't know why i did that. i'm sorry, baby. i'm sorry."

he hisses as his thumb ghosts over his handprints, and even that has you jumping suddenly. "okay, i won't touch. i'm- shit, i really marked you up. that looks like it hurts so bad, angel, i'm sorry. i was being a dick. i don't know what came over me."

suguru slowly helps you up when you don't reply to him, and once he's got you slightly upright, you fall into his chest as you sob. his arms wrap over your upper and lower back securely, face burrowing into your shoulder. his long hair tickles your bare skin gently, his comforting scent consuming you, and you are reminded of your boyfriend's sympathy once more.

"a-are you really t-that mad?" you hiccup into his shoulder, dampening his skin with your tears.

"no," he tells you. "no, i'm not mad anymore. that wasn't- i just got carried away," he repeats. "you're okay, angel. you're perfect. i let my emotions get in the way too much."

"fe-lt like you hated me..."

"what?" he frowns, pulling back to look you in the eye. your red eyes meet his sorrowfully, and you sniff, searching for the kindness of those hazel eyes you so adore. you rediscover it the moment you look at him. "hate you? (y/n), no. don't say that. i could never hate you. i love you," he brushes your tears from your eyes and you whimper. "you're my sweet girl. my perfect angel. i would never," he says gravely. "i can't believe i made you feel that way."

"you spank hard," you pout, and he kisses your puffy lips, smoothing his hand over you hair and stroking your neck.

"i see that now. i'm sorry. i won't do that again," he kisses you again. "i'm sorry. i hate to see you cry like this. this isn't how i should make you cry."

suguru looks around and locates the bottle of water he left on the dresser prior. he leans forward, careful as to not agitate you, and grabs hold of it. "here," he unscrews the bottle around your waist and lifts it to your lips. "hydrate, baby. you need it."

you pucker your lips around the bottle as he eases it upward, easing the fluid into your mouth as you drink. "that's my girl."

once you're done, he leans down to put the bottle on the floor and slowly guides you off of him and onto your stomach after kissing your lips once more.

"what do you want, angel? ice? you want me to massage it?" he asks you, craning down by your ear as you press your cheek to the pillow and look at him tiredly.

"both," you say softly.

"yes ma'am. i'll be right back."

suguru spends the rest of the night treating you, rolling his cool hands ever so carefully over your bruises, cupping your ass, and massaging out the stings to increase blood flow. your brows arch and you moan into the pillow as he does so.

"i know, i know," he murmurs. "promise, i'll make it better. try to calm down for me."

he's kissing softly over the handprints, whispering endless apologies before applying ice every now and then. eventually, the pain begins to calm and subside as your senses dull, and suguru rubs circles over your waist.

"sugu?" you mutter after an extended period of silence.

the dark-haired man ducks down, gazing over your now serene features. "hm?"

he sees the corners of your lips pull upward subtly as you close your eyes. "you're mean, you know that?"

he puff of amused air blows through his nose as he nods, stroking your temple. "i know. i'm the meanest, angel. i'm sorry."

kento nanami:

kento nanami is a man among men, a perfect gentleman, the blueprint for all partners. he loves you dearly, and he takes any chance he can to show you or remind you of this love he harbors for you.

nanami treats you as though you are the only womann to grace this planet, and in many ways, that is exactly how he sees you. he dotes on you and makes you feel as though you are a queen among peasants, sending you flowers nearly every day, writing you sweet letters, cooking you dinner, keeping his hand to your waist to guide you close to him when you walk around in public, cooking your meals, and buying you every possible thing you could ever even mention wanting.

he's an angel. he's your dream man, and he's all yours and you're all his.

when kento is intimate with you, he likes to take his time. he likes to drag out every second of his fingers touching you and his lips ghosting over your body. he likes to admire you, every single part down to the last detail. he is never in any rush, and why should he be? why would he want this to end? you're his lovely woman, and you deserve every second of pleasure he has to offer you.

he handles you so lovingly, holding your gaze and intertwining his fingers with yours as he strokes into you deeply, a haze of raw passion capturing you both as you breathe into each other, fall into one another's longing gazes, and intertwine like pretty strokes of paint mixing into one another on a canvas.

he's enamored by you, kissing over your neck and listening to your pulse against his skin as he makes love to you, keeping you close, flush to him. tendrils of soft blonde hair sprinkle over your forehead as his lips meet yours, bodies rocking passionately. you can feel the fondness in the way he presses into you, the way he holds you, and you feel so feather light as your head floats into the clouds and heaven encaptures you in the bliss of his hold.

nanami is afraid of hurting you when you have sex. he tends to always handle you with care solely because of this fear of his, and while he has his moments of letting just a little bit more loose, of handling you just a little bit rougher, of pushing in just a little bit deeper, he doesn't want to overwhelm you to the point where you are in pain.

you, of course, spur him on and encourage him to let go. you don't believe that nanami would ever hurt you, or at least do so to the point of irreversible damage, but he still gives you a safe word to use for any time you may feel more sensitive than normal or need a break or simply want him to stop because he's making you uncomfortable. you never thought that you would need such a thing with him, but you had unfortunately been wrong.

it isn't even nanami's fault, per say. you like to push yourself more than nanami really approves, and while you can handle it just fine, you find a moment when you overestimate yourself.

you've been riding kento at his desk chair, your hands gripping his shoulders as his hands clutch your hips. his head is tossed back, normally neatly combed haired tousled messily, and his chocolate eyes drink you in through heavy lids. a chorus of hushed moans leave your lips as you work yourself down onto him, rolling your hips, grinding over him, and sliding up and down swiftly.

the blonde's lashes flutter as he watches you, a sight so beautiful and a sensation so purely exquisite that he can not bear to look away.

you lean down to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your chest to his unbuttoned dress shirt. his hands run over your back on instinct, eyes falling closed as he pants into your shoulder.

"ken," you pur into his ear. "fuck up into me, please..."

and normally kento would think on it more, but hell, you just feel too good for him to deny such a polite request. he obliges, gripping your hips and holding you down, planting his feet securely into the carpet and sheathing his throbbing length upward and into your welcoming, gummy walls.

"oh, sweetheart," he groans, wrapping his arms around your waist and burrowing his nose into the crook of your neck with furrowed brows. "you feel so perfect like this."

"fuckkk, ken," you whine.

after a while, you push yourself down at a faster pace, attempting to catch up with his strokes and speed him up. kento grunts, holding you tighter and understanding the message as he thrusts up into you faster.

soon, the sound of his hips slapping into your ass lifts into the air throughout his home office, and you're whining into him, rutting yourself down with him.

nanami's groaning into you, pace a bit wilder as he mimics your behavior. he's got a hand slid up your neck and into your hair as the other holds your waist down, no longer allowing you to move the way you had before as his thrusts proceed.

you're squelching around him, moaning prettily and growing louder by the second until nanami shifts slightly, sitting up straighter and holding you still as he fucks up into you.

he's rougher, as you had physically and verbally requested of him. while this isn't the first time he's handled you a bit harder, it's the first time you feel the weight of his tip bruise your insides with his position, his speed, and his access.

you gasp, breath hitching in your throat as pleasure rather quickly transitions into discomfort, and you squirm. you want to take it, you love taking him so much, but the longer he pulls you further into the harsh push of his dick into your cervix, the more painful it begins to feel.

you grip into nanami's hair, squeezing the muscles in your face as you breathe out heavily. it only takes a few more thrusts that slam into you way too harshly before you tap against his back.

"ah- ken, ken, hold on- mm- yellow!"

nanami stops even before the word leaves your mouth, pulling you off of him with haste as you wince. he sets you back down on his thighs, and you can feel his length twitching against your ass as he looks over you with pinched brows.

he looks so pretty, still thoroughly consumed with lust, captured by worry for your well-being. his hands remain on your waist as he looks over you sternly. "tell me where sweetheart. how did i hurt you?"

you already feel bad as your walls clench around nothing, rather disappointed in yourself. you tremble slightly, looking down. "sorry- i just... it just started hurting for a sec."

"i was going too roughly?" he asks you for clarification, warm brown hues of care looking up at you. he looks torn, devastated that he had broken the one promise he had made to himself about harming you in such a vulnerable state.

"it wasn't you, ken, i didn't think it would hurt that much," you say dejectedly, a tad woozy from the way you had just been handled. it wasn't as though you didn't enjoy it, your body had just reacted differently and reminded you of your limits with taking ken in such a way.

"of course it was me, honey, i'm not sure what you mean," he says softly, his thumb smoothing over your spine. "i'm so sorry, sweetheart. i never meant to hurt you. i must have allowed myself to get too worked up."

"it's okay, ken," you shush him, taking his face gently in your hands. he gazes at you, frustrated with himself but eyes so full of love for you, the darkness in his eyes still swimming about. "you always tell me to reel it in, but you just make me feel so good. i always want more of you. i pushed a little too hard."

"honey," nanami begins, taking one of your wrists in his veiny hand and turning to press a kiss to your palm. "i still would never blame you in this situation. i know better. i apologize sincerely. how badly does it hurt?"

"...it's not that bad, ken. it was just a sting."

"it doesn't matter," he shakes his head. "i think that's enough intimacy for today. i can not stand the thought of hurting you any further."

you give him a sad look. "but it wasn't all your fault, ken," you frown.

nanami smiles at you softly and leans in to press a long, gentle kiss to your lips. he pulls away from you and meets your gorgeous eyes. "i love you, sweetheart," he declares so warmly, so honestly and you return the sentiment without a second thought, heart thrumming.

"i love you more."

"let me run a bath for you, okay? then after, we can relax and order some food. i can give you a nice massage, too. how does that sound?"

"...can i massage you too?"

nanami laughs slightly. "darling, i'm not the one who got hurt."

"i don't care. i wanna help you relax too. you always have so much tension."

"i'm relaxed any time i'm with you. and you certainly were helping me relax a few minutes ago. perhaps, a bit too much."

you pout and he kisses you again, his soft lips warm and enticing against your own. "ken," you murmur against his lips as he draws himself back, rubbing his palm over your spine and sliding your shirt back down from its scrunched state.

"yes, my love?"

"i still want you."

he gives you a firm, warning look. "(y/n), i said that's enough. you need to rest a bit. you just said that you have the tendency to push yourself when it comes to sex."

"i know, but," you push your bottom lip out and lean back up against his chest, arms draping over his shoulders again. "it doesn't have to be sex. you can just... eat me out."

you feel nanami's chest stutter against you as he breathes out heavily. "you're playing a dangerous game, you know that?"

"please?" you beg, dragging your nose against his neck. "you're always gentle. and it feels so good... all you have to do is hold me down, i won't get hurt in any way with your tongue on me, i swear."

a groan rumbles in nanami's chest and you can feel his dick twitch back to life against you. you smile lazily, leaning back to look him in the eye. "pleaseee?"

"only if you behave," he accepts, raising his brows. "i'm serious. i will go the pace i want to go, and you'll take it. slowly."

you bite the inside of your lip and nod, a pretty smile gracing your face. nanami hums, curving his hand over the back of your head and bringing you to his lips again.

"what am i going to do with you?"

choso kamo:

your brown-haired boyfriend is new to a plethora of human emotions and habits, yet sex is one thing he adjusts to rather eagerly and skillfully thanks to your influence.

choso is ever so inquisitive, seeking to explore every part of you so that he can ingrain your body and its incredible functions into his mind, so he can adapt, so he can improve, and you can confidently say that he proceeds to do so with each passing moment he studies, loves, and cares for you.

choso gets pretty flustered by you easily. you introduce him to not only a world of your love and affection, but a world of vulnerability, pleasure, and sensual exploration. he learns fast, the goal of making you happy driving him forward into picking up on the things you show him incredibly swiftly.

he's so handsy with you, unsure of how to properly convey all that you make him feel so he frequently clobbers you, enveloping you, consuming you in a needy daze, repetitively chanting about how he loves you and how beautiful you are, and how amazing you make him feel, how he never wants to let you go. he's pathetically obsessed with you, longing for your touch at any given moment yet he always allows you to initiate your intimacy first before he completely drowns in you. he's still working on managing himself around you as well as his own urges to refrain from acting out of line, being too forward, or misreading situations. he wants to be perfect for you, and never in your relationship does choso ever want to misstep or misread what you want.

getting him to vocalize when and how he wants you is one thing, but once you've started, sending him a text about how you need him, or running your hand down his thigh a little closer to his crotch underneath the table, or giving him that certain look in your eye that can only mean one thing, then he's completely and utterly unraveling at the very second you give him the green light.

choso's sloppy and uncoordinated but it doesn't matter and he doesn't care because all he's after is you, and when he has you, his brain goes numb, his hands, his dick, his everything are acting with a mind of their own.

the two of you are hot gasps and nasty sloppy noises as the purple eyed man above you pleads for you, though you're right there, aching for more until he can't even breathe.

you think choso is so beautiful like this, lips parted and brows curled as though he's going to cry from the euphoria. his brown hair falls over his shoulders and sticks to his forehead, free from the updo that he always wears, and for someone who can manipulate the blood in his body, he is beet red in the face as he watches the way he disappears into you.

choso would never hurt you. not in a million years. he would die before he hurt you, standing in front of oncoming traffic and sacrificing himself for the sake of your life.

therefore, when his crooked fingers are rocketing into your sopping walls as you cream over and over on his three digits, his lips slurping over your clit with your fingers lace into his hair and tugging at his scalp, he doesn't expect you to stop him.

he's only thinking of how you taste so sweet on his tongue, how your gorgeous pussy makes that squelching noise the deeper he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, and god, the way his dick twitches every time you pull at his hair- he can hardly tell if you're trying to yank him away or to pull him closer at this point, but he's not even thinking about that. he's not thinking at all.

he’s groaning and humming into you, whining in between breaths about how he just can’t get enough, but his fingers are beginning to thrust too fast, too far inside of your walls.

his noises shift between guttural, deep growls and shaky, heavy-pitched breaths. though you love every sound, you begin to feel yourself rejecting the feeling as it grows far too swift, too hard, too overpowering.

"c-cho," you whimper, your thighs moving to push you away, but he keeps you down with his free forearm to your lower abdomen. "baby, i c-can't- ah!"

his noises rise over your pleads and he doesn't stop, and you can feel an uncomfortable knot building in your stomach in addition to the ache inside you. you wince, the overlapping sensations proving to be way too much at once.

your hand pushes at his forehead rather harshly. "cho-! ngh- pinaepple!"

choso's brows twitch as he processes what you just said, his mind still not completely comprehending, but after a second or two, he rips himself away as though he's burned you.

panic swirls in his violet eyes, his saliva and your slick shining over his chin up to his nose. he looks up at you over your thighs, but you don't see because you're leaning your head back in relief and breathing heavily.

"did you just say your safeword?" he asks in a rush, ensuring that he has registered your words properly.

you nod stiffly, furrowing your brows. "y-yeah, m'sorry," you breathe. "i couldn't take anymore."

choso's pupils shrink as though you've just told him that all life is ending as you know it. his heart hammers through his chest, and he instantly peels away from your now cold sex to swipe his fingers on the bed, ridding himself of any reminder that he has pushed you too much.

he crawls up to see your face, caging his arms over you. his muscles tense as he looks over your expression, brows knitted and eyes glossy. you eventually open your eyes again, having sensed his presence over you.

"(y/n), i'm sorry," he apologizes so earnestly like it's the very last thing he'll ever say to you. he's suddenly deadly serious, firm, and ashamed of himself. "you've never used our word before. i... i didn't realize what i was doing to you."

"cho," you say his name softly. he tilts his head further down to you, his brows curling in sadness. "it's okay, baby. stuff like this happens."

"what do you mean?" he frowns, hand coming over your cheek the moment yours lifts to hold his. "this has never happened to us before. i'm not sure how i let it, either."

"i just mean in general," you clarify softly. you can feel your eyes growing heavier and your speech slurring. choso notices as well, keeping his hand on your face so that you remain with him, cognizant of his gaze and his touch.

"this has happened to you before?" he asks, slightly horrified and simultaneously agitated by the very idea. "when? with who?"

"baby, i'm trying to tell you mistakes happen," you laugh softly. "no, this hasn't happened to me before, but i'm saying we have a safe word for a reason for when these things do happen."

"oh," he murmurs. "but i never wanted you to actually have to use it..."

"well, how else would we learn about each other if we didn't run into things like this?" you smile warmly at him. choso's face blooms with further heat, humming to himself as he looks at you.

"tell me."

"tell you what?"

"tell me exactly what it was that i did. i'll be sure not to make the same mistake twice. i swear. i'm so sorry for hurting you," he declares, determined.

"it wasn't that bad, love," you assure him.

"i still want to know. i need to know."

"it was just the way you were using your fingers, and i was already super sensitive."

"...so, you don't want me to use my fingers on you anymore?"

"oh, god, no," you say, and you can see choso visibly relax.

"oh... okay, good. i would have stopped if you wanted me to, but i was hoping that wasn't it. i love fingering you."

your tired smile spreads as you lift your other hand to curl into his hair, scratching gently. his lashes flutter, heavy eyes matching your own. "i love when you finger me too, cho. just maybe next time, be gentler... only because you'd already made me cum so much. my body was just tired and i don't think it could keep up anymore."

he nods, taking in every word you say. "i understand. that makes sense, i'm sorry. i should have checked on you and asked."

"it's okay, baby, you don't have to keep apologizing."

"but i just can't stomach that i-"

"it's. okay," you whisper slowly, pulling him down to meet your lips with his in a delicate peck where you can smell yourself on his breath.

he sighs when you pull away, face twisted irritably. "are you sure, baby? you're not just saying that?"

"of course," you say softly. "it was just one little thing. that's all. i'm okay."

choso almost looks reluctant to accept your dismissal of the situation. he somehow feels like he needs to be reprimanded more for it, and you can tell simply by the way he stares at you.

"cho," you giggle. "stop, i told you i'm fine."

"i know. you're too sweet to me, (y/n)," he murmurs. "i wanna make it up to you. can i? is there anything i can do to make you feel better? please tell me."

you swoon internally at just how much cares. "can you just cuddle me please?"

"yes. absolutely, yes."

the brunette moves to kiss your forehead, then helps ease your legs over so that you are settled comfortably over the bed. before he lays down, he is reminded of the dampness beneath you, coating your inner thighs and creeping up to your belly button.

"love, do you have a towel?" he asks you gently as you start to curl over to him. "i need to clean you up, don't i? i made kind of a mess."

"later, cho," you mumble tugging at his bicep. "just want to be close to you right now."

he's torn momentarily. he's always quick to cater to what you ask of him, to just silently yet happily comply with whatever you need, but he knows that the second he gathers you in his arms, sleep is going to take over the both of you as it normally does after sex. the last thing he wants is for you to be laying in a sticky pool of your own arousal. he imagines you waking up uncomfortable, and it doesn't sit well with him.

"hold on a minute," he tells you. you look up curiously as he kisses your cheek and slides his arm slowly from you to stand. your hand slips into his before you release him reluctantly.

"cho?" you call him with big eyes, and the brunette almost gives in right there.

"just one more second. i remember us always doing this, and i don't want to neglect you now."

"...but-"

"one second. i promise, love."

you sigh and accept it. the moment you say okay, choso is practically sprinting to your bathroom and back with a towel. you can't help but smile gently as he hurriedly, yet gently, cleans you dry, holding your legs in his palm and easing them to the side when he's done.

"do you have to pee?" he asks you rather bluntly, gazing up at you as he folds the towel and places it on the ground.

you groan at the thought. "yeah, but i don't feel like it."

"that's okay. i'll take you."

"to pee?" you quirk a brow.

"yes?" he answers as though you questioning the thought is absurd. "i don't want you to go yourself. you're tired."

"yeah, but then that means you'll just be listening to me."

"(y/n), i've seen every part of you. i don't care about watching you pee."

"why would you want to hear or watch me in the first place?" you whine.

"to make sure it doesn't hurt you when you do."

"cho, baby, you did not hurt me that bad. oh my god," you run a hand over your face and shake your head with your laughter.

"i just want to make sure you're alright. i can close my eyes if it helps," he says stubbornly, leaning down to gather you slowly into his arms. your arms go to wrap over his neck as he lifts you up and walks you off.

"it's honestly fine whatever you do, cho, i just think it's a little funny."

"to worry?"

"nooo," you sigh, knocking your head against his shoulder. "nevermind."

choso responds with a peck to your head before sitting you down in the restroom. once the both of you are settled, you're back in bed under the covers. choso holds you with your back to his chest, palming soothingly over your abdomen as you drift off to sleep with the feeling of his chest rising and falling against you.

"(y/n)," cho's voice rumbles into you. you hum contentedly half asleep, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "thank you for being honest with me. i love you. i love you so much."

"mmm. i love you too, cho. thank you for always listening to me."

toji fushiguro:

toji, mentally and physically, can not get enough of you, especially after long stressful days on the job. when he comes home from work and is greeted by the sight of your pretty face after having had guns pointed at his head, blood spilling on his face, and the weight of exhaustion and sore muscles hanging on his back, seeing you is like seeing the gates of heaven after death.

the assassin is always so quick to fall over you, pressing you to him and smothering you in long, deep, hot kisses as he walks you back or picks you up to carry you to your bedroom, or to the shower, or hell, even to the countertop in the kitchen.

toji fucking loves being inside you. he loves tasting you on his lips, feeling you clench around his fingers, watching you squeeze over his heavy cock as he sinks into you with a guttural groan and a devilish smirk. he loves the way your soft skin feels beneath his calloused hands, he loves licking the salty-sweet sweat from your neck as you toss your head back, he loves the sound of your pussy gushing around him with each slow stroke that inevitably transitions into ruthless pounding.

god, he loves fucking you as much as he loves you, and the moment he's got you in his arms with a week of stress pent up within his chest, he's pouring all if it straight into the way he fucks you, and he gets lost in the euphoria that is you.

you're such a pretty thing beneath him, so small compared to his bulking frame, and he is obsessed with it. one second, he's stroking in leisurely, absorbing every second of the way he slides his girth between your gummy walls, soaking up the way you greedily drag him back in with each thrust. and the next, you're in a mating press and he's grunting into your mouth through a sloppy lip lock, slamming in rhythmically, stilling his cock inside you for a second longer each time so that you can feel just had deep he is, just how deliciously he's stretching you open. hell, he doesn't even know when or how it happens. he just knows that you have him whipped, and his stress melts away with each drag of his seed he pumps into you after the umpteenth round.

"fuckin' hell, doll, keep drainin' my cock just like that. thaaaaat's it, pretty baby- hah, fuck- take me so deep inside this perfect lil' pussy..."

toji has always been well aware of the size difference between the two of you. he's always been a freakishly large man, and that fact of course applies to the generous width of the monster he carries between his legs. he knows you struggle at times when he has to take a good minute or two to help you relax as he eases himself into you while you whine, that his size can be a bit overwhelming, but you've accustomed to him so well that he completely forgets about how much stronger, heavier, and bigger he is- especially so when he is stressed.

he is, however, unfortunately, reminded after he has curled your lower half up from the bed with your legs over his shoulder. your knees are hovering by your ears as he plants himself over you with his feet on the bed, holding onto your hips and pounding himself down into you almost vertically, keeping you flush against his torso.

his day had been particularly long and grueling, and the job he had been on took far longer than expected just for his client to argue with him about some bullshit once he had finished. toji's irritated, and he's fucking you like he is.

normally you don't have much of a problem with that, but this position he's got you in has you widening your eyes and practically screaming. he's too deep, pushing in too hard, and this angle gives you no room to squirm away or for his dick to angle anywhere but straight into your guts. it hurts, and his face is tense with blazing jade irises of fury, fingers digging into your skin bruisingly, and he's on the verge of going impossibly harder.

you choke, scrunching your face and moving to press against him. when he starts to reach for your hand and pin it down, you shout.

"orange!" you cry. "stop, toji, orange!"

he instantly stills, face falling as he stares down at you in shock. "oh shit, baby, for real?"

you nod quickly with a tight face and he's retracting within seconds, pulling out carefully and bringing your legs back down to the mattress.

"fuck, alright," he says, climbing over you and pulling you down gently. "sorry, baby, was it the angle?"

you don't say much, only nod again as you fight the tears that prick the corners of your eyes. you keep your eyes closed and toji wraps you up, laying back on his side and pulling you into his chest. he feels your legs twitching against his and your shoulders shaking as he holds you, and remorse floods his chest. "talk to me."

"w-was too deep, toji," you shudder, whispering shakily into him. "s'big, and that angle- it hurt."

toji's heart clenches as he holds you tighter around your shoulders. he kisses your forehead, pressing his lips to your hair. "i didn't realize, baby, i'm sorry."

"i told you it was too much..."

"i know, doll, but i didn't think you meant it. you usually don't."

"s'why i said... the word."

"yeah, you did. you did exactly what you were supposed to. good girl, doll," he praises, rubbing over your back slowly. he's never seen you look so pained in such an intimate space with you. the way your brows were pinched angrily when he looked up, the way your teeth bared in a soft grimace, the way you pushed against him and wanted him to get off, it breaks his heart. he feels like a complete piece of shit, especially so because he didn't notice until your safeword came flying out of your mouth.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again. "i should've been payin' attention. i had a bad day... fuck, sorry."

you can tell he's remorseful, and that combined with the fact that you've been fucked stupid for the past hour and a half has you shaking your head against him forgivingly, head dizzy as you finally take a moment to collect yourself. "it's okay," you mumble into his neck lightly.

"it's not, doll. it ain't even fun or sex anymore if i'm hurtin' you," he frowns. you make a soft noise but don't respond to him verbally. toji looks down at you, gently lifting your head to catch the fuzzy look in your eye. "you hearin' me? you okay?"

you nod dumbly, a hint of unease pinching your brows when your legs twitch again and the ache in your core throbs. you burrow your face in toji's neck and he sighs.

"i gotta get you cleaned up, doll. then i'll make up for it."

"wait," you mumble the moment you feel him pulling away. he stops as you cling to him, peering up at him through sleepy lashes. "don't go."

"i'm just gettin' you a towel. i'll be right back."

you look at him sadly once he has completely torn away from you and stood at the edge of the bed. he watches the way you bring your knees to your chest and look up at him with sleepy, desperate eyes. toji exhales, tilting his head.

"you want me to take you with me?"

"yes..."

he allows himself to smile lightly in amusement. "alright, but you're not walkin' anywhere, you understand?"

he leans down and you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. he hoists you up cautiously by your bum, allowing you to wrap your legs around his torso. you cringe slightly at the action, your legs burning after having endured such exertion, and toji can feel you shift against him as he holds you with one arm by your waist.

"that's not comfortable, is it?" he turns to your face, but it has already disappeared into his neck. you don't respond and toji exhales at the stubborn clinginess that you resort to in this fucked out state at the cost of your comfort.

he aids you by holding one of your thighs gently as he walks to your bathroom to retrieve the things he needs. with one hand holding you and the other gripping some cloths, he carries you back into your room and sets you softly onto your back on the cushions.

he gently unwinds your legs from around him and kneels on the bed beside you. he ducks down to kiss you softly, and you hum in satisfaction against him before he pulls away, stroking your forehead.

"close your eyes, doll. let me take care of ya."

a warm rag runs over your body, wiping over dark hickeys and lines of sweat. his lips follow in the cloth's wake, kissing over any part of you that he deems he has treated too roughly in his haste to relieve himself of stress.

he reaches your thighs, where the most pain resides, and presses his lips to them softly. his fingers run over your calves, up the sides of your plush flesh and he proceeds to pepper kisses between your legs, swiping the cloth over your damp entrance tentatively, keeping his eyes on your face to ensure that he isn't further harming you. you do jerk slightly, but that is the extent of your physical reaction.

"i got you, don't worry."

the second you feel the cloth leave you, toji's hands are pulling you up again, moving you around so that he can lay flat on his back beside you. you open your eyes, watching him curiously.

"come lay on me, baby," he guides you by your arm.

you do as he says, easing yourself chest-first onto of him and allowing your body to sink into his heat. his hands come over you and his palms work into the knots in your lower back, over your bum, and in your shoulder blades. he kneads into the balls of tightness, rolling over and rubbing them through lazily.

your eyes flutter at the relieving sensation, the green-eyed man's rough hands smoothing to rid your body of excess tension. "there you go," he kisses your shoulder. "i'll make you feel better, i promise. no more pain for my girl."

"love you, toj," you whisper sleepily into his skin.

"love you too. i'm sorry for hurtin' you. i'll be more careful."

ryomen sukuna: you know sukuna to be rough in all aspects of his life, and that certainly does not change when it comes to the two of you having sex- in fact, that very trait of his is enhanced. the moment he slips inside of you, he's pushing your head face first into the pillows, gripping your waist or your thighs or your throat with his large palms as to prevent you from running away, spitting into your mouth, fisting your hair, leaving red bite marks in his wake, anything he possibly can to remind you that you are his to devour whole.

you've always enjoyed the way he tosses you around or fucks you over the velvet pad of his throne, or holds you almost violently by the thighs in the air and spears you down on his ungodly thick cock while sitting at the edge of your bed with his feet planted into the floor. he knows he's not gentle with you, but aggression is the only way he knows to take you by, to show you how much you drive him fucking crazy, to bask in your enchanting screeches and your doll-like, hazy expressions.

and like the good girl he knows you to be, you take him every single time, and it spurs him on. it encourages him to plow harder, to grip tighter, to render you completely immobile beneath him as he ruts himself into you like it's the end of the fucking world and the only way for him to survive is to fuck you like a worthless whore, though you're nothing close to one.

while he always leaves you in a pool of your mixed fluids on the verge of losing consciousness, shaking like a leaf kissed by the breeze, you've never expressed an inability or refusal to handle him. you take him so well for a human, and sukuna's captivated by your strength, your insatiable desire when he's bullying his dick into your swollen cunt. while you get overstimulated, or hell even beg him to go slower or softer, he knows you don't really want him to stop because you haven't uttered the one word that he told you to reserve only for the times you feel you are beyond discomfort.

that is, until a few seconds ago, when the muffled word rips from your hoarse throat through the ball of your panties he's stuffed into your mouth.

sukuna's on top of you, pressing his heavy weight over your back with his arms wrapped under your frame and his thighs crushing in on your on. you're on your stomach, tears dribbling from your eyes and down your face as sukuna finally stills inside you after having thrusted painfully into your cervix over and over. he's so deep inside you, and he wants you to feel. he wanted to see how much further he could break you in, but clearly, he had mistakenly forgotten that you are still fragile.

the king of curses' eyes go wide, and he rips an arm from under you to tear the gag from your mouth. you heave out a sob, face falling into the pillows as you murmur your safeword again, a string of practically unintelligible spent moans that only sukuna can understand because he's never heard you utter that word before.

"red, red, red," you snivel, and sukuna's face relaxes.

"i heard you," he murmurs gruffly. "give me a moment."

you whine as your entire body collapses with the withdrawal of sukuna's arms from your body. he sighs heavily, looking over your marked skin as he smoothes a hand up your spine. you flinch with a whimper, and he clicks his teeth.

"this is what happens when you grow cocky."

"h-hurts, kuna. too hard," he thinks he hears you simper.

"never heard you say that before," he murmurs. "know your limits, woman."

he slowly eases himself out of your warmth with a clenched jaw and angled brows, watching your arousal gush onto the sheets the moment he's pulled back. you jump and curl further up into the pillow.

"oh my, how far have i taken you this time?" he hums, watching as you squirm under even the slightest touch he gives.

"ryooo," you whine.

"alright, alright," he comes back down over your limp body, curling his fingers over your forehead to pull your face up and gently brush your sweaty hair away. your eyes are closed as he turns inward to look over you, caressing your damp cheek softly. you're so warm, so shaky beneath him. your brows are pinched together in pain and exhaustion, and your lips are wobbling. hell, he's never seen you look so weak before.

"hey," he coaxes gently, voice rumbling tenderly against your back through his toned abdominals. you're releasing a series of trembles, broken hums, likely unsure of where you even are, and sukuna curses internally. he softens. "what do you need, peach?" he asks you in a low whisper.

your response is near incomprehensible, but sukuna is already thinking and moving before you even open your mouth. he exhales heavily and presses himself back up so that he can stand and gather you in his arms. you whimper when he goes to delicately flip you over.

"relax," he orders softly, smearing the wetness away from your cheek and smoothing his hands over your heated skin. you obey him to the best of your ability as he pulls you up.

as though it is muscle memory, you lean into his bare chest once he is holding you bridal style. you continue to tremble, and sukuna's crimson eyes roam your body carefully. he's truly done a number on you this time.

normally when it came to baths, sukuna would have one of his servants or uraume run them for you, but instead, he feels the need to take the duty on himself as he carries you into your large connected restroom. he sets you down within the inhumanly large royal tub slowly, and the moment he pulls from you, you reach for him lazily in retort as your head rolls back against the rim.

"be patient, i am not going anywhere."

he reaches to turn on the faucet as hot water streams around your feet. he's hasty with his movements, focused, knowing that you do not desire to be cold in this moment. he stands to retrieve the oils and soaps he's purchased solely for your pleasure and sits back down beside the tub.

"open your eyes," he reaches in to cradle your chin. you scrunch your lids and tilt your head to him, peeling your blurry eyes on his command. "lavender or peppermint. pick one."

your eyes weakly drift to the array of bottoms lined on the ledge. "lavender," you request tiredly.

your voice is so small, so light, a heady contrast to the way you normally challenge him with your playful tone. sukuna looks at you momentarily, soaking in your sweet mellow state, before retrieving the said bottle and pouring it into the rising steamy water.

he keeps a hand on your shoulder, rubbing over a bite mark with his thumb, as bubbles, soothing fragrances, and petals fall into the tub one by one. the hot water crowds over your bare skin, alleviating the dull ache between your legs and the stings of the marks on your skin.

sukuna holds an intense look of focus, swishing his arm around the water to ensure that all the properties he has included mix together well. you watch him, dazed, cheek propped against the porcelain with heavy (e/c) eyes studying his attentiveness. he feels your eyes on him, but only raises a brow at you once the bath is finished.

you truly aren't all there.

sukuna rises to his feet, slipping his arms behind you and under your own to hold you up as he steps inside with you.

you let him manuever you, your body too exhausted to dare to try to move. he pulls you flush against his chest, his thighs crowding over your own. you sigh out, leaning your head back against his shoulder as he brings a cloth over you, washing away remnants of spit and cum, massaging into the aches of your body wordlessly.

his chin comes down over your shoulder while his hands wind over your waist to stroke your legs. his fingers dance gently over your inner thighs, up your abdomen, ghosting over your neck. he's everywhere, and for the first time, in a supple, tender way, as though he is polishing glass that he does not wish to break.

you're humming, breathing steadily, chest rising deeply and slowly. sukuna's hands curve to smooth over your tits, and you flinch, leading him to smirk lightly. "sensitive, are we?" you pout, brows curling, and he turns his lips to your neck. "calm down, brat, i'm not going to push you. keep still."

his palms work over the sore plush of your breasts and you melt, arching into him as he massages over you with such care. a weak moan threatens to escape you and sukuna shakes his head. "do not. that is what led you here in the first place."

his hands release your tits and follow the curve of your body downward once more. he continues his massaging and caressing of your body until you're no longer twitching.

his hands fall over your hips, smoothing over your stomach. he lifts up slightly to look down at you. "are you still in pain?"

you take a moment to respond, but eventually, your eyes open again and they meet sukuna's lax gaze. despite the permanent angle of his brows, he appears calm before you, mutely compassionate.

you lean against him, holding his gaze, and shake your head slightly, a bit of your senses slowly returning. "only a little between my legs," you murmur.

he hums. "and how would you expect me to tend to this pain?"

you don't say anything, but the soft glint in your eye speaks for you as sukuna's hand slowly trails down your stomach and past your clit lightly. you inhale sharply, still thoroughly sensitive.

sukuna's eyes look over the whole of your face. "do you wish me to massage your sore cunt from the inside? is that what you so desire?"

you moan out a gentle sigh, heavy lids falling over your eyes in a blink as you nod helplessly against him. "slowly..." you murmur.

"you are insatiable," he mumbles lowly. his fingers ghost over the lips of your pussy, circling them gently before sinking past and sliding into your warm walls.

your mouth parts and your head knocks back as sukuna watches you closely. the water swishes around your legs as you move, sukuna's lips crushing slowly over your mouth.

"i suppose i can assist as a reward for you speaking up."

[suiana]

bruh i was talking to my friends about our types in guys and i said "i like boyfailures, absolute losers" and rambled about how they were just so cute and I'd be going 'yeah that's cool babe, tell me more about your pokemon and dinosaurs☺️' but then later on in the dsy i realised bro what if i AM the loser and someone thought of me like that 😵 therefore i give you yandere! golden boy x loser! reader

basically you're a loser who doesn't think they're a loser. you're the type of loser who talks a lot of shit online about how 𝖘𝖎𝖌𝖒𝖆 and hot you are when in reality you can't order a meal without hyping yourself up for 5 minutes beforehand.

you'd be pretending you're hot and mysterious but the second someone indicates the SMALLEST hint of anything you're interested in, you go on full on rambles and rants. then you snap back to reality and realize that hey! you don't even know this stranger! and just... walk away.

you're the type of person to go to the doctor with your mommy because you're scared to talk to doctors yourself and you'll look at her when the doctor asks any question, expecing her to answer for you. 'so what's your name? looks at mother' ahhh reaction.

yeah. basically, a loser. with hyperfixations on anime/game characters that you consume millions of content of. you probably sleep with plushies too and read fanfiction before sleeping. or you're doomscrolling reddit/tiktok/some form of social media and sleeping at 3 in the morning.

enter, him.

the golden boy. the perfect boy with perfect grades and a perfect body and- basically everything. he does like 3 sports, speaks 5 languages, everyone loves him, he graduated from an ivy league or an ivy league equivalent, and he's going to inherit his father's company! rich, tall, handsome. he has everything set out for him. cool beans.

anyway!

you don't know how, and you don't know why, but this man is now in love with you. you... probably met him while working your minimum wage job at some fast food restaurant.

"hi, i think you're really cute. would you like to go out on a date with me?"

"h-huh? erm..."

yeah, you don't know how to react so you just malfunctioned briefly before taking another customer's order. but he wouldn't let up. not at all, because he'd find your socials and have HOURS of conversation with you, on total accident, of course! no dirty work involved. totally. just pure coincidence, just like god or whatever is above intended!

"heh, must be my aura that allowed me to get that limited edition skin... what do you think, best friend?"

"yeah, this is the one guys. I'm marrying them."

"what did you say, best friend?"

"oh, nothing at all ☺️ go on with your rant, sweetie."

by some stroke of luck, definitely not him pulling some strings, you get a job offer that somehow is related to- wow, what do you know! his company! so you leave your boring 9-5 job and sign the contract. what a nice friend he is!

"here, just sign down on the line and you'll be able to start working right away."

"wow this contract is really long, best friend."

"haha... right, I'm definitely just a best friend..."

a contract that definitely does NOT bind you to him. yeah, no, definitely not. nuh uh. what? you're trying to read the fine print? there's no need for that! it's all just boring stuff...

yeah, definitely no conditions that will allow him to legally keep you trapped with him... and should you ever try to leave. well, it's just not possible.

but hey! at least now you get endless cash and you even have this cool best friend who really seems to spoil you!

oh, and now he's asking to be your boyfriend.

"sorry, you're not my type... i like the losers. boyfailures, even."

"sweetie..."

..

...

yeah, so now you're dating. it's all cool. yeah, you... totally don't mind this.

"best friend can we get some chicken nuggets? i really want some chicken nuggets and fries, best friend."

"it's boyfriend, sweetie. but of course! anything you want ☺️ we can get those chicken nuggets and more if you want."

okay well, at least it's not that bad... he's rich and handsome, he spoils you and loves you! like those guys in fanfiction, right? maybe a little too much though.

"sweetie, I'm throwing away all your merchandise of this man thing, okay? I'm replacing it with merchandise of me."

"don't tell me you're already throwing it away..."

"☺️"

"we're OVER."

[todayisafridaynight]

SO FUNNY I was just about to write in complaining that I got sick a day after you posted your last comic... I caught it... yet I don't have an Arakawa to take care of me... [<- I started writing this when you answered my last ask]

OH BUT NO WORRIES AT ALL I always love reading your responses and these were no exception :) It really means the world to me to have you guys listen! I believe I've [probably] mentioned the headcanon is a bit personal [In Other Words projection galore but. Believable Enough. Please DO dare to think... It'll work out...]; I was more or less expecting to keep it to myself forever because I felt the Venn Diagram of people who would know what I'm talking about and be interested had no overlap. I'm incredibly grateful to be able to have these talks and the assurance that's not the case :) and also I just kinda don't wanna Mansplain Jo To You so I'm glad that doesn't seem to be the case as well

AND I MEAN... LOL... LMAO EVEN...

it would be a pretty fair to pursue that line of thinking given he has both visible symptoms of sleep deprivation and things to lose sleep over... reminded of Debt [TWISTING AND WAILING AND CONVULSING] but also the counterpart to Matrophobia you were thinking about...

I absoluuuutely get what you mean by the mirror thing too I see you in the kitchen I smell what you're cooking... same here... very excited to see what he's like when he doesn't have to be a bullet as well... here are those for the sake of completion [If I May I think perhaps he wouldn't feel the need to change his name, just feel a disconnect if it's his father's family name and/or his given name was chosen by his father. Like an ambivalent Aoki I guess; he knows he'll answer to it so why fix what ain't broke and "inconvenience others"...]

SORRY FOR RAMBLING MYSELF HGLDJLKDJG again No Worries At All since you shouldn't be saying much with your Gameritis anyway... I hope your wrist gets better soon, rest up and take care!

NOT MY SILLY COMIC GIVIN YOU THE FLU (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`) hope youre doin better now gettin sick SUCKS (╯x╰ )

oh but yaya of course : i have a cockroach for a brain so im glad star can supplement a lot more valuable commentary (╯▽╰ ) even if i have bugs for brains im still happy to see what you (and star should they write again) have to say :)