#x reader

“Hmm~ But I’m your brat.”

His thumb traces your cheekbone, impossibly gentle, “In my defense, you make it really hard to hold back when you beg like that.”

You try to swat at him, but your arm just... flops. Pathetically.

He grins, “Cute.”

"Sh'up."

“Make me.” He leans down, pressing a feather light kiss to your sweaty forehead, “Actually, don't. You can barely move. It wouldn't be a fair fight.” Another kiss, this one to the tip of your nose. “Don't move a muscle, not one. Doctor Valko’s orders.”

“You're not- not a doctor-”

“Hmph, well i’m your personal one tonight.”

He vanishes into the bathroom -click of the light, hiss of running water- before returning with a warm washcloth draped over his shoulder and a glass of water in hand.

“Drink first.” He tips the glass to your lips, patient, waiting while you take small sips.The first swipe of the warm cloth across your cheek is heaven. He works with focused gentleness that steals your absolute breath away- wiping the mascara threatening to stain your cheeks, the pearly streaks from your belly, the slick mess from your inner thighs. 

But his movements are almost too careful now. Like you're made of glass. Like he's terrified of breaking you further.

The cloth moves higher, and his expression shifts again- guilt flickering through the warmth as he reaches your collar. The bite mark there has dried, crusted with blood, the perfect imprint of his teeth purpling against your skin.

“Shit.” He winces, dabbing carefully at the wound. “I really did a number on you here, huh?”

“I liked it, felt good~” you mumble.

“Yeah?” A hint of that playful smirk returns. “Liked getting marked up by your big bad wolf?”

Then his gaze falls on something in the corner of the bed, “Oh, perfect.” a silly gift he'd given you months ago that had somehow become a permanent fixture in your shared space. The little stuffed wolf has button eyes and an embroidered smile, and it's quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he's ever purchased.

He loves it. (He loves that you love it.)

“Look who's here,” he says, voice warm and playful as he makes the stuffed wolf bob and weave in front of your nose. “Mr. Wolfie was very concerned. He heard all that screaming and thought something terrible was happening.”

You snort weakly.

Valko pitches his voice higher, making the plush nod sagely. “‘Are you okay?' Mr. Wolfie asks. ‘That big mean wolf wasn't too rough, was he? Should I bite him?’”

“Oh my god-”

“‘I'll protect you,’” Valko continues, completely shameless, pressing the little grey snout against your cheek in a playful kiss, “‘I'm very brave. Very fierce. Grr.’”

The childish gesture is so at odds with the man who just fucked you senseless- who'd knotted you so deep you'd sobbed- that you can't help but giggle. “Valkooo,” you finally manage, pinching his nose weakly, “I'm okay.”

Then you look up at him, one hand drifting to rest on your belly, “We're all okay. All three of us. I promise.”

His ears perk up at that- both standing tall and alert, swiveling toward you like satellite dishes catching the most important signal in the world. Something in his expression cracks open, the playfulness still there (never fully gone, with him) but bleeding into something rawer underneath. Something that looks like home.

He stretches out beside you, gathering your tired body against his chest and tucking Mr. Wolfie securely in your arms. His face nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in like you're the only air worth having.

“All three of you,” he repeats softly. His palm spreads warm over the swell of your belly, right where his pups are growing. “My little pack”

His lips brush your forehead as his tail wraps around your legs and hips like a living blanket, soft fur warming every inch it touches.

“My pups,” he whispers, quiet and wondering, thumb tracing slow circles over your bump. “My beautiful wife. All mine.”

His chin comes to rest atop your head. The tail curls tighter, cocooning you in red softness,

Safe. Loved. His.

JANUARY 27, 1989. Los Angeles, California…

At ten o'clock in the morning, after only four hours of sleep, you unfortunately awoke. Nothing could be registered but the harsh sunlight breaking its way forcefully through the curtains—painfully so. Your head was blaring with an ache, your throat felt uncomfortably dry, and as you stretched upon your first intake of breath, you felt entirely paralysed from the waist down. An exaggeration, of course—though you were always prone to hyperbole when it came to describing the feeling of what Michael could so easily do to you.

But for a moment, you wondered why you felt this concerningly awful. In your sleepy haze, you assumed you were hungover, but such an assumption only lasted for that short moment, because suddenly another sensation hit you, born between your lower thighs. You were sleeping on your husband's warm chest—you had registered that already—but as your body grew familiar with the bright of day (as opposed to the happy slumber you'd been frustrated to be pulled from) you felt something else. Shuffling on Michael's torso slightly—humming into his neck as he too stirred—a warm, trickling substance exuded from your sex, swimming from your entrance to the already ruined sheets below.

Funny that you should notice the cum before the much more obvious thing that had accompanied it, because immediately afterward, you finally remembered that you and your husband had fallen asleep cockwarming. While unconscious, Michael was beginning to harden inside you, somehow still nestled in your comforting heat despite the hours of sleep. Usually, when you cockwarmed in other positions, he'd slip out easily during slumber because he did tend to move around a lot, but since your straddled weight had been keeping him still, that position had kept the two of you deeply entwined the whole time.

You smiled as you took acknowledgement of the feeling, and began peppering kisses all over Michael's neck and chest. But you giggled against his skin as you now noticed how the area was littered with your smudged lipstick kiss stains aside your lovebites—purple bruises that decorated his beautiful frame, a frame now mostly devoid of the makeup he'd covered himself in before the concert last night. He could only ever be this vulnerable with you—nobody else. The patches of pale and brown were colliding with one another all over his torso, and on his face were light expanses of depigmentation, shone over by the morning light.

Eagerly you kissed every inch of what you could reach, ensuring you didn't move too much and trigger him to accidentally slip out of where you wished he could stay forever.

While smothering him in your affection, you laughed again as you saw what were literal bite marks on his shoulders—faint, but visible up close—from where you'd gotten a little carried away during one round. His torso had been pressed flush to yours, suffocating you beautifully with his weight, and you’d been trying to suppress your moans. Then, it seemed that the only way to do that effectively was to bite your man’s shoulder, but that wasn’t a sustainable option of course, so most of the time your whines and screams were released into the sex-scented air, and Michael’s shoulders were safe from being gnawed at further.

At the time, you had believed the two of you were alone in the house—it being so big that the noise of the others coming back had completely bypassed your senses. So, without the knowledge of there being several people who went on to listen to you and Michael going at it all night, at the time you really had no actual reason to be suppressing any of your moans. Truthfully, you just felt slightly self-conscious sometimes, because even though you’d been together and married for so long, you often felt it was a little ridiculous the way you acted around your man. You were concerned your pornographic moans would sound either pathetic or over-done, but as the years had passed, Michael truly had become a master at sexual intercourse, and he knew it too—so he never once judged you for the noises you made. To him, hearing your high whines and your soft moans was a slice of heaven on earth.

A much lesser, subtle version of those sounds he now heard as he himself awoke. You were still humming against his smooth skin, kissing him all over—partly because you loved to do so, and partly because you wanted to wake him.

“Hey, honey,” he giggled as you were busy smooching from his forehead to his cheeks.

“Hi, sexy,” you beamed, with so much love in your eyes, and in his too. “My angel…”

He gripped your waist with a soft passion, then ran his hands up and down your ass and thighs that sat over his mid-section. You were still leaning forward, now cradling his jaw beneath a handsome smile. Your heart ached—but with the satisfaction of completion, the overwhelming gratitude that this was your forever beau.

“You’re drippin’ out of me,” you whispered in his ear with a smirk, and he laughed, instantly remembering everything.

“Yeah?” he chuckled. “Lemme see…”

You felt him twitch inside you, hardening even more, and you clamped your eyes shut in anticipation. Could you really go for another round? You definitely should no longer be in this position, and no wonder your legs were aching so much despite how you were always so athletic—because not only had you been fucked into the mattress for six hours straight, but you’d also then slept directly on top of Michael, with your legs bracketing his thighs, for a subsequent four hours immediately after. It was a serious advantage that you were a dancer, for in your skill you were incredibly flexible, and God knows how bad this would've been otherwise.

But somehow in that moment, under the mid-morning radiance, it didn’t matter. Despite all the aches, you were so cosy, cuddled up into your husband's chest with his thick cock inside you, the tip inching closer and closer to your cervix the more his member grew.

Keeping one hand on your hip, Michael reached his other down further to your leaking pussy, spreading his fingers to caress the width of your stretched folds, tugged tight around his length. Using his index and middle finger, he ran through the mess seeping from there and down his balls.

“Mikey…” you sighed against his Adam’s apple, head resting in the crook of his neck as your arms wrapped around him, hands finding their place in his adorable, messy curls. He felt so perfect both beneath you and inside you, now fully hard, and still playing with the mess he’d made in the earlier hours of the morning.

“How d’you feel, mama?” he murmured with a kiss to your temple, morning voice thick and husky—his natural tone coming through in the most intimate of moments.

“I feel like you broke me,” you giggled, and Michael adored the way the sound vibrated against his collarbone.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, 'm sorry, baby. I'll run you a bath when we get up, alright? Carry y' everywhere…” Two kisses to your cheek. “And then we’re gonna have to rehabilitate before tonight.”

“Tonight? Oh God, I forgot about that…”

Admittedly, you were still in a haze—of post-sex and of too-little sleep—so it had slipped your mind that you were to be performing two songs with Michael tonight for the very last date of his world tour.

"Yeah, y' not gettin' out of it either," he replied, rubbing his thumbs over your hips.

You pulled your head out of his neck and squinted at him in annoyance. "Michael, you made me like this. You're to blame."

"Oh, was I also to blame for how you begged me to keep goin', huh?" he smirked, with a light smack to your ass.

Instinctively you moaned, before nudging his bicep and resting back on his chest again, nuzzling into his warmth.

"Honey, y' look crazy," Michael chuckled, referring to the bruises blossoming all over your skin, your entirely messy hair, and the makeup smudged all across your features.

"Shut up, you look crazier. And wait 'til you see those scratch marks."

"Oh, Bill saw 'em last night."

"What? Bill was in the kitchen with you?"

"Mm." Michael was trying not to laugh.

"Michael!" You nudged him again, although it was really more of an actual hit this time. "It's bad enough that he heard us but now you're tellin' me he saw what I did to you?"

"Baby, he doesn't care. He found it funny."

"He probably thinks I'm some sort of depraved sex freak."

Michael sighed in amusement. “C’mon, y’know he's heard a lot more than jus' las' night. He's known us since the very beginnin', baby, this is nothin' new," he pointed out, as his attempt at reminding you that you didn't need to freak out over the current situation, but his supposed reassurance only really stressed you out further.

He kissed your temple, running his big hand through your hair and cradling the back of your head as you laid in his comfort. His other hand continued to rub up and down your torso, but it mostly sat over your ass, squeezing and kneading the skin there. He was achingly hard inside you, but in knowing how fucked out and essentially broken you were, he wondered if he should cut this short

"Darlin'..." he whispered, rubbing his thumb over your lips that were bruised with his kiss—the intensity of a mouth that couldn't display its affections gently, despite how gentle the owner himself was in many other ways. Now, both your top and bottom lip were a fluctuation between your natural shade, your smudged lipstick, and purplish-brown marks where his teeth and the force of his own lips had brushed harshly.

To each other, you both looked sexier than ever—entirely ruined at the mercy of your love's passion, looking as though you'd each been attacked by a vicious animal and then ran over by a car in short sequence.

"Mm?" You yawned, noticing a very faint lipstick kiss on the underside of his jaw as you lifted your head. You giggled and kissed over it. "Love decoratin' your pretty face in kisses, my baby. So handsome."

Michael laughed softly, thumb still smoothing over the softness of your bottom lip. He blinked back the intense pleasure of your soaking pussy gripping him, and to you it didn't go unnoticed.

"Mikey, I love you," you sighed, reaching your hands up to wreathe them through his curls, scratching lightly but careful to irritate his sensitive scalp.

"I love you more, I swear. God, my beautiful lady... Never get tired of havin' y' like this..." he whispered back, bucking his hips up a little to direct a slow thrust upward. He hit your sweet spot instantly and you gasped, trying not to tug hard at his hair.

Protectively, he pulled the silk comforter up around your waist, so it would both cushion your lower back and provide a little privacy if one of the maids happened to walk in. Although, it was pretty much a straight given that after last night's noisy activities, everybody would be steering clear of the master bedroom this morning. Nobody would dare go near even the doorknob, until they'd seen with their own eyes that the two of you were elsewhere.

"So, d'y' think we made a baby las' night?" Michael asked—as casually as he might ask how you'd slept, or what you wanted for breakfast—while he continued to rock into you with his slow strokes from beneath.

"Michael..." you warned, because he was no longer just moving with absent mind—he was initiating morning sex, and that really wasn't the appropriate, responsible thing to be doing right now. Especially not after last night. The two of you had a lot to do today that simply couldn't involve more lovemaking.

But Michael wasn't interested in what was most appropriate.

"How many times did I cum in y', honey, I can't remember?" he murmured in your ear, repositioning his arms to create a protective hold around your waist, his slick cock coated in more and more of your wetness with each re-entry into your heat.

"I don't remember either, baby," you giggled, but you cut yourself off with a sharp moan, arching your head back as he rolled his hips up again, so achingly slow; and you couldn't argue against the honest truth that this really was the most perfect way to start your day.

"Mikey, my legs literally don't work, I can't ride..."

"Shh, 's okay, I don't want y' to. Lay like this with me, mama. Rest on me..."

"Mmkay." You grinned, knowing you were about to get scintillating princess treatment. This exact position had actually inspired part of the ending of The Lady in My Life, back in '82. Wrapping your arms comfortably around his neck, and shuffling your weight a little to get the perfect resting position, you pressed several kisses to your man's chest as your way of confirming that you were settled.

"Mhm, jus' like that," Michael groaned, both at the feeling of your soft body against his, and at the feeling of your walls fluttering around his throbbing length. "Yes, baby, now let me—mmmfuck—"

Another deep stroke upward, where his feet were now planted on the bed to allow him to drive into you with ease. His arms mostly stayed wrapped around you, but his hands would often snake their way down to your ass, to grip and knead.

"Such a pretty ass f'me, baby... All for me, huh?"

You only mumbled into his chest, equal parts sleepy and dazed out in your arousal.

"Got the most perfect body, angel girl..." He smacked your ass a little harsher this time, and you yelped, beginning to kiss over his neck to keep quiet. You really couldn't be sounding like a whore this early in the morning, and even though Michael wasn't fucking you hard like he had been a few hours ago, often it was actually the slower, more sensual sex that had you unable to control the noises that elicited from your throat.

Michael hadn't forgotten about the question that had gone unanswered by you just a few minutes prior, as pertaining to the babymaking potentiality.

"Y' think our baby's down there, huh?"

It was a sort of unspoken agreement that you were both ready for another child. What had been unspoken had been instead prophesied and actualised in every filthy act of the night prior.

But you didn't know how to respond to such a question, because indeed, you hadn't at all talked about this. In that moment, you pictured that there very well might be a zygote currently forming itself within your fallopian tube, ready to travel to your uterus to begin its growth. Certainly, you felt there had to be—but that wasn't how the fertilisation process worked, and science told that even though you were ovulating, the amount of cum your husband had shot into you consecutively didn't increase your chances of getting pregnant.

The sex itself had surely been a statement though, on both your part and Michael's, because there had been no element of protection used, and neither of you had cared for a moment. Whether an embryo was to begin inside you or not, the way you'd made love last night was a symbol of something you had both wordlessly wanted. Three kids had always felt too little a number for Michael, because he was still set on one day having eighteen—in his ridiculous idealism—and you were also looking forward to the day your careers would come to a comfortable lull, a period that still allowed you to create and perform successfully, but didn't demand of you constant presence.

During that time, when it eventually came, you would spend so much of it making more babies, with the confidence that they wouldn't be pushed to the side in the multitude that would then exist in your household. You could spend at least two years at a time away from any industry responsibility, just living for the purpose of creating children and nurturing them.

Now, Michael was just finishing up his world tour, and you were close to the end of yours too, so even while you were both still in your prime, still the most magnetic, well-known figures in entertainment, it wouldn't be the worst time to have a baby. After all, did you really want to wait until that unknown date that your careers could begin to quieten? Neither of you knew when that would be, so wasn't it best to live in the present?

"Mikey, baby..." You moaned and whined, pulling your head back to kiss all over his face and his neck, sucking more marks into his erogenous zones, and licking over the marks already cemented into his salty skin.

You rocked a little, grinding your clit over his pelvis as his thrusts quickened—still on the slower side, his perfect girth filling you incredibly. You were amazed at how seamlessly your pussy could envelop him in this way, even after the organ had faced so much the night before. And too, you wondered how on earth this was the same body part that had produced three children (a set of twins, even) for the man plowing into you.

Michael's low grunts were even more gruff now that it was the morning, and when he wasn't busy talking you through it, those sounds were creating the perfect autonomous sensory meridian response, only adding to the flutters of sheer pleasure building up through your spine.

"Sweet girl, wanna make you feel so good..." he whispered, bringing one hand to your head again to cradle the back of it. You always smiled whenever he did.

But you were starting to place yourself in the real world again, remembering the busy day ahead.

"Baby, y'know we need to get up soon... You need to start signing those—ohh, mmph—autographs for the fans... And then we need to—"

"Aht," Michael stopped you from any further logical speaking, never ceasing to fuck up into you in those beautifully slow rolls. "There's nothin' we need to do more than this right here, mama. 'N then 'm gonna pamper y' in the tub. Y' not gonna rush us, 'm takin' it real slow, yeah?"

Instantly, at the sound of his handsome voice you were back in your daze of total arousal. "Mm... oh, baby, you hit my spot so good..."

"Yeah, I know," he whispered, kissing your nose and your bruised lips softly. You kept shuffling on him, wanting to make out but also loving the feel of being babied as you clung to his chest.

Moments passed without a word—with nothing but grunts, sighs, and moans, and Michael was moving even slower now, almost not moving at all at points. This was the beauty of sleepy sex, for you were merged as one, in the most intimate embrace you could wish for.

You played with his curls again, leaning back to press your lips to his. "Bambi," you whispered.

The doe eyes that earned him the nickname looked up into your own orbs. "Mm?"

"Are we really sayin' we want another baby?" you asked.

"Y'know 'm always ready, Tink. But it's obviously up to you."

You nodded slowly, taking a deep breath that then undercut a high moan as he hit your spot a little harsher than the last time. You cleared your throat.

"I actually think, um... I think I am ready. Y'know..." As you spoke, Michael took his hand from your ass and interlaced it with one of your hands, listening intently. "You're just about to finish touring," you continued, "and I'll be done too after next month. It'll be the first time in a while where we'll be free to somewhat relax. I think now's a better time than ever."

"Really?" Michael's eyes were shining. "I think so too, baby. You seriously want a fourth now?"

"Mhm. Really. I've been thinkin' about it for a while," you said quietly, before beaming as your man paused his thrusts, beginning to tickle you with a huge, heart-achingly childlike smile on his face. The sudden action made you squeal, and even more so as he started to smother kisses all over your chest and neck, completely overcome by the ecstasy of sheer happiness.

"Seriously, honey?!" Michael grinned, cupping your cheek and pulling you down into a kiss that you had to fight to retreat from in order to respond.

"Yes, baby," you laughed, and again he tickled you further. "Mikey, stop it!"

Without pulling out for even a second, he shifted the two of you onto your sides facing each other, and in that new position—your other favourite for morning sex, alongside spooning—he made love to you with even more passion. Legs and hands entwined, bodies entirely covered in the bruised effects of an ardent devoted love well-displayed, Michael sped up, mercilessly hitting your spot as he fantasised about how you'd both go through the process of pregnancy again, and then the process of bringing another child into the world he hoped to save. He held so much gratitude for you being the one to give him all his children—that you'd put your life on hold in so many ways for at least a year, and he couldn't wait to help you through it all again.

As he held your leg up to hit deeper, he smirked at the sight of your thigh.

His amused expression confused you. "What's so funny, baby? Oh fuck—"

"Your thigh, honey," Michael chuckled, slowing down his pace slightly to talk. "There's bruises near the top, look. That hasn't happened in a while."

Your mouth shot open—sure enough, there were more bruises you hadn't even noticed, in the shape of Michael's fingerprints, from where he'd held your legs in place during mating press and every other position where he'd needed to keep your ever-moving body still.

"Michael, what the—? Thank God they're so high nobody's gonna s—ohhh, baby, stop it, 'm gonna scream—"

He only chuckled more, pounding into you harder now as the bedframe began to shake. While one hand held your leg up, his other was resting over your womb, moving from there to your clit and back again, as he thought of nothing but the image of you swollen with his fourth child.

"I love you, oh God, I love you..." he repeated, and you said each word back with sincere conviction.

"My baby," you whined.

"Perfect mama... 'm so happy y' givin' me another... I don't deserve you."

"You deserve all that's beautiful, honey. You're so beautiful..." you sighed, eyes shut in pleasure as you grabbed his hand to hold it again.

"Y' gonna cum, pretty angel?" he murmured in your ear, unfortunately needing to let go of your hand almost immediately because your clit needed him more.

He rubbed in figure-eights, bringing you closer and closer to your peak, all the while never ceasing to whisper his devotion and gratitude for your body and your soul.

"Oh, Mikey, yes—"

"Yeah, tha's it, let it all go for me, baby girl... C'mon..."

A few moments later, and the coil in your abdomen split open, releasing its tightness into white hot bouts of pleasure. The sensation coursed through your veins, coating your husband's shaft in even more wet slick and leaving you breathless, falling forward into his chest as he chased his own release.

Soon enough he was there, and your cunt was filled to the brim with hot ropes of his seed, aside noisy groans that filled the huge bedroom—because if you were bad enough at keeping quiet during the act, Michael was even worse.

You laid there in each other's arms for a couple of silent minutes, clinging, wanting to stay in the embrace for a lifetime. Michael ran his hands up and down your torso, and then his index finger over your wedding ring, as he always liked to do post-sex. He brought your leg to rest over his thigh, breathing in your scent as you breathed in his.

You found yourself reminiscing to him over that time you broke a bed together during your honeymoon at Disney, because you'd truly been close to experiencing that same incident again last night. You laughed at the memory as you each traced over your matching tattoos: your first initial in cursive on the inside of his wrist, and his on the inside of your own wrist too. You’d got them tatted a few years ago after a drunken rendezvous, and you’d seen it as a great achievement that you’d managed to convince Michael to actually be on board with a tattoo, even though it was only small.

But there were two issues that disrupted your sweet creampie-cuddling session.

"Baby, you need to pull out."

"Why?"

"Because first I need to pee, and then I need to take off these damn sheets before Maria has to." You shook your head in disbelief at the mess you could already see parts of dotted around the mattress. "I refuse to let her deal with this, oh my God."

Michael laughed. Maria was one of your maids, and you absolutely detested the image of her having to clean your cum-ridden bed herself. You might have been a whore for your husband, but you wouldn't be so disgusting to make others subject to the sight—even if they had been unintentionally subject to the sounds. There were indeed stains of Michael's release and your own sticky liquid all throughout different areas of the bed, and from where you lay in his arms, you guessed correctly that it must be way worse than the minimal parts you could currently see from your angle.

"Alright, fine," Michael sighed, pulling out slowly. You both hissed, and of course when you shuffled to sit up, more thick cum oozed from your entrance, staining another inch of fabric. There had been no point in attempting to avoid that though, because the bed was already messy enough.

Turning to dangle your legs over the side, you winced at the aches, then stood up on the carpet below. Or—attempted to stand up, rather; because as soon as you tried to, your knees buckled, and you quite literally almost fell to the floor.

"Ow, shit—!"

This was even worse than a day-long dance rehearsal, or the most difficult workout routine you'd ever put yourself through. What the fuck? Michael had never taken you so intensely before—and that was a significant statement to make, given that he was such an intense lover.

"Mama, y' okay?" he asked, brows furrowed, but he'd expected this. There had been many a time in the past where he assigned himself the duty of carrying you around everywhere after a night of hard sex.

As he looked at you, hunched over, attempting to walk with legs that felt nearly limp and effectively useless, he noticed a matching bruise on your other thigh and smiled to himself. Without wasting a moment, he was out of bed as quick as ever.

"C'mere. Up," he ordered gently, standing naked beside you, arms outstretched and prepared to pick you up into a bridal carry. That he did, while you hummed into his neck, so appreciative of his gentlemanly efforts that always followed what could only be deemed the very opposite of gentle.

"There you go, honeybaby," Michael smiled, kissing your forehead over and over as he maneuvred your spent body into the ensuite. After having peed, you sorted out the sheets, tugging them off the mattress with the silk comforter that was also partly affected, before stuffing them into a bag that you'd deal with later. Meanwhile, Michael was preparing a bubble bath, and lighting candles around the tub for ambience, even though it was eleven o'clock in the morning.

At the mention of a bubble bath, the name reminded you of a certain somebody. "Mikey, where's Bubbles?" you called from the bedroom.

"Bill's lookin' after him!" Michael called back over the noise of running water. "He's not gonna run in 'n interrupt us, don't worry!"

You laughed to yourself. You were always so welcoming and understanding of Michael's need to have all sorts of animals around in the house, but sometimes it got a little stressful. Not knowing whether a bird or a snake or a damn chimpanzee would face you when you turned wasn't the most calming experience you could expect to have in your mansion, but you put up with it all for Michael's sake.

After he bathed you that morning, so sensually and passionately that you very nearly begged him to take you again, you both tried your best to make yourselves look as presentable as possible. It took a very long time, but eventually you were done.

Or at least you assumed you were; because of course the conversation surrounding the state of Michael's back was had only in the earlier morning, a good twelve hours before he was to go onstage and forget all about the evidence of your wild night together, displaying the extent of it to the world.

Then, when you joined him on said stage for a sensual duet, you didn't hesitate to run your hands all over the artwork you'd produced. You would be chastised for such promiscuity in the weeks that followed, but you never regretted the display one bit; nor did you regret the embryo that indeed began to grow that same night, into your welcoming womb.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡🧁₊˚⊹♡ ╱ started out as a short drabble n then i developed it into this. . . hope u guys loved !! happy sunday ;’)

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You almost ignored it.

Beau: hey there I don’t know if you remember me, but it’s Beau Maxwell

You frowned.

Beau?

It had been three years since you'd seen Beau. 

Three years since he watched as you'd stood outside JFK with Dean, crying into the collar of his hoodie while your boarding pass to Paris crumpled in your fist.

It had been four years since you'd promised each other that distance was only temporary.

And two years since life had laughed at both of you.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

Another message appeared.

Beau: I know this is weird.

Beau: Dean would kill me if he knew I was texting you.

Beau: But I'm worried about him.

Even as part of you wanted to laugh hearing Dean’s voice in your head as you never deleted Beaus number. 

By the time you reached the end of Beau's messages, your chest hurt.

Dean wasn't failing school.

He wasn't spiraling.

He wasn't drinking himself stupid every night.

He was just, existing.

Going to class.

Playing hockey.

Smiling when he had to.

Living in this strange in-between where nobody could honestly say he was okay.

Beau hadn’t finished his messages there 

Beau: He's been like this since you guys broke up

Beau: He dated a little nothing stuck

Beau: I know you don't owe him anything.

Beau: I just figured if there's one person who knows Dean before he became Dean Di Laurentis, it's you.

You stared at your apartment ceiling for nearly an hour.

You: I'm in New York now.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Beau: WAIT WHAT?

You hadn't told Dean, because how were you meant to? 

Of course Summer and the rest of his family knew that you had returned. But to them it was easier to keep it quiet as Dean always looked like his bubble had been burst when his brain settled on you.

Sometimes he didn’t even have to say anything, his face gave it all away.

After graduating in Paris, Ralph Lauren had offered you a permanent position in Manhattan.

It had felt like coming home and starting over all at once.

You rented the tiniest studio apartment known to mankind.

Your parents had offered to help you out, or even have you move back into your old room. 

But you wanted your own place.

To prove that you could make it on your own.

The shower barely fit one person.

Your oven looked decorative.

You could touch both kitchen counters if you stretched your arms out.

It was yours.

Dean didn't know.

Because after the breakup, things went quiet.

As neither of you had known how to become friends.

The drive to Briar took a little over four hours.

You spent most of it questioning your own sanity.

What were you even doing?

You weren't his girlfriend anymore.

You had no right showing up.

No right reopening old wounds.

Maybe Beau had been wrong.

Maybe Dean had moved on.

Maybe- “don’t tell me you're gonna chicken out." Beau leaned against your passenger window as soon as you parked down the street from the hockey house.

You rolled it down "I almost did." You confessed as the brunette rolled his eyes slipping into your passenger seat. 

Beau shut the door behind him quicker than he had opened it "I figured." He smiled as you laughed.

God.

He looked older.

Broader.

Less reckless than the nineteen-year-old you'd known.

He leaned over the center console and hugged you before you could protest “it's really good to see you." His voice was sweet as he spoke. 

You got to know Beau over the summers mainly and you knew why he was Dean’s best friend "you too," you patted his back, ignoring the way your mind went to Dean. 

You didn’t think you would miss the blonde when you came to Boston, not when you were here for him. 

He pulled back to look at you “you look…” he trailed off trying to find the right word to pinpoint it. 

You cocked your head "French?" There was something about your style that had changed as you matured. 

Somehow you had landed on a style that had a bit more of a French touch as you tried to find yourself in the French capital “yeah,”he laughed as that had weirdly captured it.

You sighed "I've been told." You looked down at the charm bracelet you wore. 

The charm that had caught your eye was one from the one trip to Paris that Dean did. 

He had surprised you right before your first ever show “you still have the accent." Beau teased as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

You laughed as you flicked him "I never had one." You argued as he shook his head.

"You absolutely did."

You rolled your eyes "I lived there for three and a half years, not thirty!” You reminded him as you felt like you still sounded like the born and raised New Yorker that you were.

Beau had heard you speaking French the one day as someone came to talk to you in the middle of your call with Dean “you sounded like you belonged in a perfume commercial." It was his favourite joke because you really did sound like it.

You rolled your eyes "still annoying." As you softly shoved his shoulder.

Beau proudly puffed his chest out "I've matured." He grinned making you laugh.

"You absolutely haven't."

He grinned “no,” Dean used to joke that he had found your brother in a best friend. 

Because the truth was that weirdly Beau was like your brother from another mother. 

And still as annoying as ever.

Then his smile faded “he's inside." Your stomach dropped as you turned the ignition off in the car.

The hockey house looked exactly the same.

Different pictures.

Different shoes by the door.

The same awful couch.

The same smell of laundry detergent and twenty-something-year-old boys.

Garrett looked up first.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head as he dropped his controller on the floor “holy shit.” The boy didn’t care that he had basically quit the game that the boys were playing.

Logan followed his gaze “no way,” his jaw dropped as they stood up.

Tucker dropped the basket of laundry on the staircase "Dean!" He yelled out, knowing that the boy was in his bedroom.

Your heart stopped as your grip around Beau’s arm.

He looked horrified "maybe I should have given them a warning?" Beau shrugged as he was glad you didn’t look like you were going to hit him.

Heavy footsteps and a laugh made your heads snap in the direction of the second floor “what?” Dean called out as he walked down the stairs. 

He would have made a joke about the clothes on the steps but now his eyes were lingering on you.

And he froze.

Everything else disappeared.

He hadn't changed.

Not really.

A little taller somehow.

Hair a touch longer.

Face older.

The boy you'd fallen in love with had become a man without asking your permission.

He stared.

You stared back “hi,” you dropped your hand from Beau’s arm.

His mouth opened before it closed again “you,” his voice cracked.

Dean rubbed his eyes as if he needed to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming "you’re here,” you smiled sadly seeing how excited he was. 

You nodded “in the flesh,” you wriggled your fingers as you almost swore that you were going to throw up. 

The blonde ran his fingers through his hair “I thought-” he cut himself off as he pointed at you.

Dean took a deep breath in "what about Paris?” He was still trying to process that you were there.

Silence.

You exhaled deeply “needed a change,” in truth, you didn’t know what to tell him. 

Because how do you summarise that you didn’t tell him you were back. 

Especially when you couldn’t reach out after all this time. 

Not when he was half the reason why New York held your heart, even after all this time apart.

His eyes searched your face like he couldn't trust what they were seeing “you look…” Dean trailed off as he didn’t know what word was the best. 

Taller, older, beautiful, different, good? 

None of them seemed to capture what Dean wanted to say.

You laughed nervously “so do you." You nodded as you sucked at your teeth. 

Nobody spoke.

Garrett slowly looked toward Beau "you texted her?" The hockey captain couldn’t help it when he smirked. 

Beau didn’t even try to look guilty "I regret nothing." He raised his hands as Garrett motioned to the rest of the guys to move into the kitchen. 

It left you and Dean alone for the first time in years.

Dean finally blinked “when did you get back?" He walked to the bottom of the stairs.

Now only a few feet stood between you “three months ago." After graduation you had spent a few weeks in Europe wanting to travel around. 

To go visit the few places you hadn’t seen during your time studying "you've been back for three months?" Dean almost sounded hurt as he spoke.

You nodded “in New York." Your body almost braced for his response.

His eyebrows furrowed "New York?" Dean spoke like the city was from some random little state, and not where the two of you grew up.

You rubbed your hands on the thighs of your jeans "I work for Ralph Lauren now." It had been your dream since you were a little girl. 

Dean wasn’t surprised by it, the company had been on very vision board that you made since you were seven “you only live four hours away?”He looked almost offended.

"I do."

The boy ran his fingers through his hair "and you never," his voice cracked as he stopped himself from carrying on.

You swallowed as you shook your head "I didn't think it was fair." 

His jaw tightened "fair to who?" Neither of you answered.

Dean pursed his lips together “where are you staying?” He changed the topic as he sighed rubbing his hand over his face. 

You chewed at the inside of your cheek “my dad has status at the Marriott-” the two of you had used his status a few times around the country. 

But when you used it, you rocked up to the hotel hoping that they had space. 

And Dean knew that you weren’t going to be different just yet “absolutely not.” He shook his head. 

Your hands landed on your hip “I’ll sleep on the couch and you can take my bed.” Your eyes widened as the boy spoke. 

The boys stuck their head out of the kitchen as you sighed “you really mean that?” You tugged your fingers through your hair as he nodded. 

Dean motioned to your keys “is your bag in your car?” He asked as he slipped on his slides. 

You smiled as he had always taken charge “yeah, I’ll come show ya.” Beau sent you a thumbs up that made you swallow a laugh as Dean guided you out of the house. 

The boys stayed quiet until the door shut “did we all just see that?” Logan asked while Tucker grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. 

The youngest boy sighed “here is to operation get them back together.” And they had seven days to make it happen.

The week felt impossible.

Somehow it also felt normal.

Like someone had pressed play on a life you'd paused years ago.

You drank coffee together.

Walked around campus after his lectures. 

Getting to sit in the living room with the boys after dinner, conveniently where the only free seat was next to Dean.

Dean showed you the renovated rink.

You watched practice from the stands.

He still skated the same.

Fast.

Beautiful.

Effortless.

You forgot how much you loved watching him.

He caught you smiling afterward “what?” He asked as he walked you out of the arena. 

You shoved your hands into your jackets pockets “you still look better on skates than you do walking." You laughed as he shook his head.

Dean remembered the one month when you had fallen in love with stilettos, so at 16 you were walking (and doing a terrible job at it) around your parent’s apartment.

Until you rolled your ankle and Dean got to play nurse for the weekend while both sets of parents were on a golf trip. 

The blonde softly shoved your shoulder “I walked into a pole once.” It happened when he came to visit you. 

After a weekend in Berlin, the two of you swore that with the amount you had drank. You may as well have been German. 

And that Dean was probably concussed after he walked straight into a lamp post.

You shrugged as you laughed “it was a big night,” you opened the door to the outside, letting the cool air wrap around your body.

Dean pushed his lips into a thin line “you fell over laughing." He reminded you as you giggled again at the memory. 

You ended up in tears, drunkenly rolling in the street as you almost peed you laughed so hard “you deserved it." You pursed your lips together to not make it look like you were grinning.

The blonde watched you pull your keys out of your pocket "I probably did." He mumbled as you ran to your drivers side door like you always used to. 

You absolutely loved driving to the extent that Dean only ever got to drive you if he was in his own car. 

And even then he was often forced to give up his keys as you gave him this look he just couldn’t say no to.

One afternoon you wandered into the backyard.

Dean joined you a few minutes later.

He ignored Tucker’s complaints about how if the two of you spoke outside then it would delay the barbecue that he needed to start.

The blonde flipped him off before he let the door shut behind him. 

Neither of you spoke for a while “you still wear it." He couldn’t help it when he smiled.

He'd given it to you when you were seventeen.

Because apparently the piece reminded him of you “you noticed." You looked down at the tiny silver bracelet.

Dean sipped at the beer in his hand "I noticed five seconds after I saw you." A soft laugh escaped from his lips. 

He noticed everything when it came to you “I tried taking it off for a while.”You rubbed your thumb over it.

"And?"

You licked your lips "I hated how empty my wrist felt." You smiled as you looked up at 

He looked away as he weighed up the consequences of sharing this with you "I still have your postcards." Your breath caught as he nodded "all of them."

Every city that you went into you’d buy a postcard and write Dean a note while slipping in a photo or two "I wrote a lot." You sprayed each card with your signature perfume. 

Dean never admitted it but he love getting to smell you when he opened each envelope "I know." The blonde always said that he would have hated to see what your stamp fees were like. 

You smiled “I still have the ones you gave me.” Silence settled again around your confession.

Eventually he sighed “god I hated Paris.” Dean let out a dry laugh. 

Before you moved there he actually had nothing against the city of love. But by the start of his sophomore year he hated the distance that it put between the two of you.

He envied the long distance couples that still got to be in the same country “I know.” You laughed quietly. 

You rubbed your lips together "I loved Paris.” It was the city you dreamed of being in for years. 

Yes you were now back where you grew up, but you had always wanted to experience living in a different country.

Dean shrugged as he wished he could freeze this moment between the two of you "I hated that you loved it." He wished his words weren’t as harsh as they ended up being.

You nodded as you could always sense it, the boy never said it though in fearing that he’d mess with your dreams "sometimes I hated that you stayed." Dean tensed from beside you.

You hated how you missed moments like this "I almost came home." Your words slipped from your lips.

His head snapped toward you “what?” His eyes just about popped out of his head.

You smiled sadly "after my first semester." As you looked up at the sky "I had my ticket."

By December, you knew you loved Paris. But when you came back to New York for Christmas, getting to spend it with everyone who you knew was tough.

Sure Paris was fun, but New York was safe. 

Dean froze as he never expected to hear it “you never told me." Back then, you two were telling each other everything. 

So he was surprised that you wanted to come home instead of going to Kenya on a cultural experience trip during your spring break.

You nodded as you shrugged "I knew if I came home,” your voice was barely a voice a whisper.

You looked at him "I'd never go back." He understood immediately.

Things were already getting tough between the two of you at that point as your relationship was being spent predominantly on FaceTime and texting. 

Which for two people who were practically attached at the hip, it was hard “you would've resented me." Dean knew he would have been so happy that you were with him again. 

So that would have made chasing your dream ten times harder “eventually." You nodded as you chewed at the inside of your cheek.

Your voice broke as you looked at him “and we broke up anyways.” Dean didn’t give your watery eyes a chance for tears to fall before he pulled you into a hug.

His arms held you tightly as he kissed the top of your head, the way he comforted you had you feeling like you were 18 again "I don't think I ever stopped loving you.” His confession lingered in your ears. 

You looked up to see his eyes staring right back up at you “I didn’t ever D,” your words were heavy on both of you.

Dean felt like he had waited for ever to hear you say it “so where do we go from here?” Somehow he didn’t feel like he couldn’t just lean down and kiss you like he wanted to.

It was the hardest thing that you had said all week “I don’t know.” Your chin pressed into his chest.

When you left on Sunday morning, the goodbye felt wrong.

Again.

Dean helped load your overnight bag into the trunk “this feels déjà vu,” you smiled weakly.

The hockey player nodded as he shut the trunk of your car "it does." He frowned as he was eye level with you as you stood on the sidewalk “you driving straight home?"

You laughed at his protective side “I’ll text you when I get home.” Dean honestly loved that you were always like that, without him ever asking.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise “you still not deleting people’s numbers?” He teased you as you laughed.

You nodded as you smiled “as they say habits die hard,” you shrugged as neither of you moved.

Finally he stepped forward.

Pulled you into a hug.

It lasted much longer than either of you intended “you look happy." His voice was quiet against your hair.

You had worked hard to get yourself into this position "I am." It was the truth as you were almost living your dream. 

It would have just been perfect if you had the boy too "I'm glad." His thumb dragged across your silver bracelet. 

The engraved words of ‘reach for the stars’ was under his finger. 

You remembered why you were had been brought to Briar U “you deserve to be happy too." You frowned as you could see it each night. 

Sure you being around helped, but Dean wasn’t at his happiest.

He smiled sadly "I'm working on it." His truth was that he didn’t see a way he could do it without you.

A groan came from behind the boy “Dean would you stop hogging her so we can say goodbye?” Beau placed his hands on his hips as you laughed. 

All four boys were stood up the street waiting to see you off. 

And you couldn’t help it as you almost grew a little emotional seeing them again. 

The memories of your trip lingered on your mind as you settled back in at home.

It was Wednesday evening.

Twelve days since you last saw Dean. 

Only three hours since you last spoke to him. 

He had sent you a snap of a gas station, in response yours of your breakfast that morning.

You were finishing work when the receptionist called through the loudspeaker, announcing that someone was waiting for you at the front desk. 

Part of you was embarrassed, but the other part was mainly confused. 

Because nobody ever came to your office to drop by. 

So you were really curious as you let your feet bring you out the elevators on the ground floor “Dean?” You asked, seeing the blonde boy already making friends. 

He smiled as he walked over to you, “I was in the neighbourhood." The lie was clear as he was nervous.

You shook your head as you wrapped your arms around him “you guys play Saint A’s in three days.” You pointed out as you remembered Garrett telling you all about the stress that the game was going to bring.

Dean smirked“you know my game schedule? He softly elbowed your side.

Your face dropped as you realised that you were caught “you drove four hours." You flipped it back onto him.

"It's technically three and a half if traffic cooperates."

You laughed as you shook your head “you're unbelievable." Dean followed you back to the elevator towards the parking lot. 

He grinned as he nodded "I know." The boy took in how you looked in your outfit. 

The white collared shirt and black pencil skirt had you looking really hot, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

That afternoon, you took Dean to all of your new favourites. The ones you had made not living under your parents’ roof. 

Your favourite bar, favourite ice cream shop, favourite cafe, and favourite spot to people-watch from. All of the locations that helped make you who you are.

The tour took you all the way back to your place “promise me you won’t judge it.” You pleaded as you pushed the door open.

Dean stepped into your apartment and spun around as he took all of it in. 

His hand ran through his hair “this place is,” he looked around the apartment trying to find the best word but he couldn’t. 

"Tiny."

Dean swore his freshman dorm room was probably bigger than your space "I know." You laughed as you put your bag on the floor by the door. 

He walked further into the place "the couch is basically touching the kitchen." Dean didn’t think he could fit between the sofa and the dinning table. 

"I know."

The boy laughed as he saw your messily made bed "the bed's right there." He did feel slightly comforted seeing your bunny rabbit stuffy sat up by your pillow. 

"I know."

He looked at you “you like it." In true you fashion the biggest place in the apartment was a tie between your kitchen and your closet. 

"I love it."

He smiled seeing your genuinely happy expression “it suits you." The boy confessed as he plopped onto your couch.

You ordered terrible Chinese food because neither of you wanted to cook.

The cartons covered your tiny coffee table.

Dean sat cross-legged on your rug “you remember when we used to order this after hockey games?" He enjoyed it because after every team celebration, he had you to himself and his favourite comfort food.

You leaned your back against the couch "the place with the suspicious dumplings?" You hoped it was vegetables in them. You also refused to look further than what the menu said.

Part of you almost gagged as you thought back to it “they definitely violated health codes." Dean muttered as he sipped his water. 

Looking back, you were surprised neither one of you ended up with food poisoning “they definitely did." He laughed.

And it was a genuinely happy sound.

God.

You'd missed that sound.

Hours slipped by without either of you noticing.

You talked about Paris.

About New York.

About hockey.

About fashion.

About everything except the thing sitting between you.

Eventually the conversation quieted.

Dean looked around your apartment again "I kept thinking," you started as you grabbed an egg roll. 

The boy listened "that’s dangerous,” as his eyes turned back to you at the next of him.

Your lips formed a thin line “I will hit you.” You grumbled as you threw the roll at him. 

Dean of course caught it “I’m kidding,” he laughed before he decided to tuck into it. 

You reached for another “is this a second chance?” You motioned between the two of you.

The boy licked his lips “I mean it can be?” He was scared at the concept of putting his feelings out there first. 

Especially when you looked at him like that. 

You placed your food carton on the floor in front of you “I’m serious Dean,” you put your chopsticks on your coffee table “like are we on the cards now that I’m here?” 

The hockey player shrugged “why can’t we be?” It was the question that should have been simple.

When you broke up with him, you swore it almost killed you. 

Even though you always told yourself that it was for the best of both of you “Dean you are my person,” you shook your head as tears formed in your eyes “but I don’t think I can go through losing you again.” His heart broke as you spoke.

He reached across the space between you, taking your hand the same careful way he used to when you were sixteen “I don’t want to waste this second chance.”Something inside your chest gave way.

You looked at the man you'd loved for almost half your life.

Not the high school boy.

Not the college boyfriend.

The man who had driven four hours just to sit on your apartment floor and eat cheap Chinese food.

The same person who you realised you were in love with he was the first person to ever volunteer to be a model for your clothing designs.

You leaned forward before you could overthink it.

Your lips found his.

Soft.

Tentative.

Home.

Dean smiled into the kiss, one hand cupping your face as though he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours “go I’ve missed doing that." You laughed through the tears threatening to spill.

Your fingers cupped his jaw “I’ve missed wanting you to do it again.”He kissed you once more, slower this time.

Outside, Manhattan carried on without either of you.

Inside your tiny studio apartment, surrounded by takeout boxes and unpacked dreams, it finally felt like life had stopped asking the two of you to choose between love and ambition.

You'd grown up.

You'd chased your dreams.

You'd found your way back.

He noticed your smile always faded when he entered your line of sight. You usually bolted with a weak excuse of being busy, or gave him clipped, terse responses if he managed to get you to speak to him. Even then, it felt like he was talking at you, and you were responding like you had a gun to your head.

Perhaps you thought you were too good for him. That fancy college you were going to was getting to your head. Maybe you were dating some douchebag econ major... He didn't even realize the family left and he was just staring at you. You're probably even more creeped out by him now. You have this odd look on your face and there's a stiffness in the way you stand now, like you're trying to shrink yourself without being obvious.

He takes a sharp breath in and walks over to you, hands sliding into his pocket to hold out the pretty necklace he bought you today. He was planning to ask you out. For the second time this week already.

He fidgets with the necklace in his pocket, running his thumb along the delicate little charm he'd picked out earlier that day. It reminded him of you, all soft and bright and way too expensive for someone scooping sherbet in the heat. He'd thought about just leaving it in your locker. But no, that'd be weird. Creepy, even. He wasn't creepy.

Your shift is almost over. He can tell by the way you've started glancing at your phone, counting down minutes. You don't look up when he stops at the counter. But you freeze for just a second. Your hand lingers too long on a napkin dispenser.

"I g-got you something," he mumbles, voice low and a little nervous, like a child speaking to their first love. He pulls the necklace from his pocket slowly, afraid you'll turn him away. You finally look up. Not at the necklace but at him. Your face is guarded.

"Rafe…" Your voice is soft, but there's weight behind it. You sound tired. "I told you not to-"

"You didn't let me finish last time," he says, setting the little box a little too hard onto the countertop. "You never… you never let me finish. I'm not trying to buy your attention. I just… think about you a lot." He swallows, tongue darting across the inside of his cheek. "You don't even have to wear it. I just thought it was pretty. Like you."

You blink, eyes scanning his face. It almost sounds like he's rambling, and your cheeks warm up at the compliment. Still, wearing something a man bought you is far too intimate for your liking. He notices your hands twitch slightly at your sides.

You shift your weight like you want to step back but don't want to make it obvious. The silence that follows is thick. Your eyes drop to the box, then lift again to meet his. You're not smiling. He wishes you'd smile at him. The cute one with a hint of a dimple. You're so adorable.

"I don't want to owe you anything," you say quietly. "And I don't want you thinking that this means anything. Because it doesn't. I don't feel that way towards you."

Rafe's feels his heart sink like a rock in a body of water, his eyes trained on you as you lower your head, gnawing on your plump lower lip. You're a coward. He thinks to himself. Mumbling that to him while being incapable of looking him in the eyes. He reminds himself that this happens every time he makes a move on you, but it still stings.

"Why not? How do I make you want me?" The words tumble out before he can stop them. He feels like such a loser. He's practically begging for your attention.

"You dont, Rafe." You mumble. You don't meet his eyes again as you gather up your things, shifting uncomfortably as you turn away. There's no venom in your voice, like he's not even worth the time or energy to get mad at. "Stop wasting your time with me and go hang out with the girls your speed."

He frowns, pushing his body against the counter as he watches you lock everything up. His eyes drift to the way your tits push against your thin polo when you lean forward to grab your phone charger. Fuck, he wants you.

His mind returns to your last couple words. "What do you mean my speed? You're my speed. I want you to be my speed."

You scoff lightly, shaking your head. You think he's clueless. He knows you do. As you slide out of the concessions stand and come around to roll down the security shutters and lock it. He stares down at you, admiring the way your body moves. You're not answering him, so he holds onto your upper arm and turns you with little to no effort so that he can look at you. You're just… so out of his league, and yet, he can't let go of this hope. This stupid, selfish hope that you'll turn to him one day. That you'll see him the way he's seeing you now.

"I don't know why you're doing this," he continues, his voice rougher than he means. "But I'm not the bad guy here, alright?" He steps closer to you, leaning in. His heart races, his voice low but urgent. "I know you... you don't want me anywhere near you. But I can't stop thinking about you. Every damn day. Every time I see you, I-" He pauses, his breath catching in his throat as the words spill out before he can stop them. "It h-hurts. It fucking hurts, you know?"

The silence between you two stretches, and Rafe's chest rises and falls rapidly like he's been holding his breath for too long. His hands shake. He's not sure if he's angry or desperate, but either way, he can't let it go. He needs something from you but he knows it's not something you can give so easily. You stare at him silently through long lashes, your brows furrowed. You hate him. "I'm going home, Rafe," you say, not acknowledging his desperation. "I suggest you give this a rest."

He watches as you tear your arm out of his grip to brush past him and head toward your dingy little car, hips swaying as you walk. The pretty necklace he bought you is still in his possession. Like he's out of his mind, he stalks after you from a distance just as you get into your car. He walks to his own truck and decides to tail you to your home.

-

Rafe shows up the next morning like he didn't follow you home the night before and sit in his truck outside your house for hours with his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel, replaying your voice in his head on a loop. 

"I don't want you." "Stop wasting your time." 

He'd been a fight with his dad this morning, and that, paired with yet another day going by with you refusing to open up to him, had pushed him over the edge. The fight had been loud, ugly, and violent and had left his voice hoarse and his knuckles raw from punching drywall. He'd stormed out without a plan, just his keys in hand and the necklace in his pocket.

You're working in the stupid concessions stand again, your face a little sleep ridden, but so so cute. He stares at you like it hurts to look and hurts worse not to.

When you see him storm up to the front, you frown immediately "I told you to stop coming here," you murmur softly, stepping back just a little, but you don't yell or swear at him.

"I know, I know," he rushes out, his voice low and breathless. "But I-I need this. I'm going through some shit right now, alright? I'm not okay. I swear I'll leave right after, I just.. fuck, I just need to hold you right now. Please."

You blink, staring at him from behind the counter with furrowed brows and pursed like you're unsure. Your voice is soft. "Rafe…"

He talks over you before you can turn him away "I'm not trying to pull anything. I'm not here to freak you out. I…" He drags a hand through his hair, pacing outside the snack shack like he's going to have a meltdown. "Please. I really, really need this. God, I miss you and I don't even have you yet."

That makes you pause, your brain scrambling to process the sheer desperation in his words. Your face is warm for a reason you don't comprehend right now. Your eyes flick up to his, and you sigh. "Fine," you whisper, stepping aside to move to the side door and open it. "Just for a bit." He's inside before you finish the sentence.

He practically throws himself on you, arms around your waist, head buried in your neck as he exhales into your skin. You stumble a little because he's so big and heavy, but he wraps his arms around you tighter to keep you steady. Your hands go instinctively to his shoulders, and he relaxes, grounded against you the second he has you in his arms. You're so warm and soft and you smell sweet, causing his body to relax against yours. He can finally breathe.

You tentatively reach up to touch his hair gently, voice unsure. "Did… something happen?"

He just hums, not answering right away, eyes fluttering shut against your collarbone. "You feel so good," he mumbles. "Shit… I don't know what's wrong with me…"

You don't respond. You just let him hold you, fingers threading through his hair, and for a moment, he actually feels calm. He doesn't even care that you're not kissing him or telling him you feel the same. This is enough for now.

He holds you for a long time. Too long, probably, but you don't push him off. Your fingers are still gently threading through his hair, and Rafe presses himself against you tighter like he can fuse the two of you together if he tries hard enough. Feels like he wants to be in your skin. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just soaks in the warmth of your body, the comfort of your scent, the softness of your voice when you ask, "Are you feeling any better?"

He is, really. Much, much better. So much better that he forgot all about Ward and all his other stupid problems, but he needs more. You've got him hooked. "Can I come hang out with you in the stand today?" he asks quietly, nuzzling into your throat. "I'll sit in the back, I swear I won't bother you, I swear."

You hesitate, and he feels it immediately in the way your fingers pause in his hair. You pull back slightly, and he lifts his head to meet your eyes, already expecting the no before you whisper it. "I can't, Rafe. I'll get in trouble. I can't have people hanging around,"

"But I'm not just people," he interrupts, frowning. "I'd be quiet. Just… just let me be near you, please. I can't go back there. Can't go home. Just wanna be with you."

"Rafe…"

"Okay," he says quickly, licking his lips and pulling his hand from his pocket. "Okay, fine. What about the necklace, then?" You blink as he holds out the box again, careful this time, not slamming it on a counter or shoving it in your hands. Just opening it slowly, almost reverently. "Will you wear it? Please?"

There's a pitiful look on his face that makes your resolve falter. His eyes are shiny, lips red and swollen from biting and licking, his face flushed. He's holding you tightly with his free hand. You sigh softly, giving in. "Fine. Just… just for today."

His whole face lights up. "Really? You will?" You nod, reaching for the box, but he stops you gently, one hand brushing yours. "C-can I put it on you?"

You hesitate again, and he's already behind you before you can think of a reason to say no. His fingers tremble a little as he pushes your hair aside, letting the soft strands fall through his hands like silk. You smell like something clean and dreamy, like vanilla and sunlight, and he swears it makes his head spin.

He hooks the necklace around your throat, clasping it carefully, and then just lets his hands rest on your shoulders for a second too long. You're wearing his necklace. Surely that means you're closer to becoming his, right? You're being so nice to him today, he thinks. "You look s'pretty, angel" he murmurs, eyes trained on your skin. "It looks perfect on you."

You turn to face him, not frowning so much anymore. "Thank you… but, seriously. You should go now, my boss does rounds in the morning, and-"

"I know, I know." He nods quickly, eyes dropping to your lips, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you... do you think I could kiss you? Just once?"

You pull back slightly, unsure. "I don't think that's a good idea…"

"Please," he breathes, his hands grabbing onto your arms to make sure you don't run from him. "I swear I won't ask again. Just once. I'm not okay, alright? I need to know what it feels like. Just one. I'm begging you."

You pause. He's looking at you like he's breaking and one kiss could fix something inside him. You furrow your brows, caught between your own better judgment and the way his voice sounds all wrecked and shaky when he speaks, and you know that he won't let this go, so yet again, you give in. "…Just a small one."

He doesn't wait, pressing his mouth to yours with such desperation it makes you reel back slightly. His hands come up to your face, thumbs grazing your cheeks like you're made of glass. He makes sure not to go too fast or try to shove his tongue in your mouth. He wants to savor every last bit of this before you pull away and go back to ignoring him. When his lips move against yours, it's reverent, and his lips seal around yours, making soft smacking sounds. He can't help the breathy groans that leave him. When you finally pull back, he's not all there.

You're warm in the face, wide-eyed, and still close enough that he can feel your breath fan against his lips. "Rafe…" you whisper, gently guiding him back by the shoulders. "You should go." He doesn't say anything, just nods, eyes still glassy and dazed, letting you push the door open and give him a soft little smile, biting your lip to hold it back, as he stumbles outside, like he's in a fog. The door shuts behind him.

He walks to his truck like he's drunk, heart pounding, lips tingling, mind still wrapped around the way your mouth felt on his. He's never felt this before. Not with anyone. He sits in his truck for a long time after that, tasting you on his lips and listening to his heart drum in his ears.

-

Rafe doesn't leave his room for hours after the kiss.

He's lying on his bed, shirt thrown onto the ground and breathing way too hard. The way your mouth felt on his feels like it's been carved into his brain. Burned into it, more like. He can't stop thinking about how it felt to hold you and press his lips to yours all desperate and sloppy no matter how many times he tries to get it together. He can still faintly taste your strawberry lip gloss on his mouth and hear the soft little moans you made when you kissed him back, even if they were quiet. Next time, he'll make you scream.

He turns over in his bed, running his fingers through his hair. He wonders if he's drowning. Nothing feels real right now. You kissed him. He didn't force himself on you or make you do anything you didn't want to. You gave yourself to him, and now he needs more, but you're so difficult. Sweet and soft but just out of reach like you like watching him go crazy.

He sits up too fast, legs bouncing with nervous energy as he grabs his phone and opens your social media so fast it feels like muscle memory. He scrolls through your posts until he finds one he's seen many times before. One where you're at a kegger with friends in a little crop top with shorts where he can see the bottom piece of your bikini underneath.

You look like his wet dreams come to life. He likes this picture because it looks like you were made for him. All sunkissed, wearing his favorite colors, smiling all cute and innocent, fuck…

He tosses his phone to the floor like it burns to hold it and closes his eyes until all he can see is your mouth parting against his, the way your lashes fluttered. The heat of your body under his hands, how easy it would've been to just keep going, to press you up against the wall and devour you like he wanted to. He can't breathe.

He's sliding his hand into his pants before he can think, not bothering to take off his shorts or boxers, just easing his cock out of their confines and groaning at its sensitivity, hunching forward and slowly beginning to pump his hand up and down. He thinks about you in his necklace, bending you over the counter of your dumb little snack store, kissing you again… God, he thinks you're it for him. You're all he wants..

He moans softly, quietly, the sound muffled into his pillow. His hips buck up into his fist, and it's not just lust driving him, it's panic. It feels like you crawled into his veins and rewired every cell of his body. "Shit… can't last…"

He fucks into his hand harder, chasing the feeling with a frustrated groan. It's not enough. It's not enough. He wants your voice in his ear, wants your thighs around his waist, wants your little breathy moans right against his mouth.

His hand moves faster, messier, thumb dragging over the tip just to feel the way his cock twitches, but it's not the same, not even close to how it felt when you touched him. He tightens his grip on his cock a little to try and imagine how it would feel being inside you for real. Wetter, he thinks, and he leans back to spit in his hand, then going back to milking his cock with his hand, forehead pressed into his pillow. His voice is quiet and wrecked, whispered little groans into the pillow as his hips twitch, fucking up into his fist like your pussy's the only thing that could calm him down. "Fuck... fuck... want you s'bad, angel, mngh"

His hand stutters, hips jerking, and he cums with a low, guttural groan that's more desperate than anything, thick, creamy spurts coating his fingers, his chest, his boxers, but the second it's over, the second he catches his breath, the ache only sharpens.

When he checks up on you the next morning like a routine at your place of work, he swears he's gonna puke when he pulls up to the country club and you're not there.

At first, he tells himself maybe you're just late. Maybe you overslept or your car broke down or you're inside and he didn't see you. But after he walks in and asks your manager, only to be told with a shrug that "she's taking a chill day," it's like the floor falls out from under him.

Why didn't you tell him? You gave him no explanation, no warning, no clue about what you're doing or or where you are or who you're with and his brain is going fucking crazy. He drives around for thirty minutes, chewing his nail and shaking his leg and refreshing your socials like a psycho, until finally he pulls up outside your house, parks crooked, throws it in park, and marches up the steps like a man possessed.

He knocks once. Then again, and quickly, he's pounding on the door, then with both fists. His heart is racing. His hands are sweating. And then you open the door and he just sags, a shaky breath leaving his chest. You're in a giant t-shirt with and little shorts, holding a spatula in one hand and blinking up at him like you just woke up. "Rafe?"

He's already crowding the door, peeking behind you like he's trying to find a way to barge in. "Why weren't you at work?" You frown up at him, still surprised at the sheer unexpectedness of his arrival. Why is it that he shows up wherever you go? "I... I just took the day off."

"Took the day off?" he echoes like you just told him you're moving to another continent. "Why?" You blink, stepping back a little because of how close he is. "Just wanted a day to myself. I'm going to a bonfire later and didn't wanna be tired."

"A bonfire," he repeats, stepping over the threshold without waiting for an invite. "With who?" His gaze flicks over to your exposed legs, then your thighs and your lips, plush and a little swollen. "You never take days off. Since when do you go to bonfires?"

You furrow your brows, confused and still kind of sleepy. "Rafe, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"No," he says immediately, eyes flitting over your face, down your neck, lingering on the dip of your collarbone, where the charm of the necklace he bought you is still resting. "No, I'm not. You weren't there. I-I didn't know where you were, cause you never told me."

Your expression softens as you see that he's not doing so good right now. Feels like he needs you. "I'm fine. I was just making pancakes."

"Who else is going?" he asks, voice hard and words coming out fast. "To the bonfire."

You pause. "I dunno. A few people."

"Guys?"

You blink. "Probably?"

His jaw clenches. "What are you wearing?"

You splutter again, this time caught off guard. "To the bonfire?"

"Yeah."

"Ah... not sure yet, I guess"

He stares at you like he doesn't believe you. Like you're lying just to mess with him. "Are you gonna drink?"

You finally realize the absurdity of his comments and scoff lightly. "Why are you acting like my boyfriend?"

Rafe takes a step closer to you, his breath coming out shaky, his jaw tight. His eyes are dark, gaze heavy with something you can't quite place. "Because I will be," he says, low and determined, like it's a promise. You're caught off guard, but you don't let him see that. You cross your arms over your chest, clearly trying to hold on to your composure. "What?"

His eyes never leave you. He looks dead serious; there's not a single flicker of hesitation in his voice. "I'm gonna be your boyfriend," he repeats, firm this time, almost like he's daring you to contradict him.

You stare at him, the weight of it settling over the room like a thick fog, and Rafe takes a step closer, like he's trying to prove something just by you letting him be so close to you.

"You can't just disappear like that, okay?" he says, sounding bossy. "I thought you were gone. Like...gone gone. I had to talk to your boss, cause I don't like when I don't know where you are," he rambles, eyes locked on yours. "I don't like not knowing who you're with, or what you're wearing, or if someone's getting you drunk and trying to take you home."

Alarmed by how he's starting to sound frantic, you think this would be a good time to give him some space and angle the door just enough that he can't get past it. "Rafe, go home." you say quietly, not looking him in the eye as you tuck the spatula behind you and lean into the door like a warning. "You're freaking me out."

Rafe's face twists, first in confusion, like he's still catching up to what you just said, and then in disbelief, then anger.

"How am I freaking you out, huh? You're just overreacting, like always. Trying to treat me like I'm a goddamn basket case."

"I don't like this," you continue, more firmly now, your pulse speeding up. "You show up at my house and start asking all these questions like you own me or something,"

"It's cause I care about you," he snaps, voice rising a little as his eyes burn into yours, his chest lifting with every breath. "You don't get it, do you? You think it's nothing, but it's not. You disappear, you don't text, and now you're telling me you're going out to get wasted with God knows who." His hands are clenching and unclenching rapidly and he keeps raking his hands incessantly through his hair.

"I don't owe you an explanation."

"Yes, you fucking do!"

You flinch, just slightly, and he sees how your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the door, and it makes him panic. He steps forward like he's going to force his way in and you push the door tighter with a hard look, shaking your head.

"I'm not doing this," you say, voice cold now, your tone clipped and unfamiliar. "I'm not gonna let you guilt trip me just because I wanted one night to myself."

"You're not just trying to have a night to yourself," he says bitterly, jaw tight as he takes a shaky breath, eyes wide and manic-like, as though he's about to unravel right in front of you. "You're going out so you can slut yourself out, right? So you can get drunk and let some random guy put his hands all over you, and then you're gonna let him fuck you."

"Excuse me?" you hiss, eyes wide as your entire body goes still.

"You think I don't know?" Rafe seethes, running a hand through his hair, pacing back like he's physically trying to keep from grabbing you. "You think I haven't seen the way you look when you're flirting? You get that sexy little look in your eyes like you're begging to be bent over. Like you want guys' attention. A-and you post shit, you wear tiny hooker shorts and laugh at every guy that breathes near you and then act like I'm the one who's crazy when I don't want to fucking lose you!"

"You are crazy," you snap, voice rising for the first time. "You're out of your fucking mind. You don't get to walk into my house and tell me what I can wear or who I can be around just because we kissed."

"IT WASN'T JUST A KISS!" he roars. "DON'T YOU FUCKING GET IT? YOU'RE EVERYTHING TO ME!"

You flinch back when he screams at you, and your breathing goes shallow, lips parting like you want to say something else, but nothing comes out. "Rafe," you say instead, voice low, scared. "P-please, you need to go."

"No," he whispers immediately, shaking his head like a child. "No, don't shut me out. Don't do this. You don't mean that-"

"Go away, Rafe!" you cry out, and slam the door in his face before you can change your mind. The sound echoes through your house, bouncing off the walls and rattling your chest. You lock it.

On the other side, you hear nothing for a long moment. And then the soft thud of his fist hitting the door once, twice. Not to knock, just because he doesn't know what else to do. Then footsteps. Then silence.

You slide to the floor and stare at the spatula still clutched in your hand, heart thudding against your ribs like it's trying to claw its way out, meanwhile he storms away to his truck, immediately driving at an obscene speed. He cruises down the road with one hand gripping the wheel and the other twitching restlessly on his thigh, his head pounding. The sun's going down and the sky is darkening, and all he can think about is you in some tiny little outfit, smiling at some guy who doesn’t fucking deserve it.

He goes home to pass the time with whatever helps take his mind off you. Lifting weights, doing jobs for his dad, golfing...

By nightfall he's buzzing and out on the road, headed to your stupid bonfire.

He hits the brakes too hard pulling into the dirt road leading to the beach. Gravel kicks up under the tires and his pulse doesn’t slow. He leans back in his seat for a second, staring out at the distant flames and silhouettes gathering around them, and he mutters under his breath.

He's met up with some friends, his pupils are blown wide and there’s a girl clinging to his arm, some mutual friend who laughs too loud at everything he says and keeps taking hits to impress him. He doesn’t even remember her name.

He’s already smoked, he did a line back at the house, and now everything feels loose and hazy except the fire and the blurry shape of you. He spots you instantly. You’re standing near the fire, laughing with someone he doesn’t recognize, hair tucked behind your ear, drink in your hand, face lit up by the flames.

He drops his arm from the girl like she’s heavy and annoying, snatches the joint from someone's hand without acting, and leans back into the circle of guys while his eyes never leave you.

Every time you smile, or tilt your head to listen to someone who isn’t him, it feels like his skin is burning. He’s bouncing his leg. Grinding his teeth. His fingertips twitch like he’s about to do something reckless, like walking up to you and grabbing your wrist and dragging you off to somewhere private.

The heat of his stare pricks at the back of your neck, even as you try to ignore it and keep sipping your drink, laughing with your friend and pretending you don’t feel your skin flush for no reason at all. But it gets worse with every passing minute. Every little sound around you starts to blur and all you can feel is him staring.

When you finally turn your head, you find him sitting with a group of guys by the fire, his legs bouncing.

You tear your gaze away and pretend you didn’t see, but it only takes a little while before you go off to talk to your friend and there's a warm, huge body pressing against your back, hands snaking around your waist. Music thrums in your ears, and you feel him nudging his hips against your ass as the scent of weed and expensive cologne fills your nose.

Rafe's voice comes out as a quiet slur against your ear. "M'sorry, angel" he mumbles, pressing his face into your hair. "Don't... d-don't want you mad at me. Couldn't stay home. You're not a slut, I didn't mean that...I swear I didn’t mean it."

You push his arm off, stepping away and whirling around to face him. "Rafe! Are you serious right now? You show up here with some girl all over you and now you’re grinding on me like nothing happened?"

His face twists up in shock or hurt. You can't tell. "No...no, what? No!" he says, voice cracking. "I'm not playing you, why the fuck would I be? I did not do anything with her, I just...fuck, I needed to see you. You slammed the door in my face and I thought-"

"Thought what?" you snap. "That you could get a rise out of me and show me how replaceable I am?" Your words make his eyes go all glassy, just for a second, then they darken. He looks feral. He's tired of you and your inability to understand him or his feelings. His jaw tightens and his breathing spikes, and all of a sudden, he snatches your wrist.

"Come here."

"Rafe, let go of me!"

He doesn’t listen. He’s pulling you off the beach, down the sand while ignoring your scattered protests, all the way until you’re stumbling up the wooden steps of a closed lifeguard shack just off the edge of the bonfire. You yank at his grip but he’s too strong, too frantic, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear entirely.

He opens the door and drags you inside, then slams it shut and locks it behind him. The noise of the party dulls outside. Inside, it’s just heavy silence and the sound of both your uneven breaths. You shove at his chest, not a fan of being in such an enclosed space with him. "You're being just as insane as you were at my house, Rafe. You're not even sober right now, are you?"

He stares at you like you just stabbed him. "You don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself. "You don’t fucking get it."

"I do get it!" you bite back. "I get that you're a manipulative and controlling bast-" That’s when he loses it.

"You think I'm playing games with you?" He screams, grabbing you and shoving you up against the back wall. Your body slams back against the solid surface, and he gets up in your face, nose pressed into yours. "You think I'm playing games? You think this is some fucking joke to me? You have no idea what I feel when I look at you. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can’t fucking think without you taking over every single last FUCKING one of my thoughts. I've never..!” His voice catches, and his breathing picks up so much that he sounds like he's hyperventilating. "I've never needed someone like this."

You gasp out loud, heart doing a little jump at his words. You dont know if you're confused or nervous or flustered, but he's starting to panic all over again, like he didn't mean to say that. Not in the way he did, at least.

Rafe stares at you like he’s just realized what he said. Like the words ripped out of him before he could pull them back. His eyes are huge, chest rising and falling fast.

“You need me?” you say, and your voice comes out soft. Disbelieving.

His lips part, and he nods, just once. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I need you so fucking much I think it's killing me. And I know I act like an asshole, I know I say shit I don't mean, but when you slammed that door in my face I thought I was gonna lose my goddamn mind." His voice breaks at the edges again, cracking away. "And then I saw you laughing with someone else and I wanted to kill him. I couldn't take it. You're supposed to smile at me. Only me."

You're quiet for a beat, not knowing what to say. You know you should be more angry and hold your ground, but he's looking at you so desperately. Like always. He squeezes your shoulders and looks intently into your eyes. "I didn’t touch her," he says again, voice barely above a whisper. "I...I-I didn't kiss her, didn't want her. She was just...there. I didn't even look at her. I was looking for you."

Your heart pounds and he comes closer to you, needing a response. Your reaction is difficult to read for him, filling him with uncertainty. He knows you probably don't feel the same towards him, and it crushes him. The silence between you stretches long enough to make him nauseous. But then you ask, in a quiet little voice, "Tell me again."

His brows furrow. "What?"

"That you need me."

He steps in again, and this time his hand comes up, shaking slightly, to brush your cheek. "I need you," he says, firmer now. "I w-want and need you so bad it makes me do stupid shit. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry baby, I just... fuck-" He trails off by attaching his lips onto yours to show you how bad he needs you, lips slotting over yours as he moans at your taste. His hands slide up under your shirt like he has to feel your skin, making their way to your bra, which he lifts up over your breasts to squeeze the soft mounds under your shirt.

You whimper softly against his mouth at the suddenness of it, the heat of his palms rough and eager as they mold over you, and that sound makes Rafe groan from somewhere deep in his chest, kissing you harder and messier. He tastes faintly of mint.

"Missed you," he slurs into your mouth, thumbing over your nipples with clumsy desperation, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. His forehead knocks against yours as he breathes you in, the two of you barely able to catch a breath between kisses.

You jolt, moaning and halfheartedly pushing at his chest, but he pinches your nipple as a punishment, needing you against him. "Mnh! Rafe, we shouldn't," you gasp when his mouth moves to your neck, trailing open mouthed kisses over your pulse, and you feel him nodding against you like he agrees, even though he's still doing it.

He kisses a path down your throat, dragging his nose along your skin. His hands stay under your shirt, squeezing and cupping your breasts. You feel him shudder when you don't push him away again, when instead you tilt your head to the side, granting him more access to your neck. He groans low and desperate, hands smoothing down your waist to your hips, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space between your bodies.

You feel how hard he is, grinding against you with slow, needy rolls of his hips. His cock strains against his pants, pressing hotly against you through your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

"Fuck," Rafe hisses into your skin, voice wrecked. "Fuck, baby, please..." He presses his forehead against your shoulder, panting, grinding his hips against yours again like he physically can't help himself. "Want you so bad. Been losin' my mind thinking about you, can't stop." His hands grab at your hips, your ass, trying to feel everything he can at once, desperate and frantic.

He pulls back enough to catch your face in both hands, making you look him in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, chest heaving. "Tell me you want it," he says, low and rough. "Tell me you want me, angel. Please." His thumbs stroke your jaw.

You blink up at him, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. You don't say anything at first, and that moment of silence just makes him even crazier, and he lets out a broken noise, grinding against you harder, hips stuttering like he's about to lose it just from this.

"Say it," he begs again, voice breaking. "Say you want me."

You finally oblige with a little nod, head spinning. "I-I want you, Rafe. I want it..."

The second the words leave your lips, it's like something inside him snaps. "Fuck," Rafe groans, diving back in to kiss you feverishly, his hands already fumbling at the hem of your shirt, yanking it up over your head. He's frantic, crazed, muttering under his breath: "so pretty, so fucking pretty", as he tosses your shirt somewhere behind him. His hands are everywhere, roaming your skin like he's starving, like he’s trying to devour every inch of you.

He makes quick work of your bra, practically ripping it off and letting it fall to the floor. His mouth drops open when he gets a look at you and he immediately ducks his head, mouthing hotly at the tops of your breasts, whining against your plush tits, moaning at the taste.

His hands can't decide where to stay, cupping your breasts, sliding down your sides, gripping your hips, your ass, he's frantic like he's scared you'll disappear if he lets go even for a second. His mouth trails desperate, sloppy kisses down your chest, tongue flicking out to circle one nipple before sucking it into his mouth with a greedy groan, like he needs it to breathe.

Your fingers find his hair without thinking, threading through the soft strands, and he moans into your skin at the contact, bucking his hips into you harder, unable to stop himself.

He ruts against you like he's in heat, hips grinding up into yours in slow, messy rolls as his cock strains painfully against the fabric of his shorts. Every desperate push of his hips presses his hard length right up against your core, and you feel the heat of him even through all the layers between you.

"Fuck," Rafe gasps, drooling on your tits. His hips jerk forward harder, and the friction makes you both groan. He drags his mouth up your chest, laving his tongue over your breasts and sucking hickeys onto your cleavage, all while rutting against you like he's trying to get off just from the contact.

You feel him shudder, breath hot and shaky against your throat, and his hands fumble clumsily at the waistband of your shorts. "Need you," he mumbles. "Need you now."

He doesn't even try to be smooth, just yanks your shorts down your hips in a couple frantic tugs, letting them fall around your ankles, tugging your panties next. You're helping him too, panting and moaning against his face as you tug down his pants and his boxers, freeing his fat, leaking cock, flushed an angry red from built up arousal. You give pause at the sheer size of his cock, resting heavily against his tummy, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes. "I-it's big, Rafe... " You trail off, nervous.

He shakes his head and pushes you back onto the wall and hovers over you. "It's okay, it's okay... I'll make it fit. Won't hurt my angel." He slides a hand under your thigh, lifting it so you have no choice but to let him grind against your bare pussy, the length of him dragging right along your slick folds.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, rutting against you slow and messy. He's trying to savor you but can't stop how badly he wants you, and so his cock ends up slipping and sliding against you, catching between your wet, flowery folds with every other thrust. "Rafe" Your eyes flutter as you call out his name, clinging onto him. It feels so good that you're starting to leak wetness down your thighs. "You feel that?" Rafe pants, forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering closed as he rocks against you harder. "Feel how bad I want you? How fucking crazy you make me?"

You nod, breathless, overwhelmed, and Rafe lets out a wrecked little moan, rubbing his cock along your soaked slit again and again, like he's trying to carve the feeling into his memory forever. "Angel..." he moans out, voice loud and unrestrained. You wonder if people can hear you two inside the shack.

He continues holding onto your thigh with one hand and his cock with the other, sliding back and forth against your sopping little pussy. "I'm gonna put it inside you, okay?" He whispers, making direct eye contact with you. "Won't hurt you," he restates, voice low and sincere. You don't see how excited he is deep down to finally have you to himself. He's going to finally fuck you. Then, he's going to make you his girlfriend and never let you out of his sight again. You nod, whining softly and angling your body so he's lined up completely with your pretty pussy.

When the tip notches in your tight hole, you cry out at the intrusion, tears sparking in your wide eyes with the discomfort of having something so big beginning to fill you, so he presses his forehead against yours and coos softly, stroking your hair. "I got you, I got you. Shh... almost halfway," he uses the phrase to coax you, even though he's only got his bulbous head and an inch of his length in you. By the time it's really halfway, you can't take anymore and push on his shoulders. "Rafe! 'm too full, I can't..."

"You can, see? Look at me, look." He cups your cheek, nodding to you and slowly thrusting in and out to get you accommodated, nearly bottoming out entirely. Then, he shoves and stretches you out inch by inch, kissing you deeply to keep you distracted, and he feels you squirming and whining loudly as he gets deeper and deeper, and then he feels the wet squelch of his pelvis against your pussy, and he knows he's filled you up all the way.

You're so goddamn tight, and he lets out a low, drawn out moan. He looks down at where his cock disappears into your stretched out, dripping cunt. He can't believe he actually managed to fit the whole fucking thing inside you. Your little pussy is so goddamn tight, gripping him like a vice now that he's buried to the hilt inside you. Your thighs are trembling, and your back's arched off the wall because of the fullness of him inside you.

Rafe grunts as he slowly starts to thrust, his hips jerking forward to spear his rigid length deeper into your pliant body. Your slick walls flutter around him, trying desperately to accommodate the thick girth stretching you out. The way you feel is incredible, your pussy gripping him like you never want to let him go.

"That's it," he grunts, his voice rough and gravelly with arousal. "Angel, shit... your pussy was made for my cock." He starts thrusting faster, driving into you with more force as he enjoys the way your tits bounce with each snap of his hips. You're barely holding yourself up, legs quivering as he spears into you and angles you so he can hit every sweet spot in your warm, gummy pussy.

The thick length of his cock, pulsing and throbbing, spears into your soaked, gripping walls over and over again. He slams into you and grinds his pelvis against yours, his heavy cock burying to the hilt with each thrust inside your flutter walls. "Feels so good, Rafe," You whines softly, panting into his ear. Your praise fuels him and encourages him to fuck you harder, better. He rolls his hips against yours, stirring his huge length around in your stuffed hole.

Rafe fucks into you deep and you can feel him in your stomach, stretching you out, claiming every inch of your body. He's fucking you like he wants to fucking destroy your pussy and rebuild it to be a perfect mold of his cock. "Mhm? Feels good?" He pants, fucking into your cunt and grabbing your jaw with his free hand so he can see your cute, fucked out expression.

"You feel so good. So fucking good...only for me, right?" He demands, wanting your reassurance, and you nod, throwing your head back and moaning when he bumps against a really sensitive spot way too deep inside you.

He grits his teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead, his whole body working just to keep himself from cumming too fast because you're squeezing the life out of him. "You're fuckin' mine," he rasps against your cheek, thrusts getting sharper, rougher, more desperate.

His cock drives deep, grinding right against that sensitive spot again and again until you’re crying out for him, fingernails digging into his shoulders, your eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Say it," he breathes, grinding his hips up into you so deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. "Tell me you're mine, angel."

"M'yours," you mewl helplessly, clinging onto him, and Rafe groans louder. He keeps pounding into you with a rough, messy pace, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. Your pussy clamps down harder around him, spasming, and Rafe lets out a wrecked moan, feeling you start to fall apart around him.

"Shit, gonna cum, angel. Gonna cum inside you so everyone knows who you belong to," he says, thrusts getting sloppier as his balls hit your ass slow and lazy, and he moans, eyes fluttering shut as he spills inside you, heavy, thick cream filling you completely. He doesn't stop until every last drop is buried inside you, and even then, he's still thrusting all rough all slow so you feel every ridge and vein on his heavy cock as he pumps you full. He won't stop till you cum too, and he rolls two fingers over your hardened clit, licking up your throat until he gets to your lips, and slides his tongue over yours.

One last bump of his fat cockhead on your womb has the coil in your tummy snapping, and with a loud moan, you cum all over his cock, splurting pearlescent juices on his cum covered cock. He groans, feeling his cock twitch inside you as you squeeze him impossibly tighter while you cum.

His eyes are glassy as he looks at you, lips parted, and he's still buried deep inside your pussy and holding your jaw, but his voice is gone. During the silence, you notice a flicker in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate as his eyes bore into yours. His mouth keeps opening and closing, making it clear he wants to tell you something.

He wants to say he loves you.

But he doesn't.

He pulls out, making sure your panties and shorts are on as he pulls out, letting his cum slip out of your pussy and rest in your clothes. He grins at the mess between your thighs, wiping off any residue to ensure that it isn't too obvious that you've got his load in you. He kisses your forehead and grins through low eyes, nuzzling your forehead. "Keep it in so you've got a part of me in you all through the rest of this fucking party."

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