#fludd

SUNSHINE & 3D LAND Mario Sunshine is my favorite video game! It's really flawed, and imperfect, but charismatic and lovely all the same, it's so special to me! Mario 3D Land is a really charming game, it's not really extravagant but its really simple and fun and I like it, it's got a nice style I think.

Feh... Super Mario Sunshine? Give me a break. That goody two-shoes Mario is here to, what, give me a shower? Clean up the environment? He wouldn't know "cool" or "hardcore" or even "hell yeah" if a mole shot it at him from a cannon.

This game's all about the adventures of Mario and his new best friend, FLUDD the glorified lawn sprinkler. What a joke. Who even likes water? Not me! I quit drinking water months ago, and now instead of peeing, I pop out these sick little crystals. It hurts like hell, but I bet I can sell them for a fortune one day.

So, yeah. NOT impressed with this one. If they want to make Mario cool, they'd give him a flamethrower. FIRE- and not when it's from a stupid little flower- is cool. That's why Charizard is cool. That's why Zeraora is cool. Yes I know Zeraora isn't Fire type but I like to think it is, so such a badass design doesn't go to waste.

Name: Fire Shooter

Debut: Super Mario Galaxy

Oh hell yes. Now THIS is what Mario should be about. Anything is better with dangerous weapons. Just look at the glowup SpongeBob and his sappy friends got in Plankton's Robotic Revenge! That's the only SpongeBob content I would ever comfortably engage with, since it has gun's.

Fire is better than water. If water and fire meet, the fire may be "extinguished", but the water turns into steam. Steam is the ghost of the water, because the fire killed it. The fire didn't die. It just put on a show and left. It has better things to do.

I must know more about Fire Shooter... who made it? E. Gadd? That's the chump who made FLUDD. Could it really have been him, or someone cooler, who stole his designs (stealing is cool)?

You hate me, huh?

Rafe Cameron's Perspective

Warnings: Smut, fingering, hate-to-love, rough kissing, dirty talk, wall sex, possessive behaviour, toxic dynamics, tension, enemies-to-lovers

Summary: Y/N Maybank knows exactly how to get under Rafe Cameron’s skin, and at a crowded country club, she pushes him just far enough to make him snap. What starts as sharp words and stolen glances turns into something heated, reckless, and impossible to ignore. They can pretend it’s just one night, just tension, just a truce, but some lines don’t stay uncrossed for long.

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Y/N Maybank.

She was leaning against the bar like she owned the whole damn place, like the night had been built around her and everyone else was just background noise. She had that same unreadable expression on her face, that same cocky little smirk that made my skin itch. And of course she was wearing red.

A tight red dress. Red lipstick. A glass of wine hanging loose from her fingers like she was bored out of her mind, like she was waiting for somebody beneath her to try and entertain her.

It pissed me off how natural she looked there.

Like she belonged.

She didn't.

She was a Maybank. A pogue. JJ's sister. She was everything this place hated and everything I should've ignored.

And still, I couldn't stop looking at her.

Her hair was curled, catching the breeze from the open club doors just right. She looked like some girl out of a polished, expensive movie. Too good for where she came from. Too good for the mess she was made of.

I thought she'd left with her dirtbag brother. I thought after the stunt JJ pulled, after all the noise and humiliation, she'd finally disappear back to the Cut, where she belonged.

But no.

Of course she stayed.

Of course she had to stand there looking like temptation wrapped up in designer theft and bad decisions.

Her eyes found mine before I could look away, and that smirk pulled higher, like she'd been waiting for this.

"Stalking me, Cameron?" she asked, her voice smooth and sweet on the surface but with that edge underneath that always cut deeper than it should've.

I let out a dry laugh and rolled my eyes, even though I was already wound too tight just having her in the same room. "You enjoying the show?" I shot back, keeping my tone flat like I didn't care nearly as much as I did.

"Watching my brother get dragged out by security?" she asked, stepping closer before lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Yeah. Pretty entertaining."

Her voice got louder on purpose. I knew that game. She wanted attention. Wanted to push. Wanted to see what I'd do.

A few heads turned. Then my father looked over.

Perfect.

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

She was gonna get me cornered, get me watched, and get me dragged into another scene in front of him. I couldn't stand the way she acted untouched by any of it, like chaos just followed her around, and somehow she always came out smiling.

So I grabbed her wrist.

Not enough to hurt her. Just enough to shut it down.

"Rafe," she snapped as I pulled her away, stumbling a little in her heels while trying to keep up. "What the hell?"

"Not here," I muttered, not even looking back at her as I dragged her out of the room.

I took her through the polished halls of the country club, past the low whispers and the judgement I could already feel crawling up my back. I didn't stop until we hit the locker room, the same place where I'd nearly put JJ through the wall earlier.

I shoved the door shut behind us, and the sound cracked through the room.

She spun around to face me, and there it was again. That half-smirk. Like she'd won something. Like this was all just fun to her.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, but the breathless way she said it didn't match the challenge in her eyes.

She didn't back away.

If anything, she leaned in.

That was the problem with her. She never backed away.

I stepped closer too, before I could stop myself. Too close. Close enough to smell her perfume mixed with smoke and something warm and dangerous underneath. Close enough to see the way she caught her bottom lip between her teeth like she was thinking through her next move.

She'd been doing this all night.

Floating around the room. Dancing with idiots. Leaning into people's ears. Looking at me when she thought I wasn't ready for it.

She wanted a reaction.

Well, she got one.

"I could ask you the same thing," I said, and my voice came out rougher than I meant it to as my eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second.

That was a mistake.

Her gaze caught it.

"You hate me," she said softly, tilting her head like she already knew the answer and just wanted to hear whether I'd lie.

Maybe I should've.

It would've been easier.

I let out a short scoff and shook my head. "I don't hate you," I told her, the words coming out lower than I wanted, honest in a way I couldn't take back.

I swallowed, but it didn't help. "I hate that I want you," I admitted, and saying it out loud made something in my chest pull tighter.

There.

Said out loud, it felt worse. Or maybe better. I couldn't tell.

Because it was true. Every second she was around me, it got under my skin. The attitude. The mouth. The way she looked at me like she could see every broken, ugly part and wasn't scared of any of it.

She didn't belong in my world.

But somehow, she walked into it like she owned it.

Her lips parted a little, and for once she didn't have some quick smart-ass answer ready.

Then she stepped in closer.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Until there was barely any space left between us at all.

"Then do something about it," she whispered, her eyes locked on mine, dark and steady and full of that same challenge she'd been throwing at me all night.

And fuck.

I might.

My chest felt tight. My pulse was going too fast. Every thought in my head was louder than it should have been, but the only one that mattered was hers.

Standing right there.

She was looking at me like I was a loaded gun and she wanted to see if I'd go off.

"Do it, Cameron," she said again, even quieter this time, like she knew exactly which wire to pull to make me snap.

That was it.

Three words.

Three stupid little words, and something in me snapped.

I didn't think.

I never really do.

In the next second, I was on her.

My mouth crashed into hers hard and reckless, all heat and teeth and the kind of hunger that made you feel half-crazy. There wasn't anything soft about it. There couldn't be. Not with everything in me running too hot, not with her standing there looking at me like she knew exactly how bad she got under my skin.

And the worst part was, she did know.

She knew, and she liked it.

Her lips moved against mine with just as much force, and that only made it worse. My hand came up to her jaw, holding her there while the other stayed braced near her side, keeping her pinned in my space even before I pushed her anywhere. I could feel my pulse hammering everywhere at once, in my throat, in my chest, in the tight grip of my fingers.

Her hand slid into my hair, and then her fingers tangled there, tearing through what was left of the gel that had been keeping me put together all night. I felt the strands fall loose under her hand, and something about that hit harder than it should've.

That clean-cut look.

That perfect Kook son act.

Gone.

Stripped off me in seconds, just like the last bit of control I'd been hanging onto.

I didn't care.

Maybe I should've. Maybe some part of me, the part that still heard my father's voice in the back of my head, should've pulled away and fixed myself and acted like I had some kind of grip on my own mind.

But I didn't.

Because this, right here, felt like the crash after weeks of pressure building under my skin. Every look she'd thrown at me. Every smart-ass comment. Every second of pretending I wasn't watching her. It all hit at once and then burned out into something hotter, rougher, meaner.

This wasn't love.

It wasn't anything clean enough to call want, either.

It was chaos.

My kind of chaos.

And for once, I didn't want to run from it.

Before she could shift again, before she could decide she wanted control of this too, I caught her wrist in my hand. My fingers tightened around the quick beat of her pulse, and in one sharp motion, I turned her and pressed her back against the marble wall.

Her body hit the stone with a dull thud that cracked through the quiet room.

Not hard enough to hurt her.

Just enough to make a point.

Just enough to drag that quick gasp out of her.

The sound hit me like a match to gasoline.

Her breath caught against my mouth, and her lips parted as her eyes widened for half a second. Just a second. Barely anything. But I saw it. I felt it. That tiny break in all her attitude and control sent a rush straight through my chest so hard it almost made me dizzy.

The marble behind her had to be cold, but she still felt warm everywhere I touched her. That contrast messed with my head. Cold stone at her back, heat between us, her breathing uneven now but her stare still locked onto mine like she was daring me to keep going.

She flinched a little.

Barely.

But she didn't look away.

Didn't shove me off.

Didn't act scared.

That was the thing about Maybank.

She never backed down.

Probably why I couldn't stay away from her, no matter how much I knew I should.

A smirk pulled at my mouth as I let my breath brush over her lips. Then I dragged my mouth down toward her jaw, not kissing, just close enough to make her wait for it. I wanted to feel her react. Wanted to hear it.

"Still think I'm all talk, Maybank?" I asked against her skin, my voice coming out low and rough, edged with the kind of heat I couldn't hide anymore.

The corner of her mouth twitched at that, and when I looked back up at her, her eyes were still steady on mine.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Just that same challenge.

She tilted her head a little, giving me that look again, the one that said she knew exactly what she was doing to me and had decided to do it anyway.

"Prove me wrong, Cameron," she told me softly, but there was still something sharp underneath it, something dangerous wrapped up in the sweetness of her voice.

Jesus Christ.

She had no idea what that did to me.

Or maybe she had every idea.

I let out a short laugh, more breath than sound, and the smirk on my face turned sharper. Meaner. I could feel the heat of her under my hands, feel the room closing in around us, feel every bad instinct in me waking up all at once.

"Gladly," I said, the word leaving my mouth quiet and certain as I looked straight at her.

Then it hung there between us, thick and dangerous, like the air right before something catches fire.

I didn't give her the chance to say anything else.

I moved first, crowding back into her space until there was nothing left between us but heat. My hands slipped under the hem of her shirt before I could think better of it, like my body had already made the decision and the rest of me was just trying to keep up. I needed to feel her skin. Needed the warmth of her against my hands, against the cold marble at her back, against everything in me that still felt like it was burning too fast.

She sucked in a sharp breath the second my fingers brushed over her waist, and her eyes snapped to mine.

We just looked at each other for a second.

Like we were both waiting to see who was gonna crack first.

But she didn't.

Not even a little.

That should've pissed me off.

Instead, it made me want her more.

There was something about the way she held my gaze, the way she stayed right there and took every bit of pressure I gave her without backing down, that got into my head worse than anything else. Most people flinched around me. Most people knew when to shut up, when to step back, when to look away.

She never did.

And God, that did something ugly to me.

Something needy.

Something dangerous.

The defiance in her, the way she pushed back without even moving, the way she made it feel like she was daring me to lose the last little bit of control I had left, only pulled me in harder. It made me need her under my hands, under my mouth, right there in front of me like she was the only thing keeping me from coming apart.

So I kissed her again.

This time slower.

Still hard, still hungry, but more deliberate. I wanted her to feel all of it. Every bit of heat I was trying and failing to keep buried. Every second of restraint that was hanging by a thread. My hands stayed firm at her waist, holding her in place, keeping her close enough that I could feel every uneven breath she took.

I told myself it was about control.

It wasn't.

Not really.

Because the second she kissed me back, all of that fell apart.

She kissed me like she'd been waiting for it. Like she'd wanted this just as bad. Like she didn't care about the mess attached to my name, didn't care about the stories people told when I walked into a room, didn't care that every warning sign was standing right in front of her.

All she cared about was me.

Or maybe just the fire.

I couldn't tell which one was worse.

She pressed closer, and the heat of her mouth, the shaky breath she let out between kisses, the way her body fit against mine for one dizzy second, made everything else disappear. The walls didn't matter. The country club didn't matter. My father didn't matter. The version of me everybody looked at like I was something twisted and dangerous didn't matter either.

There was only this.

Only her.

Only the way my head went quiet for once when she was this close.

Then she said my name.

Soft.

Unsteady.

"Rafe," she whispered against my mouth, and hearing it like that made something in my chest pull tight so suddenly it almost pissed me off.

I lifted my head just enough to look at her, my hands still locked at her waist. Her lips were parted. Her breathing was uneven. Her eyes were darker now, but they were still on mine, still searching, still steady in a way that got under my skin.

And for one messed up second, I had the thought I shouldn't have had at all.

She's not scared of me.

Or maybe worse.

Maybe she was, and she wanted me anyway.

Maybe she saw every broken part of me and understood it enough not to run.

That thought settled heavy in my chest.

Because wanting somebody was one thing.

Being seen by them was different.

That was always the dangerous part.

I roughly pull up her dress, my fingers already slipping under her lacy thong, eager for her touch. She's so wet. Completely soaked.

She whispers my name so softly it’s almost a breath, her voice trembling with something tender and fragile.

“Rafe.”

My fingers find her clit, and she immediately grinds against my hand like she’s been aching for this even longer than I have.

“Fuck,” I groan, my fingers curling against her and drawing a whine from her lips. “You going to let me make you come? Thought you hated me, huh?”

“I do hate you, Cameron,” she says through gritted teeth, though the words dissolve into a shaky whisper.

“Up against a wall too?” I ask with a smirk. “Classic Maybank"

She lets out a soft whine that makes me crash my mouth to hers, swallowing the sound as I kiss her hard. “You’ll thank me later...” I mumble against her lips, the words rough and teasing, just as she clenches tightly around my fingers.

She’s so damn close, panting against my neck, every breath hot and uneven against my skin. Her nails dig into my back through my blazer like she needs something to hold onto, something to ground her, and the feel of it sends a sharp rush straight through me. Her thighs tremble against my hand, every shiver telling me exactly how far gone she is.

“Rafe.”

She gasps my name like she can hardly force it out, the sound broken and breathless, full of desperation.

God, yeah. That’s it. Say my name.

"Rafe," she gasped again. "Feels so good, Cameron." 

It hit me like a shot of adrenaline straight to the chest. The way my name left her mouth, all cracked and breathless, felt like I’d dragged it from the deepest part of her. Like in that moment, it was the only name she knew. Like nothing else existed outside of me.

Damn right.

I felt it everywhere, deep and instinctive, something raw enough to make my chest tighten. It felt like proof. Like possession. Like I’d gotten under her skin so badly she’d never be able to tear me out, even if she wanted to.

She was mine now, whether she realised it or not.

And I had no intention of letting go.

"Come for me," I whisper, circling my thumb against her clit. "Let it all go baby."

And she does. All for me.

“Come on, baby girl. Be good for me.” I smirk down at her, watching the way her mouth falls open as she stares up at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

Watching her come apart in my arms, breathing hard, pulse racing, feels like catching lightning and somehow holding onto it. For a second, everything around us goes quiet. It’s just the sound of our breathing, the pounding of my own heartbeat, and that familiar rush I know I’ll keep chasing no matter how badly it wrecks me.

When she finally goes still, she leans into me, and this soft, wrecked laugh slips out of her. Real. Unsteady. The sound of it cuts straight through the noise in my head.

“Holy shit,” I mutter with a smirk, glancing down at my fingers now slick with her. She lets out a scoff, all attitude even now.

“I still think you talk too much,” she murmurs, teasing, her voice still rough around the edges.

I let out a quiet laugh and brush a quick kiss against the corner of her mouth, barely enough to count. “Then shut me up"

Her eyes lock on mine, sharp all over again, that familiar spark already flickering back to life. She tilts her head, looking at me like she’s already working out her next move, and I can feel the shift in her before she even says a word.

“You like games, right?” she asks, her tone light, but there’s a dare underneath it.

“Depends,” I say, though I already know she’s made up her mind. That’s the thing about her. She never waits around for permission. She just decides, and the rest of us are left trying to keep up.

She steps in closer, a slow, deliberate grin pulling at her mouth. “Consider tonight a truce,” she says. “And in celebration of that truce...” She leaves the rest hanging between us, heavy with promise and just enough danger to make my pulse kick.

I can’t stop the smirk that pulls at my mouth. She’s trouble. Every kind of it.