#Being alive is so tiring sometimes all the time

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - NINE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of leukemia; death; pregnancy; abortion.

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe had been through a ton of traumatic bullshit by the age of fourteen. 

His mom had been battling leukemia since he was ten, it started off as an infection—but it turned into one of those long, drawn-out wars that tricks you into thinking there’s hope when there isn’t.

It would go away for a bit, just enough to make everyone think the fight was over, and then it’d come slamming back worse every time.

When he was fourteen, it finally took her for good, when he’d been silly enough to believe she might pull through. 

To be fair, he was only a little kid waiting on a miracle, praying she’d wake up one day magically cured.

Now, when he looked back on it, he hated himself for being so naive. The signs had been there all along, the nurses whispering in the hallways, Ward turning into this void of a human, who looked at him like he didn’t know how to fix it anymore. The talks his mom would have with him about how “no matter what happens, you’ll be okay.”

That phrase haunted him for years.

Her death didn’t wreck him; it tore him apart and left him in tiny pieces that didn’t fit together the same way. He wasn’t the same kid afterward, not even close.

He got angrier, distant. 

He didn’t recognize who he’d been before it all—some kid who really believed in happy endings.

He didn’t believe in much after she died, people let you down, life ripped everything good out of your hands. Why bother holding on to anything at all?

It wasn’t just the grief; it was the guilt.

He’d get mad at her, sometimes, for being sick. He’d slam his door and cry into his pillow because he just wanted a normal life, a mom who wasn’t always tired or in pain or hooked up to some machine.

He hated himself for that. 

The day of her funeral, he remembered everything, even though he wished he didn’t. The church smelled like old wood and lilies, that smell that never left you once it sank in.

People kept coming up to him, patting his shoulder, saying things like, “She’s in a better place now,” or “Stay strong, buddy.” 

He wanted to yell at them, shake them, make them shut up. She wasn’t in a better place. A better place would’ve been here, alive, laughing at his dumb jokes, or rolling her eyes at him for leaving his shoes in the hallway. It wouldn’t be six feet under, locked in a box, shoved into a hole in the ground like she never existed.

He didn’t cry, not when they opened the casket for everyone to say their final goodbyes, not when his dad stood up and choked through some half-assed speech that was mostly apologies and memories, not when they lowered her into the ground, the ropes creaking as her casket disappeared into the earth. 

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead, as if he wasn’t even present. Inside, though?

His his chest was on fire. 

He refused to let even a single tear fall, it felt pointless, it wasn’t going to bring her back. It wasn’t going to fix anything. And deep down, he thought he didn’t deserve to cry, if he’d been stronger if he’d prayed harder, or been a better son, she’d still be alive.

The sound he remembered the most was the thud of dirt hitting the coffin after the service. It was final, loud, the earth itself mocking him. People around him sniffled, hugged each other, wiped at their eyes, but Rafe just stood there, staring down into the hole, fists buried in his pockets until his nails dug into his palms. 

He kept thinking about how wrong this all was, this wasn’t where she was supposed to end up, and none of this was fair.

She should’ve been there.

She should’ve been standing next to him, arm around his shoulder, telling him to stop slouching, whispering something to make him laugh in the middle of all this sadness. Instead, she was in there, soon the dirt would cover it up, and that’d be it. 

Gone. Just like that.

After the service, Rafe didn’t try to stick around for the house gathering, he wasn’t going to survive that. All those people crowding the living room, balancing paper plates of casserole, acting like they gave a fuck about his mom. It was fake, all of it. 

They’d forget about her in a week.

He slipped out when no one was paying attention, cutting through the side yard and heading to the only place that felt halfway normal—the old skate park behind the rec center. It was run-down as fuck, but he and his friends used to hang out there all the time, sitting on the busted ramps, talking trash, or just doing nothing.

When he got there, it was empty, which was exactly what he wanted. He climbed up on the old half-pipe, sitting cross-legged with his elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked pavement below. 

He couldn’t stop replaying the day in his head, the casket, the dirt, the stupid better place comments. His chest felt like it was breaking in a million tiny pieces, but he still couldn’t cry, his body just wouldn’t let him. 

Instead, he just sat there, wishing the world would leave him alone for five minutes.

That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.

He thought about running—didn’t need anyone seeing him like this, especially not now. But then you spoke.

“Figured I’d find you here.”

He didn’t look at you right away, just exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah? Well, congrats. You win the prize.” 

He wasn’t in the mood to be nice, even to you.

But you didn’t flinch, you never did. That’s one of the things he liked about you—you didn’t get scared off when he got like this. You just climbed up next to him and sat down. 

You didn’t try to say all that comforting bullshit people had been feeding him all day, and he was grateful for that.

“You okay?” you asked eventually.

He snorted. “Do I look okay?”

"Sorry, stupid question."

He sighed, hating that he was being asshole to his best friend, "It's fine."

When he finally glanced at you, you were watching him, trying to figure out what to say. It made him nervous, the way you looked at him. You always did that—you cared about what was going on in his head, you saw more than what he let people see.

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I know what you’re feeling,” you said finally. “But you don’t have to do this alone, Rafe. You know that, right?”

If only you knew what you would be going through just three short years later.

He wanted to snap at you, tell you to leave, he was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just stared down at the pavement again, “Feels like I do.”

You didn’t say anything, just moved closer, close enough that your arm brushed against his. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him feel…something, less alone.

Rafe didn’t know how long you both sat there, could’ve been ten minutes, could’ve been an hour. Time didn’t feel real anymore, you didn’t push him to talk, which he appreciated more than he’d ever admit, you didn’t throw out any of those awkward “it’ll get better” lines. You just sat with him. 

“You can talk to me, you know.” 

He shook his head without looking at you. “There’s nothing to say.” His voice was rough, flat. “She’s gone. That’s it.”

“You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t suck."

He clenched his jaw, staring at the pavement like if he looked at you, everything would break.

“What’s the point?” he muttered. “Crying’s not gonna change anything. It’s not gonna—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying to force it back.

“Rafe.” You sighed, and this time “You don’t have to hold it together for anyone, okay? It’s me.”

That broke him, actually broke him. His chest felt tight, suddenly he couldn’t keep it in.

His breath hitched, his shoulders shook, and before he knew it, tears were sliding down his face. He tried to stop it, to hide it, scrubbing his hands over his face, but it was no use.

“Shit,” he choked out, his voice cracking once more.

“Hey, hey,” you said quickly, and before he could pull away or do something stupid like tell you to leave, you scooted over.

He froze for a second, unsure what to do, but then he remembered the funeral, the whispers, the dirt hitting the casket, all the things he couldn’t stop thinking about—he just let it all out.

The first sob ripped out of him so suddenly it startled him, he hunched over, elbows on his knees, hands gripping his hair, as if he could physically stop himself from breaking. But it didn’t work.

Another sob followed, and then another, and soon they were pouring out of him—loud, messy, completely out of his control. He couldn’t stop it, and he hated it.

He leaned into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, and just cried. When he felt your arms instantly wrap around him, pulling him into a hug as if you’d been waiting for his permission, he shattered completely.

“She’s—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to stop, gasping for air as the tears kept coming. “She’s gone. She’s gone, and I—” He broke off.

It was ugly and loud and nothing like how he’d pictured himself breaking down, but he didn’t care. You didn’t tell him it’d be okay or try to make him stop, just held him, your arms tight around him. 

“I miss her,” he whispered, his voice so small it barely sounded like him. “I miss her so much, and I—I don’t know what to do.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this, and part of him hated how exposed it made him feel. He hated crying in front of people—anyone. But right now, with you, he didn’t feel embarrassed. 

“I know,” you nodded, your hand moving in small circles on his back. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I—” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I can’t—this isn’t—it’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” you didn’t want to scare away the fragile pieces of him that were finally surfacing. “It’s not fair. None of it is.”

He couldn’t stop shaking or gasping for breaths that hitched in his chest. The more he tried to push it all backdown, the harder it fought to claw its way out. For years, he’d kept it buried—buried so deep he thought he’d never have to deal with it.

“I hate it,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a jagged mess. “I hate that she’s gone. I hate that I didn’t—” He stopped, gripping his hair harder. “I didn’t do enough. I should’ve been better, done something—anything.”

“Stop. You can’t do that to yourself.”

He shook his head violently, “But I did. I gave up on her. I stopped believing she’d get better, I—I got mad at her for being sick. What kind of son does that? I didn’t even say goodbye the way I should’ve. I just—I left the hospital because I couldn’t take it anymore, and then she—” His voice cracked again, and his hands dropped from his hair to his lap, clenched into fists “She’s gone, and I left. I wasn’t there when she—” His breath hitched, and he buried his face in his hands.

“You’re a kid. It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is.”

“But it feels like it is,” he shot back, “I should’ve done something, anything. I just feel so—” He stopped, letting out a shaky exhale. “Empty. Like nothing I do matters anymore.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way you said it, so certain—He didn’t know why, but it cut through the noise in his head just enough to let him breathe again.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” he admitted, “I don’t know how t-to live without her.”

Growing up, Rafe had always been a momma’s boy. 

She was his safe place—the one person who didn’t make him feel like he had to be someone else. With her, he didn’t have to try so damn hard to be tough, or perfect, or whatever the hell his dad wanted him to be. 

Ward wasn’t the kind of dad who let his kids cry on his shoulder or told them he loved them every day. No, Ward was the kind of dad who believed in rules.

Men didn’t cry. Men didn’t show weakness. Men didn’t mess up—or, if they did, they sure as hell didn’t admit it.

He expected Rafe to follow those rules like they were gospel.

The worst part? His rules about what it meant to be a man stuck with Rafe, even when he didn’t want them to. When his mom got sick, he found himself choking back tears in the hospital bathroom, staring at his reflection and hearing Ward’s voice in his head: “Crying doesn’t solve anything. You’ve gotta be strong, for her, for your sisters.”

He had this idea in his head of what Rafe was supposed to be—strong, dependable, successful. He didn’t yell or lose his temper like some dads back then, he just made him feel like shit in this fucked up way.

Rafe tried, shit, he’d tried, but it felt impossible.

Every time he looked at his mom, pale and tired but still managing to smile at him like he was her whole world, he felt like he was dying too, then he’d feel guilty—for being so weak, for wanting to break down when she was the one fighting for her life.

It didn’t help that Ward had always had a soft spot for Sarah. Everyone could see it, even Rafe. She was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, the one Ward went out of his way to protect. 

If Rafe screwed up, it was a lecture or a punishment, but if Sarah did? Ward would just shake his head and say, “She’s still young. She’ll learn.”

It used to piss him off more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he hated her—she was his sister, and he loved her. But how could he not resent her? He felt invisible when she got all the attention and the understanding, while he was expected to man up and deal with it.

After her funeral, things changed.

Rafe became quicker to snap, to walk away from anything that felt too hard. He was only himself around you, behind closed doors, never for preying eyes. Sarah grew colder, retreating into her own world where everything was controlled and distant.

Every time they spoke, it ended in shouting matches, slamming doors, or long stretches of silence that neither of them attempted to solve.

Except when you were there.

Ward got even colder, the grief had frozen whatever part of him used to care. He threw himself into work, making sure Sarah was okay, and barely even looked at his son. When he did, it was usually to tell him to pull it together, or to stop being so “moody.”

Rafe started to wonder if he even cared that he was falling apart, if he ever noticed the nights Rafe stayed out too late or came home smelling like booze. If he saw the way he avoided talking to him, how he flinched whenever Ward brought up his mom. But if his dad noticed, he never said anything. 

He thought it was just Rafe being Rafe—angry, unpredictable, a disappointment.

Fast forward to the present, and he hadn’t felt this helpless since that day at the funeral, not even when Ward’s died four months ago. 

You weren’t in his life anymore—hadn’t been for a while and you were possibly pregnant. 

He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but it made sense, everything lined up with that possibility. He thought back to everything you’d been through together, the times you’d been there for him when no one else was, how you’d seen the pieces of him no one else cared to.

Now, you were having his kid—and he was hearing about it from Topper?

Rafe spent the first hour after Topper dropped the news pacing his bedroom like a caged animal, his heart wouldn’t stop racing and he felt like a ticking time bomb. 

The Rafe—the one who flew off the handle, yelled, broke things, and pushed people away—was begging to get out. But Topper’s voice kept replaying in his head, he had to act right, be calm, for your sake. To prove himself.

The problem was, that staying calm wasn’t his strong suit. 

He’d spent years burying every emotion he couldn’t control under layers of anger, and now he was supposed to sit with the hurricane in his chest and figure out how to make things right. 

For the first time in a long time, he realized he didn’t even know where to start.

That night, he locked himself in his room, ignoring his phone, his friends, everyone. None of it mattered anymore, the only thing he could think about was you—and the baby. 

He spent hours pacing, running his hands through his hair, trying to think of what the fuck he was going to say.

What was he gonna say after everything he’d put you through? After the fight, the distance, the way he’d shut you out when you’d been nothing but good to him until that point?

He sat down on the edge of his bed, head still in his hands, and let himself feel everything he’d been avoiding. The fear, the regret, the anger at himself. He thought about you—how you used to look at him like he wasn’t just a mess of a person, you’d stuck by him even when he’d given you every reason to leave.

You weren’t here anymore.

He’d pushed you so far away you hadn’t even told him about the situation yourself. Why would you anyway? He ghosted you and the next time you saw him he was with someone else. He could still see the look on your face when you saw him that night—arms slung casually around Sofia, while you sat in your car, eyes wild, you hadn’t tried to step outside, hadn’t yelled or made a scene, you simply drove off. 

It wasn’t until an hour later and terrible text message to you, that drunk and pissed at himself, he realized just how badly he’d screwed up. But by then, the damage was done, and he’d been too much of a coward to fix it. What followed was a sea of bad decisions and nights he couldn’t remember, trying to drown out the ache of losing you. 

He’d been drinking for Ward’s death until that point, now he did it for you.

Everything was catching up to him—the way he let his dad’s voice in his head drown out his own, making him let you slip through his fingers.

He didn’t deserve you—he knew that.

By sunrise, Rafe was still wide awake, sitting on the floor of his room surrounded by half-crumpled pieces of paper. He’d been trying to write down what he wanted to say to you, but everything sounded wrong. He’d never been good with words, not the kind that mattered.

He wasn’t a dad, wasn’t even close to being the kind of guy who could be a dad. 

What the fuck did he know about raising a kid? Changing diapers? Teaching someone right from wrong? Being patient? But the thought of you—of you carrying his kid—hit him differently.

At first, it had been pure panic. You hated him, what if you didn’t want him involved? What if he was just like Ward—cold, distant, always expecting too much? What if he screwed the kid up the same way he felt like he’d been screwed up? 

He pictured it without meaning to: you holding a tiny bundle in your arms, your face soft in a way he hadn’t seen in so long. A kid with your smile, your laugh—but his eyes. Or his messy hair. It scared the shit out of him.

What if she doesn’t even want to keep it?

Rafe hadn’t let himself go there at first, it was a lot to wrap his head around, the idea that there might not even be a child to fight for. 

The thought of you going through this, struggling to make a choice that he couldn’t help with, made him feel useless. 

Frustrated, he grabbed his keys and headed out, needing to clear his head. The island was silent this early, the kind of calm that used to make him feel trapped, but now, though, it was a relief. He drove aimlessly for a while, the salty air whipping through the open windows, until he found himself parked at the beach.

He didn’t know why he’d come here—well, you’d always bring him here when he spiraled. He sat there, watching the waves crash against the shore, feeling a weird sort of clarity that he hadn’t felt in months. 

Perhaps it was the silence, or the way the ocean didn’t care about all the fucking mess in his head, but something about it made him stop spiraling for a second.

He started to think about what Topper had said—not just about staying calm, but about proving to you that he still cared. That wasn’t something he could do with words alone, not after everything. He’d have to show you, he’d have to be the version of himself you used to believe in, the one who wasn’t ruled by his worst impulses.

Rafe knew the first step before he could even think about talking to you: he had to end things with Sofia. They weren’t official, but they might as well have been. 

People talked, made assumptions, and sure, he’d let them. It was easier that way—less explaining, less having to deal with the uncomfortable truth that he’d only been with her to fill the empty space you left behind. It was cruel, but at the time, he hadn’t cared. 

Sofia wasn’t you, but she was there, and more importantly, she didn’t expect anything from him. Keeping things going with her wasn’t just a bad idea; it was disrespectful. To you, to her, to himself. He couldn’t pretend he cared about her like that—not when his heart had never really left your orbit.

When he showed up at her place that morning before work, she didn’t seem surprised—not even a little. She’d seen the writing on the wall for weeks now, but tonight, seeing him standing there, just confirmed what she already knew.

She watched him like she was waiting for him to get to the point, but not impatiently—just resigned, she already knew what he was about to say.

“Can I come in?” 

She let him in without a word, she wasn’t mad, not really. If anything, she felt sad—mostly for him, a little for herself. How the fuck was he supposed to explain this without sounding like the worst person alive?

“You okay?” she asked quietly, she wasn’t being polite—she was trying to read him, figure out where this was going.

Rafe didn’t sit, didn’t take off his jacket. He stayed standing, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to find the words that wouldn’t make this worse. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you about something. 

She raised an eyebrow, her lips pressing together in a tight line. “Be honest.”

“This...this isn’t fair to you,” he started, his words tumbling out fast, “I should’ve been real with you from the start, but I wasn't," He swallowed hard, “You deserve better than me using you to forget someone else.”

Sofia didn’t say anything at first, just crossed her arms loosely, not making it easy for him, but she wasn’t making it harder, either.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” he continued, forcing himself to look at her. “It feels wrong and it’s not because of you. You’re great. You’ve been...you’ve been more patient with me than I deserve.”

Her lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that wasn’t quite happy but wasn’t cruel either. “But you’re still in love with her.”

He didn’t know why it shocked him—Sofia had always been perceptive—but hearing her say it out loud made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“I—” He hesitated, but there was no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I knew,” She nodded like she’d been waiting for that confirmation. “I figured. I told myself it didn’t matter because—because I thought maybe you’d move on. Maybe I could help you move on. But you didn’t, and I—” She pressed her lips together, shaking her head as her arms tightened around herself.

Rafe’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged, the movement almost casual. 

“Because I really like you,” she admitted, “I knew. The party? When you got blackout drunk after seeing her leave? Or the country club, when you nearly started a fight defending her? I know you drove her to the hospital too. I kept hoping—God, I kept hoping you’d see me, that you’d let me be enough.”

He’d known she cared—he wasn’t blind—but hearing her saying like that made him realize just how he fucked up. She wasn’t wrong. He had been trying to numb himself, to drown out the reality of losing you, and she had been the collateral damage.

He looked away, guilt twisting in his chest. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this. That wasn’t fair to you.”

“No,” she agreed, her tone firm but not unkind. “It wasn’t, but I don’t think you meant to hurt me either, you were trying to hurt yourself. It's still stupid of me to try, knowing you need to figure your shit out, but you don’t have to end things. I know what I signed up for, Rafe. I’m not asking you to choose me over her—I’m just asking you to try."

There was no anger in her voice, no bitterness—just exhaustion. It made him feel like a piece of shit because she deserved to feel angry, to lash out at him. But instead, she was still trying to give him a way out, a way to make this easier on himself.

“I’ll take whatever part of you I can get.”

It wasn’t desperate or pleading—it was resigned. She already knew the answer, but she couldn’t help saying it out loud.

Rafe shook his head, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his composure. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You deserve someone who can give you everything. That’s not me.”

“Why not?” she pressed, her tone insistent.

“Because all of me already belongs to her,” Rafe admitted, his voice breaking at the end. “It always has, it always will.”

Sofia blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise, but she didn’t look hurt—just...sad. She nodded slowly, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

“I hope she knows what she has, and I pray you show her," She stood up and motioning toward the door. “We both deserve better than a guy who drinks himself to death after seeing her at a party. So do you.”

Rafe didn’t move right away, unsure if he should say something more, apologize again, explain himself better. 

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

“Don’t thank me,” she replied, “Just do better.”

“I shouldn’t have let it go on this long,” he confessed, “I just—I didn’t know how to stop.”

Her expression softened just enough to show the tiniest sliver of empathy. “For what is worth, I think she still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now.” She paused, her hand resting on the doorknob, but she didn’t turn around, “Next time, please don’t do this to someone else, and don’t do it to her again, either.”

She still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now. He wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. The faint possibility, that you might still love him, it meant he had a chance but it also meant he could screw them up even worse.

He stood slowly, “Thank you,” he repeated,“For...everything.”

She didn’t look at him, but she nodded, opening the door and holding it for him. “Take care of yourself,” she said, and it wasn’t cold or angry—just sad.

By the time he got back to his car, he knew she wasn’t wrong, about any of it. 

She hadn’t screamed or cried or made him feel like the asshole he knew he was, that made it worse. If his mom was here, she would’ve smacked him across he head for hurting two amazing women at the same time. 

He hadn’t been ready to deal with his feelings for you—not when he started whatever the fuck it was with Sofia, not when he ran into you at that party, not when he defended you at the country club.

He’d been running, hiding, trying to bury everything under distractions that only made him feel emptier.

He leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes, and for a moment, it was like he was fourteen again, sitting on the edge of his mom’s hospital bed while his mom teased him.

“Come on, sweetheart” she’d said, her voice playful, even through the weariness. “You’ve been talking about her birthday for weeks. I think you like her more than you’re letting on.”

Rafe’s head shot up, and his ears burned red. “Mooomm,” he groaned, dragging out the word, “it’s not like that, she’s my best friend.”

“She’s your pretty best friend,” she’d corrected, smiling at him in that knowing way only she could. “You’re gonna pick out something nice for her, right?”

“I already did,” he mumbled, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and holding it out like it was some great secret. Inside was a delicate bracelet he’d saved up for, something special, something he thought you’d like.

His mom’s smile had softened, the teasing fading into something more tender. 

“She’s lucky to have you,” she’d said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Even if you are a little knucklehead sometimes.”

He’d ducked away, embarrassed but secretly pleased, tucking the box back into his pocket.

“M’m not a knucklehead,” he complained, but she just laughed, and it was one of the last times he remembered hearing her laugh like that—free, unburdened, just his mom.

“She’s a good one. You’ve got good taste.” Her smile softened, and the teasing faded into something gentler. “I hope I’m still around when you get married. I’d love to see you happy like that.”

The words were a punch he hadn’t expected. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he even say to that? He wanted to argue, to tell her she would be, but the look in her eyes stopped him.

She knew. She always knew.

He just nodded, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Me too.”

She squeezed his hand. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he said without thinking because he meant it.

“When you find that person—really find them—don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

He nodded again.

Years later, standing in a stupid fucking car alone, those words haunted him. He’d found that person, he’d had her and he’d let her go.

“God,” he muttered, the self-loathing reaching a new high, “I’m so sorry, mom.”

As terrifying as it was to think about being a dad, to think about raising a kid when he was still trying to figure out his own life… the idea of losing this chance—of losing you, or the baby, or both, for good —scared him even more.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron felt something close to hope, but it was tainted in so much fear and uncertainty, that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The rest of the day, he forced himself to slow down. 

He went back home, cleaned up the disaster of a room he’d been holed up in, and tried to think like a normal guy instead of a walking disaster. He even let Topper come over, though his patience for his relentless commentary wore thin fast.

“You’ve got one shot at this, dude,” Topper said, perched on Rafe’s desk like he owned the place. “If you go in there guns blazing, she’s just gonna think you’re the same old Rafe. And honestly? You can’t blame her.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue, Topper was right, as annoying as it was to admit.

He spent the evening coming up with a plan—just enough to make sure he didn’t go in blind. He practiced what he’d say in his head, pacing the kitchen while the sun sank below the horizon. Every time he started to panic, he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was doing this.

By the time 24 hours had passed, he didn’t feel ready, but he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. The thought of you sitting somewhere, thinking he really didn’t care or that he wouldn’t step up?

That was worse than any fear he had about facing you. So he grabbed his keys, and headed out, this time, he wasn’t running away.

Rafe stood by your door, he’d gotten in the property using the gate’s code, one he’d hoped you had changed to keep him out, but you hadn’t.

He’d never been good at patience, never needed to be—not when he could push his way into anything. But this was different, you were different, always had been.

The wood under his hand was cool, in a way that pissed him off because it reminded him that there was a barrier between you and him, again, always.

He wanted to scream, kick the fucking thing down like the old Rafe would’ve, or instead use the keys you’d given him years ago. Instead, he stood there, swallowing his pride because you were worth it, even if it was tearing himself in half.

His knuckles dragged down the frame, fist clenching as if the pressure would ground him, keep him from losing his shit. He wasn’t here to fight, wasn’t here to make your life harder, no matter how much you thought he was. 

The door rattled slightly when he pressed his forehead against it, eyes squeezing shut. “Five minutes. Please.”

Nothing.

His jaw worked, teeth grinding against the words he wanted to say but couldn’t, not if he wanted you to open the door. He couldn’t do this anymore—the back-and-forth, the lies. He wasn’t sure what broke first—your resolve or the knot in his throat. 

When you didn’t answer again, he sank to sit on the porch, back against the door like he could still feel you on the other side. You were there—close enough to touch if there wasn’t this fucking door between you.

That was his fault.

He used to be the guy you’d let in without thinking twice, shit, there was a time when he didn’t need to knock.

He was in, part of your life, part of you.

Now, you were holed up, scared of him. Yeah, that ate him alive. He’d earned that fear—every cold shoulder, the slammed door, he deserved it.

He should’ve been different, been better, been someone you didn’t have to lock out. You were scared, and it killed him because it wasn’t just fear, it was him. He was the reason you didn’t feel safe enough to let the secret out, the reason your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

He had put that look in your eyes, the one he couldn’t unsee, no matter how hard he tried.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He could almost hear you breathing, shakily, like you were preparing yourself to outlast him.

He wanted to push. Fuck, he wanted to shove the door open, make you look at him, make you tell him everything—but that was the old Rafe, he took what he wanted, and bulldozed through whatever stood in his way.

Where had that ever gotten him? Nowhere but here: on the wrong side of a door, the wrong side of you.

He exhaled, long and slow, hand falling limp to his side.

What the hell was he doing? Forcing his way in, forcing answers—that wasn’t going to fix this. It never did. You’d push harder, build the walls higher, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of you hating him more than you already did.

“Okay,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “I get it.”

He didn’t know if you could still hear him, perhaps you were blocking him out completely. Maybe you were curled up with your hands over your ears. He hoped you weren’t crying, though the thought twisted and turned something deep in him.

“I’m not gonna push you,” he said, hating how defeated he sounded. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He ran a hand down his face, swallowing hard, trying to keep it together.

“I just... I just want you to be okay.” He hesitated, then pressed his palm flat against the door, wishing he could reach you somehow, without scaring you, “Baby or not.”

He waited, hoping for something—a sound, a movement, anything, but the silence was absolute.

His heart clenched as he pushed off the door and took a step back, his shoes scraping against the porch. He didn’t want to leave, he never wanted to leave, but this wasn’t about what he wanted. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, almost to himself, "I'm so sorry. I’m sorry it took me this long, okay?”

He stopped halfway, looking back, hoping—praying—for some sign. A light flicking on, the sound of the door creaking open, your voice calling his name, anything.

But the house stayed still, it had already moved on from him. 

He didn’t remember deciding to drive to Poguelandia; he felt it in his gut, in the pit of his chest, this pounding certainty that Sarah knew something he didn’t. You wouldn’t tell him—but Sarah? You’d chosen her to drive you home from the hospital just a few days ago.

She was the only person that could lie to his face properly, he couldn’t fucking figure her out, she was always deflecting shit wherever they talked.

By the time he pulled up to the pogues’ little hideaway, the sky had darkened, the place lit only by the glow of string lights and the hum of voices inside. He sat in the truck for a second, staring at the house, willing himself to calm down.

Barging in—loud, pissed, impulsive—wasn’t going to get him what he needed. But fuck, it was hard not to.

He climbed out, slamming the door behind him with just enough force to feel better for half a second. The screen door creaked as he stepped up to the porch, and he could already hear them inside—Sarah’s laugh, JJ cracking some dumbass joke, the rest of them chiming in like they didn’t have a care in the world.

He hated this, hated how they all looked at him, as if he was some ticking time bomb ready to explode. They weren’t wrong.

Rafe knocked, hard and sharp, the laughter inside cut off instantly. Footsteps approached the door, hesitant. A second later, it swung open, and there she was, his sister, looking at him like he was the last person she wanted to see.

“Rafe,” she said, one hand still gripping the door. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”

Her brows pulled together, suspicion creeping into her expression. “Now? Seriously?”

“Yeah, now,” he snapped, stepping closer, his voice low enough to keep from drawing the others’ attention. “Don’t make me say it in front of them.”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder toward the voices in the living room. “Rafe, I don’t think—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, his tone sharper than he meant. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to soften, to keep it together. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

She glanced back again, then sighed, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her. He was already pacing, hands twitching at his sides, hardly able to contain the energy inside him. 

The way she looked at him—wary, guarded—only made it worse.

“What the hell is your problem?” she asked, crossing her arms, like she was already bracing for a fight.

“My problem?” he barked out a laugh, sharp. “You really wanna play dumb right now? You’ve been keeping something from me, Sarah. I know you have.”

Her brows knit together, feigning confusion, “Dude. What’s this about? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” he hissed, stepping closer, “Don’t lie to me. I already know, okay? I know about the baby.”

She didn’t say a word, didn’t confirm a thing, just stared at him like he was some wild animal.

“Where did you get the idea that she’s pregnant?”

His mouth opened, then closed. It felt wrong to snitch on Topper when he’d been one making him pry a little more.

“Well?” she pressed, “Answer me. How did you come up with that?”

Saying it out loud felt like admitting he’d been just as reckless and intrusive as everyone expected him to be. His hand ran over his face, trying to stall.

“I didn’t just make it up.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her patience waning. “No shit. So where, Rafe?”

He glanced away, then back, his voice defensive. “Topper said something, okay? He heard—he thought—” Rafe stopped, knowing how weak it sounded.

 “Topper? You’re taking life advice from Topper now?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it!” Rafe was quick to defend him, “He just... he mentioned some things, and it got me thinking. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Sarah repeated, “You barged over there because Topper mentioned ‘some things’ ? Jesus Christ.”

His hands flew up in frustration. “What was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t hear it? Ignore it and hope it went away? I needed to know!”

“No, you didn’t,” Sarah shot back. “You wanted to know. There’s a difference, and it’s the difference that keeps getting you into this shit.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rafe pointed a finger in his direction, “Like I’m crazy or something. I’m not stupid.”

"You’re just not worth the energy right now."

Instead of crying like he wanted to, he let out a dry laugh, pacing back and forth in front of her.

"Right. Sure. I can see it all over you, just say it."

She shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. Neither does Topper.”

“Stop lying!” His voice rose, loud enough to echo into the dark yard. “Just stop. You know something.”

Sarah’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Rafe thought he’d finally cracked her. Except instead of giving him what he wanted, she just let out a slow breath, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that made him feel like a child fighting for his favorite toy.

“You want to know the truth?” 

“Yes,” he bit out, his chest heaving.

She stepped forward so they were only inches apart. “The truth is, you don’t deserve to know. Not yet.”

Everyone kept telling him the same thing, couldn’t they see he was already trying?

He staggered back a step. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means, that whatever you’re looking for, whatever answers you think you deserve, they’re not yours to take. Not until you can handle them without breaking everything you touch."

He flinched, her words striking something inside him, “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he said, almost desperate.

“I’m not deciding anything,” she replied, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ve spent these last few months making everything about you. Your pain, your anger, your needs.”

He glanced away, “So, what? You don’t trust me?”

Her silence was louder than anything she could have said.

“You don’t,” he murmured, the realization bitter in his mouth.

"I don’t," she agreed, “You’re still not the person she needs you to be, and until you can prove you can do that—without me, without anyone holding your hand—you’re better off not knowing.”

“I’m trying. I swear to fucking God, I’m trying. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“She’s scared you’re going to hurt her again��whether you mean to or not. You’re dating someone else, for god’s sake.”

“I ended it. This morning.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “Doesn’t change the past, Rafe. And it sure as hell doesn’t make everything better overnight.”

Rafe flinched, the words sinking into him like stones. "Why the fuck do you think I’m here? I don’t want to hurt her—I can’t do anything if she won’t even talk to me."

Topper still had that number. 

You hadn’t hidden it well enough, he hadn’t done anything with it, but it was tempting. All he had to do was call, just to confirm, he told himself. Not to pry, simply to know for sure.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. This isn’t something you can force your way into. She would never forgive you, please be smart.”

His first instinct was to lash out, fire back some venom-laced retort that would sting as much as her tone. He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Okay,” He dragged a hand through his head, “I know that, I know. But I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I need to... I need to show her I can do better. That I am better.”

“You need to crawl through hell to understand a fraction of what she’s going through; you need to stop thinking about what you want and start thinking about her.”

His hands fell to his sides, limp, the fight suck out of him. She was right—he hated that she was. This wasn’t about him anymore; it never had been.

 “What can I do?”

Her expression softened, not with forgiveness but something sadder—she wanted to believe he could. “You start by fixing yourself, then you wait. Until she’s ready, if she’s ready. You’ve got to mean that, Rafe, you screw this up again..."

"I won’t," he said firmly, cutting her off. "I can’t."

“Okay.”

“What if she’s not ready?”

He had no right to demand more.

“You keep going, keep trying. Not for her, not for anyone else—just for you.”

By the time he got back in his truck, the hurt in his body hadn’t lifted. His mom’s words echoed in his mind one more, “When you find that person, don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

Maybe that started with learning to be the person who deserved to hold on.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[ashkabbom]

Temporary stresses - Mouthwashing

A/n: I disappeared but I'm back. I finished school and I'm officially on vacation 😋. I had another idea initially, but then I gave up writing to Curly with that one.🎀 Tell me if I wrote something wrong, English is not my first language and I use a translator a lot.

I wanted a story with a happy ending, although it wasn't supposed to end 100% like that 😭

Versão em português no wattpad: Livro de One Shots - Mouthwashing (Conta: ashkabbom)

•Captain Curly x Fem!Reader

Summary/Synopsis: You hate being emotionally raw and your husband has been acting strange lately.

Notes: I wrote this with a happy ending, but in situations like this stress can actually be very dangerous, so be careful if you are going to do this to someone or if you are the person to receive this one day.

You were uncomfortable, to say the least.

It had been seconds, minutes, HOURS, since he had answered you, he avoided you whenever he could! The worst part is that you don't know the reason for all this, even though you told him to tell you when something was bothering him.

He's been acting kind of strange since yesterday. It seemed like you were the only one who was out of touch with all that nervousness and discomfort.

You had been a bit paranoid for some time now, because of these attitudes you didn't know if you had done something and it was eating you alive.

Searching through all your memories and finding nothing you realize you did wrong. Maybe he just got tired?

"I did everything like I always did..." You were rambling on to yourself. Maybe you said something wrong? You know very well that words, no matter how simple they are sometimes, can hurt.

This was all giving you a huge headache and leaving you a mess of emotions. You were just too exhausted.

You were out of the house now, on your lunch break from work, messing around on your phone for a few minutes, more specifically texting your husband, hoping he would answer you like he always did.

He didn't answer you properly, the messages were short and seemed more direct than ever, your husband didn't write and talk to you like that. God, you just wanted to go home.

"You've got that look on your face again." You hear your co-worker, Linda, say and let out a sigh. "What happened now?"

"This is the fourth time we've seen you with that sad, sullen puppy face in the space of 15 minutes," her other friend, Charlotte, says..

"Do you think I'm old?" You ask suddenly.

"What happened to 'Hi friend, I missed you too'? It doesn't exist anymore?" The first woman says.

"Exactly, calm down. You're not old, you're perfect for your age. And old age comes to everyone! It's inevitable." The second friend explains with a raised eyebrow.

"But now it's so different... When we met I was different, my hair, my body... My age..."

"Girl, seriously, what happened? You haven't had these low self-esteem spikes in months, you were so happy" Charlotte says with a sad tone, sitting down next to you.

"That's the problem, I don't know what happened... Since yesterday Curly has been acting a bit strange, avoiding me and being vague at times, but at the same time he's been very short and direct." You think about what your morning had been like that day.

"Oh my, don't be like that, men are a mess all by themselves. I'm not going to put ideas in your head, but let us know if you need help with that." Linda says, running her hand over your back.

"You're still as beautiful as the day you met, so don't worry. If he's going blind and can't see it, take the trash out of your house before it starts stinking up the whole house" Charlotte says, making it clear what she originally meant.

"I just don't know if something happened and he didn't tell me, if I did something and he was uncomfortable..." You love your husband with all your heart, otherwise you wouldn't have married him.

"Girl, put your cards on the table and that man against the wall, if something is going on he will tell you, he is not a lying man" Charlotte advises you in a lighter way now.

"She's right, you have to talk to him, but really talk to him. Just starting a conversation with him won't make him tell you anything... Ask what's going on and if everything is okay." Linda hugs you affectionately. Honestly, maybe this stress is just in your head? You don't know.

"Okay okay, but I'll do it after work, there's still a few more hours until it's time to leave." Grumbling you and your friends get up, heading towards the door while talking about anything now.

You don't know what you would do without them.

Hours had passed since that conversation, it was already getting dark and you were driving home almost completely peacefully.

Being with your friends relieved you a lot, but you still had a little bit of a nagging feeling, not to mention that you also knew that life is not a strawberry and anything can happen.

You were together for 11 years, dating for 4 years and married for 7 years. There was no reason for it all to go down the drain. At least you told yourself that.

You had texted him earlier, saying you were going home now... He hadn't even seen the message, but that's okay! Sometimes he's just busy with... Anything, you think.

Parking the car, you sigh, You hated feeling as tired as you had been feeling lately, you wish you could enjoy some of your time at home instead of just passing out in bed. On the bright side, you were on vacation from your job in 2 days. Just two more days.

Today you would confront him! You would know what was going on with him lately and everything would be okay! Everything has to be okay.

You open the door to the living room and notice the loud silence, seeping through your entire house. You didn't have a good feeling about this..

"Curly? Love?" You call out as you walk through the door and into the room, feeling a little anxious.

You turn to the kitchen and then–

"SURPRISE!" Some voices say/scream at the same time, scaring you at first, but then you notice the cake on the table, balloons, birthday hats, coxinha and other things on the table.

A wave of relief washes over you.

It was your birthday today.

"Happy birthday my love, you don't know how much- Wow, hey, hey! What happened? Why are you crying?" Your husband's cheerful tone soon fades, quickly replaced by a tone of concern.

You hadn't even realized that the wave of relief had brought you to tears, you were crying.

Did something happen? Is she okay?" Anya, Curly's work friend and maid of honor at your wedding a few years ago, asks worriedly, approaching.

"Honey, is something hurting?! Do you need anything? Anything at all? Do you need to go to the hospital?" He was quick to come closer, putting his arms around you as he checked your body with his tender and concerned gaze. God, this was all you wanted.

You try to explain, through your tears, that you're okay, that everything is okay now.

"I thought-" You stop to sniff a few times "I thought you were mad at me. Acting different and distant."

"I told you you sounded thick, but it's amazing how your head doesn't work sometimes." You hear Swansea's voice and let out a laugh through your tears.

"I'm so happy that everything is okay and that you're not mad at me." You explain as you wipe away your tears, soon feeling Curly's hand on your cheek while the other rests on your waist.

"I'm sorry my love, I would never be mad or upset with you, a thousand apologies darling" He says as he peppers your face with kisses, apologizing several times. "Please, I'm so sorry"

"We told him to hide it and not tell you or give you any hints about your surprise party and such, since last time he ended up telling you... But I think asking him to disguise himself wasn't... the best idea" Daisuke says as he analyzes the situation with a disappointed face.

You laugh a little and soon they join you, then a small silence arises, but it is quickly broken.

"So?" Swansea begins

""Is everything okay in there?" Anya asks, looking at you calmly and with a little concern. "Are you feeling any pain?"

"How are you and she?" Daisuke asks in the most direct way.

You sniff one last time and look down, running your hand over your belly.

"I will never make you cry like that again." He finishes with a peck on the lips and runs his hand over your belly. "I will never worry the two girls in my life again. I promise"

You look at him fondly. "We're fine, we just went through a hurricane today and yesterday." You laugh lightly. "Now let's eat this cake, I'm hungry for two."

The others laugh at your answer and soon everyone gathers around the table to celebrate your birthday.

You really hope you never have to go through that worry again, not even Curly would do it again.

You have the most caring husband and your daughter would have the best dad.

[natalievoncatte]

Spoilers for Arcane Season 2. Ending Spoilers.

The tables had turned, and now Vi was the one waiting. She was so tired, so utterly absolutely tired of being the one to helplessly watch. As she waited she flexed her fingers and tugged at her wraps, sometimes rolled her shoulder as if, suddenly, there was something she could do with all her strength. Her knuckles were still sore from punching the wall in Jinx’s cell.

It had all happened so fast. How long had it been? The sun had set, but she’d lost track of time. She wasn’t leaving this room, no matter what.

Part of her had almost run. When she lurched down from the hexgate, limping and dragging one depowered gauntlet with the other, spotting Caitlyn alive had made her heart sing, a bright spot that kept the hollow in her chest from collapsing in on itself and pulling her on with it. She had someone. She had a reason.

Cait saw her, took two steps, and collapsed in a heap, bleeding profusely from her left eye, her uniform soaked in blood from a gash on her flank.

Vi didn’t think she had it in her to run that fast. She’d ignored her own injuries. Nothing mattered but keeping Cait safe. Picking her up and carrying her left Vi herself covered in blood. There was so much, but somehow Cait was still breathing.

She lay in her own bed, chest softly rising and falling. She looked like she was merely asleep, unbothered even though the left side of her face was a mass of bandages and there was a bottle of fluids feeding into her arm.

Vi felt the silent presence in the room and glanced towards the door.

Tobias.

The last thing she remembered him saying in her presence was “what is she still doing here?”

He hadn’t said a word to her, even though she stood by for hours while he and the other doctors had worked on Caitlyn. Barely even looked at her. He wasn’t even the one who handed her a cloth mask to wear over her face and he said nothing to her of Cait’s condition or her prognosis.

It was the same when he came to stand by the bed. An awkward pall fell over the palatial bedroom and Vi couldn’t look at him. The man has already lost his wife and his daughter lay maimed in her bed and might not wake up. What was there to say?

He shuffled awkwardly and Vi noticed he was carrying something. He put the bundle on the bed.

“Clean yourself up. You’re filthy.”

Vi blinked. She’d discarded the jacket of her uniform, but the blood had soaked through to her undershirt, and she was battered and bloodied herself. She’d almost broken her arm and her right shoulder was screaming. Her clothes were crusted with dirt and other people’s blood.

He was not wrong.

“I brought you these, they’re mine. I don’t think anything of Caitlyn’s will fit you.”

Vi muttered a soft, confused “thank you” and took the bundle of clothes, briefly wondering where she should go, before she remembered that Cait had her own bathroom.

As Vi walked inside, she felt a cold rush on her skin. She still couldn’t comprehend that she was allowed here, among all this marble and brass. Cait’s bathroom was big enough to live in. The shower alone was as big as the hovel she’d been living in between bouts and binges.

As she began to undress she realized how tired she was. Every movement was stiff. As she peeled herself out of the uniform she unwrapped bruise after bruise, bloodstain after bloodstain, a road map of agony from head to toe.

The water was a revelation, almost unbearably hot. Old blood and grime sluiced between her toes as the water scorched her back and soaked her hair, the remaining dye sluicing in dark tendrils down her skin.

I don’t deserve this, she thought. I failed everyone. Vander is gone. Jinx is gone. I thought I could be free if I could let Jinx go, but am I free or just empty.

It should have been her.

Even Caitlyn’s towels were luxurious. She’d never felt anything so soft in her life. The heat had loosened her up a little but she still felt creaky and her joints ached. She picked up the shirt Tobias had brought her; she thought it was meant to sleep in. The fabric was even softer, and it felt alien on her skin. It hung too low thanks to Tobias’ height, but it was big enough for her save where her arms and shoulders strained the fabric.

Once she was dressed, Vi returned to the bedroom. She hoped desperately to step out and see Cait sitting up and talking but she was still just lying there, steady but shallow breaths and all, Tobias seated on the edge of the bed and fussing over her.

Vi took the same chair and sighed softly, feeling not much better, just cleaner.

“Let me look at you.”

His voice startled her so much that she simply meekly complied and let him examine the florid bruises on her hand where her knuckles had crashed into the cell wall, even when he gently cupped her chin and turned her head this way and that, staring individually into each eye.

“I know you must hate me.”

His hand fell away. He would no longer look at her. He stood up and turned around, peering through a gap in the curtains.

“I did at first. At first I was so angry. Her whole life, Caitlyn has been obsessed with these notions of justice and progress, with making the Enforcers honorable and just and helping the Undercity, making amends and rebuilding. She’s always had such a kind heart. Then this happened. The Undercity killed my wife, and to me you were the Undercity. Not to mention that every single time you bring her home she’s hurt, and worse than the last time.”

A cold ball clenched in Vi’s gut. He was right. How many more times could this happen before Vi was bringing him back a body and not his daughter?

She was the jinx, wasn’t she?

Tobias’ shoulders hitched and Vi realized he was crying softly.

“I lost one of the two people I live for in an instant… and then began watching the other slip away, piece by piece. Caitlyn became harsh and cold while you were gone. She barely spoke to me, instead spending all her time with that Noxian bitch and her pet whispering poison into her ear. I thought I’d lost her.”

He turned. “Then she brought you in her half dead and begged me to save you and she was just my little girl again, just for a moment.”

Vi’s head snapped up and their gazes briefly met before he broke away.

“Is she going to be okay?” Vi asked softly.

“Okay?” said Tobias. “Okay? I had to remove her eye, Violet. She’s lucky the dagger didn’t pierce her gut or she’d die of sepsis. Now you ask me if-“

He froze, giving Vi a shocked look before his face fell.

“I don’t know what things will ever be between the two of us, but we have her in common, I can see that. Yes, I think she will. My daughter is stronger than you think.”

“I know.”

He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll return in an hour to look in on her. I know what you’re thinking. It’s safe.”

After he left, Vi had to ponder what he meant by that, then it struck her.

Carefully, Vi climbed on the bed, settling beside Cait, nervously settling her weight into the impossibly soft mattress. The bed was so enormous that she had plenty of room.

All she wanted was for Cait to wake up, to hold her again. She had to settle for reaching across the bed and curling her aching fingers around Cait’s limp hand.

She was so tired. Fatigue pressed down on her like a weight and sank her into the bed. Before long, her eyelids grew heavy and she began drifting off despite wrestling to stay awake.

She woke in full dark, the lights doused. Someone had thrown a blanket on her and the bottle of drugs hanging beside Caitlyn had been replaced. Vi sighed, starting to pull her hand free of Cait’s.

She found she couldn’t. Cait’s grip was alarmingly strong weak but her fingers had curled around Vi’s palm and held fast. Her good eye was open, glittering brilliant blue in the dark.

“Violet?” Cait murmured, her voice small and parched.

“That’s my name,” said Vi. Her voice was thick and she choked up a little. “I’m here, Caitlyn.”

“Good,” Cait sighed. “If you’d died I’d kill you.”

Vi snorted.

“I didn’t say this before. I was afraid of what might happen if I did,” Cait rasped. “I love you.”

She squeezed Vi’s palm, not very hard but enough.

“You’re in love with an angry oil slick?”

“My angry oil slick.”

They were quiet for a moment. Cait turned and looked at the ceiling.

“I would understand if�� if you feel differently after everything I did to you. I’m sorry, Vi. I’m sorry I hit you, I’m sorry I did those awful things.”

“Cait.”

“I was so angry, I couldn’t-“

“Cait,” Vi insisted. “I love you, too.”

Cait closes her eyes -eye- and smiled softly.

“So you’re in love with an unhinged mongoose?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

Cait laced her fingers through Vi’s and squeezed, hard.

“No. I am not letting go.”

[zombearzilla]

I wanna wanna die I wanna wanna die I wanna wanna die I wanna wanna die but I don't

[jemmo]

i don’t want to jump the gun, but i think hwang daseul might have just done it again. two episodes in to let free the curse of taekwondo and i am obsessed. more than obsessed. transfixed. this show feels special in a way hwang daseul’s touch only can give, and just using these two episodes to compare to her previous works, i love that i can already spot the continuity in the kinds of stories she tells, the messages she portrays and how she portrays them. she just knows how to let her characters exist in harmful and difficult places and show how their experiences affect them while also just showing them as normal human beings. it is so so easy to overdramatise these kinds of stories that have these difficult topics and have it be so surface level, but she has never done that. instead, she shows how those experiences shape a person and how they go about living in spite of them. all the way from where your eyes linger to now, she gives us characters that are wholly themselves and not just the traumas they have gone through and i just adore that. i can’t remember what i was talking about specifically, but i remember talking about this sentiment and how it actually helps to build empathy in an audience as opposed to just showing a difficult topic at the most surface level bc you think that makes it accessible and easier to understand and hence empathise with. i don’t think that ever works. it’s only when you do what hwang daseul does, when you give us characters we can get to know and fall in love with and care for that you help us to empathise with their experiences. it’s hard to understand the weight and the hardship of experiencing something traumatic, but when something bad happens to someone close to you, a family member or a friend, you understand and feel that pain astronomically more. that’s what hwang daseul manages to do. and more so, she makes you feel that while also seeing these people as people. you get to see them away from the hurt, you see them smile in moments of happiness and you see that too with people you’re close to, and you feel even more how special and important those moments of happiness are.

and that’s why, whenever hwang daseul is at the helm of something, i will be seated from start to end with endless boxes of tissues ready. i can’t wait to see what else this show has in store.

[americankimchi]

god i wish they hadn't retconned maul's death. i get wanting to explore more of his character because he was, objectively, one of the coolest star wars characters to ever hit the big screen and didn't get much screentime prior to his death, but also his role was fulfilled perfectly within those constraints so i wasn't too upset by it.

but by retconning it and making it so he never died it's like. okay. what now? the whole point (well, to me, ymmv of course) of the theed generator fight was that it was the first ever fight between the jedi and the sith in thousands of years, and that in the end even though the jedi (obi-wan) won the fight, a jedi (qui-gon) and a sith (maul) still died. a master and an apprentice dying together to herald the start of a new age/the return of the sith. perfectly paralleling the way in rotj a master (palps) and an apprentice (anakin/vader) died together to herald the return of the jedi. in both instances, a father figure (qui-gon/vader) dies in the arms of their son (obi-wan/luke) as a sith (palps/maul) is cast down into the abyss to their deaths. (palps being alive in the ST and retconning his death in rotj is also annoying for this reason)

i mean i like maul. don't get me wrong. he's an incredibly compelling character and i enjoy seeing more of him... but there's always the thought hovering in my mind like "he should be dead though. he should 100% be dead. this wouldn't be happening if he was dead, but i honestly would rather it not if it meant that maul was dead."

like the tpm fight just doesn't hit the same knowing that canonically he's just. going to become a robot octopus at some point. (shoutout to palps becoming sith glados in the ST) it cheapens the moment for me. it was supposed to be a moment of triumph marred by the deep and soul-crushing loss of a loved one and it's just... not, anymore. or at least not to the same extent. AUGH i'm just. frustrated. wish star wars as a whole wasn't constantly reframing/retconning what's been established. just puts a bad taste in my mouth.

[okkennymay]

This time around I thought I would make a comic relaying the events after the last time I posted, because my gosh is it easier to explain with pretty pictures than upsetting words >vO I prefer to make jokes about my situation than anything, ‘cause honestly it’s a solid way of dealing with it and I take so many medications as it is, why not add laughter to it I say! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

Despite my condition’s best efforts I still managed to organise and complete a commission with someone through emails! Thank you @waezi2 you were so patient as I arose from my grave every other day to get things done (❁´◡`❁) Fighting my body and winning to complete it was the victory I needed! The sheer satisfaction I get from a commission well received by someone is like pure nectar to me~ Sweet sustenance I just can’t get enough of! The money don’t hurt either, Disability Support Pensions do not go far in this economy 👀 This is as close as I can get to having a job and I wont let C.V.S (Cyclic vomiting Syndrome) or Chrohns take that from me! 

I’m raring to dive into more if anyone’s interested ♪(´▽｀) I’m just about to post a new “commissions sheet” to broadcast that very fact >vO I do love having something to draw between Ectober pages~

[candycryptids]

I hate when something sad happens and all I want is to go spend a week out in the country away from where I heard the bad news like somehow being away from home means the Bad Things can’t reach me. It’s literally just running away. I want to lay at the bottom of a moving river (not dead, not drowning, a secret third thing)

[tovarishch-dyke]

I’m like Johnny Truant in the tags of every goddamn post I make or reblog on this site and I’m not apologizing. If you want me to apologize come over to my house and you can talk to the minotaur about it

[nomairuins]

its so embarassing likee. going to talk abt a feeling you have but you already know ppl will be like Oh that sounds like depression lol and its like. well yes . i know . trust me i am so aware i am depressed . but its still like a thing ive been thinking abt and wanting to talk abt but ik itll just be like Ok hun 👍. idk idk what response i would want tho ig FNFNFNF

[mad-hunts]

i sincerely believe that barton literally just... drops his stuff down once he gets home and lays on the floor sometimes to feel the coolness of the ground after he's had a long day at work + the mathis kids literally have just gotten used to talking to him while he's just. lying there and honestly, it's little thing's like that remind me that... oh yeah, barton is basically my OC, because i deadass have done that in my room before ☠️ LMAO

[elfsyellowflowerzart]

very busy babysitting a duo of kittens (only two months old) the last few days but i shall be drawing when i return home (this includes requests)

and also if anyone wants to see the babies send an ask and i can post them in response hehe i have taken SO many photos

[phagodyke]

ykw actually I am angry + disappointed w them. I've been pushing how I feel aside and trying to make it my own fault so it's all contained but I think theyve just been mean. and they really should know me better ik I try to pretend I don't expect more from them so I feel less hurt when they do things that upset me but we've been friends for years by this point. like come on.

[princeinsomniavoid]

My weird phantom sensation of "You're being stabbed through the back with a sword" thing has been acting up a lot latey....

[something-about-sunflowers]

I’ve barely been awake for 8 hours. I’ve done nothing today. I slept for at least 12 hours earlier. I should not be tired. I should not have been tired 10 minutes after I woke up. I fucking hate this. I just want to not be tired. I want to be able to be awake at reasonable times, for reasonable amounts of time, during the day. I want to be able to DO things with my day. I want to be able to go to work so I can afford things I want to do and things I need to pay. I fucking hate this shit.

[m0e-ru]

desperately nailing boards on my doors and windows carpal tunnel in my wrists back pain from sitting like a shrimp bags under my eyes hair I haven't combed out in days leaving informative pamphlets outside and hiding behind glass with a pot as a helmet and a rusty wrench in my hands shaking weeping terrified crying