you ended up with your ex's older brother !geto suguru
The silence in the Geto household always felt different depending on who was sharing it with you.
When it was your ex, the silence was a heavy, suffocating thing, the tense static that followed an argument he’d checked out of twenty minutes prior, leaving you to pick up the pieces of a Friday night he’d promised to save for you.
But when it was Suguru, the silence was like linen. Clean. Measured. Weightless.
"He’s not coming back tonight," Suguru said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that cut through the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
You didn't look up from your lap. You were sitting on the bottom step of the entryway stairs, your coat still clutched in your hands. You had been waiting for three hours. Your phone sat beside you on the polished wood, its screen dark and devoid of any notifications.
"I know," you whispered.
A shadow fell over you, long and elegant. Suguru stepped into the hall, the soft fabric of his black yukata brushing against his ankles. He looked impeccable, even at midnight, his long dark hair loosely tied back, a few stray strands framing his face.
He didn't ask you why you stayed, or why you put up with it. He just knelt down, his knees settling against the tatami, bringing himself down to your eye level.
He didn't offer a hollow apology on his brother’s behalf. He was too honest for that. Instead, he gently reached out, his long, calloused fingers wrapping around the strap of your bag, pulling it gently from your stiff grip.
"Let me take you home," Suguru said softly. "It's too late for you to be waiting for someone who doesn't know the value of what’s standing in front of him."
That was the night the thread snapped. The breakup itself wasn't a grand, screaming match. It was just a quiet, exhausted declaration over the phone two days later.
Your ex hadn't even fought for you; he’d just sighed, muttered something about you being too demanding, and hung up.
You thought that would be the end of the Geto family in your life.
You were wrong.
Three weeks later, the rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the neon lights of the city into smears of watercolor. You were huddled under the awning of a small convenience store, shivering in a sweater that wasn't quite thick enough, waiting for a taxi that seemed destined never to arrive.
A sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing Suguru’s profile.
"Get in," he said.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second, the phantom rules of your past relationship flashing through your mind. But the cold won, and you opened the door, slipping into the leather interior. The car smelled like him, sandalwood, rain, and a faint hint of expensive tobacco.
"You're going to catch a cold," Suguru murmured, flicking the heater up a notch. He reached into the back seat and tossed a soft, dark grey scarf into your lap. "Wrap that around yourself."
"Thank you, Suguru-san," you said, your voice small.
He paused, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel as he pulled back into the traffic. "Just Suguru is fine. The formalities are unnecessary now."
"I shouldn't be taking up your time," you said, looking out the window. "I know it's... awkward. Because of your brother."
Suguru didn't answer right away. He navigated the slick streets with an effortless, calm precision. When the car stopped at a red light, he finally turned his head to look at you. His dark eyes were narrow, intense, holding a depth that always made you feel like he was reading the lines of your thoughts.
"My brother is a fool," Suguru said, his tone perfectly even, yet carrying a weight that made your breath hitch. "His mistakes are his own. They have nothing to do with why I'm here."
You didn't know what to say to that. So you just buried your chin into his scarf, breathing in his scent, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth bloom in your chest.
The transition happened in micro-moments.
It was the way Suguru started showing up at the quiet, tucked-away cafe you frequented, always happening to have a book under his arm and an empty seat across from you.
It was the way he remembered exactly how you took your tea, two sugars, no milk, without you ever telling him. It was the way he listened.
When you spoke, his entire attention was locked onto you, a stark, dizzying contrast to the hollow, half-hearted hums you used to get from his younger brother.
One evening, he invited you to his apartment—a minimalist, top-floor space with high ceilings and rows of dark wooden bookshelves. He had cooked.
"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," you said, watching him move around the kitchen. There was a grace to him, an inherent maturity that made the rest of the world feel chaotic by comparison.
"It's not trouble if I want to do it," he replied, setting a plate down in front of you.
As you ate, the conversation drifted, light and easy, until a notification lit up your phone on the table. It was an Instagram notification, your ex had posted a photo at a club, surrounded by people, looking entirely unbothered by the void he’d left behind.
Your eyes lingered on the screen a second too long. You hated yourself for it, hated that the ghost of the old hurt could still make your chest tighten.
A large, warm hand settled over yours, covering the screen of the phone, blocking it from view.
You looked up. Suguru was leaning across the small table. His expression wasn't angry; it was intensely focused, his gaze heavy and dark.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You did.
"He never looked at you the way he should have," Suguru said, his thumb slowly brushing against the back of your hand, a deliberate, electric friction.
"He didn't see the way your eyes change when you're genuinely happy. He didn't notice how hard you try to make everyone else comfortable, even at your own expense."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, wild thing. "Suguru..."
"I noticed," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a confession he had clearly kept locked away for months. "I sat in that house and watched him waste every single second he had with you. Do you have any idea how difficult that was?"
The air between you turned thick, charged with the sudden, undeniable shift of the boundary breaking down. He wasn't your ex's older brother right now. He was just a man. A man who was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Is this okay?" Suguru asked, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fleeting, heavy second before rising back to yours. He was giving you the control, giving you the choice his brother never did.
You didn't pull your hand away. Instead, you turned it over, lacing your fingers through his.
"Yes," you breathed.
A slow, breathtakingly handsome smile touched Suguru’s lips, the first completely unreserved smile you had ever seen from him. He stood up, stepping around the small table, and slid his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear you didn't even realize had fallen.
When he leaned down to kiss you, it wasn't hurried or careless. It was deep, possessive, and incredibly patient, tasting of the slow burn that had been building between you since the very beginning.
As his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, you realized with absolute clarity: you hadn't downgraded.
You had just finally found the Geto who knew exactly how to hold you.
angst (post breakup) without comfort, no specific character
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The rain pours, big drops splattering against the windshield as he turns up the car's heater and cracks open the window. There's a tightness in his chest when he glances down at his hands, fingers fidgeting with the lighter. His car is parked in the parking lot across from your home, your usual meeting spot before he'd take you away for the night.
His eyes wander back up to your window, the faint light coming from your living room. He spots your silhouette approaching the glass, glancing out of the window like it's a habit of yours, a part of your routine, like you expect something - someone. Him.
Your gaze remains on his car for a moment and he isn't sure if you're staring or if time slowed down. His heart pounds in his chest, fingers tightening around the lighter as he notices the way you shake your head weakly, as if in denial. The way you tilt your head back with a bittersweet smile before you turn around and lower your head into your hands to cry your heart out.
He knows you want to talk. You need to talk, you need answers. You don't know why he treated you the way he did, you don't know his intentions. All you know is that he didn't put in the effort you needed, the bare minimum. And if he truly, deeply wanted you the way you wanted him, he would've made sure to show you, right?
He didn't treat you right. He didn't, he's well aware. How could he not, with how often you tried to tell him - even after your breakup - and practically begged him to change. Asked him to put in more effort, to show he cares, to at least reply to your messages if he couldn't come see you. But no, he had to be an emotionally unavailable man who says communication is important but then leaves your messages on read.
Opening the pack of cigarettes, he smiles weakly. You hated when he smoked. Just downright disgusting and bad for his health, but you'd never refuse a kiss in between his drags. You were pretty understanding even, accepting his addiction and not pressuring him to stop even when the smell gave you stomach aches.
Was it worth it? Breaking your heart, getting your hopes up, talking about moving in together eventually and getting married one day? Kissing you senseless and making you feel like he wanted you without actually ever saying it? Making you fall in love with him when you never really knew where you stood in his life?
While he was your first in almost every way imaginable, you weren't his. And yeah, you were fine with it but it hurt, having all those sweet moments that you'd remember for a lifetime but not only would you remember your first kiss, no, you'd forever remember him.
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not my best post
also i could've sworn i was doing fine this week but i cried while writing this
ex!reader who loves the game and wants to support her team but hockey captain!rafe is on the ice. he thinks she’s there for him but when she comes in with a date? and when they get put on the kiss cam? rafe slams into the glass to scare them? hate sex????
someone who lets you break them twice - hockey!toxic!rafe x ex!reader (+18)
warnings: veryyy long and 99% smut🙂↕️ the things i do for you...
The cold air inside the rink always made your skin tingle.
Your breath curled in front of you like smoke as you moved uncomfortably on the bleachers, pulling your jacket tighter around you.
This is why you hated fall. It was too cold to be outside, too early to be winter. Except tonight wasn’t about the weather—it was about hockey.
Hockey and, the fact that you hadn’t missed a game since… well, since Rafe and you broke up.
“Everything okay?” The voice beside you pulled you back to reality.
Elijah, the guy you’d been seeing for the past couple of weeks, smiled at you, oblivious to the bullshit taking over your mind, and you gave him your best smile back.
“Yeah, just cold,” you said, trying to focus.
You weren’t here for Rafe anymore. You loved hockey, loved watching the boys skate across the ice, their power and grace. Or at least that was what you kept telling yourself.
Elijah wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to him, and you leaned in, feeling his warmth.
The game was about to start, and the arena lights dimmed, casting shadows over the rink. The roar of the crowd drowned your thoughts for a moment as the players took the ice.
Then you spotted him.
Rafe.
Of course, he looked good.
God, why did he always have to look so fucking good? His broad shoulders filling out his number 17 jersey, that stupid smirk as he skated out with the rest of the team, dark blonde hair peeking out from under his helmet.
He was captain this year, and it made sense—he’d been working his ass off since…ever, you genuinely couldn’t think of anyone more deserving than him.
You knew better than to be here, yet somehow you ended up courtside anyway. As painful as it was watching him, you’d never let him run you out of your favorite sport. Not even if he was captain now.
This was your team, the one you’d been coming to see since before Rafe even knew what a slapshot was.
You sank further into Elijah’s side, forcing your eyes away from your ex, but it wasn’t until you caught the dark blue of the jersey you were wearing in the corner of your eye that you realized…
You’d put on Rafe’s jersey, his number. The one you’d always worn to support him when you were together. Out of all the team merch you owned, of course you had to wear his.
“You really like hockey a lot, huh?” Elijah asked, glancing down at your jersey.
“Yeah,” You mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I’ve been following the team for a while.”
Lies. You loved hockey, but you loved Rafe more. Or, you used to.
The puck dropped, and the game started.
For a while, you tried to focus on the action but Rafe was all over the ice, playing like the goddamn superstar he was. You couldn’t help but notice how his gaze kept darting up toward the stands, as if sensing you were there.
Halfway through the second period, he slammed into an opposing player, sending him crashing into the boards. The sound echoed through the arena, and the crowd went wild, but you could feel your stomach knotting up.
That had always been Rafe—intense, aggressive, unable to hold back. On the ice or off.
You tried to focus on Elijah, laughing at something he was saying, but your heart wasn’t in it. And just when you thought you’d survived the worst of it, the kiss cam flashed up on the big screen.
Your laughter died in your throat as you realized what was happening, your face heating up instantly. You weren’t embarrassed, but this was... awkward.
“Aw, how cute,” He said, grinning as he pointed to the screen.
You followed his gaze, heart dropping. They were zooming in on the two of you. You could feel the crowd around you start to cheer and whistle as Elijah leaned in closer, clearly getting ready to kiss you.
You could see him coming toward you, his lips getting personal, but all you could think about was—
Bang!
In the span of a second, a body slammed into the boards right in front you, the sound so loud it made you jump. The entire section gasped, and you turned your head just in time to see Rafe standing there, glaring up at you from behind the glass.
He looked like he was ready to tear Elijah apart, or you, or both of you. His chest was heaving, eyes blazing, standing mere inches away from where you sat.
He had skated right into the glass.
Your heart was practically in your throat, and it wasn't from Elijah being close. You could hardly focus on Elijah, but the way he laughed, oblivious to the scene your ex was causing...it made your stomach churn because Rafe was staring like he owned you.
He always had this way of making you feel like no matter what, no matter who else was around, you were his.
Then, still staring at you, he mouthed the words, "I dare you."
Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?
Those stupid words, silently mouthed, but somehow loud enough to hit you like a punch through the glass. I dare you. God, what was wrong with him? He knew how to push your buttons. And of course, it was working.
You could feel Elijah shifting next to you, still oblivious to the whole freaking drama unfolding right in front of him. He was so sweet, too sweet, and it was infuriating right now because Rafe was standing there, all but daring you to move on.
The breakup had been brutal, a messy, loud explosion where neither of you were willing to be the first to walk away. You were both too stubborn, too prideful.
Now, here you are months later, still dealing with the fallout.
Elijah finally leaned in, lips brushing yours, and you kissed him, but your heart wasn’t in it.
All you could feel was Rafe’s stare burning into you.
The kiss cam lingered for a few seconds, and the crowd cheered, but you felt was... empty.
When the kiss ended, you forced a smile at Elijah although your mind was a mess. Rafe’s eyes were still on you, and you could feel anger radiating off him, even through the thick glass.
You glanced down, avoiding his gaze, and tugged at the hem of his old jersey, suddenly feeling like you didn’t belong in it anymore.
You leaned into Elijah, mostly out of spite at this point. If Rafe thought he could just walk around, acting like he owned you—then he deserved to stew in.
Except, he wasn’t the type of guy to let something like that go. You watched as he skated back into play, but his eyes kept flicking up to where you sat, he couldn’t stop checking to make sure you were still there. Still with Elijah.
His shoulders were tense, movements too aggressive, you knew he was about to snap. You hated this, that he could still make you feel this way, even now, after everything.
After the fights, after the breakup, after swearing you were over him.
The third period started, and Rafe was everywhere, throwing his weight around like he had something to prove. Every hit was harder, sharper.
You felt sickly satisfied, knowing you’d gotten under his skin.
With less than five minutes left in the game, things escalated.
Rafe slammed into one of the opposing players so hard that the guy went down, and the whistle blew immediately. The crowd was roaring, but Rafe didn’t back off.
He stood over the guy, glaring down at him, ready to throw a punch.
"Jesus," Elijah muttered beside you. "What the hell’s his problem?"
You didn’t answer, knowing exactly what his problem was.
The ref skated over, shouting something at your ex boyfriend, but his eyes weren’t on the ref, they were back on you, even as the other guy on the ice slowly got back to his feet.
The arena was buzzing, the crowd still rowdy, you thought Rafe was going to lose it right there. His fists clenched—he looked like he was ready to drop gloves and start swinging.
And then he smirked.
It was that same cocky smirk you knew so well, the one he always flashed right before doing something reckless. The ref sent him to the penalty box, and he skated off, still with that fucking look plastered on his face.
Elijah leaned back in his seat, totally unaware.
“Man, that guy’s intense,” Elijah said, shaking his head, eyes still on the ice.
Intense didn’t even begin to cover it.
Rafe was sitting in the penalty box now, helmet off, running a hand through his hair, too casual for someone who was just about murder a guy on the ice.
The last few minutes of the game passed in an instant.
You weren’t paying attention anymore, not to the score or the plays. You were too busy trying not to think about Rafe, how he had looked at you. About the way it had made you feel.
When the final buzzer sounded, the crowd erupted in cheers.
Elijah stood up, stretching, turning to you with a smile. “Ready to head out?” he asked.
You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, let’s go.”
You made your way toward the exit, weaving through the crowd, tension building in your chest.
It wasn’t over. It never really was with Rafe. You knew—somehow—you weren’t getting out of here without seeing him again.
You reached the bottom of the stands, where a crowd had gathered near the exit. Elijah was still chatting about the game, but you were distracted, scanning the faces around without even realizing it.
Then you saw him. Of course, you did.
Rafe was leaning against the wall, helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes locked on yours the second you stepped into his line of sight.
He didn’t bother pretending to care about the fans around him—his gaze was intense, a predator waiting for its moment.
You hated how your heart skipped.
Elijah noticed you freeze and followed your eyes, his smile faltering when he saw Rafe standing there.
"Isn’t that the captain guy?" he asked, glancing between you and Rafe, confused.
You swallowed hard, forcing your feet to keep moving.
“Yeah. That’s him.”
As you passed by, Rafe pushed off the wall, stepping right into your path. Elijah, sweet, unsuspecting Elijah, paused beside you.
"Leaving already?" Rafe’s voice was casual, but his eyes were locked on yours, ignoring your date completely. "Not gonna stick around to congratulate the team?"
You clenched your jaw, fighting to keep your cool.
"It’s late, Rafe. We’re heading out."
He stepped closer, his towering frame making Elijah shift uncomfortably.
"Used to be the last one out."
You'd always let him fuck you in the locker room.
Elijah cleared his throat, "Uh, yeah, we’ve got plans after this."
Rafe’s eyes dropped to him for the briefest moment, before landing back on you. "Plans, huh?"
Your pulse was hammering, the heat rising in your cheeks. Why did he always have to do this—why couldn’t he just let you go?
“Rafe, we’re done,” you said through gritted teeth, holding on to the last shred of your composure. “You don’t get to pull this shit anymore.”
“You sure about that?”
You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms as you tried to calm yourself. You didn’t need this right now, especially not with Elijah here.
“Let’s go Elijah,” you said, tugging at his arm, desperate to get out of there before things escalated.
Rafe stepped in front of you again, blocking your way like he had some kind of claim on you. And God, the worst part was—you weren’t sure he was wrong.
You glanced at Elijah, who was staring at the two of you like he had walked into the middle of a conversation he couldn’t quite follow.
“Look, dude,” he started, awkwardly laughing, “I don’t know what this is, but—”
“It’s nothing, ignore him.” you cut him off quickly, “Let’s go.”
“Yeah, Elijah,” Rafe's voice dripped with sarcasm. “It’s nothing.”
Elijah’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, frowning.
“Shit,” he muttered, distracted. “I’ve gotta take this call real quick. Give me a sec?” He stepped away, leaving you and Rafe standing there in the middle of the hallway.
Shit.
He was on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the locker room door.
“Rafe, what the fuck—” you hissed, but he wasn’t letting go.
You tried to resist, but something inside you broke down—the unresolved pull between you two, he still had that stupid hold on you, your body responding when you shouldn’t.
You’d never fully closed the door on Rafe.
He shoved the door open, pulling you inside the lit hallway that led to the locker room. You spun around, shoving him in the chest, hard.
“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?”
Rafe didn't so much flinch, his eyes smoldering as he crowded you against the wall.
“Yeah? You didn’t seem to think so when you were wearing my jersey tonight.”
“That was an accident!"
“Bullshit,” he growled, leaning in closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Bringing a date with you. Do you want me to kill someone?"
Your heart was pounding, Rafe had you pinned against the wall like he always fucking did before— God, why did he have to be so damn close? He was overwhelming, and you hated it.
You hated him for still making you feel like this.
“Get off me,” you snapped, but it came out weaker than you intended.
His eyes were boring into yours, he could see through all your bullshit.
“C’mon, baby, don’t act like this wasn’t what you wanted. You show up, wearin’ my number, sitting there with some random guy like I don’t still own you.”
He caged you in completely. You pressed your hands against his chest, but it wasn’t like you were really pushing him away.
“You don’t own shit,” you spat, glaring up at him.
Even as the words left your mouth, you knew you didn’t believe them, part of you was always gonna his.
Rafe’s lips curved into a smug grin as if he was reading every thought running through your head.
“Really? ’Cause from where I’m standin’, you’ve been thinkin' about me all night."
His breath was hot on your skin, and you despised how much you wanted to close the distance between you.
Your jaw clenched, trying to muster the strength to tell him to fuck off, leave you alone for good, but he was right. As much as you tried to convince yourself otherwise, he was still in your head, under your skin.
His hand found your hip, fingers pressing into your skin through your jeans, and you felt your body betray you. You cursed yourself silently as heat pooled low in your panties. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, didn’t want him to know how much power he still had.
But damn it, he knew. He always fucking knew.
“I hate you,” you muttered. It was a weak defense, and you both knew it.
Rafe's lips brushed against your earlobe.
“Yeah?” His voice was a low rasp that made your knees weak. “Funny, you never sound like you hate me when you’re under me.”
Your breath hitched. “Don’t—”
He was already kissing you, like he owned you, you were his and his alone. You kissed him back, like the fucking idiot you were.
His hands were pawing at you, grabbing at your waist, tugging you closer until your bodies were fully pressed together. You wanted to shove him away, slap that stupid look off his face—but your body had other plans.
This was so wrong, on so many levels.
You broke the kiss, gasping for air, Rafe was staring you down.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you bit out, trying to cling to some sense of control.
His pretty grin widened knowingly. He leaned down, lips ghosting over yours. “We both know that's a lie.”
You clenched your fists, frustrated beyond belief, at him, at yourself, at how easy it was for him to pull you right back in.
“Fuck you,” you hissed, but the breathless tone in your voice told a different story.
Rafe’s eyes darkened, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly sexy way he always did. “Oh, you will.”
God help you—you knew he was right. That fucking arrogance. It crawled under your skin, set your blood on fire in ways it shouldn’t.
You needed to punch him, shove him, do something to wipe that smug expression off his face.
All you did instead was grab his jersey, pulling him back toward you, kissing him with all the fury you felt.
His lips crushed against yours, it wasn’t gentle—there was nothing sweet about this. It was all months of unresolved anger bursting out in one messy kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, and you bit down, hard, just to remind him you weren’t going to make this easy.
He groaned, pulling back, his gaze dark. "You always did like it rough."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking back down, kissing him like you needed to get all of this out of your system. His hands roamed your body, possessive, and you hated how much you craved him.
You weren’t his. You couldn’t be, but every heated breath you took, every desperate movement your body made, was telling you otherwise.
When his lips moved down your neck, teeth grazing your skin, you gasped, tilting your head as your resolve crumbled to pieces. He knew exactly what to do, how to make you fall apart.
His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you with ease, pressing you harder against the wall. Your breath hitched, the cold tile behind you making you gasp. Nothing else mattered.
Not Elijah, not the fact that this was so stupidly wrong, not the months of hurt and anger you’d been holding onto.
There was only Rafe. How touched you, the way he kissed you like he was trying to stake his claim all over again.
"Tell me you don’t want this," Rafe begged against your lips.
You bit down on your lip, you did want this. You couldn’t lie—not to him, or to yourself.
“I—” You choked on the words, eyes meeting his, hoping you’d find some kind of resolve to pull yourself back from him.
His grip only tightened, his mouth capturing yours again in a kiss so raw, it was borderline filthy, your last piece of control vanishing with it.
“Fuck,” you gasped, head spinning as his hands explored your body like he had every right to.
“Yeah, baby. That's what I thought."
His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave bruises, you let out a frustrated, muffled groan, your fingers still lost in his hair.
It was a lot longer than the last time you’d seen him.
It didn't help that you could feel every inch of his muscle through the thin fabric his jersey. It was suffocating in the best way.
“You’re such an ass,” you gasped between kisses, breath hitching when his mouth clamped down to your neck. You felt him grin against your skin, the bastard.
“You say that like it’s supposed to stop you.” His voice was low in your ear, sending shiver down your spine. “I don’t think it is.”
You were about to fire back, but his hands slid under your shirt, fingers teasing your skin, whatever you were going to say swallowed by the heat rushing through you. He still knew exactly how to get to you—how to pull you apart and leave you helpless against him.
“Rafe, this—”
Your words were cut off when he bit down gently on your collarbone, sending a shockwave through your body.
“This what?” he taunted, “This a mistake? Because I don’t think that’s what your body’s saying.”
You just glared up at him, trying to catch your breath.
“I told you,” you managed to say, though your voice was shaky, “this doesn’t mean anything.”
Rafe’s grip on you tightened, lips brushing yours as he whispered, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
There was no denying it—you were here, and you weren’t leaving.
Maybe not for a while.
And Rafe knew it.
His hands moved lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.
This was dangerous territory.
“Last chance,” he murmured, “You want me to stop?”
You should’ve said yes, shoved him away and walked out of there with what little dignity you had left. But instead, you kissed him again— angrier, needing to prove something to yourself.
He yanked your shirt over your head in one fast motion, and you weren’t gentle either, tugging at his jersey until it was off and tossed aside. His hands were on your back, in your hair, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, pulling them down with the same rushed urgency you’d been feeling since you laid eyes on him tonight.
“I hate you,” you whispered as your nails dragged down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake.
Rafe just laughed.
“No, you don’t,” he growled, his hands grabbing your hips as he settled you onto one of the locker room benches. “But keep telling yourself that.”
Your jeans hit the floor, and he wasted no time, his hands gripping your thighs as he positioned himself between them, pressing you down on the bench.
Everything was messy, neither of you could get enough. A silly attempt to erase the months of distance, of frustration.
“Still think this doesn’t mean anything?” Rafe rasped, his voice hoarse as he pressed his forehead against yours.
You could barely think, let alone speak, but somehow, you managed to gasp out, “Positive.”
His mouth moved down your neck, biting and sucking again, leaving marks you knew would still be there tomorrow.
“You’re such a fucking liar.”
It was wrong, it was toxic, but fuck—there was something about the way he touched you. You were furious with yourself, with him, with everything, but the anger only made you want him more.
His fingers brushed against the seam of your panties, hardly touching you, but doing enough to have you drenched.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, amused, slipping one finger under the fabric to run along your folds, dipping inside before pulling back out, "Was this all for Elijah?"
Sonofabitch.
“Stop talking,” you spat, but your voice was already shaky, showing him the way you were falling apart under his touch.
Rafe chuckled low in his throat, his finger moving back, this time slipping inside you, properly. You gasped, head falling back as he began moving his finger, curling it inside you in just the way you taught him to.
Your body responded immediately, jerking against him, desperate for more, but he took his time. He added another finger, stretching you out as his thumb rubbed circles over your clit. He sped up, fingers thrusting deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made your mind go blank.
“Been wanting this, haven’t you? All those nights pretending you don’t think about me, but look at you now.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, legs shaking as you felt your hips following the rythm of his hands, driving you closer and closer to the orgasm you so desperately needed. Damn him.
His thumb pressed harder against your clit, sending shocks of pleasure through you. “Tell me how bad you need this.”
“Rafe—” you gasped, hips bucking wildly against his hand. You hated him, hated yourself, but the words slipped out anyway. “I need it.”
He groaned, pleased, and that was all it took. He always delivered when you begged nicely.
Rafe thrust his fingers harder until your body gave in completely.
In your defense, you hadn’t had a proper orgasm in months, nothing could get you off properly.
Your walls clenched around his fingers as the sweet pleasure tore through you. You cried out, leaving half-moon marks in his skin as you moaned beneath him, lost in the sensation.
He slowed down enough to draw out every last bit of pleasure, his fingers still moving inside you as you rode out the aftershocks.
When you finally caught your breath, he pulled them out, his hand moving to cup your cheek, forcing you to look at him.
He shoved his pants down, not bothering to take them off completely, only enough to free himself. Your breath hitched when you felt him against you and every rational thought you had left disappeared in that moment.
Rafe lined himself up, pushing into you in one hard thrust. Your gasp turned into a breathless moan as your back arched, hands gripping his shoulders for something to hold on to. The familiar sensation of him stretching you out was overwhelming to say the least, but exactly what you needed.
Rafe didn’t give you time to adjust.
He pulled back and slammed into you again, setting a punishing rhythm that left you stupid in seconds, gasping for air. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing tender.
His fingers dugg into your skin as he fucked you, reminding you who you belonged to.
You loathed how good it felt.
“You’re mine,” Rafe growled as he thrusted into you, each movement brutal. “Doesn’t matter who you’re with, doesn’t matter how much you try to deny it—you’ll always come back to me.”
“Shut up,” you hissed, but you still wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He dropped his forehead to yours, “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this every night."
You couldn’t.
The words were right there, on the tip of your tongue, but a moan escaped your lips instead, as he hit that perfect spot inside you. Your body arched even further against his.
“Fuck,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built.
“That’s what I thought,” Rafe hummed, his pace quickening, the force of his thrusts making the bench creak beneath you.
The sound of the bench, his big toned body pressing into yours so perfectly, his breath against your neck—it all made it impossible to think straight. You should have been disgusted with yourself for letting it get this far, for letting him have this kind of control over you.
“I f-fucking hate y-you” you managed to gasp out.
Rafe chuckled, “Yeah? Then why do you sound like that, huh?” His voice was taunting, filled with the arrogance you hated, “This pussy still mine, huh?”
You loved the way he grabbed you like you were his, even though you’d sworn you were done with him. You were still in love, weren’t you? Even after all the shit, all the screaming matches, the nights spent crying because of him.
Before you knew, his hands were flipping you over so fast, your knees hit the bench.
“Rafe—mmh!” you whined, but your words died in your throat when he shoved you forward, pressing your chest flat against the cold wood, hs hands were gripping your ass, spreading you open for him.
He didn’t give you time to catch your breath, already dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, knowing how much you wanted it, even if you wouldn’t say it.
You squirmed, despite how desperate you felt, “Fuck, stop teasing—”
“Want more?” he cut you off, voice dripping with arrogance. He slapped your ass, hard enough to sting, and you yelped, your back arching instinctively. “Gonna have to beg for it.”
"Like hell," you spat back.
Just like that, his chest was fully pressing against your back, his mouth right by your ear.
“Act tough all you want sweet girl, I still know how much you want this,” he gritted out, fat cock sliding against your ruined pussy again, torturously slow. “Know how much you need it.”
That's when he slid back inside, filling you completely in one sweet stroke. You cried out, hands gripping the edges of the bench when he didn't bother giving you a moment to adjust, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in.
The angle had you seeing stars.
The bench was narrow, forcing your legs closer together, making everything tighter. You couldn’t stop the way your body responded to him, hips greedly moving back to meet his thrusts.
Rafe's rough hands gripped the fat of your ass, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” Rafe groaned, head dropped back as he thrust into you. "So fucking tight for me.”
He pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing in deliberate circles that had you on the edge again in seconds. A embarrassing whimper ripped from your throat, your hips bucking wildly against him as the pleasure built, you felt like you might break apart.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” He rasped. “I can feel it. Fuck.”
You tried to hold on, but it was useless when he knew exactly how to break you.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whimper as you felt your second orgasm rising fast.
“Do it,” Rafe growled, his fingers rubbing harder, “Come for me, baby.”
This time around your vision blurred, your body shaking as the pleasure tore through you. You cried out, walls clenching around him, milking him for all he had.
Rafe groaned llike a pornstar as he fucked you through it, relentless, until your entire body was in an entire different dimension.
But he wasn’t done.
He pulled out suddenly, and before you could catch your breath, he yanked you up, turning you around. You barely had time to register what was happening before he lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the cold locker. His cock was back inside you in seconds, filling you again, and you moaned, the new angle sending jolts of pleasure through your already overstimulated pussy.
He pounded into you, his grip on your ass bruising, and you clung to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he fucked you against the lockers. The sound of metal creaking under the force of his thrusts only made it hotter, more desperate. You could feel another orgasm building, and you hated him for it—hated how easily he could pull them from you.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin. “You’ll always be mine.”
And you hated that some twisted part of you wanted it to be true.
Your legs tightened around him, pulling him impossibly closer, deeper, as if you couldn’t get enough of him.
And God, you couldn’t.
His grip on your ass was rough, bruising, but it only made you moan louder. You were on the verge again—your body still tingling from the last orgasm, but the way he moved inside you, the way his teeth grazed your neck, it had you spiraling toward another one, faster than you thought possible.
“Look at you,” Rafe groaned, lifting his head just enough to lock eyes with you. His pupils were blown wide with lust, a wild look on his face that sent a thrill down your spine. “Fuck, you love this, don’t you?”
You did. Because no matter how much you hated him, how much you wanted to hate him—there was a part of you that still belonged to him. A part of you that couldn’t walk away.
His lips were everywhere—on your neck, your collarbone, your jaw—and you couldn’t stop the sounds escaping your throat as he kept driving into you.
“Say it,” he growled, “Say you’re mine.”
You bit down on your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to fight back, but every nerve in your body was betraying you. The way his body fit against yours, the way he moved inside you, it was all too much. You were coming again, and you hated it.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. “Say it.”
You wanted to spit in his face. But your body was telling a different story, hips bucking against him, legs tightening around his waist again.
“R-Rafe,” you whimpered, hating how weak you sounded, how desperate.
His smirk was infuriating, but fuck, it was hot.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his pace quickening, each thrust deeper than the last. “You’re mine. Always have been.”
And then he slammed into you one last time, hitting that perfect spot inside you, and the orgasm tore through you, leaving you gasping and trembling in his arms. You cried out, head thrown back against the lockers as your body shook with the force of it, your nails raking down his back.
Rafe groaned, his grip on you tightening as he rode out your orgasm, his movements growing sloppier, more erratic. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“Fuck, baby,” he moaned, his hips jerking against yours as he finally let go, his release hitting hard. You felt the warmth of him spill inside you, as he held you against him, buried deep.
The second his breathing slowed and his grip on you loosened, reality came crashing back in.
What the fuck had you done?
You pushed at his chest, trying to put some space between you, but he wasn’t letting go that easily. His arms stayed wrapped around you, his body pressed against yours like he still had something to prove.
“Get off,” you muttered, your voice weak, but sharper than before.
He chuckled, that low, arrogant sound that drove you crazy. “That’s not what you were saying five minutes ago.”
You shot him a glare, shoving at his chest again, harder this time. “I’m serious, Rafe. Move.”
Reluctantly, he let go, stepping back just enough for you to slide off the locker and onto shaky legs. You stumbled a bit, and Rafe’s hand shot out to steady you, but you jerked away from him, pulling your jeans back up with shaky hands.
He leaned against the locker, smirking like he hadn’t just torn your world apart all over again. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
You wanted to scream at him, to throw something at his face. But instead, you grabbed your shirt off the floor, yanking it over your head as you tried to steady your breath.
“Good luck finding your date.”
Elijah. You’d come to the game with Elijah.
You shook your head as you zipped up your jeans and ran your fingers through your hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. You avoided looking at him, knowing that if you did, you’d see the smug satisfaction on his face that would only make you feel worse.
He pushed himself off the locker and took a step closer to you. You flinched, stepping back instinctively. “This can’t happen again.”
His smirk slipped for a moment as he looked at you. H e closed the distance between you in two strides, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist, pulling you toward him before you could react, “You’re choosing him?”
You yanked your wrist out of his grip, your heart racing as you forced yourself to take a step back, putting distance between the two of you, “You’re the one who chose yourself.”
His eyes darkened, searching your face, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. Maybe he thought he still had you wrapped around his finger.
“You’re the one who walked away,” you added, hating how your voice trembled, “So don’t act like I owe you anything.”
Rafe’s hand hovered like he was about to reach for you again, but he didn’t. “That’s not how I remember it.”
Your stomach twisted, “I’m not doing this anymore. I can’t—” You glanced at the door, feeling the weight of Elijah waiting for you. The one person who was good for you, who actually wanted to be with you.
But the worst part? You were still thinking about Rafe. Even after everything, you were still here, breathless, a mess because of him.
He took a step closer, his eyes locked on yours, and for a second, you thought he might apologize. Maybe say something real. But Rafe Cameron didn’t do apologies.
He raised an eyebrow, “Really?” His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair out of your face in a gesture that was far too intimate, given everything that had just happened. “Then why are you still standing here?”
You flinched, stepping back. Why were you still standing there? You had no good answer, at least not one you were ready to admit.
“Go back to your date,” Rafe continued, his voice mocking now, “Pretend like he’s enough for you.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the tears at bay. You couldn’t give him that satisfaction, not again. “You’re wrong.”
Rafe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t think I am.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, throat tight, trying to push back the tears. This was all wrong. It was always wrong with Rafe, “Stop.”
It sounded like a plea—a plea for him to stop talking, stop looking at you like that, stop making you feel so small and yet so overwhelmed all at once.
Rafe sighed, stepping back just a fraction, and for a second, his gaze lifted. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, his voice softer now, like that made a difference.
“You always do,” you shot back, finally meeting his eyes. The truth slipped out before you could stop it, and there it was.
His jaw clenched, "I don’t mean to," he muttered, his voice low. "You know that."
"Does it even matter?" You felt the bitterness rise in your throat, along with something else—something fragile and painful. "You still do it. Whether you mean to or not."
Rafe stayed quiet, and you hated that silence. He didn’t have an answer. He never did, not for this. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of your jacket, something to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t say something you’d regret. But regret was already everywhere, suffocating you both.
“I thought we were past this,” you said finally, barely more than a whisper. “I thought I was past this.” But clearly, you weren’t. Clearly, some part of you was still here, with him, in the wreckage you’d both created.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated, torn. “It’s not that simple.”
"It should be." Your voice cracked. You hated how much this hurt. How much he could still hurt you.
It wasn’t fair. You weren’t supposed to still care this much. You weren’t supposed to still feel this.
Rafe sighed, taking another step back, giving you space. But it wasn’t the kind of space you wanted. It wasn’t the kind that would make things easier. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he admitted quietly, his eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t find.
You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. "I don’t want anything from you."
That was the truth, or at least it was supposed to be. You didn’t want anything he had to offer, not anymore. Not when every time you reached for it, it slipped through your fingers like water, leaving you emptier than before.
But there was still that ache, that feeling between you two, the one that dragged you back here even when you knew better. You wished you could kill it, cut it out of you like some infected part, but it was tangled too deep. And maybe a small part of you didn’t want to.
“You keep saying that,” he murmured, his voice almost tender, like he was seeing right through you. “But you’re still here.”
“I don’t know why,” you whispered, blinking back tears. Fuck, you hated this. Hated how vulnerable you felt, how easily he could unravel you, even now. “I shouldn’t be.”
He didn’t say anything, just stood there, watching you, like he was waiting for you to make the next move. Like he wanted you to figure it out on your own.
But you didn’t know how. You never did when it came to him.
"I’m sorry," he said, and this time, it felt real. There was no arrogance. Just Rafe, standing there, as broken as you felt. "I don’t know how to fix this."
You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “There’s nothing left to fix, Rafe. We’ve already destroyed it.”
His face twisted, like he didn’t want to believe it. Like he was still holding onto some small piece of hope. "We could—"
"No," you cut him off, shaking your head. "We can’t."
You couldn’t keep doing this. The push and pull, the endless cycle of hurt and apologies that never really fixed anything. You couldn’t keep pretending that something would change, that he would change.
Because you both knew he wouldn’t.
He took a breath, exhaling slowly, and you could see it—the realization sinking in.
He knew it too. "I never wanted to lose you," he admitted quietly.
You swallowed hard, your chest tight. "You already did."
It starts in the quiet hours of the morning—too early for anything good. You sit in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to fix what can’t be hidden, pressing trembling fingers against bruised skin and telling yourself it wasn’t that bad. That maybe you overreacted. That maybe you should apologize.
You don’t.
Instead, you call him.
You hadn’t meant to. Not after everything—after the breakup, after he told you the truth about who he was, after deciding it was better this way. He’s moved on. So have you.
But when he sees you—really sees you—something shifts.
And when he asks what happened, you hesitate.
Because you know exactly what he’s capable of.
✦ Content / Notes ›
Platonic dynamics. Exes → strained friendship. Civilian reader. Canon-divergent scenario. Heavy platonic yandere Mark Grayson. Protective obsession. Loss of autonomy. Emotional suppression → explosive anger. Implied violence. Injury detail (bruises, black eye). Comfort juxtaposed with unease. Possessive protectiveness without romantic intent. Ambiguous but heavily implied character death. Post-breakup dynamic. Early morning setting.
---
The bathroom light is too bright.
It hums faintly overhead, flickering just enough to make your reflection feel…off. You don’t look like yourself. Not really.
Your fingers hover near your cheek before pressing—lightly at first, then with more pressure, like you’re trying to test if it still hurts.
It does.
You suck in a breath through your teeth, pulling your hand back quickly, like you’ve been burned. The skin there is already darkening, blooming into something you won’t be able to hide in a few hours. Your lip is split—just enough to sting every time you press it together.
“It wasn’t that bad,” you murmur to yourself, voice rough and quiet in the empty apartment.
The words sound wrong out loud.
You reach for your phone on the counter, hesitating as your thumb hovers over the screen. There’s a moment—just one—where you consider something else entirely.
Calling your boyfriend.
Apologizing.
Maybe if you just explained—maybe if you hadn’t pushed so much, if you’d just listened—
Your stomach twists.
You set the phone down. Pick it back up. Set it down again.
This is your fault.
…Isn’t it?
A shaky breath leaves you as you press your palms against the counter, staring at your reflection like it might give you an answer.
It doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
Then—
You grab your phone and scroll.
Past contacts you don’t trust. Past names that don’t feel safe. Past numbers that wouldn’t pick up this early anyway.
Your finger stops.
You stare at it for a long second.
“…He won’t answer,” you whisper, like saying it might make it easier.
You hit call anyway.
It rings once.
Twice.
Three times—
“Hello?”
His voice is groggy. Sleep-heavy. Confused.
“…Hey,” you manage, and your throat tightens immediately.
There’s a pause on the other end. You hear the shift—fabric, movement, something like a bed creaking.
“Hey—? What’s wrong?”
You don’t answer right away.
You can’t.
“Hey,” he says again, sharper this time, more awake. “Are you okay?”
“I—” Your voice cracks. You swallow hard. “Can you come over?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“…Right now?”
You nod instinctively before remembering he can’t see you. “Yeah. I just—I need—”
“I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead.
—
You barely have time to move from the bathroom before there’s a knock—too fast, too soon.
Your heart jumps.
You open the door.
And there he is.
Mark Grayson stands there in a t-shirt and sweats, hair a mess like he didn’t bother fixing it, chest rising a little too quickly for someone who supposedly just woke up.
His eyes land on you.
And stop.
The shift is immediate.
It’s subtle at first—just a tightening in his expression, his brows pulling together slightly.
Then his gaze sharpens.
Tracks.
Your cheek. Your lip. The way you’re holding yourself.
“…What happened?”
You look away.
“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—”
“That’s not nothing.”
His voice is firmer now. Not loud—but there’s weight behind it.
You shrug, trying to make it look smaller than it is. “It was just an argument, it got a little—out of hand. It’s fine now.”
“Out of hand.”
He repeats it like he’s testing the words. Like they don’t sit right in his mouth.
You force a small laugh. “Yeah. It’s—it’s really not a big deal, I just—”
“Who did this?”
Your stomach drops.
“Mark, it’s—”
“Who.”
The word is sharper now. Edged.
You hesitate.
Because you know him.
You know what he can do.
“Hey,” you say softly, stepping a little closer, like that might ground him. “It’s okay. Really. I probably just—said something I shouldn’t have and—”
His jaw tightens.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It kind of does,” you try, a little more urgently now. “I mean, I shouldn’t have—”
“That doesn’t matter,” he repeats, more firmly this time.
Silence stretches between you.
You can feel it—the tension building under his skin, the way he’s holding himself back.
“…It wasn’t the first time,” you admit quietly.
You don’t know why you say it.
Maybe because the look on his face makes it hard not to.
Maybe because part of you wants someone to know.
His expression stills completely.
“…What?”
You swallow. “I just—didn’t think it was that serious, you know? And I thought if I just—handled it better, it wouldn’t—”
“Stop.”
The word cuts through your sentence.
You freeze.
His hands curl slightly at his sides, fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep them still.
“Where does he live?”
Your heart stutters. “Mark—”
“Where does he live?”
There’s something in his voice now that wasn’t there before.
Something…final.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say quickly. “It’s fine, really, I just needed someone to talk to, I didn’t mean for you to—”
“You should’ve told me sooner.”
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Your breath catches.
“Mark—”
“Address.”
You hesitate.
And that’s all it takes.
“…Please,” you add, softer this time. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
Then his gaze flicks just briefly to your bruised cheek.
“…I’ll handle it.”
Before you can say anything else, he’s gone.
The window rattles slightly in his wake.
—
He finds him faster than expected.
Of course he does.
People like that aren’t careful.
They don’t think they have to be.
Mark Grayson doesn’t bother knocking.
He doesn’t make a scene, either.
Just waits.
Watches.
And when the guy steps outside—alone, distracted, phone in hand—
Mark moves.
It’s quick.
Disorienting.
One second he’s there, the next he’s not—pulled into an alley a few blocks away before he can even process what’s happening.
“What the—what the hell—?!”
The guy stumbles, panic setting in immediately as he tries to regain his footing.
Mark doesn’t let him.
Pins him back—firm, unyielding.
“Hey—hey, wait, man, I don’t know what you—”
“You do.”
His voice is calm.
Too calm.
The guy’s breathing turns uneven. “Look, if this is about—about earlier, I—I didn’t mean—”
“You hit them.”
It’s not a question.
“I—I didn’t—it wasn’t like that—”
“You hit them.”
“I said I was sorry!” he blurts, panic rising, hands shaking. “I called them, I told them I—look, I love them, okay? I didn’t mean to, it just—it got out of hand, I swear it won’t happen again—”
Mark watches him.
Listens.
Waits.
“…It already happened more than once.”
The guy falters.
That’s all the answer he needs.
“Please,” he tries again, more desperate now. “Please, man, I’ll fix it, I’ll do whatever, just—just let me go, okay? I won’t go near them again, I swear, I’ll—”
Mark tilts his head slightly.
Studies him.
Measures.
Then—
“…No.”
The word is quiet.
Certain.
The guy’s face drains of color.
Mark steps forward.
—
When you hear the window again, you flinch.
You hadn’t even realized how long it had been.
You turn.
And he’s there.
For a split second, relief hits you.
Then—
You see him.
There’s something…off.
Not obvious, not at first glance but there’s a stiffness to the way he stands, a faint darkening along the fabric of his clothes that wasn’t there before.
And in his hands
A plastic bag.
Another one.
“…Mark?”
Your voice comes out smaller than you intend.
His expression softens immediately when he looks at you.
“Hey.”
Like nothing’s wrong.
Like he didn’t just disappear for who knows how long.
“What—” You swallow. “What happened?”
There’s a pause.
Just a second.
Then—
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Your stomach drops.
“…What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he sets the bags down carefully on the counter.
“I grabbed some stuff,” he says instead. “Ice packs. Bandages. Uh—” He pulls out a pack of mini sodas and snacks, setting it beside them. “And…these.”
A small, slightly crumpled stuffed animal follows.
You stare at it.
Then back at him.
“…Mark.”
“I’m gonna clean up first, okay?”
He says it gently. Like he’s asking.
But he’s already moving toward the bathroom.
You don’t stop him.
—
By the time he comes back he looks…normal again.
Cleaner.
Like whatever you saw before wasn’t real.
He kneels in front of you, opening the first aid kit with careful hands.
“Sit still,” he murmurs.
You do.
Of course you do.
His touch is careful. Gentle in a way that doesn’t match the tension still lingering in the room.
He presses a cold pack lightly against your cheek, watching your reaction.
“…Tell me if it hurts.”
“It already does,” you try to joke wekly.
He doesn’t smile.
“That’s not funny.”
You fall quiet.
“…He said he was sorry,” you admit after a moment, staring at your hands. “He said he didnt mean it.”
Mark’s hands pause for just a second.
Then continue.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
“…Did you talk to him”
A beat.
“…Something like that.”
You swallow.
“…Mark what did you do?”
He finally looks up at you.
There’s something in his eyes you don’t recognize.
Not angr.
Not really.
Something steadier.
“Hes not going to hurt you again.”
It’s not reassurance.
It’s a statement.
Your chest tightens.
“…Okay,” you say slowly.
Because you don’t know what else to say.
He softens a little at that.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, standing and holding out a hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You hesitate.
Then take it.
—
The movie plays quietly in the background, something you’re not really paying attention to.
You’re curled up under the blankets, the stuffed animal tucked awkwardly against your side.
Mark sits beside you close, but not suffocating.
Present.
His arm rests lightly around your shoulders, careful of the bruises, fingers absently tracing slow, grounding patterns against your arm.
“You should get some sleep” he says after a while.
You shake your head slightly. “Don’t think I can.”
“…That’s okay.”
Silence settles again.
Its quieter now.
Safer.
And somehow
Not.
“…Mark?”
“Yeah?”
You hesitate.
“…Thank you. For coming.”
His hand stills for a moment.
Then resumes.
“…You don’t have to thank me.”
Another pause.
“You should’ve called me sooner.”
His voice is softer this time.
Almost gentle.
You nod, even though you’re not sure if you agree.
Your eyes drift shut eventually exhaustion pulling you under.
And Mark stays.
Watching.
Listening.
Making sure you breathe evenly.
Making sure youre still there.
Long after the movie ends.
Long after the sun starts to rise.
And somewhere in the back of your min
You can’t shake the feeling that nothing about this is over.
That it’s only just begun.
--
( this is based off what actually happened in a few of the comic panels of invincible with some slight changes and it's inspired off of when Amber and Mark broke up and amber called him so she could help her deal with her abusive boyfriend who was hitting her. so in this universe, reader would be taking the place of amber)
Can I request piwon as your ex headcannons? who would be the type to yearn for you to come back to them, who’s the type to just let it go, and ect? I love your writing btw<33
pairing: P1Harmony x reader
warnings: Alexa play "Happier" from Ed Sheeran....that's it
Keeho looked the same. Same easy posture, same grin that arrived before he did, like it was sent ahead as a warning. Three months. No texts. No accidental likes. No late night slip ups. You had built your life carefully around the shape he left behind, and suddenly he was right there, leaning against a railing like nothing had ever cracked between you.
“Wow,” he said, eyes flicking over you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Small world, huh? Universe has no boundaries. Very rude of it.”
You laughed because everyone else laughed. It came out thinner than you meant it to. Your hands stayed busy, phone in your grip, bag strap adjusted twice for no reason.
Keeho noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
He filled the space anyway. Jokes stacked on jokes, commentary on the weather, on the friends who dragged you both here, on how awkward reunions were in theory but not this one, see, totally normal, very chill. He flashed that familiar grin like a shield, like if he kept talking nothing sharp could get through.
You nodded. You smiled when you remembered to. Your body leaned away even when your eyes didn’t. Every time he laughed, your chest tightened just a little, like muscle memory didn’t get the memo that things were over.
When someone pulled you into another conversation, you felt relief and guilt at the same time. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You could feel him watching anyway.
Keeho stayed cool until you left.
He stayed cool all the way home. Told himself it went fine. That you were fine. That he was fine. He replayed his own jokes and winced at half of them, congratulated himself on the other half. He told himself the tight feeling in his chest was just leftover adrenaline.
Then evening came. Quiet. Phone face down on his desk.
It buzzed.
Your name lit up his screen like it had been waiting.
It was nice seeing you again today.
Keeho picked up his phone immediately. Too immediately. Fingers already moving before his brain caught up.
Yeah, it was nice. Hope you got home safe.
Sent.
The message whooshed away, and the room felt very still.
“Idiot,” he muttered, staring at the screen like it might apologize to him. He dropped the phone onto the desk and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
Three months. He had survived three months. He had trained himself not to reach for you when something funny happened, not to open your chat when he felt tired or proud or lonely. He had convinced himself that distance was proof of growth.
And then one text, and his heart reacted like nothing had changed.
He grabbed the phone again. Read your message. Read his reply. Wondered if it sounded too eager. Wondered if you noticed how fast he answered. Wondered if you were overthinking it too, thumbs hovering, heart doing something stupid.
He hated that he cared. He hated that seeing you uncomfortable earlier had hurt more than he expected. Hated that all the jokes in the world hadn’t erased the fact that he missed you in a quiet, aching way.
Another buzz.
Nothing. Just his imagination.
Keeho sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, smile gone now.
He missed you. That was the truth. No punchline, no clever framing. Just a feeling that sat heavy and familiar in his chest, like it had been waiting patiently for him to slip.
And he wondered, not for the first time, if you had felt it too.
☁︎Theo☁︎
Theo sat on the edge of his bed with his back against the wall, phone heavy in his hands like it had gained weight just to spite him. His room was quiet in the way that made thoughts louder. No music. No distractions. Just the soft hum of the air and the glow of his screen.
He scrolled slowly.
The gallery opened like a door he should not have unlocked. At first, it was easy. Screenshots. Random photos. Blurry shots of food and notes and nothing important. Then your face appeared. Then both of you.
He paused only for a second before pressing delete.
One photo disappeared. Then another. You at a café, smiling at something he said but could no longer remember. Deleted. You half asleep in his hoodie, hair a mess, eyes soft. Deleted. The two of you reflected in a mirror, shoulders touching like it was the most natural thing in the world. Deleted.
His thumb moved steadily, mechanically, like if he kept the rhythm his chest would not cave in. Each photo vanished with a small confirmation that felt far too final.
He told himself it was necessary. That holding onto these things only slowed healing. That moving on required proof, some visible act of letting go. He swallowed hard and kept going.
Memories slipped in anyway.
You laughing quietly so you would not wake anyone up. You reaching for his hand without looking. You listening when he talked, really listening, like his words mattered more than the noise around you.
Theo exhaled through his nose and scrolled faster.
His finger hovered over your name in his contacts by accident. He backed out immediately, heart jumping like it had been caught doing something wrong. For a moment, he imagined pressing call. Imagined hearing your voice say his name again. Imagined pretending it was casual, that he just wanted to check in.
His thumb trembled.
He locked his phone and set it face down on the bed, staring at the wall until the urge passed. When he picked it up again, he did not open his contacts. He went back to the gallery. Back to deleting.
Photo after photo vanished. The album thinned. The past became lighter, emptier, quieter.
Then he reached a selfie.
It was taken on a day he remembered clearly. You both leaned into the frame, faces close, eyes slightly squinted from smiling too hard. You looked happy in that effortless way that never felt posed. He looked softer than he ever allowed himself to look anywhere else.
Theo stared at it.
His thumb hovered over delete and stayed there. Seconds passed. A minute. He zoomed in without meaning to. Saw the way your cheek pressed against his shoulder. The way his eyes were fixed on you instead of the camera.
His chest tightened.
He imagined the photo gone. Imagined never seeing this version of you again. Not the real you, just this frozen moment where everything had still been okay.
His thumb lowered, then stopped.
Theo sighed quietly and let the phone rest against his palm. He did not make excuses. He did not justify it as sentimental or harmless. He simply acknowledged the truth.
He liked this picture. He liked who he was in it. He liked who you were together.
He backed out without deleting it.
The rest of the photos stayed gone. The album felt sparse now, like a room after moving boxes out. But that one image remained, tucked away among the emptiness.
Theo locked his phone and placed it carefully on the nightstand. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, chest rising slowly.
He did not text you. He did not call.
He just let himself keep one quiet thing.
☁︎Jiung☁︎
Jiung filled his days until there was barely room to breathe. Morning workouts that left his muscles burning and his mind blank. Long hours in the studio, headphones on, pen moving fast across paper like if he stopped writing the thoughts would catch him. Late nights with friends where he smiled too wide and laughed too loud and said all the right things.
“I’m good,” he told everyone. “Really. It was necessary. Made me stronger.”
He said it so often it started to sound like a slogan. He lifted heavier. He wrote brighter melodies. He talked about growth and lessons and timing like he had read the manual on how to be okay.
People nodded. Some smiled. Some exchanged looks when he turned away.
Jiung ignored that part.
He chose optimism like armor. Every ache was progress. Every quiet moment was a chance to improve. He told himself he was better now, lighter, freer. If his chest tightened sometimes when he was alone, he brushed it off as leftover emotion. Normal. Temporary.
That was what he told himself as he pushed open the door to a café one afternoon, earbuds in, playlist upbeat. He ordered quickly, thanked the barista with a grin, picked up his coffee to go.
He turned around.
And walked straight into you.
The impact was small, barely more than a bump, but it stopped time anyway. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His coffee sloshed dangerously. You both froze, eyes lifting at the same moment.
For half a second, the world went quiet.
Then you smiled.
It was soft. Careful. The kind of smile that asked permission before existing.
“Oh,” you said. “Hey.”
Jiung’s heart stuttered, then raced to catch up. He pulled his earbuds out, hands suddenly unsure of where to rest.
“Hey,” he replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. He smiled back automatically, muscle memory kicking in like a reflex.
You both stepped back at the same time. Awkward. Polite.
“How have you been?” you asked.
“Good,” he said immediately. “Yeah. Busy. You?”
“Same,” you replied. “Busy.”
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just fragile. Like one wrong word could crack it open.
He commented on the weather. You nodded. You mentioned the café being crowded lately. He agreed. Everything stayed safely shallow, skimming the surface of what you used to know about each other.
You looked well. That realization landed quietly and hurt more than he expected.
“Well,” you said after a moment, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “It was nice seeing you.”
“Yeah,” Jiung said. “Nice seeing you too.”
Another smile. Another pause. Then you stepped aside to let someone pass, and the moment broke.
He waved once, short and polite, and pushed the door open. Cold air hit his face as he stepped outside. The bell chimed behind him, and just like that, you were no longer in the same space.
Jiung walked a few steps down the sidewalk before stopping.
His hand tightened around the coffee cup. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out without warning. All the noise he had filled himself with went quiet at once.
He inhaled, slow and shaky.
He was not okay.
The optimism slipped, cracked at the edges. No amount of workouts or songs or smiles had prepared him for the way your voice still settled into him, familiar and dangerous. For the way one brief smile had undone weeks of pretending.
Jiung stared down the street, jaw tight, eyes stinging.
Stronger, he told himself again.
But this time, the word did not stick.
☁︎Intak☁︎
Anytime someone brought you up, Intak smiled like it was instinct, like his face had memorized you even if his heart pretended it had moved on. He leaned back, arms crossed, acting relaxed, acting easy.
“Oh, her?” he said once, grinning. “She’s amazing. Always has been.”
Someone joked that you were probably annoying sometimes. Intak’s smile sharpened instantly.
“Not really,” he replied, voice light but firm. “You just didn’t get her humor.”
The room went a little quiet. He did not notice, or pretended not to. To him, defending you felt natural, like breathing. He talked about you like you were still a safe topic, like your name did not pull something tight in his chest every time it left his mouth.
He told himself it was normal. You had ended things on decent terms. You were a good person. Of course he would speak well of you. That did not mean anything.
That was what he told himself.
Later, they all sat sprawled around the practice room, bodies tired, conversation loose. Keeho leaned against the wall, phone in hand, thumb scrolling lazily. Intak watched him from across the room, half listening to someone else talk.
Then Keeho’s face changed.
It was subtle. A pause. A tightening around his eyes. His thumb stopped moving.
Intak noticed immediately.
“What?” he asked, sitting up. “What did you see?”
Keeho locked his phone a little too fast. “Nothing.”
Intak stood and crossed the room in two steps. “Show me.”
Keeho sighed. “Bro.”
“Show me,” Intak repeated, smiling, but his stomach had already dropped. He knew. He did not know how, but he knew it was you.
Keeho hesitated, then unlocked his phone and held it out.
Your Instagram story filled the screen.
You stood somewhere bright, laughing, head turned toward someone beside you. A guy. Tall. Close. Too close for Intak’s liking. His arm was not around you, but it did not need to be. The way you leaned toward him felt intimate anyway.
Intak’s smile disappeared.
His jaw tightened as he stared at the screen, eyes tracing details he hated himself for noticing. The guy’s hand near yours. The ease in your posture. The fact that you looked happy.
“Who’s that?” Intak asked quietly.
Keeho shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably just a friend.”
Intak scoffed. “Doesn’t look like just a friend.”
“It’s one picture,” Keeho said gently. “You’re reading into it.”
Intak handed the phone back, fingers stiff. His chest felt hot, restless, like he needed to move or say something or do anything except stand there.
You were allowed to move on. He knew that. He had told himself that so many times it should have stuck. Still, the idea of someone else standing that close to you felt wrong in a way he could not explain.
“Could be a coworker,” Keeho added. “Or a friend of a friend. You don’t know.”
Intak laughed, short and humorless. “Yeah. Sure.”
He turned away, pacing a few steps, hands running through his hair. Jealousy buzzed under his skin, sharp and embarrassing. He hated that Keeho had seen it first. Hated that you had not thought twice before posting it. Hated that he cared this much.
“You’re overthinking,” Keeho said.
Intak stopped and looked back at him. “No,” he said, quieter now. “I just know her.”
And that was the worst part.
Because knowing you like that meant he knew exactly how easily someone could fall for you.
☁︎Soul☁︎
Five months had passed since she was the one who ended it, five months since Soul had learned how quiet heartbreak could be. He carried it silently, tucked between schedules and rehearsals, letting time do what it could. Tonight was supposed to be loud enough to drown everything else out.
The club pulsed with light and sound, bass crawling up the floor and into his bones. Soul danced with the others, movements loose, sharp, a little reckless. Someone handed him a drink. Then another. Laughter blurred at the edges, neon streaking across the room like color spilled too fast.
He was almost okay.
Then Jongseob grabbed his wrist.
Soul leaned in so he could hear him. Jongseob did not say anything. He just tilted his head toward the bar.
You stood there.
The room narrowed instantly. Sound dulled. Light softened. You wore confidence like it had grown into your skin since the last time he saw you. Hair different. Smile the same. Soul’s chest tightened, attraction rushing back without asking permission.
“Oh,” someone said behind him. “No. Absolutely not.”
“She’s here?” Keeho added, already shaking his head.
Soul barely heard them.
“I’m going to say hi,” he said, voice calm, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Hands grabbed his arm. Someone protested. Jongseob muttered something about bad ideas and worse timing.
Soul stepped forward anyway.
He wove through the crowd, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the music. When he reached the bar, he stopped just behind you, close enough to feel your presence, not close enough to touch.
“Hey,” he said, grin sliding easily into place.
You sighed, like you had expected him, like you had known this moment would come. Then you turned, and your face softened into a smile.
“Hey,” you replied.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The air between you hummed, familiar and dangerous.
“You look good,” Soul said, eyes flicking over you before he could stop himself.
You nodded, accepting it without flinching. “Thanks. You do too.”
He smiled wider without meaning to, something warm and unmistakable slipping through. You noticed immediately.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said, but there was no heat in it. Just a warning wrapped in humor.
Soul chuckled, lifting his hands slightly. “Like what? I’m just standing here.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced.
He leaned against the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
You raised your glass slightly. “I’m good. I’m paying for my own drinks tonight.”
He stayed. He did not crowd you. He did not push. He just looked at you, eyes soft, expression open, like five months had not taught him how to hide it better.
You felt it. He knew you did.
A faint blush crept into your cheeks. You lifted your drink in a small salute. “It was nice seeing you.”
Soul nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was.”
You turned to leave, weaving back into the crowd. Soul stayed where he was, eyes following you longer than he should have, chest aching in a way that felt almost hopeful.
Then you stopped.
You turned around once more, catching his gaze. You smiled at him, quick and bright, like a secret.
Soul smiled back before he could think.
As you disappeared into the crowd again, he exhaled, hand tightening around his glass.
This was not over.
He felt it settle in his chest, certain and steady, like a door left deliberately unlocked.
☁︎Jongseob☁︎
Jongseob did not announce his heartbreak the way others might have. He folded it inward, tucked it between beats and lyrics and schedules. He stayed busy on paper. Always working. Always thinking. From the outside, it looked like focus. Discipline. Maturity.
Inside, it was loud.
His thoughts kept drifting back to you no matter how hard he tried to anchor them elsewhere. A melody would spark, and suddenly he remembered the way you used to hum without realizing it. A lyric would land too close, and he would stop writing altogether, staring at the page like it had betrayed him.
He replayed everything.
The moments he spoke too fast. The times he chose logic when you needed comfort. The silences he assumed were fine because you did not complain. He broke things down like a problem to be solved, like if he examined it carefully enough, he could arrive at a different ending.
He told himself it was for growth. For learning.
But sometimes it just hurt.
One afternoon, the city moved slowly around him. Traffic noise, footsteps, conversations blending into a steady hum. Jongseob walked without much direction, headphones in but no music playing, lost in thought.
Then he saw you.
You stood across the street, sunlight catching in your hair, posture relaxed in a way that made his chest tighten immediately. You looked real. Unfiltered. Not a memory softened by time, not a version shaped by regret. Just you, standing there, alive in the same world as him.
Jongseob stopped walking.
He watched you like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he blinked. The way you shifted your weight. The small expression on your face as you checked your phone. Everything about you felt achingly familiar and painfully distant all at once.
He felt the yearning settle heavy in his chest, deep and slow. Not desperate. Just honest.
You did not notice him.
Part of him was grateful for that. Part of him ached anyway.
He imagined walking over. Saying your name. Apologizing better this time. Saying everything he had practiced in his head late at night when sleep refused to come. He imagined you listening, imagined the outcome in a dozen different ways.
None of them felt safe.
You moved slightly, adjusting your bag, turning your head as if you sensed something. Jongseob’s heart jumped into his throat.
When you turned around, his body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He stepped back. Then another step. He turned sharply, blending into the flow of people like he had never stopped moving. He did not look back. He did not give himself the chance to see if you had noticed after all.
He walked faster than necessary, breath shallow, chest tight.
Jongseob told himself it was better this way. That some feelings were meant to be carried quietly. That wanting did not always mean reaching.
Still, as he disappeared down the street, your image stayed with him.
“Evan?” Tommy was staring, mouth hanging open. Buck shrunk back into the couch. Sal looked between them, understanding dawning on his face.
“Well, this is awkward,” He muttered, moving off of Buck to fix his belt. “What the fuck are you even doing here?”
“The Lakers’ game,” Tommy said, eyes shifting to glare at Sal. “We made plans to watch it here.”
“Fuck, I forgot about that.” Tommy laughed, bitterly.
“Obviously.” Buck felt anger flare up in his stomach.
“Oh, you so do not get to be pissed off right now,” He said, getting off the couch. “You dumped me.”
“I didn't think you'd fuck my best friend about it.”
The words hit Buck like a smack in the face. No, Tommy had expected Buck to fuck his best friend about it.
Sal tried to step in.
“Tom–”
“How was I supposed to know?” Buck interrupted, stepping forward. “It's not like you ever introduced me.”
They stared at each other, anger nearly palpable between them. Tommy shook his head.
“This is unbelievable.”
Buck isn't really sure what made him say it. He never could control his mouth when he got angry, and he was still incredibly turned on from the make out session Tommy had rudely interrupted. Maybe all that therapy wasn't helping as much as he thought.
“I'm gonna let him fuck my brains out, so you need to leave unless you plan to stay and watch.”
Several expressions flashed over Tommy's face. Surprise, desire, anger, all culminating into a glare of challenge. Tommy moved closer, until he and Buck were nearly chest to chest.
“You think he can fuck you better than I can?” He asked, voice dangerous. Buck shivered, feeling Sal press up behind him, hands gripping his waist, lips against his neck.
“Oh, he knows I can.” Tommy glared at him again over Buck's shoulder. He reached out, knocking one of Sal's hands away to grab Buck's hip.
“Prove it.”
They manhandled Buck down the hall, both of them brushing their hands over his body, fighting for ownership. Tommy knew all the right places to press and prod, but Sal's touch was new and exciting. Buck felt like a pinball, pinging back and forth between them. Sal gained the upper hand in the bedroom, pushing him onto the mattress and crowding between his legs, big hands holding his thighs open.
“Can't believe you're the ‘Evan’ he was going on about for months. He made you sound so young and sweet.” He leaned over Buck, nipping at his ear lobe. Buck watched over his shoulder as Tommy tossed his button down aside and yanked his henley over his head, his gaze still hard and angry as he watched them together. “Should we tell him all the dirty things you said to me on the phone? Show him the messages where you listed out everything you wanted me to do to you in detail?”
“You're not–” Buck moaned as Sal's hand slid up to palm the bulge of his jeans before flicking the button open. “You're not playing fair.”
“I never said I would.” Sal kissed him again, tugging his pants and underwear off in one fluid motion.
