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itneverendshere · 3 months ago

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Just saw the new popular movie ’’This ends with us’’ and I beg of you to draw from the actual beautiful love story, so pure! So same concept of the love story: Pouge!Rafe has been kicked out by his mom and her abusive boyfriend, Kook!Reader sees him homeless & hiding. Reader does small acts of kindness, which builds up to a romance but they separate for whatever reason (could be because they get discovered, he joins the military, like the movie, or something different). It could also be reversed with Pouge!Reader instead being homeless, you pick! Years go by, Reader meets an abusive partner, she bumps into a now grown up Rafe. Lots of angst, lingering feelings and longing, he sees the signs of abusive and gets protective. But without the movie plots of reader getting pregnant and married) I adore and worship your writing skills, truly have a gift to make you feel all the emotions!! <3333333

INVISIBLE STRING - r.c series (one)

i loooove this request because pogue!rafe so i decided to turn into a mini series (two or three parts). im personally not a fan of it ends with us, but i love your requests bc it's still very different from the original plot.

pairing: pogue!rafe x sweetheart!kook reader. chapter warnings: domestic violence; absent parents; angst; fluff.

Rafe was born rough around the edges.

There was never any sugar-coating about it; with his hair always messy, sun-bleached and salty, and his hands perpetually stained with the grime of whatever job he'd taken up that week, Rafe Cameron had never known peace. He moved like a stray dog that had learned to fend for itself, his eyes always scanning for trouble.

Most people kept their distance, and he liked it that way.

There wasn’t much softness in his life. His mom tried her best, he supposed, but that wasn’t saying much. She had a new boyfriend every few months, and they were all the same — mean, drunk, and looking for a fight. Rafe learned early on that if you couldn’t fight back, you were nothing. So he fought. A lot.

He fought the men who walked into their house at night, stinking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. He fought the kids at school who called him trash, who mocked the way his clothes never quite fit or how he always seemed a little too hungry. But mostly, he fought himself — every time he looked in the mirror and saw his father’s eyes staring back at him. The man who left and never looked back.

Another piece of shit.

He kept his head down, kept his hands busy, and kept his mouth shut unless he had something to say. He wasn’t nice. Nice got you nowhere; nice got you used, broken, and left behind. He had seen it too many times to believe otherwise. The world wasn’t a kind place, and he wasn’t a kind guy.

Most days, he’d finish work covered in sweat and salt, with just enough money in his pocket to get by. He'd dropped out of school years ago and head to the docks, sit on the edge, and smoke a cigarette while the sun dipped below the horizon.

The only real moment of peace he had.

Rafe took what work he could find — fixing up old fishing boats for the few Kooks who’d dare come down his side of the Cut, pulling shrimp nets in the dead hours of the morning, his back aching and his muscles screaming at such a young age, but at least it was better than being home. If he could call it that.

Home, where his mom was probably passed out again, where the latest loser she'd dragged in might be passed out on the couch or looking for a fight.

He could hear them shouting before he even got to the door. His mom’s voice screaming her throat out, and he could hear something crashing inside — a glass, maybe, or a plate. Then came the matching scream of the new boyfriend, Tony or Tommy or something — they all blurred together after a while. Rafe paused on the porch, his hand hovering over the door handle, debating whether it was worth going in at all.

Inside, she was standing in the middle of the living room, her face flushed, her blonde hair a mess. Tony stood over her, fists clenched, his face red and veins bulging in his neck.

Rafe knew that look.

He’d seen it before — seen it in a dozen men who thought they could push their weight around, thought they could break whatever they wanted.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Tony turned, eyes narrowing. “None of your damn business, boy.”

Rafe took a step forward, his fists balling up instinctively. “If it’s in my house, it’s my business.”

His mom spun around to face him, her eyes wild and desperate. “Just stay out of it, Rafe. You always have to make things worse!”

He felt the sting of her words. He should be used to it by now. “I’m not the one who brought this piece of shit in here.”

That was all it took. Tony lunged at him, shoving him hard against the wall. Rafe felt the air rush out of his lungs as pain flared in his back. “You watch your mouth, punk,” Tony hissed, his face inches from his, his breath a disgusting mix of beer and god knows what.

“Or what?” Rafe shot back. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was how to keep his anger in check — at least most of the time.

Tony’s eyes flicked to his mom, like he was making a point, and she just stood there, watching. He’d lost his faith in her a long time ago but it still blew him away how she never lifted a finger to help him.

“Get out,” she said finally, hand moving to point towards the bust-up wooden door.

“What?” Rafe blinked, caught off guard. He must’ve heard her wrong.

“You heard me. Get out!” She was shouting now, her voice high-pitched and desperate. “I can’t have you here, always stirring things up! You make everything worse!”

It had to be a fucking joke. He was the only one bringing in money to pay the rent, the only one who kept the house clean enough so it wouldn’t look or smell like someone died in there. Paid the hospital bills when they hit her too hard. He did everything, always.

Tony shoved him again, harder this time, toward the open door. “You heard her. Get the hell out.”

Rafe stumbled backward, catching himself before he fell. He looked at his mom, his chest tightening in a way he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. “You’re really gonna choose him over your own son?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Just go, Rafe. I can’t do this anymore.”

He forced himself to nod. He almost wanted to laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, pushing past Tony and heading for the door. “Don’t call me when he sends you to the hospital again.”

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The moment he stepped outside, the wind hit his face like a slap, the kind that made his eyes sting and his heart pound. Things had never gotten to this point before. He would’ve rather taken a beating then get kicked out.

He walked, hands stuffed into his pockets. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he couldn’t go back. Not now. Not ever. He’d die before he begged his mother or Tony to let him in that shithole again. His feet took him along the edge of town, past the marina and the fishing docks, and eventually, he found himself in the wealthy part of town, near Figure 8.

It was ironic, almost funny.

The Kooks lived here, the ones who wouldn’t give him the time of day if they saw him on their streets. And here he was, a beat-up pogue, walking right through their territory, angry and suddenly so damn tired.

He spotted an old, abandoned house, sitting at the end of a street where the mansions stood tall and proud. He had walked by it a few times before and noticed it had been empty for years, the paint peeling off in strips, the windows boarded up, and the grass overgrown. He crossed the street, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, and pushed the broken gate open. The hinges squeaked loudly, proving just how long it had been since someone had been there.

The front door was unlocked; it opened with the slightest push. Inside, it smelled of dust and mold, but it was dry, and it was quiet. It was enough. He made his way to a small room in the back, what must have once been a kitchen. There was an old sofa left behind, covered in a dirty sheet. He pulled the sheet off, threw it in a corner, and sank onto the sofá, finally breathing properly.

He stayed there, staring at the cracked ceiling and the empty walls, wondering how the fuck he was going to get himself out of this one.

For the two next days, he moved carefully, quietly, in and out of the house. He didn’t want anyone to know he was staying there. He wasn’t getting his ass thrown into jail again. He found a way in through the back window, kept to the dimly lighted areas, and avoided the main roads. He didn't have much — a few changes of clothes, some cash from odd jobs, and his dad’s old pocketknife, the only thing he had left of the bastard.

It was on the third day that he saw you.

He was sitting on the front steps, having a cigarette, when he heard the sound of a bike chain clicking. He glanced up, and there you were — riding a yellow bike, hair pulled back, and eyes glued to him as you pedaled down the street.

He stiffened, quickly stubbing out the cigarette, his heart rate picking up. You were one of them, a Kook, from one of the mansions just a block away. He’d seen you before, always biking around town, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone.

He didn’t know you, didn’t even know your name, but he knew the type.

You saw him, too, and slowed your bike. His first thought was to get up and disappear back into the house, but he knew that would look suspicious. So he stayed put, trying to look casual, as if he belonged there.

You stopped a few feet away, still on your stupid bike, one foot on the ground to steady yourself.

“You live here?” You asked, not in a mean way, just curious.

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he lied, “Why?”

You shrugged, “Just… didn’t think anyone did. Looks pretty empty.”

He tensed, waiting for you to say something like, “I’m going to tell someone,” or worse, to start asking more questions. But instead, you just gave him another curious look, nodded, and biked away.

Weird girl.

The next day, you were back. This time, you had a bag with you. He watched you approach, wary. You stopped in front of the house and took something out of the bag — a sandwich, wrapped in paper, and a bottle of water.

You held them out to him, a gentle smile on your face, “Figured you might be hungry.”

He thought maybe you were just trying to make yourself feel better, some Kook guilt thing, like feeding the stray cat in the alley so you could pat yourself on the back for being such a nice person.

And he hated that. Hated you for even thinking he needed your stupid charity. So he gave you every reason to leave him alone.

When you handed him that sandwich, he barely even looked at you.

He just grabbed it and then turned his back, heading into the house without another word. But the next day, you were there again. And the next.

He started making it obvious he didn’t want you around. He’d grunt when you said hello, roll his eyes when you tried to make small talk.

One time, you offered him an apple, and he snatched it out of your hand without a word, just to see if you’d get annoyed enough to leave. You didn’t. Like some fucking saint.

Instead, you kept coming back, like some sort of annoying, persistent fly he couldn’t swat away. Every time, your smile was a little nicer, your eyes a little more curious.

He didn't get it. Why the hell were you still trying? Didn’t you get it? He didn’t want you here. Didn’t want to talk to you. Didn’t need shit from a Kook.

“What’s your problem?” he muttered one day when you showed up with a bag of groceries.

You blinked, “What do you mean?”

“You keep coming back here like I asked you to. I didn’t. I don’t need your charity.”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow, still not leaving. “I’m not doing charity. I jut figured you could use a little help.”

He scoffed, turning his back on you again. “I don’t need anything from you, princess.”

You hesitated, then placed the bag on the steps anyway. “Well, it’s here if you do.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes again. “Great. Another pity gift from the rich kid. Thank you so much,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You clenched your jaw, but still didn’t leave. He expected you to finally get the hint, but you just shook your head and walked away.

The next day, you there you were. And the day after that. Always bringing something, always with that same annoying, stubborn smile.

By the end of the week, he was done. You rolled up with another bag, and before you could even open your mouth, he let out a loud groan, throwing his head back.

"For fuck’s sake, don’t you have anything better to do than bother me every damn day?”

That was it — you snapped.

Your eyes flared, and you stepped in closer, voice getting louder. "Will you just eat the damn food before I throw it in your face?" You shouted, cheeks going red with frustration.

He blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t expect you to clap back.

You’d been silent and too sweet for his liking. Most Kooks would’ve run back to their fancy houses by now, but you were still standing your ground, fists clenched, breathing heavy. Cute.

He almost laughed. Almost. “What’s your deal? You think you’re some kind of hero bringing food to the poor pogue? You think you're gon' save me or something?”

You glared at him “I’m not trying to save you, jerk! I’m just trying to be a decent human! Maybe you should try it sometime!”

He stared at you, face set in a deadpan, but he felt something— something he hadn’t felt in a while. Respect, maybe? But for some reason, he didn’t tell you to get lost.

Instead, he snatched the bag out of your dainty small hand. “Fine. I’ll eat your stupid food. But don’t think this changes anything,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “Oh, trust me, I don’t.”

You both stood there in this weird silence for a minute, glaring at each other. Then you shook your head, and smiled like you hadn’t read him to filth ten seconds ago. “See you tomorrow, Rafe.”

What? You knew his name?

He watched as you rode away and he realized he was grinning, just a bit. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel completely alone.

And somehow, that pissed him off even more.

Days turned into weeks, and you kept showing up, like a plague.

No matter how much Rafe grumbled, no matter how many times he rolled his eyes or muttered under his breath, you just kept coming back. It was always something small — fruit, a bottle of water, a warm meal in a container. Every time you showed up, you had that same stubborn look in your eyes, like you weren’t going to back down no matter how much he pushed you away.

He hated to admit it, but he started to look forward to your little visits. He hated even more that he noticed things about you. Like how your hair fell in your face when you leaned over to hand him something or how your laugh sounded when he said something sarcastic. He noticed the way you seemed to care, even when he made it clear he didn’t want you to.

One day, you showed up with a duffel bag. Rafe looked at you suspiciously as you parked your bike and slung the bag over your shoulder.

“What now?” he grunted, eyeing the bag like it might bite him.

He could tell you were nervous and that weirded him out even more. Since when could he read your mind?

“I was thinking… maybe you’d want to come to my house. Just to shower and get some real rest. My parents are out of town, and y’know, you could use it.”

He stared at you like you’d grown another head. “You want me to come to your house?”

You nodded, looking a little unsure now, hands tightening around the bag’s strap, “Yeah. Just for a bit. I thought you might like a break from this place.”

He scoffed. “And why the hell would I want to do that? You think I’m gonna be some charity case you can parade around to make yourself feel good?”

You sighed, clearly getting frustrated. “No, Rafe. I just thought… I just thought you might want a hot shower. But if you don’t, that’s fine.”

He usually cleaned himself up near the docks, but the water was freezing during this time of the year. Every time it felt like his balls were going to drop to the floor. So yeah, a hot shower in a big mansion sounded tempting.

Even if he didn’t want to give you that satisfaction.

A hot shower… a real bed, even for a little while. He hadn’t had that in what felt like forever. He looked at you again, trying to figure out if this was some kind of sick twisted plan, but all he saw were those stupid glowing eyes staring him down like he’d be dumb to refuse you.

“Fine,” he muttered, standing up. “But just for a shower. And if you try anything weird, ’m outta there.”

Your nose scrunched up, “As if.”

Your house was everything he expected from a Kook — big, clean, and way too fancy. He felt out of place the moment he stepped through the gigantic door, like he was tracking mud on a white carpet. You led him upstairs, pointing out the bathroom.

“You can use this one. Towels are in the cabinet, and I’ll leave some clothes outside if you want them.”

Rafe grunted in response, still unsure why he was even there. He went into the bathroom and locked the door, leaning against it for a moment. The place smelled like lavender or some other fancy soap he couldn’t name. He turned on the shower, and the hot water poured out instantly, filling the room with steam.

He stripped off his dirty clothes and stepped under the water, hissing as the heat hit his skin. But then he relaxed, letting the water wash away the grime, the salt, the exhaustion he’d been carrying for so long. He stayed under the spray longer than he should have, almost losing track of time.

When he finally got out, he saw the clothes you’d left outside the door — a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, nothing flashy, but clean. He put them on and headed back downstairs, finding you in the kitchen, making coffee.

You looked up when he entered, “Feel better?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

You handed him a cup of coffee, and he took it reluctantly, still waiting for the catch. But you just sat across from him at the kitchen island, sipping your own cup, not saying anything.

He found himself watching you, noticing the little things again.

The way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way your fingers tapped against the mug when you were thinking. He hated that he was noticing, hated that he found any of it interesting. He took a sip of the coffee and scowled when it tasted good, because of course it did.

“You do this shit for everyone?” he asked, breaking the silence.

You looked at him, “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured around. “Invite random guys to your house, make them coffee, act like you care.”

You laughed, a light sound that made his chest feel weird. “No. Just you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just looked away, taking another sip of coffee. He didn’t do nice. He wasn’t used to nice. This was weird.

You kept doing these little things for him — small acts of kindness he didn’t ask for and definitely didn’t deserve. You’d leave extra food by the house when you knew he’d be there, sometimes even a blanket or a pillow you said you didn’t need. You’d offer to let him use the house again, and every once in a while, he’d accept, hating how much he craved the simple comfort of a shower or a bed.

And all the while, he stayed the same — gruff, sarcastic, always trying to push you away with his attitude. But you didn’t go. You took his crap and came back.

One night, after a particularly rough day where everything seemed to go wrong, he found himself standing outside your house again. Your parents were out of town again, and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He hated that he was here, hated that he needed this, but he knocked anyway.

You opened the door, your face lit up with that familiar smile. “Rafe,” you said, voice warm. “Come in.”

He liked the way his name sounded on your lips.

He hesitated, but he did. You led him to the living room, and he noticed a few things this time — the family photos on the walls, a vase of flowers on the table, the soft throw blanket on the couch.

Your home was nothing like his, but it felt… safe.

They sat in silence for a while, and he noticed how you didn’t bother him with questions, didn’t try to fix anything. You just sat there, close but not too close, letting him breathe. He found himself looking at you more, catching the way your lips curled up at the corners, how your eyes seemed to soften whenever they landed on him. He felt something strange, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He sat on that big couch, staring at his busted-up hands, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded in his chest. You were just a few feet away, eyes flicking over to him now and then, like you were waiting for him to speak. But he didn’t know what to say.

He felt… uncomfortable. Not because of the place, or you. No, never because of you. But because of this strange feeling that kept crawling up his spine, making him feel restless.

You were sitting on the arm of the chair, legs tucked under you, looking at him with that familiar, gentle expression that made him feel like maybe he wasn’t such a screw-up. He didn’t know what to do with that. You were the kind of girl who should have nothing to do with him. Yet here you were, again and again, showing up, like you didn’t know any better.

He cleared his throat, trying to push back whatever weird tension was building between you. “So… your parents,” he muttered. “They’re out of town a lot?”

You nodded, sighing, “Yeah. They travel for work. I’m used to it.”

“Must be nice,” he said, but his voice came out rougher than what he was going for. He didn’t know how to do gentle and he was still half-convinced you were going to kick him out or tell him you had enough of his crap.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “But it gets lonely, too.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He glanced at you trying to read you. He knew you weren’t looking for sympathy; you were just stating a fact.

He wasn’t sure what made him ask, but he did anyway. “Why do you keep helping me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I— I don’t know. I guess… I just see something in you. Something good.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “There’s nothin' good in me.”

“There is,” you insisted. “I see it. Even if you don’t.”

He felt his chest tighten, and he had to look away. “You’re wrong.”

“Maybe,” you said quietly, “but I don’t think so.”

He feel your eyes on him, could feel the way his pulse was racing under his skin. He hated it. Hated that he wanted to believe you, wanted to feel whatever it was you seemed to see in him.

“You’re too good,” he muttered. “Too good for someone like me.”

You laughed softly. “You don’t know me as well as you think, Rafe.”

He glanced up, surprised by the boldness in you. You were so soft most days it always threw him off when you took the reins. You were closer now, leaning forward just slightly, eyes fixed on his. He felt that breathtaking tension tightening again.

Before he could think better of it, he spoke, voice coming out meeker than what he was going for, “You really think there’s somethin' good in me?”

You nodded, not taking your eyes off of him for a second, “Yeah, I do.”

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what possessed him, but before he could stop himself, he reached out, his hand finding yours. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch in fear or scrunched up your nose in disgust.

Instead, your fingers tightened around his, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Why?” he asked again, desperate.

“Because I just do.”

Something snapped in him then, something he’d been holding back for too long. He moved closer, his other hand reaching up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your delicate skin. You didn’t pull away again, only leaning into his touch.

He hesitated, just for a moment. “I’m not— I-I’m not a good guy,” he murmured.

You smiled again, softer this time, the way he hoped you only did for him, “I don’t need you to be.”

He didn’t get it, but he didn’t have time to figure it out.

He leaned in and kissed you. It was clumsy at first — just a touch of lips, a bit hesitant. But then you kissed him back and suddenly he understood those stupid cliché novels his mom used to read when he was younger. He’d never kissed anyone before.

He was too aware of how inexperienced they both were, of the way his lips barely brushed against yours. He felt stiff and unsure, like he didn’t know if he was doing it right. But it felt right. It wasn’t smooth or perfect — there was hesitancy and uncertainty, but it was real. He felt your hand touch his cheek, your fingers warm and trembling just a little.

His hand slid from your cheek down to your neck, pulling you closer, fingers curling into your hair. He couldn’t get enough. It was messy, frantic, his heart racing like it was trying to break out of his chest, and for once, he didn’t care. He felt your breath hitch against his lips, the warmth of you pressing into him, and all the walls he’d built up, all the reasons he’d given himself to push you away, disappeared.

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his old shirt like you didn’t want to let go, and that did something to him. Made him feel more alive than he had in a long time. Every time he kissed you, it was like he was drowning in you, like nothing else mattered except for this — your lips, your skin, the way your body pressed against his.

He pulled away, just for a second, eyes wide and breathing heavy, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

He looked at you, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet from the kiss, and damn, you looked beautiful. More beautiful than he ever let himself admit before.

But then you smiled, that same heart-shattering smile, and it was like you were pulling him back in, “You don’t have to be afraid,” you whispered.

“I’m not…” he started, but even he didn’t believe it. Because he was. He was terrified as hell of this, of you, of the way you made him feel like he wasn’t a complete mess. But before he could say more, you kissed him again, and this time, he didn’t hold back.

He didn’t think about what he should or shouldn’t be doing, didn’t overanalyze the way his hands moved from your waist to your back, pulling you closer until there wasn’t any space left between you. You melted into him, your body warm and soft, like you belonged there and he felt like he was burning up from the inside out.

His hands roamed, exploring, memorizing the curve of your waist, the way your body fit so perfectly against his. Every little sound you made, every breathless gasp, made him feel like he was on fire.

You broke apart again, both of you panting, and he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath.

“This is crazy,” he muttered, his voice all shaky.

You giggled, the sound making his chest tighten in the best way.

“Maybe. But I don’t care.”

He opened his eyes, staring into yours, and he knew you meant it.

You didn’t care about the Kook vs. Pogue thing, about the stupid rules that had been drilled into them from birth. You just cared about him. He didn’t know how to let himself want something good, something real. But he wanted you. God, did he want you.

From that night on, everything changed.

You started seeing each other in secret, meeting up when your parents were out of town or sneaking off to some hidden spot by the beach at night where no one would find you. Every time he saw you, it was like a high he couldn’t get enough of. You’d kiss, talk, hold each other like you were the only two people in the world, and he’d forget about all the shit in his life. Forget about the fact that he was supposed to be a screw-up who didn’t deserve someone like you.

You sat side by side at the dock, feet dangling just above the water, the tips of your shoes barely touching the surface. Something was calming about the sound of the gentle waves lapping against the dock, the world feeling small and distant for once, like it was just the two of you.

He leaned back on his hands, staring out at the horizon, not saying much. He’d been quiet today, more so than usual. You nudged him lightly with your shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He snorted, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t want ‘em. They’re not worth much.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him again. “C’mon. You’ve been quiet all day. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He hesitated, glancing down at the water, his fingers curling into the wood of the dock. He was biting back whatever was eating at him. He wasn’t the type to open up easily, you knew that, but he wanted to, for you. You wanted to know him, all of him, not just the fake exterior he put up for everyone else to see.

“You ever think about… like, how different your life would be if shit didn’t go so sideways?” he asked, his voice low, almost like he wasn’t sure he wanted to say it out loud.

You frowned, turning to face him, “What do you mean?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair.

“My mom, she… she used to date these losers. Real pieces of shit, y’know? Guys who’d roll through, thinking they owned the place, treating me like I was some kind of burden just because I was around.”

It wasn’t easy for him to say it, but he was doing it anyway, like the words had been stuck inside him for years.

“She didn’t really care what they did. As long as they paid for her booze, she was cool with whatever. They’d knock me around sometimes, tell me I wasn’t worth shit. But she never did anything about it.” He paused, swallowing hard, his gaze fixed on the water because he couldn’t look at you. “One of ‘em got real bad. Fucker hit me so hard one night, I thought I was gonna pass out. And when I told her… she didn’t care. Told me I was a liar. Said I probably deserved it.”

“Rafe…” you whispered, reaching out to take his hand. He didn’t pull away this time, just let you hold it, his fingers squeezing yours a little too tightly.

“I tried to stick it out,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Tried to stay for as long as I could. But one day, she kicked me out. Told me I was too much trouble, and she didn’t need me around anymore.” He laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “I guess I wasn’t worth the space I took up.”

You were quiet. He liked that about you, that you didn’t try and get his thoughts out of his head, just let him do his thing, on his own time. There was nothing that could make up for the kind of pain he’d been through. You just squeezed his hand tighter, and he just knew you wished you could take some weight off his shoulders.

“That’s why you were in that house?” You brushed your lips against his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

It was hard for him to talk about this stuff. Hell, it was hard for him to talk at all when it came to anything real. You just sat there, holding his hand, being there. That was what made you different. Most people didn’t wait for him. They’d get frustrated, give up, move on.

You just... stayed. And that scared him almost as much as it comforted him.

“You didn’t deserve that.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

You shifted closer, your knees touching his now. “It matters to me.”

He didn’t understand how you could look at him like that, like he was worth something.

“You knew my name.”

You nodded, “You delivered fresh seafood to the house once.”

His eyes nearly popped out from their sockets, “I was fourteen.”

“Yeah?”

“And you remembered that?”

Your brows shot up like he’d said the dumbest thing ever. “Obviously.”

His breath caught, and before he could stop himself, he reached out, pulling you into his lap. His hands found your waist, desperate, almost frantic, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"You shouldn’t—" he started, but the words died on his lips because you were already kissing him, and it was like everything stopped. The world, his thoughts, all the shit that weighed him down. It was just you, your lips, the way your hands tangled in his hair, and the soft sounds you made against his mouth.

He kissed you harder, more urgently, like he was trying to prove something to himself — that he could have this, that he could deserve this. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips moved against yours and he felt like he was falling apart and putting himself back together all at once.

When he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his chest was heaving, and you were looking at him with that same softness that made his stomach twist.

"How—How the hell did I get this lucky?" His voice cracked, just a little. He hadn’t meant to say it, but the words spilled out anyway.

You smiled, brushing your thumb across his cheek, and he realized then that his face was wet. He hadn’t even noticed the tears slipping down, hadn’t noticed the way he was trembling.

"You deserve this" you whispered.

That was it.

That was the breaking point. A choked sob escaped him, and before he could stop himself, he crashed his lips against yours again, kissing you so hard it hurt, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t hold back the way he felt like he��d been waiting his whole life for this moment. For you.

His hands cupped your face, fingers trembling as he kissed you again and again, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he stopped.

And as his tears mixed with your kiss, he realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn’t running.

He wasn’t pushing you away. He was falling, hard and fast, and he didn’t care. Because for once, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

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remotewatch · 4 months ago

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handprints, footprints all on my glass

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 1.6k wc

minors dni please and thanks, this is hag business

summary: it’s a short ride from the afterparty to the airport, theoretically

cw: shameless smut, she comes first 💪, dry humping, dom reader sorta, pathetic simp Jack enjoyers make some noise!!!, oral (f receiving), fingering, we’re degrading him a bit whoops, accidental vabbing (?????) girl idk, reader wears the pants not the panties, they’re in one of those Mercedes vans, wear your seatbelts everywhere but here

The jet lag was undoubtedly winning. As luck would have it, the busiest weeks of the year for you and Jack overlapped nearly entirely. It had been nonstop flights, engagements, meetings, press releases, dinner parties, galas, openings of buildings for charities for either dogs or orphans, orphaned dogs maybe, for so long you’d entirely lost track and were ever thankful that most of your speaking assignments were behind you. This last afterparty had fried you both; you didn’t have a single networking conversation left in you. Collapsed opposite you in the jump seat, Jack looked just as spent as you felt.

Of course, he still looked too good. It was fucking sweltering in that venue, and he had loosened his evergreen evening tie and slightly unbuttoned his dress shirt the very second you were shielded by the limo tint. Faint wisps of chest hair peered out from the opening, a fresh tan making his teeth look even whiter. Gun to your head, he’d had his pants taken in too much at the hips, but you’d never say anything that would threaten such a view.

There wasn’t time for that; you were in the home stretch of this hell month and had a packed 16 hour day tomorrow. One last email once over, and you could abandon your work iPad and pass out for the flight back to New York.

“Have you been like that all night?” he asks tentatively.

“Like what?” There’s no immediate response, so you look up from checking tomorrow’s agenda to see Jack shamelessly staring up your cocktail dress at your lack of underwear. The spell breaks when you recross your legs and playfully kick his shin.

“Eyes up here. So what if I was?”

Jack blinks dumbly at you and clears his throat. His eyebrows draw together out of confusion.

“But I saw you get dressed this morning. Where’s that pair I just bought you?”

“They’re wrapped in your pocket square. Did you forget to switch it out for a dry one before lunch?” you ask, holding back a shit-eating grin.

It’s hard to deny the rush you get watching Jack go pale and fish the handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his discarded suit jacket, still sticky from cleaning you up a few hours ago. Sure enough, there’s a crumpled La Perla thong cradled in the middle. You interrupt his stuttering protests when you kick your pumps off and slide a foot up his leg.

“Oh please, like you don’t love walking around smelling like me.”

“I do,” his ears are turning red. “but I hugged like twenty people today!”

“Page six has been trying to pin down that musky “cologne” you use for ages. I think you’re safe.” You briefly wonder if you’re leaking onto the leather seats, but that train of thought is halted by Jack’s hand reaching to remove his tie.

“Keep it on.”

He snaps to attention at the direct order.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I like my handle.”

“Do you come with an off switch?”

Break lights flash on in the surrounding lanes. Just your luck; it’s complete gridlock in the few miles between here and the airpark. Maybe there was a little time.

Your foot slides higher, and Jack hisses through his teeth at the contact.

“Why don’t you try and find it?”

There’s barely a millisecond of hesitation before he falls onto you, licking stripes of sweat off your skin from your cleavage to your cheekbones. As always, he’s loud in the way that only a guy who never gets told to shut the fuck up can be: every breath shudders its way out, and he’s basically whimpering into your mouth by the time he gets there, louder when his right hand finds you, in fact, dripping all over the seat. You doubt you’ll ever get used to how thick his fingers are, or the vulgar noises they make when he’s showing off his grip strength knocking on your g spot.

He’d rolled his shirt sleeves up for the afterparty, but his watch was still squarely in the splash zone, and for the briefest of moments you wonder if it’s as waterproof as the cheaper ones he wears surfing. The thought is quickly pushed aside as Jack works you until you’re jolting off the seat trying to get his fingers deeper.

One good yank on his hair gets him off your neck, and he’s so dazed and fucked out already that you almost cum right there.

“Someone looks hungry,” you tease.

“Fuck, please let me-“ He’s cut off by the van suddenly lurching forward and throwing you both off balance, leaving only your vice grip on his tie keeping him in place. There’s a filthy squelch when he pulls his fingers out to suck them clean as he sinks down to his knees. It’s so warm that your dress is sticking to your thighs, and he rapidly loses patience trying to slide it up to your waist.

“This is a rental!” you squeal when the fabric rips, spraying sequins all over the floor. Jack doesn’t even flinch and wraps his lips snugly around your clit.

“Whatever, I’ll buy it,” he mumbles without breaking contact. You find yourself sliding down the sweat slick leather to grind against his face, and he has the nerve to lean back to watch your hips buck desperately.

“I love when you chase it,” he grins. Without missing a beat, you lock your legs around his head and shut him up against you.

“Don’t fucking tease me. I’m not the one humping the floor like a dog.” The mumbly, docile “sorry” that vibrates through you is the hottest thing he’s said all day. And he really is, if his overly enthusiastic slurping indicates anything. Those rapid, precise little strokes of his tongue always froth you up like he’s got a mouthful of soap. By the time you get tired of spelling your name on his nose and shove him to the floor to straddle his face, he’s completely lathered in you.

He lets out a little bleat of surprise when you roughly grab his hair and start manhandling him as if he’s a wet wipe, though he really should expect it by now. Normally, you’d be distractingly aware of the very real possibility the driver can hear the way you’re snarling his name, but time is not on your side right now. The last break lights recede, leaving the compartment only lit by dim blue under-seat bulbs. Your movements grow more frenzied; you’re totally disregarding Jack’s lung capacity and not even aiming for his mouth anymore, just using his whole face like it’s all he’s made for. Right as you begin to worry you have nothing left in the tank due to the lunch commute, a muffled, drawn-out “please” from beneath you sends you tumbling right over the edge. Your orgasm hits you more like a tranquilizer than anything else as the last dregs of your energy drench his face.

As soon as he feels your contractions lessen, he’s tossing you off to sit on his thighs and fumbling with his belt buckle. The van makes a hard right turn onto the final road to the airpark, and Jack lets out a frustrated groan knowing the clock is ticking. Still, he knows not to get in your way when you shove his hands away and slide right back on top of his dick, so hard you can feel the heat radiating through the fabric. You know you’re fucking up his dress pants grinding on him like this, but if nothing else, the linen will dry fast.

“I’m sleeping on the plane whether you finish or not, so make it work.” He doesn’t have enough time to be pissed at you, and he knows it. The sight of him so desperately rutting up against you is nearly enough to get you there all over again. All the tendons in his neck stand out as he presses his lips together trying to focus. His legs splay frantically in an attempt to ground himself, one jet black Oxford wedging under the jump seat and the other pressed flat against the far window. Jack’s head tips back and his eyes screw up in concentration, but you can’t have that, no matter how tasty his Adam’s apple looks. You loop his tie around your hand one more time and yank him back to earth,

“Uh-uh. Look at me when I’m making you cum.” That’ll do it. His expression softens then freezes as his eyes unfocus and his mouth falls open. He sounds downright melodic when he cums, just one long note that gets bounced up and down the scale before trailing off to a whine, and you relish every little twitch of him spilling into his pants, so far from you but certainly close enough.

The van rolls to a stop, and suddenly it’s a fumbling nightmare of you both trying to fish your shoes out from under the seats and smooth each others hair. You snatch Jack’s blazer to cover the rip in your dress, shove the iPad and pocket square-thong mess into your work bag, and throw the door open with what you hope is a believable amount of nobody-get-between-me-and-my-lie-flat-seat urgency.

Wobbly legs insist you grab his hand to step out of the van, and, of course, there’s a fucking pap pressed to the tarmac fence. Jack’s reflexes don’t stand a chance at turning him away in time after what you’ve put him through. When the flash catches his face, you can only look horrified as it perfectly captures the shine you’ve left on him.

Gossipy headlines and vague, tasteful PR statement drafts are already zipping through your head. Add it to the agenda: 16.5 hour day incoming.

#jack schlossberg #I have so much to do and instead I’m here #objectifying this little Ken doll #if you notice the phrases I struggle not to repeat #you did not #not my fault there aren’t enough words out there #jack schlossberg x reader

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dirtysvthoughts · 5 months ago

Text

𝙗𝙖𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣! [1𝗄 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇] - part. 1: the destination

synopsis: you and your boyfriend have been working nonstop. performances on his end and endless meetings on yours. when you both finally get a break, he proposes you two get away for a few days. little do the both of you know that this “baecation” will provide physical, emotional, and sexual healing.

general tags/warnings: smut, pwp, female! reader, boyfriend! chan, non-idol! chan (professional dancer! chan), vacation/baecation getaway, lots of teasing, lots of dirty talk, lingerie on reader, hotel room sex, balcony sex, pool sex, basically chan and reader are just horny lovebirds

this part’s tags/warnings: cooking and food, kissing, tinges of suggestive material, mentions of the beach, waterfronts, etc.

word count: 2.6k

notes: well, she’s finally here! baecation is ready for you all to consume and i really hope you all like it! 🥹 thank you again for 1k, it still feels very surreal and i’m so lucky to do one of the things i love and share it with you guys. now before i get too sappy, let’s get into it shall we?

taglist will be reblogged!

——

quite frankly - you’re over it.

for the past month and a half, you’ve been pushing your limits at your job. your boss designated you as the lead of a project and on top of that, you had to put in overtime to ensure that the project workload AND your individual load were still up to standards. while you knew things would be worth it in the end (your project commissions and overtime would give you an extra $2,500 dollars on your paycheck), you would be lying if you said your mental and physical health were starting to deteriorate.

today especially, you realized things were going to get worse before they got better. as you shut down your workspace, you felt ounces of your energy leave your body. too much happened for your liking - your teammates argued about the project’s direction, your boss complained about the most minute details in a presentation you were to give in a few days, and to culminate the day, your company laptop malfunctioned while you were working and it had to be sent to i.t. for it to get fixed. at this point, you were ready to head home, wrap yourself up in your covers, and forget about everything and everyone.

you’re not sure if you heard people say goodbye to you as you left the office, but if they did, you were too tired (and too agitated) to care and respond back. as you enter into the parking deck of your office building, you fish for your phone and see some missed texts from your boyfriend, chan.

channie ❤️: hey, just wanted to check on you

channie ❤️: i’ll probably be over later tonight

channie ❤️: so much is going on, and i really want to see you

you breathe a sigh of relief at seeing your boyfriend’s name appear on your screen, but you also can’t help but worry. your boyfriend chan was a professional dancer - and a damn good one. he’s been dancing since he was three, and it’s his first love. he teaches at three of the most popular dance studios on a weekly basis, drawing in huge crowds of avid and eager learners. his instagram comments are always flooded with words of praise - handsomeness and talent catching the eyes of millions. his sharpness, keen eye for detail, and flawless execution made him the target for entertainment companies and he was often called in to be a backup dancer or choreograph for popular idol groups. currently, he’s preparing to dance with a popular boy group after their latest comeback broke records.

he did mention that his rehearsals were getting a bit more intense, especially since this group in particular were about to start their promotion period. there were days where he complained that his body ached and times that you helped take care of him, so you just had to pray and hope that today wasn’t as harsh on him.

you and chan have been together for a year and a half after meeting at party hosted by a mutual friend. you weren’t sure that you two were a good match for each other, but after a few meet-ups and intriguing conversations you realized that you two had more in common than you thought. whatever one of you might have lacked, another made up for in actions or words. you two complemented each other and you had each other’s backs. even through some rough patches, you both realized that there was no one else you wanted to be with. there was no going back.

as you started your car engine, you shoot a quick text back to chan, thanking all higher powers you would at least have some better solace this evening.

babe 😏: you too? i guess we can talk about later when you come by. see you in a bit, love ya ❤️

the drive after work feels somewhat longer than normal, the traffic almost making you reach your limit. but you finally find yourself back in the comfort of your apartment, kicking your shoes off to the side and dropping your bag and blazer to the floor. you breathe a huge sigh of relief as you enter your bedroom, take off your bra, and flop onto your bed, letting the sweet scent of your bedsheets fill your nose.

you find yourself drifting into dreamland a few minutes later, but the grumbling of your stomach and the fact that you still had the rest of your work clothes on brings you back to reality. despite some opposition from the rest of your body, you get up and grab some loungewear from your dresser and head for the shower, hoping to relax your tense muscles.

after you come out the shower and change, you head to the kitchen to start on dinner. you decide on chicken fried rice - one of you and chan’s favorite meals to eat together. you pull the ingredients from the fridge and the seasonings from the cabinet, asking your smart home device to play serene, chill music. the instrumentals fill your space, and you get to work - washing the chicken first.

as you finish garnishing both plates, you hear your doorbell ring. you check your camera, and smile as you see your boyfriend come into view. you quickly wash your hands and answer the door, embracing chan in a tight hug before he can even say anything to you.

he’s surprised at how you rush at him, but it quickly melts into a soft smile as he wraps one hand around your waist and one on the back of your neck. he gently sways you back and forth, rubbing the small of your skin. after nearly eight hours of rehearsal, all he wanted to do was spend the rest of the day with you with no worries.

“hey you,” he whispers, glowing smile still on his perfect features. you finally make eye contact with him, a smile coming on your face, beaming at the fact that you were finally with your love. “hey,” you respond, going up on your toes to press a kiss to his soft cheek. chan takes the opportunity to place his hand on your chin and places a kiss on your lips. he quickly realizes he missed this wonderful feeling, and he deepens his movements, smirking when you can feel yourself lose all control and give into his desires.

you have to force yourself to come off him, knowing that if this continues dinner would be long forgotten. “c’mon babe, i made your favorite!” you take his hand and he drops his bags by your door, the familiar blending of seasonings wafting through his nose. “you made chicken fried rice?!” chan beams, entering the kitchen, his mouth nearly drooling at the plate full of goodness. “man, i really needed this today, thank you baby,” he places a kiss on your cheek this time as he goes to wash his hands. you can’t help but blush as you take the plates to the table, taking your seat as chan follows behind you.

“i’ll eat deliciously,” he affirms you, toasting your fork to you, taking his first bite and nodding in agreement at your cooking. you give him a minute to eat before you ask him anything.

“how have rehearsals been?”

“in one word, crazy,” he sighs. “i had to come in early to teach one of the members since he had an overseas schedule when the group had practice. then we had to rework some formations and drill the choreo over and over to get ready for filming tomorrow. i’m excited for filming and all, but im just tired.”

you sigh, shaking your head in agreement. “that’s understandable, things at the office have been crazy too. i love what i do, but this overtime is driving me crazy. i can’t wait to be finished so i can get this big bonus.”

“you’ve got this through. and when that check comes, it’ll all be worth it. just make sure you take care of yourself in the meantime. you know i’m proud of you right?” he rubs your back, his hand softening your tight muscles.

“thanks,” you respond shyly, smiling at your lover. “you know i’m proud of you too. you’re living out your dream everyday and you’re having fun doing it. your hard work is paying off too, chan. if i haven’t told you lately, you’re doing amazing. but you also need to make sure you’re taking care of yourself too, okay?”

he nods in agreement. “it’s only fair cause i asked you to do the same. i promise i’ll take care of myself.”

time passes by pleasantly, empty plates now in the dishwasher, conversations continuing from the kitchen table to the couch. your head rests on chan’s shoulders, your right hand on his leg.

“so when do you guys film the performance video?”

“tomorrow, and it’s supposed to last two days. then we have promotions with the group, but they divided us into two groups, so i only have to perform at music shows during the second week.”

an idea pops into your head, imaginary lightbulbs flashing rapidly. even though you were working overtime, you were scheduled for absences on friday and monday and your boss hadn’t rescinded on your days off. if chan only had to work until thursday, that would mean for once - both of your schedules would align.

“wait.. so that means you have a break after the music video?” you question. “even if it’s a short one?”

“yeah, what are you getting at?”

you sit up from your boyfriend’s shoulder realizing that the planning you completed in your head might have actually worked. “chan,” you exclaimed, “i actually have a break too! i get friday and monday off! chan, do you know what this means? we finally have the chance to spend more time together!”

your excitedness makes chan swoon, but it also brings a tinge of sadness. you were right - you two have been so busy that you had limited time together. between him dancing and teaching and with your work project, moments like these where you two could get away for a minute were rare.

“we should do something special then baby! we could go to dinner,” he gasps coming up with a new idea, “and i’ve always wanted to take you on a night boat ride! remember when i sent you those pictures from japan?”

earlier in the year, chan went overseas for another performance opportunity and during his time off, he and some of his other dancer friends took a boat ride with the city lights gleaming over the large body of water, waves that could lull anyone to sleep with their calming effect. it was a sight to behold, even through a 7 inch phone screen.

“yeah i do! those pictures were gorgeous,” you admire, thinking how back them you wished you were with chan on that boat, head resting on his shoulders like you did earlier, taking peeks of your boyfriend every now and then. he would be staring into the distance, somehow managing to look more handsome than anyone else.

“actually, i kinda want to do something grander than a date night though..” you hint, playing with your hair as you temporarily avoid eye contact. “i’ve been seeing this idea on insta for a while, and now i dream of doing it with you, chan. why don’t we take a trip together babe?”

“like a day trip?”

“mmm, i was thinking more like for the weekend. and it doesn’t have to be somewhere ridiculously far either, not like bali or anything! matter of fact, there’s a beach that i found right off the coast and the city is stunning!” you pull out your phone and type in the name of the beach in the search engine. you pass your phone to chan, images of beautiful blue water and white sand flooding his lenses.

“ah, crystal beach!” chan recognizes the name. “some of my friends have been there before, they said it was really nice! they said there’s a waterfront hotel right in front of the beach, and from the right floor you can get the perfect view.”

suddenly, you can envision the two of you on the fifteenth floor, sunrise glistening through the windows as you sleep in chan’s arms, legs wrapped around his waist, head on his chest. nothing else would matter in that moment expect for you two. no work, no projects, no eight-counts - just you, your lover, and the gentle ocean breeze.

“so, what are you thinking? should we go for it?” you ask.

“let’s do it babe! we’ve never done something like this before, and we can make some great memories out of it! and from the looks it, we could both use some time away from all of this,” he gestures towards the windows, overseeing the big city that encased you two.

“yeah,” you nod in agreement. “i think some time away is long overdue. and it’ll be good for us! honestly, i was thinking about us waking up together, and now i can’t wait to get out of here!” you both share a quick laugh as you head comes to the familiar space of chan’s shoulders.

you two share a few moments of silence before chan taps your leg twice as your eyes look into his, “do you wanna leave friday morning? we can get there by the afternoon, chill for a bit, and then get dinner or something.”

“m’kay, that sounds good to me. do you want me to reserve the room or do you wanna do it?” you ask, rubbing his shoulder.

“i can reserve the hotel room! don’t worry about it babe.” you kiss chan’s cheek as a thank you, fingers intertwining with his. chan pulls out his phone, typing in the hotel name, leading him to the website. he then locks his phone, already making plans to make this the best trip for you both.

some more time passes, you and chan watching random youtube videos, laughing at funny moments. but soon it comes time for chan to leave, he has an early morning because of the music video filming.

you walk with him to the door, handing him his bags. you go on your toes to kiss his cheek one more time before he leaves. “good luck on filming, i’ll see you on friday!”

he bends down to press a gentle kiss on your lips, hand caressing your jaw to deepen the feeling. you return his passion, tongues moving together like choreography. when you separate, his lips form in a smirk - he loves the feeling of leaving you breathless.

“if i get out early on thursday night i’ll text you. if i do, can i spend the night?”

“of course, baby,” you smile at him, biting your lip. “i’ll see you soon, okay? you need to get some rest.”

“okay, okay, love you baby,” he says leaving one more kiss on your lips.

“love you too, text me when you get home!” you respond as he opens the door, waving you goodbye, signaling with his fingers that he would affirm he got home safely.

chan closes the door as he walks to the elevator, hearing your door lock, making sure you were safe. he quickly gets out his phone, the hotel’s website coming back into view. he chooses the dates, chooses two people to occupy the space, and it takes chan to the room selection. he scrolls until he find the perfect room - one with a king size bed, and a balcony view, hopefully one that would overlook the beach.

before he reserves the room, he texts one of his friends that stayed at the same hotel.

hey yeonjun, i need a favor.

which exact floor were you on when you went to that hotel at crystal beach?

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