#This is not what I signed up for but whatever

[lastoneout]

I keep thinking about all of the disabled activists and people before me who stranded themselves on the 4th floor of buildings for weeks and crawled up stairs and fought with airline staff and schools and doctors and refused to stop existing in the face of injustice and bigotry no matter how big and scary and hopeless it seemed. Every time I get angry and scared the protests that lead to the creation of the ADA pop up again and remind me that disabled people are so much fucking stronger than anyone has ever given us credit for, and I can't help but be proud of that. And I know not all disabled people feel like we should take pride in our disabilities and have flags or whatever, but I think not just living, but thriving, in spite of a world that wants us dead and gone, in the face of both illness and persecution, and how we've not only bought ourselves forward, but uplifted the disabled people around us, secured more equal futures for everyone who will come after, and truly changed the way so many abled people have seen us for the better is something to be damn fucking proud of.

We have always been here and we always will be, there will never be a world without disabled people because being disabled is not bad, it's a natural part of the human experience and yeah it sucks some times but even when it sucks we have fought to build beautiful, unique, happy lives with people, both like us and not, and that should be celebrated.

The first sign of human civilization is the healed femur. The body of the profoundly disabled person who would have needed help to even just eat being carefully laid to rest after decades of a full, happy life. The medicinal plants showing even before we were entirely human we were doing what we could to not just survive, but alleviate suffering while we're at it. Above everything, evolution selected not the baby who can walk and eat and be quiet, but the one that can ask for help.

Disabled people are not just angry cockroach motherfuckers who refuse to die, we are proof of humanity's HUMANITY. Proof that natural selection selected a species that takes care of each other. From healed femurs and medicinal plants to vaccines and IVs and insulin to now, we are driven to help one another, we are at our strongest when we don't leave our most vulnerable behind. And I am living proof of that. My mother is living proof of that. Every disabled and chronically and/or mentally ill person I know is living proof of that.

And I don't know about the rest of you, but will carry that shred of humanity's true nature inside me like it's my fucking soul. I am scared and angry and hurt, but I have a lifetime's experience being scared and angry, and I can shake off the kind of pain that would make Atlas crumble to dust like it's nothing but a stiff fucking breeze. Disabled people have always been here, turning fear and anger and pain into joy and beauty and connection, and I'm not going to let everyone who came before me down. I'm not going to give up. Not now, not ever.

It's okay if you're disabled and you've hit your limit, you're too scared and tired and hurt, I won't blame you. But I won't abandon you, either. I might not be able to right all of the wrongs in the world, but I'll be strong, I'll carry all of you with me, I will not give up.

As I've said before, society hates a cripple who won't die, so we must spite them and live anyway.

Please, live anyway. I know if anyone can, it's us.

[queermania]

i am angry. and i'm upset and hurt and disappointed and reeling etc. and i have my own personal feelings about what people have or have not been advocating for over the last few months leading up to this but i'm not sure any of it matters right now and i'm not sure why everyone is so ready to turn on each other. it seems pretty obvious right now that the problem wasn't third party voters or even people who abstained. it wasn't harris's stance on palestine/israel (in either direction). it wasn't the cheney endorsement. it wasn't anything related to her policies one way or another or anything we've all been arguing about for months now. none of it even fucking mattered, based on the numbers.

it's not a secret that this country hates women and loves white supremacy. i'm not going to make it easier for them to get rid of me, or you. i refuse to hold a knife to the throats of the people who are ultimately on my side, just because we might disagree about how to accomplish something. i am going to link arms with you and we're going to move forward together. we're going to do our daily clicks for palestine. we're going to donate e-sims and to pcrf. we're going to donate to ukraine. and abortion funds. we're going to continue helping with the border crisis. and trying to unfuck the climate. and whatever else we need to. we're going to get organized and we're not going to wait until the next election cycle to do it. we are also going to make sure we sign up for healthcare and take care of ourselves.

there are a billion things we need to do (and feel free to add links and resources to this post if you want to pass them on) but i'm simply not going to waste my energy fighting with people who aren't trying to kill me when so many others want me dead.

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

≡;-꒰ 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝒊𝒇 𝒊 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖

╰┈➤ ❝ dawnbreaker!zayne x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni | kinktober '24 (backlog)

tags : pwp (with some plot), kinda porn with feelings, ambiguous relationship, that one "dawnbreaker slipping into dr. zayne's life" theory, angst (but…soft???), slight nipple play, needy/desperate sex, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding kink, praise, use of "my love". lmk if i missed any tags!

wc : 1.8k

an : YELLS OK im like two days late on this… but… BUT !!! a belated birthday gift for my beloveddddd @dawnbreakersgaze !!! <333

taglist : under the cut !! (SIGN UP HERE)

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST / KO-FI JAR / COMMISSIONS

The Zayne you know has not been the Zayne you know...

You don't fall in love with someone in the span of a few days.

It didn't work that way—love was a fickle emotion; complicated, unpredictable… Terrifying. To approach it meant silent steps. It meant biding your time, holding out your hand, moving forward little by little…

…Ideally.

But love was powerful.

Love did whatever it wanted.

Love could take you in like a storm while you were unprepared; love could crash through your windows and hold you hostage despite your attempts to be gentle with it.

Love could turn the tables.

And sometimes that was what it felt like to be with him.

You wouldn't fall in love with someone in the span of just a few days—but perhaps, this case was a special one.

Your eyes were soft, your hand reaching out to cup his cheek. Gentle caresses moved over his skin, and you could see the way he melted under your touch. His own eyes were wide, lips trembling. An inexplicable emotion stirred within the depths of his gaze… And it was always like this.

It was always like this when he looked at you.

As if he could never believe that you were real.

"Zayne," you murmured.

He would swallow thickly, and give the slightest of nods.

"Zayne."

The same name, the same face, the same voice. Yet this Zayne, lying on top of you, caging your body between his arms… he was not the same.

Not the same… yet similar, nonetheless. A reflection of the other, you would think. He barely spoke, yet he barely looked away from you. He felt more expressive of his thoughts, but all the same time adamant on keeping them hidden. And no matter how many times you'd seen him, he felt hesitant, unsure, guilty… yet so, so, so full of the very same love that the Zayne you knew would always give.

You'd lost track of how many times this had happened.

They were sporadic, at first—moments fleeting and spaced apart, where you had learned to separate your Zayne and the other Zayne through the smallest mannerisms you'd notice to be different.

You watched the man before you draw in a sharp breath as your hand trailed down his face and over his neck, his collarbone… Such visceral reactions. He looked weak before you; so… broken. Every time he showed himself to you, there was a tense, unspoken sense of longing that hung in the air.

He was not your Zayne.

But he would reach out all the same to mirror your actions, run the pads of his fingers through your hair and down the side of your face… and you would let him.

He was not your Zayne, but he wanted to be. And seeing you in front of him made him feel so fragile. That look in his eyes told you that he could shatter at any possible moment.

"…It's okay."

Love was powerful, you thought.

He was not your Zayne, but he was still Zayne, after all.

You knew so little about him, but he was still Zayne. And if love was so powerful—then it could fix him, too. Couldn't it? Couldn't a little bit of gentleness… Couldn't a little bit of love… for him, as much as him—

Couldn't that help?

"…My love…"

Whenever he spoke, his words were short. It was hardly the matter-of-factness you were used to, hardly the witty quips and dry sarcasm that could parallel. This Zayne's words were short, his voice hoarse, and rough—as if speaking hurt him even more, as if speaking could drive him further into a puddle of guilt that he seemed to have dug himself into.

Your eyes closed.

"Zayne, it's okay," you murmured. "It's okay."

His touch grew bolder, dipping downwards, slowly pulling down the straps of your top, curling around the swell of your breasts.

Your breath hitched.

"Zayne."

He didn't speak again.

Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. He didn't kiss you, almost felt as if he was holding his breath— something small, and wet, fell upon your cheek.

Your eyes opened.

Can I have you?

He asked the question silently, stray tears rolling down his face as he looked at you. His hips pressed into yours, and the outline of his erection grinded against you.

Can I have you?

He didn't speak, but his eyes told you everything.

"Yes."

Just this once.

And the whine he let out brought a slight thrill through your body.

It didn't take long before his lips were all over you, kissing you, tasting you, claiming you—down your chest to your abdomen, inhaling the scent of your skin, before proceeding to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses back upwards. All the while, his hands remained steady on either side of your body, both a sure sign of his hesitance as much as the hunger within him that had him trembling above you.

When his eyes met yours once more, he has his mouth hovering over your nipple. Slowly, slowly, he wrapped his lips around it—it was so tender, the way he sucked on it, loving, the way his tongue would swirl as he took as much of your flesh as he could. Heavy breathing mixed in with the sloppy noises of his ministrations, and you were arching into him, begging him, encouraging him.

One more pull at your nipple until it slipped away from his lips with a wet pop, trails of saliva connecting to your bud.

"Pre...tty…" he rasped.

You felt your heart soar; for the first time, he seemed happy.

And this time it was you who didn't speak.

You reached for his hand, leaving his balance to rest momentarily on the other as you trailed it down your body. Further, and further, and further… His hand rest over your mound, gentle petting movements gliding a finger over your folds.

"Mmm…"

As usual, even the softest touch had you melting.

Zayne had always been loving , and tender, and sweet with you…

This Zayne was not your Zayne, but even the careful way he treated your body felt very much like it.

He was not your Zayne. But he was still Zayne.

A mantra you would repeat to yourself.

His movements continued, gathering up your slick and spreading them all over your folds, eyes retained on your face and your expressions.

Are you feeling good? he seemed to ask, and you smiled softly.

"Very good," you whispered.

Look… I'm so wet for you.

Though you didn't say it, you saw the way his eyes traveled down to your cunt, finger raising as if to look in awe at the sticky mess you had made for yourself.

"…Beautiful."

He spoke again.

And this time, there was little to no hesitation left in his actions before he was in you, cock nestled so warmly, so perfectly, so deeply into your core.

The intrusion had you drawing in a sharp breath no matter how used to his size you would think you'd gotten, but before you could react, he had pulled you into a tight, almost possessive embrace.

"Please," he choked. You could feel his tears wetting your skin as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. "Please… just this once… Just for the last time, just… Please…"

You clenched your walls around him, legs wrapping around his waist.

Slowly, you brought your hands up to stroke his hair.

"Zayne," you murmured. "You're still Zayne, right?"

"… Not—"

"Mine. I know. You're the Zayne in his dreams. Aren't you?"

You felt him nuzzle into your neck with a certain desperation, a whimper tearing from his throat.

It was answer enough.

Yet you moved your hips, grinding against him, urging him to claim you more, claim you deeper.

"It's okay," you repeated, softly, "you can move."

Zayne was still Zayne. You had made the choice from the start.

You wouldn't fall in love with someone in the span of just a few days—but it had taken only a few couple of meetings, barely lasting hours, barely lasting minutes.

Zayne was still Zayne.

You would love everything of him.

Your hips continued to move, bucking upwards onto his, cherishing the groans he would make into your skin. It was you who set the pace—a silent voice of permission, of pleading…

And he followed suit.

"My love…"

He began to thrust.

"…My love…"

Harder, faster.

"My love."

You gasped as he pulled away from you, panting harshly, driving his length in and out of you—desperate. Desperate.

"M- mm—!" you moaned out, arching your back. "Zayne… Zayne!"

"Can I… Can I?" he groaned above you, eyes shut in pleasure. He didn't stop—didn't want to stop. Lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin proved every bit of desire he had for you, if the image above you was not proof enough. "Please, my love…"

You held him tightly.

"Yes," you gasped. "Take me… You can have all of me, fill me up, cum inside, please—"

You mewled at a particularly sharp thrust, and your legs tightened around his waist. He was throbbing, his movements jerking erratically as you spoke your words.

"Fill… f-fill?" his eyes were wide, but he continued.

It gave you joy to know you were affecting him like this.

It's exactly the same…

"Yes, Zayne. You can give it to me. Please, please, I need it… Need it inside…" You begged, and clawed at his back, and moved to his thrusts the best that you could. "Inside, inside—!"

Please, please, please.

He whimpered as you tightened around him, urging him to spill, urging you to stuff you full like you wanted him to. His breathing became ragged, eyes nearly glazing over with pleasure at the mere thought of it.

He could claim you like this.

Even if it's not the real him, even if he's not doing this as himself—

You could see all manner of thoughts flash in his eyes as his gaze became hungrier. More desperate. More… resolved.

"I'll f-fill you up," he grunted. "Pump you… s-s-so full of me… All of me— My love, my love, my love—"

You cried out as he buried himself all the way into you, your hips colliding as hot, thick ropes of his cum painted your insides. Your body shuddered, slick trickling out of you and dripping down onto the sheets. You felt warm all felt; almost sore, your cunt pulsing around him as you tried to steady your breaths.

He collapsed against you, pulling you in for a kiss.

"If I can have you…" he breathed, "even just once… even just once, I… I'm happy…"

I'm happy.

Your eyes shone as you cradled his face, daring to place a small flurry of kisses over his cheek.

I'm happy.

This was all you wanted.

Love was powerful, you thought. And of you loved him—if you loved all of him, then everything would be okay. You wanted to believe that.

Perhaps in a fit overwhelmed by your acceptance, he gasped, and you felt him roll his hips in place—

You didn't stop him.

He could do this as many times as he needed, as much as he was here with you.

an : actually crying bc im hoping i did him justice why is zayne always so hard to write omlll

taglist! @interstellar-inn @pixelcafe-network @hunters-association @ononpetitecroissant @darlingdummycassandra @milkandstarlight @thoupenguinman @valyvinny @rafayelsheart @jellyroom2 @chemiru @ywnzn @pepprrmint @angel-jupiter @rafayelsgf @spotted-salamander @love-and-deepstrays @oharasmommymilkers00 @rafslvr @keioxo @theanbitchless

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[garuda4321]

Don’t worry, I’ve been told I’ll get advanced notice if the world is ending from my buddy in Poland. I’ll make sure to keep you all posted on that. Of course, he also had an interesting thing to tell me, which I will quote because I think a lot of folks need to hear this. However, saving that for a little bit later because I feel like folks could use a bit of a motivational speech (I gave my first one today focused on hope, and boy do we need it).

Here goes.

I want to start by reminding people that it’s ok to feel. Whether that’s anger, sadness, hope, happiness, or whatever else you’re feeling, it is ok to feel them. Emotions should not be suppressed. I work very hard to ensure that I am a part of a community that is not only safe, but somewhere I can call home. I am always willing to invite more people into my home, especially in times of need as feeling safe is something everyone deserves.

I know that when faced with outcomes such as these, it is considerably easier to live with a victory than a loss. This is why this I am speaking about hope, having hope. I understand that not everyone has hope right now. If you do have it, please try to share some of that hope with those that do not have it. If you do not have it, hopefully you can find some in this reblog.

I am fairly certain that everyone has had the experience when something doesn’t go their way. In the realm of Ninja (the obstacle course racing variety), this is rampant. Perhaps we fell on the first obstacle of a course, or perhaps we missed qualifying for finals by mere seconds. When this happens, we have two choices. We can either stay down and let the negativity eat away at us, or we can get back up and keep training and trying until we reach our goal.

Unfortunately, we can only do that during training. On a course, when we fail obstacle one, that’s it, we don’t get a second chance. We don’t have that choice to stay down or get back up as we can’t change the outcome. As depressing as that sounds, it’s true.

You can’t change what happened and you don’t get the choice to “get up and try it again”. But we don’t have to sit and cry, complain, or hide from it either. We don’t have to give up.

Right now, there are lots of us that are down. We have communities that we feel safe and welcome in to support us when we need them. Together, as we refuse to give up, we can do each and every thing to help better our communities. It may not be a large difference, but a difference is a difference, and a difference matters! We can leave a smile, a compliment, or even a positive message behind because if someone is having a rough day, those small actions can make a large difference for them.

I encourage you to try to bridge outside of your comfort zone and meet new people, join new communities and try to spread some positivity in the world. I did so earlier today by giving a very similar speech to this one and again now by posting an abbreviated version of it. Do your best to make a difference with all people, no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they stand for. Because we will overcome whatever is thrown our way together, and by helping those that are struggling to overcome their own obstacles. We will believe and we will have faith. We may not know who or what to believe in, but we all know that we can believe in each other.

To finish us off, that quote from my friend in Poland.

“Remember that life is a long distance race. In a few months, a lot will change. In a few years, whole world will look completely different. Don’t lose your energy and faith in being a good person. World will need good people.”

Choose to be kind, caring, compassionate, and empathetic.

I’m signing off for now, maybe I’ll return with the next one I end up giving.

[ask-the-pioneer]

Marbles approaches the tribe's trading square, where countless items are spread neatly on fabric mats. Food, weapons, vessels, bags... strings of pearls shimmering in the sun. Bingo! Perhaps she could persuade the scavengers to trade some of them.

Two individuals come out from the nearby shelter entrance. Sage - the head merchant and chronicler, and Spike - the tribe chieftain, greet their new slugcat guest in person.

"SALUTATIONS. YOU HAVE PEARLS?" Marbles signs with her hands. The two scavs look at her, unsure of the scug's intentions.

"Um… I WANT BUY PEARLS. YOU GIVE ME PEARLS, I GIVE YOU…" she pauses, and looks around. Spotting a spear nearby, she hops up to it and grabs it, then ties a piece of cloth around one of its ends and puts it in her maw. The scavengers tense up, their frills stand on ends. Why would this new guest pick up the weapon if not to use it? The guards nearby do not seem to like it either - they clutch their own spears in anticipation, watching the situation closely.

"I GIVE YOU EXPLODING SPEARS. YOU WANT?" Marbles says as she hands them a nicely crafted spear with a deep orange tint on one end. The cloth smells vaguely of sulphur.

"YOU MAKE EXPLOSIVES? WITH MOUTH? HOW!?" The scavs' eyes widen.

"MY SKILL. USEFUL! I MAKE SPEARS FOR YOU, YOU GIVE ME PEARLS. GOOD?"

Spike and Sage look at each other, barely believing what they just saw.

"…YOU CAN MAKE MORE?" The chieftain glances at Marbles. She nods her head in response.

Sage pulls their friend aside for a moment. There is urgency in their voice. "The tribute, Spike. Imagine if we sent two dozen of those spears to Metropolis. We'd earn favour and protection for at least a season, if not longer!"

The chieftain nods. "Yes… this opportunity is too convenient to pass up. Bring the pearls and calculate the exchange rate, but test those spears first. If they are usable, bring her whatever she needs to make more of them. I would still caution everyone to be careful, though."

"YES, GOOD. WE WILL GIVE PEARLS. SETTLE DOWN PLEASE, OTHERS WILL BRING YOU MATERIALS..."

[4linos]

how they ask to marry you.

stray kids hyung line x gn!reader

synopsis: how stray kids hyung line proposes ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

wc: 1063 (maknae line ver. soon)

bang chan.. right from the start, you two decided to keep your relationship quiet and very private, with only a select few people—your parents, his parents, and of course the members—knowing. He had been able to arrange for your whole family to be flown from your home country to Australia, where you two had been going on "vacation." The night before your last day, he was sure that he had been acting weird to you, mostly because of nervousness, and he wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible. you two were taking a walk along a beach as the sun started to set, and you said, "oh look! someone looks like they're getting proposed to.” when you saw a long crimson carpet with candles and rose petals leading to a large illuminated sign that read, "will you marry me?" you exclaimed out. chan laughed and said, "let’s get closer?" with excitement, you nodded. until you realized he had started to walk ahead of you and you saw the familiar faces of both his and your families. when you got to him, he got down on one knee, held the ring, and began, "there are countless ways I could express my love for you, but I believe that what really counts is that I want to live out the rest of my days demonstrating to you how much you mean to me. I feel like I can handle anything with you by my side, even though I know life can be unpredictable and there are many obstacles in my path. Your love, your support, and your trust are more than I could have ever asked for. Will you marry me? For the remainder of our journey together, will you walk hand in hand with me?" you blurted out, "yes," without hesitation.

lee know.. everyone knew you two were going to be together for a long time from the minute you two became a couple. no one has ever seen minho so enamored of someone as he was with you. since you two started dating, you had taken vacations together, so when he told you he wanted to spend the weekend at a cabin, you didn't suspect anything. However, when he urged you to get your nails done and purchase a formal outfit for a dinner, you began to feel suspicious.

after finishing the meal that minho had cooked for you on the last night of your weekend, you were making your way back up to your cabin from outside. "That was delicious, Min. thank you," you said as you placed your dish in the sink. "You're welcome, love." You paused before kissing him when you heard a pop come from your cabin bedroom. "What the hell was that?" you shrieked in fear "You wait here, and I'll check." Before you could object, he hurried up to the bedroom and said, "Y/n!" He yelled from upstairs, startling you, and you snatched up whatever weapon you could just in case. When you entered, you noticed lit candles, white balloons, and petals spread out in a heart shape. "Oh my God, Minho! You—" "I want to go through every high and every low with you, even though I know life won't always be perfect. No matter what, I want to stay by your side forever. Will you marry me?” lowering himself to one knee and smiling warmly while offering the ring, and saying, "this is it, no turning back." before you said yes, you kissed him.

changbin.. had always been open about his relationship with you even though dispatch had knowingly exposed your relationship, he was the one who confirmed it and asked everyone to respect your privacy and his relationship with you. you two had been dating for five years, but he knew he wanted to marry you since you stayed with him despite all the bad headlines that had been written about your relationship. he had grown highly protective of you and quickly silenced any negative comments of you.

so for his proposal he’d definitely gone all out, he had to, it’s what you deserved. changbin chose a rooftop overlooking the city skyline, where the setting was exquisitely furnished to fit the theme, complete with fairy lights, candles, and calming music. he would tell you how you have helped him grow as a person, how he views you as his partner in everything and how he can't imagine going into the future with anyone else. It would be raw, emotional, and completely authentic. changbin wanted the proposal to be a moment you both share with the people you care about the most. when you answer "yes," he would have your closest friends and family members hidden nearby to join in the cheering and celebration. the air would be filled with love, excitement, and enthusiasm as you two shared this unique time with your loved ones.

hyunjin.. although you had known each other since high school, you didn't start dating until a few years after his debut. over the years, he had accomplished great success and was appreciative that you had remained by his side for so long, despite being convinced that he wasn't the greatest partner. he had a big proposal plan for you and wanted everything to be special for you, but his plans were derailed when he unintentionally sent you a text about the details that was meant for someone else. he put off his proposal for a while in hopes that you would forget about it, but one day he asked you to join him for an “event” in paris. although you had already visited with him there a few times, he assured you that this time you would have more time to spend with each other. during his "event," he would plan an intimate dinner at a modest café overlooking the night skyline of paris. following a memorable evening, he would take you to a beautiful, hidden spot with a secret garden nestled in the nearby area. the warm, poetic light of a neighboring streetlamp would illuminate you both as hyunjin took your hand and explained his desire to live out the rest of his days with you. then he would come down on one knee and ask you to be his lifelong partner with a gentle but sincere "will you marry me?"

—

nini’s notes 110524

hi hi 😙 definitely say this every time but i’m nervous about this one 😀 i hope you enjoy this? i’m sorry if this is bad it’s my first time writing something like this :>

asks are always open if you have a request, concern, or question!

-🎀

[sleepyparalysisdmon]

SKZ being whipped for you

Genre: lots of fluff

A/N: First SKZ reaction!

Chan

He expected this. He expected to be mercilessly made fun of by his members the moment he admitted being into someone. Still, it doesn’t keep him from flushing bright red and finding the nearest hiding spot. And oh man, if they do this while you’re in earshot, he’ll wish the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Be nice and reassure him, and maybe even defend him against his group members for good measure. 

Minho

Deny, deny, deny. You could not be dating at all yet or be together for a decade and he’ll still brush off any commentary about how he acts around you. It might even be so convincing that you sometimes forget all the little things that he does for you. But his members won’t. They’ll rage about the privileges he gives you. He’ll roll his eyes and say, “Are you kidding? I did that for you yesterday.” Sometimes you think it’s just so he can watch his friend’s head explode, because he most certainly did Not do that thing yesterday. In quiet, private moments though, he’ll remind you that you do, in fact, have all of the privileges.

Changbin

Unashamed. Did you think he’d be embarrassed by how into you he is? Absolutely not. Couldn’t fathom it. At least - not when his members comment on it. He’ll say, “Duh. Of course, I am. Have you seen them? Have you met them?” It’s a brag for him in a lot of ways. However! If you tease him about it, he might get a little shy in the early stages of whatever is going on with you two. Expect that to wear off, because one day soon he’ll have no shame about nodding his head and agreeing with your observations with a smile.

Hyunjin

This might be subtle, but it will be the little things. Like, your text always gets opened and responded to promptly, even if he should really be doing something else. Or your his first call when he has a rare day off and wants to do something. Or heaven forbid someone take a peek at his sketch book because it often features you. He might be a little secretive about his feelings, if only to spare himself the teasing he might get if he makes it too obvious. But if you call him out on it, he’ll freely admit it.

Jisung

Does NOT know what to do with himself. Totally overwhelmed by it sometimes. It’s painfully obvious even to you, because you can just be existing in the same room and he’s fixated on you with heart eyes. I can actually see this as being something that he might be kind of self-conscious about if only because he wants to be more poised or more thoughtful in expressing his feelings. Match. His. Energy! Let them make fun of both of you!!!

Felix

Sickeningly, tooth-rottingly sweet. I don’t know that many of his members would really even tease him very much about it because it’s just too heart-warming. When he’s whipped, it’s just too easy to get swept up in the romance if you’re on the receiving end of it. Honestly, they might beg him to tone it down a little - which he will not. Not as long as you like it, anyway.

Seungmin

You’ll get partner privileges here too, but that might be the only sign. And he will not give you those partner privileges easily. You ask him to hang out and he says, “You can’t stand to be away from me,” like he wasn’t rushing to put on shoes. You call and he answers in a split second, but asks what you could possibly want because he’s busy (even though he is already thinking of a way to get out of whatever he's doing). He buys coffee or a snack and when you thank him, he’ll say, “Yeah, yeah, you’re so needy”. He might even act so put out that he’ll get scolded by some of his members to be nicer. But the thing is… it’s all a ruse!!! Agree when he says these things to throw him off his game!!

Jeongin

CASUAL. Yeah, he’s into you. Yeah, he wants to spend all his time with you. Yeah, he bought you a little gift again for the third time this week. Your point? It sucks allllll of the fun out of teasing him, the baby of the group, because he’s so unbothered and he’ll continue to do what he wants. It’ll actually make YOU whipped if only because of how unabashedly he admits it. 

[lazyscience]

In order to name a specific person as your executor, you need to have a will - otherwise the court will appoint someone, usually a family member, which is exactly what a lot of you don't want. With legal gay marriage, your spouse is the first priority choice for executor unless you choose someone else, and they'll keep their access to joint property, policies and bank accounts. When there isn't a will OR a marriage, shit gets really gray legally.

If you're a grown adult who pays your own bills, has your own bank accounts, has any retirement plans/has ever contributed to social security, and/or have life insurance, you should have a will. I know, I know, there's always time for that.

Spoiler: there is not, in fact, always time for that and it becomes a mess for your loved ones to deal with if you didn't.

You can say you know you partner's wishes, but you will be tied up a lot longer in probate if there's no will even if there are no challenges (probate=the legal process of disposing of an estate). Probate is MUCH shorter when there is a legally sound will - you can't do that shit like on TV where you write "I leave all my worldly possessions to my love, X. Havisham-Goode" on a piece of notebook paper and have a nurse and a janitor date and sign as witnesses - well, you CAN, but it's not like Murder She Wrote, your survivor will probably not find it very useful. Without a will, executor or not, if there's a challenge whoever can afford the most for lawyers will probably end up winning the battle for whatever property/belongings were at issue - like a shared house or bank accounts.

You can buy willmaking software that will do the job for most of us who don't have lots of property, but resign yourself to probably having to spend between $150-300, or more depending on how complicated your situation is/what kind of mutual property you own. If you have a house, significant retirement income in a 401K/IRA/other investments, and/or ESPECIALLY if you have kids, you should probably talk to a lawyer in person - guardianships in particular are nothing to fuck around with on an amateur level. DuckDuckGo "LGBT estate planning (your city/county/state)" to find someone knowledgeable near you, check the Better Business Bureau/Google for reviews, ask your friends who they used. It's not important you LIKE your lawyer, but you should feel like they know what they're doing and are professionally respected.

Look up your state's specific laws and constitution; it's unlikely that the Trump administration will be able to just retroactively ban gay marriages and say none of them ever existed. HOWEVER, what could happen is exactly what happened when Roe was overturned - states that have their own specifically gender neutral or specifically queer marriage friendly laws will continue to allow gay marriage that will need to be honored because of interstate commerce clauses but forbidden to continue in unfriendly states. What would be a whole disaster is if both Obergefell were overturned and the Respect for Marriage Act (2022) had constitutional challenge brought and was overturned - and even then, there would need to be a new federal law passed to forbid gay marriage. This process would not be able to happen on January 21st, 2025 - but be sure they'll be trying for it sometime over the next four years.

What you all need to do is not wait for there to be publicity about it. Hammer your Congressperson, blue or red, male or female, actual phone calls best, second letters, third faxes, fourth emails with YOU LEAVE GAY MARRIAGE THE FUCK HOW IT IS OR YOU'RE GETTING PRIMARIED (maybe a little nicer than that - but ONLY a little)

And fill out your durable power of attorneys, healthcare directives and write your wills in the meantime. They're good things to do even if the fashies don't come for gay marriage; they're a form of tangible help and support you can give your spouse even when you can't do it in person any more. Believe me when I tell you serious illness or death is going to be horrendous for your loved one WITHOUT having to book a seance to figure out what you really wanted, and it'll be invaluable if the worst does happen legally.

Before January 2025:

If you are a USAmerican in a relationship that might be affected by legislation that dissolves same-sex marriages, who may no longer be recognized as next-of-kin, especially if you have children, get your rights in writing!

Your marriage certificate may not be enough to prove you have rights to make medical decisions for non-biological children or for a same-sex spouse or partner.

Go to a lawyer, get it spelled out as clearly as possible that you have a voice in emergency medical and legal situations.

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Teaser

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility.

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut (tbd), idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!), Mild cursing

Word count: 800-ish for this teaser

Posting date: November 7, 2024

Notes: This is for my friends and moots in the US. Please stay strong. One day at a time, my loves. Future’s gonna be okay 💕 This story is inspired by @yoongznme 's ask/prompt. Thank you for requesting!

Taglist is OPEN.  Leave a comment here to be notified when the story drops.

Masterlist

Namjoon leans back in his seat, sporting an all-too-familiar, slightly conspiratorial glint in his eyes. Hmm. You know that look. 

It's the same one he had when he "casually" set you up to tutor one of his trainee friends in English—the one you let slip was kinda cute. Or when he signed you up to perform with one of his rapper friends in that underground club in Hongdae. Sure, you knew every word of the chorus to eminem’s Stan, but you were not a fucking singer. 

You still did it, though. Both times. 

Namjoon’s especially notorious for volunteering you to do things he insists are "right up your alley." There’s a fire in his eyes when he starts talking about one of his ideas, and before you know it, you're swept up in his vision, already picturing yourself right there beside him, doing something you’d never consider on your own.

Namjoon has been your best friend since forever and for reasons you can’t explain, saying no to him has always been impossible.

Right. It’s definitely that. It’s definitely not because in those two prior instances mentioned, both friends of his are actually the same guy. The one you had an almost crippling crush on over a decade ago. (You’re sooo over it, though. Trust.)

When Namjoon finally leaned in, you were already bracing yourself.

“So, you know Yoongi, right?”

You blink, pause, and slowly shake your head. It has taken years, but today is the day you tell him, “No.”

“The fuck? What do you mean no?” He replies, already looking hella amused. “I haven’t even said anything.”

Your face feels like a furnace, but you grit and steady your voice. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

He lets out a hum, shifting in his seat, and you get the sense he’s working up to something. 

You sip your coffee, keeping your eyes on him. He gives you an exaggerated shrug, dimples deepening as he lets his shoulder sag. 

God you’re literally already about to break. 

“Fuck. Joon. Spit it out.”

He nods triumphantly, “Ok, there’s something I thought I’d run by you first, before he hears about it.”

The words hang in the air, and you raise an eyebrow. “What are you getting me into?”

Namjoon chuckles softly as he folds his hands on the table. “So… Yoongi has a son. A baby, actually.” He pauses, watching for your reaction. 

What? Someone has fuckboi Min Yoongi all locked down?! Huh. You never saw that coming.

You let that sink in, surprise filling the quiet space between you. “I… didn’t know he had a kid.”

“Not many people do,” Namjoon admits. “Only those close to him know. Yoongi’s an incredible dad, but his caretaker recently left, and now he’s scrambling to balance his schedule and take care of his son.”

“And his wife?”

Namjoon sighs, gives you a look that means he’s about to say something confidential. “There’s no wife.”

“Baby mama?”

“Out of the picture.”

You let out a small breath, absorbing everything you just heard. You already had an idea of where this is leading up to, but you want it said explicitly. “So what exactly are you telling me here?”

Namjoon nods, eyes hopeful. “Look, I know this is a big ask. I’m putting this out there because you’re one of the best with kids I know. And Yoongi—well, he’s pretty wary about letting new people get close to his son.”

You take another sip of your latte as he prattles on.

“While you’re still getting your bearings back, maybe you could take over the caretaker job, even part time?”

Namjoon scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly as he says your name. “I just thought you might consider it. You’d be doing us both a favor. Yoongi really needs help, and I’d trust you more than anyone with this.”

You sit back, letting Namjoon’s words settle. He knows exactly what he’s asking—knows exactly how hard it is for you to refuse when he gives you that puppy dog look, and then he’s throwing Yoongi into the mix. Honestly, you hate how you're apparently still soft for him even after all these years.

Namjoon also knows your current situation. Does he not realize it’s a bit unfair to ask this of you right now? Not when you're still picking up the pieces after your breakup with your long-term boyfriend. Not when you need time to heal. Not when you literally uprooted your life and just moved back to Seoul a month ago.

But somehow, you can’t shake the curiosity. What would it even be like to see Yoongi as a dad? To get a glimpse of this whole other life he’s got now?

It’s probably a terrible idea. 

Yeah, no. You don’t need this right now. Money isn’t tight. And you need to focus on… 

You take a slow breath, mentally tracing the edges of this mess. There are a hundred reasons to say no, and only one reason you’d even consider saying yes. And because it’s for Yoongi… damn, maybe just one reason's enough.

Notes: So, what do we think? I'm genuinely excited to share my new baby with you guys! Let's go, let's go!

Taglist is OPEN. Leave a comment if you want to be notified when the story drops.

[ataleofcrowns]

Chapter Progress [NOV/06]

Hey all, it's been a while since I've written one of these 🍂

I've been posting regular previews on my Patreon, but a proper update was long overdue! As a refresher, my last update was this one, and I've got lots more to update you on now that I'm further along!

I've struggled a lot with this chapter and have been trying to wrangle it into shape as best I can, and I'm happy (and relieved) to say that I can finally give you an estimated release date: you can expect CH12 to be uploaded in December this year.

I won't be putting a specific date on it yet, since it could be anywhere from early December to late December depending on how much progress I make in November, but I'll let you know! Now, onto specifics.

The Main Plot

I'm currently balancing out LI specific content in the main plot! Regardless of what you chose in regards to Kham and the peri trader, players will be spending some time with D and X to make up for their absence in CH10 at the beginning of this chapter, and I've really missed writing their dynamic with each other as well as the Crown.

I genuinely can't decide which branch is my favorite. Meeting with Kham directly gives so much juicy verbal sparring and tension between not only her and the Crown but her and D and X as well. But meeting directly with the peri trader let me dig more into the worldbuilding, explore the city a bit, and have some more lighthearted shenanigans with D and X too.

I'll add some previews here for both routes that I've also already shared for people on the Patreon. Here's a little excerpt for people meeting with Kham:

“There is one thing I have been wondering, princess,” you say as you stare back into her eyes, watching the way the orange orbs of light flicker like flames. “When you first arrived here, you were accompanied by a retinue of guards. Whatever happened to them?” Kham does not raise her brows at you, exactly, but something similar to the motion as the wood above her eyes arches upwards with a stiff creaking sound. “They are not merely my guards, they are my servants first and foremost. Naturally, they run errands for me.” “What kinds of errands?” “Surely you do not think I would fetch all I require by myself?” She appears amused by the line of questioning rather than offended. “They trade with the peri merchants in your city on my behalf. Although, calling it trade is perhaps not accurate, as I hold the right to lay claim on their supplies whenever I please. They are representatives of my mother, after all.” You consider the explanation, but nothing about it seems notable or inconsistent so far. “So you have never dealt with this peri trader I wish to meet with yourself?” “Of course not.” She smiles, her wooden mouth briefly pressing together. “That would be beneath me.” “A shame,” $xname muses casually from beside you, contrasting the sharp look in their eyes. “We had hoped you might have some insight to share.” “As much insight as you are willing to offer me regarding this flower you seek,” Kham returns, her smile still in place. “The blue siren, yes? A rather strange fixation…” You feel the urge to tense, but withhold yourself from it by taking a slow, relaxed breath. All the rigorous physical training you have underwent over the course of the past month is already showing its benefits: you feel more aware and in control over your body, able to maintain your composure. A necessary skill when dealing with someone like Kham, as conversing with her feels like a dance of sorts. The two of you are watching each other’s steps, waiting for the other to slip.

And here's the excerpt for if you choose to meet with the peri trader:

You manage to make it through the marketplace, finally arriving at a large building with an open front, wrapping around the corner of the street. Tables and shelves are lined with various flowers and plants, perused by a few passing customers. This appears to be the peri trader’s shop, signaled by the sign at the front that reads Eshkar’s Garden. Eshkar being the name of the peri trader in question. Most of the flora on display you recognize, if not by the labeled names then by sight alone, but several look entirely new to you. Pale white flowers whose hanging bulbs pulse with light when a customer brushes against its leaves; bleeding vines wrapped around a miniature roofed trellis atop a tall table, its crimson flowers slowly dripping down pink juice caught by bowls below; a tall flower with only two black petals, large and pointed, that nearly startle you when they snap together several times in sharp, cracking sounds, almost as if the flower were clapping. IF CROWN IS INTELLIGENT Momentarily forgetting about your intended purpose in being here, you approach the clapping flower with curiosity, wondering what set it off. Sure enough, you see dead and decomposing flies of various sorts collected at the center of its bulb as you lean over to peer inside, taking care to avoid leaning in too close lest your nose get caught between the aggressive petals. Does it catch and eat small insects? How fascinating. You glance at the labeling of the flower, its name fittingly given as ‘black ovation’. IF CROWN IS INTUITIVE Eyes drawn by the visual spectacle of the white flowers, you find yourself wandering over to its shelf, glancing at the labeling that reads ‘stardrops’. The bulbs look ordinary at first glance, but sure enough, when you reach out to touch its petals, the flower begins to glow like you saw before. A ring of light travels up its stem, through the petals to the very ends, where it erupts into tiny little golden sparks. Hence the name, you suppose. Unable to stop yourself, you touch the flower again, mesmerized by the light show, until you notice a shop attendee frowning at you from nearby. Feeling scolded, you quickly pull your hand away and offer an apologetic smile.

Lots of fun going on in both routes! I don't envy you for having to make this choice lol.

Aside from this big branch, the main plot will converge for everyone again in the latter half of the chapter, where the Crown gets do to some more typical Crown things: hearing public petitions! They'll contain 2 smaller scenes where your character will hear out some citizen concerns, which will let you rack up reputation points with either the public or the nobility, and 1 major scene that affects a future plot point.

Not gonna spoil these since I've already talked so much about everything else regarding this chapter, so this will have to remain a surprise ✨

The Romances and Friendships

While the start of the chapter is X and D focused, if you have a specific (platonic) LI you want to spend more time with as buddies and perhaps get a little relationship advice, you'll have that opportunity at the start of CH12! I've had to write 12 variations in total for each friendship scene, which was a lot of work, but completely worth it.

Some LI routes also have big additional differences depending on if you have a low or high romance (such as A and R), while it matters a little bit less for the others for the time being (such as D and X). So if you screwed up on D or X's romances and have a low status, you're mostly in the clear from immediate consequences… for now.

Here's a little excerpt, taken from a playthrough of a Crown who has a high romance with A and chooses R's friendship scene:

Something like mischief gleams in $rname’s eyes as $rthey looks at you. “I’ve noticed you and $aname seem especially close nowadays.” You shift a little on the couch, averting your gaze to avoid $rname’s eyes as you strike a casual tone. “Do we?” “Mhm.” When you do glance over at $rname, you find $rthem studying $rtheir nails, and you begin to relax as you think it was just an idle remark. Until $rthey adds, “All the hand-holding underneath the table is endearing, I must admit. Especially since the two of you seem to think you’re being subtle about it.” IF CROWN IS RESERVED Heat flushes up your neck at being seen through so easily, remembering breakfast earlier that morning where $aname’s fingers hooked around yours beneath the table. “We were just… we’re not…” $rname looks up from $rtheir nails to grin at you. “There’s no need to look so embarrassed! I’m happy for you. The two of you seem well-suited for each other.” Trying to move past your flustered state, you clear your throat. “You think so?” “I’ve never seen $aname so at ease as when you’re around,” $rname considers, eyes narrowing with teasing and fondness both. “You look more unburdened with $athem near, as well.” IF CROWN IS FLIRTATIOUS You almost laugh at the remark and give it away completely, only managing to keep it in at the last moment and grinning back at $rname instead. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” $rname looks up from $rtheir nails with a sly smile. “No? What a shame. I was going to say how well-suited the two of you are for each other.” That catches your attention, your playfulness easing into something more sincere. “Really?” “I’ve never seen $aname so at ease as when you’re around,” $rname considers, eyes narrowing with teasing and fondness both. “You look more unburdened with $athem near, as well.”

This scene aside, CH12 will also contain another dedicated romance scene with your LI, dealing with some of the fallout from last chapter whether good or bad. If your romance is high, you'll be coasting- except maybe for D romancers, who are in Pining Hell either way haha.

If your romance is low, though, prepare for some delicious angst 🙏🏼

That's all I've got for now! Thank you all so much for your patience and support as always, especially for how long I've been making you all wait. You're the best 💖

[obxsummer]

chaotic // ghost of you

pairing: jj maybank x routledge!reader

summary: a quick glimpse down memory lane before the group heads to charleston where you and john b are placed on cemetery duty. good thing a sibling intervention was needed and john b's hit with the heavy realization that you'd been left with more than superficial scars from the camerons.

warnings: ptsd, non-consensual drug use, angst, rafe cameron, typical obx violence, ward cameron being a dickhead, almost kidnapping?

a/n: good luck, godspeed, & listen to chaotic by tate mcrae

navigation -- series masterlist

ask me anything

--

“Would you do this to your sister?”

Rafe stared at you, horrified, as you hummed on the bed from the effects of the heavy indica based oil he’d put in your drink. You were practically on a cloud, and he was surprised you even had the energy to speak. You’d never asked him anything, just begged him to stop and let go, but never this.

“What?”

You forced yourself up to a sitting position, practically fluttering at the pain relief he’d given you. Rafe spent more time in this room with you, just talking and yelling and taking his anger out on you because you were there. You usually didn’t bother to comment back, just taking whatever he’d give because you’d given up on the idea of life getting any better. 

“Would you put Sarah through this?” You repeated, eyes blinking quickly at him. 

Rafe bent down to snort the line of white powder he’d organized on your calf; any other surface in the room and his dad would notice (or that’s what he told himself). “The fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean, John B would never do this to your sister, so why the hell are you doing it to his?”

The question caught Rafe off guard more than he expected. His dad had practically ruined his relationships with everyone he’d come to know. Except you, Ward had broken you into the perfect little companion for Rafe. There was no running away, nobody to come save you. So, in his own little twisted way, he really liked having you around. You were his.

“I don’t have to answer you,” Rafe replied weakly, knowing damn well he would’ve never allowed anything like that to happen to Sarah. Not…no? Maybe. He didn’t know anymore and his brain wasn’t working correctly now with the drugs in his system.

You sighed, “Okay.” Flopping back on the bedding, you stared at the ceiling. Your heartbeat was in your ears and it felt like time was passing so slowly.

“Would you ever forgive John B if he did that?”

You shook your head and gave him a thumbs down. “John B would never do that. And if he did, I’d never speak to him again.”

The statement hurt. As much as Rafe tried to convince himself that you were wrong, it hurt. He wanted to be good, to be worthy of someone’s love and attention. He’d tried his whole life to but he kept fucking up. That’s why he was leaning on you. You were fixing that hole in his chest whether you knew it or not.

“Would you ever talk to me again?” Rafe stared at the bland walls as he spoke.

A moment of silence filled the room before he turned to see if you were still awake. Your eyes remained unblinking, the rise and fall of your chest in a steady motion the only sign that you were still alive. 

“You’re really scaring me,” You answered honestly. Your mind was silent, the only thing running through it was Rafe’s question, so you had no reason to lie to him. “You’re hurting me. You’re really hurting me and I don’t understand why.”

Rafe turned away when you started crying, your form shivering in an adrenaline drop as you rolled onto your side away from him. He sat silently until your breathing evened out, eyes closing as you fell into an induced slumber before he turned the lights off and left the room, locking the door as he did.

--

John B was worried.

Let’s be clear, as the eldest of the group, John B worried often, but when it came to you, he always was. 

Everything was off since you and Kie had returned from the shop and it was practically a red flag waving in front of his face. Neither of you said anything but it was obvious from the timing of everything paired with tear tracks on your faces that something happened. He just had to wait it out for more details.

Revealing everything to Kie had brought up a lot of buried feelings and although you wanted nothing more than to hide away, you didn’t want to risk staying home by yourself. You were quiet the entire ferry ride, claiming you were tired and needed a nap so nobody would question your lack of energy. That didn’t mean you missed out on the conversations around you, eavesdropping your way into John B’s awkward insinuation of moving into the next step with Sarah.

The topic pulled tears to your eyes as you thought about the idea with JJ. Would you guys stay in Kildare? Would you move somewhere, or stay here and carry out a different kind of life that neither of you had experienced?

“So based on the captain’s log, Blackbeard’s in his ship, the Adventure, somewhere out there, and they’re being pursued by the British Royal Navy, right? So, he comes to shore, takes a bunch of hostages. They called it the, um, the-“

“Oh, the uh, the Blockade of Charleston. That was eighth-grade history.” John B interrupted Pope’s story with such confidence it almost brought you out of your shitty mood.

You walked slowly behind them, head covered by one of John B’s old Kildare High hoodies, the sweater paws keeping you warm. Kie was a few steps ahead of you, walking next to Sarah. Every now and then she would spare a glance back to make sure you were still there. Cleo walked ahead of everyone else, knife twirling between her fingers with murder on her mind. She would get her revenge on Terrance’s behalf.

Your attention drifted from John B and Pope’s conversation to your phone where your messages to JJ had gone unanswered. You knew he could hold his own, but you hated the thought of leaving him in search of his dad, not that he would’ve let you go anyway.

“Come on, Birdie.” John B had slowed his pace to walk along your side, his hand grabbing yours so you’d drop your head on his shoulder. “Wanna talk?”

You shook your head slightly but squeezed his hand in appreciation that he was here. Pope was busy solving the riddle left by the amulet that had brought you here.

“Wait, I have a question. So, if we’re talking about caskets, that doesn’t mean we’re going to another cemetery, right?”

You laughed softly at John B’s question, leaning further into his side as the six of you continued walking down the cobblestone street. The walk continued much longer than you would’ve liked, your mind and body ready to lay down for a little and reset.

“You know what’s been bothering me?” Pope asked after the sun had set and you’d walked a good 5 miles. “Blackbeard has a treasure he desperately wants to keep. He’s being pursued by the British Royal Navy. They’re blockading the entire city. Yet he finds time to make coffins to bury his cook and navigator?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, time out. Time out, time out. Dude, he definitely put something in those coffins.”

“Are you dumb.” You let go of John B’s hand to stop in front of him, giving him a blank look. He looked offended as you walked away from him, shaking your head as you did. It was quite obvious that you were looking for treasure hidden in the coffins.

“Half Moon, Half Moon Battery, where the living and the dead collide, which I figure is a cemetery, which means all we have to do is figure out where-“

“The North Star is?” Sarah finished Pope’s thought as she raised her hand to point to a stained-glass window of the church on the corner. You shrugged at her find, figuring it made sense to at least give it a shot.

John B wrapped an arm around his girlfriend. “Sarah Cameron, have I told you I love you lately?”

Pope stared at the colored object for a few more seconds before turning to address all of you. “Here’s the plan, alright? I’m gonna need you and you for diversions. You’re coming with me, I need to check something in the church. And you two are on cemetery duty.”

That put Sarah and Cleo on distractions, Kiara going with Pope, and you were left with John B for cemetery duty.

“Wait, what?” You asked as you looked around the darkness surrounding you and your brother seemed to be on the same page. “Don’t leave us out here!”

“Look for the gatekeeper in the cemetery,” Pope explained as the remainder of the group started walking toward the entrance. “Be so safe!”

You rolled your eyes at the ongoing joke, turning to face John B. “We just got benched.”

“Yep, where the living and dead collide, the Routledges will provide. Awesome,” He grumbled and walked around the gate to enter the graveyard area. “It’s not real, they’re dead. It’s gonna be fine, we’ll be fine.”

You sighed and let him rant away to himself as you found a spot on the stairs to claim for the upcoming time. Pulling John B’s hoodie sleeves further over your hands, you shivered with the cool night breeze.

“So, are you gonna tell me what the hell is going on or am I going to have to drag it out of someone else?” John B took a seat next to you and cracked his knuckles like it would make him any tougher. 

As much as you loved Kie, you knew she wasn’t good at keeping secrets, and you wanted to talk to John B before she went running. Your teeth pulled at the chapped skin of your lips before you answered, “I heard you on the ferry, talking to Sarah about starting a family.”

He seemed confused for a moment before his cheeks burned red. “Oh, that’s awkward. Um, that… that should’ve been a more private conversation and-”

“Would you hate Sarah if she didn’t have kids?”

The question wasn’t one John B anticipated. Out of all the things you guys had talked about before, raising a family wasn’t one discussed. With your own family relationship being rocky, John B never knew where you stood on the idea and if you’d ever want that for yourself (and JJ, but he tried not to think about that).

“No, n-no. I would be sad, of course, but I wouldn’t hate her. She totally dodged the idea, though so you don’t have to worry about-”

“Would you leave her?”

John B frowned and blinked at you, but you still weren’t looking at him. He wasn’t used to you asking about his relationship in this kind of way. “Why are you asking this?”

You pushed a shaky breath from your lips and let your head drop to your knees. God, you wished JJ was here. He deserved to hear this from you first, but he wasn’t, and you didn’t know when he would be.

“John B, I can’t have kids.” You turned to watch his expression as he processed your words. Your eyes were warm with tears while a million emotions crossed his face.

“What?” John B didn’t know what else to say. You guys were barely adults, and this topic shouldn’t even be a thought in your mind with the current living conditions and lack of funding you all had. But you were his little sister, and his heart was breaking as you spoke. “Can’t or won’t?”

Tugging on the sleeves of the hoodie again, you looked down. “Can’t. Physically unable. Never going to happen.”

John B paused at the coldness in your voice. You were obviously upset but he still wasn’t sure where all of this was coming from. Plus, let’s be real. John B was a teenage boy at the end of the day; female anatomy was not his strong suit in any way. “Oh, okay. Um, is there like a problem or-”

“Rafe caused it.”

--

The Cameron house was cold. Sunlight filled the room, casting some warmth across the hardwood floor but you made no effort to enjoy it. Rose had just dropped a salad off at the door and told you that DCS would be visiting today, to get your shit together and not to mess anything up or Ward would go after your friends. You didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but you had nothing left to go off of. You hadn’t seen your friends in weeks, and you didn’t know if they even bothered to look for you.

DCS had yet to make any checkups on you and your brother since your dad disappeared, minus the one that John B narrowly avoided by jumping from the car when you thankfully weren’t home. You figured Ward had paid them off for so long, but now that John B was lost to sea, they were likely to get suspicious. 

Which meant they were coming to talk to you. Alone.

Perfect.

Forcing your tired and bruised body to your feet, you made your way into the attached bathroom to soak under the hot water and formulate a plan. If DCS did opt to talk to you, there had to be a way to get a silent SOS across. You didn’t know how, but you would come up with something, even if Rafe and Ward followed your every move. 

After soaking up most of the hot water, you finished getting ready for the day, pulling on a pair of shorts and one of John B’s t-shirts that had gotten mixed in your laundry. It would only be a matter of time before they’d come knocking at the door to collect you for show and tell.

Your eyes moved over everything in the room with hope something would pop up with an answer for all of your problems. And then you remembered the remaining food tray in the room. Ward or whoever dropped food to you typically left plastic wear to prevent you from using the typicaly cutlery as a resource, but that wasn’t the case today. Your eyes caught the metal knife that was intended to cut the meal, but you hadn’t touched it.

You grabbed the piece in your hand and moved slowly to to the door, running over JJ’s instructions in your head on how to possibly pop the lock using the tool. Pushing it between the door and the wall, you felt around for the horizontal lock, struggling to move it over. And then there was a pop, and your heart started racing.

Pressing your ear against the door, you listened for footsteps and voices, anything that would give you a warning of someone being nearby. When you didn’t hear anything, your fingers gently twisted the doorknob as far as it would go. A soft click told you it was yours to open as you pleased, so you did so, slowly.

The hallway was dim minus the sunlight leaking in from other rooms and your eyes caught sight of the large grandfather clock to your side. The ticking of the hands echoed down the silent hallway and you stood frozen for a moment before taking your first steps out. 

And nothing.

No yelling, no alarms, no impromptu body tackles to the floor. You could make this. You could make a run for it and they would be none the wiser until DCS was here.

Walking slowly down the hallway, you came to the foyer area where you could hear whispers from the kitchen filtering through. Moving into Sarah’s room, you glanced around for something, anything, that would help you get out of here without any suspicion. 

“Go get her. They’ll be here soon and I need to make sure she’s not going to run her mouth.”

“Dad, she’s going to-”

“Now, Rafe.”

You held your breath as Rafe mumbled an agreement and the sound of his footsteps echoed through the open room as he ascended the stairs. You needed to move, and move fast. Rafe cursed down the hall, likely figuring out that the door was unlocked and you clutched the butter knife tighter in your hand like it would offer any protection.

Ducking into Sarah’s walk-in closet, you scrambled to find an old phone or even her laptop if she’d left it behind but came up empty. “Shit,” You whispered to yourself and bent down to pull on a pair of her gym shoes since yours had been destroyed from years of wear. If nothing else, you needed to prepare to run. 

Grabbing a black hoodie from her shelves, you slipped it on over your t-shirt and pulled the hood up to keep your face hidden as much as possible. You would only have one shot at this, and you needed to make it count. 

Moving slowly toward Sarah’s bedroom door, you waited to see if you could hear Rafe’s presence down the hall but silence followed. The doorbell rang, Ward yelling out for his son in hopes that he would bring you down but Rafe didn’t answer.

“Hi, I’m Rebecca Sinclair with DCS. I’m presuming you’re Mr. Cameron.” 

Risking the step into the open, you walked out of Sarah’s room and kept your body pressed against the wall so you would be out of view for Ward and the DCS rep but could see their conversation.

“That would be me. Come in, can I get you something to drink?”

Rebecca shook her head. “This should be fairly quick. Where is Miss Routledge? I have to do an individual check in with her and then one with you as the legal guardian.”

“Let me go see where she’s at. She’s been having a really hard time with the loss of her brother and my daughter. They were such good friends, and-”

“Miss Routledge, please, Mr. Cameron.”

The DCS rep clearly wasn’t putting up with Ward. You took the chance to step forward into view, your mouth opening to yell out before someone’s hand clamped over your face and an arm yanked you back from view. You screamed against the action, the sound echoing throughout the hall.

“Apologies, she’s been crying all day. I’ll go grab her.”

Body thrashing, you attempted to pull out of Rafe’s grasp but he doubled down on his grip, even when you attempted to bite his hand. 

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you!” He hissed in your ear as he dragged you down the hallway back into the room you’d seen for days upon days. Rafe tried to close the door as quietly as possible while still corralling you in his arms.

He slammed you against the bed covers, knee driving into your stomach as he kept his hand over your mouth. You cried out at the force, tears springing to your eyes at the pain that followed. You tried to push against his chest so he would get off, his other hand tightening around your throat causing the air to stop its way into your lungs.

You choked, eyes going wide as you stared back at him in hopes that he would find some sort of empathy and forgiveness, but cold eyes met yours. 

“I told you to shut the fuck up, you useless Pogue. I should kill you for-”

“Rafe.” Ward’s voice was demanding enough that his son stopped speaking but continued to glare at you. “Move your hand.”

Rafe complied, taking his hand from your throat but keeping the one on your mouth. You continued to push at him until he dropped more of his weight into the knee on your stomach and you cried again.

Ward’s face came into view, his sickly fake smile on his face as he held a small syringe into your view. “You could’ve just listened, you know? And we wouldn’t have to go to these lengths.”

He wasn’t gentle as he pushed the needle into your skin, subjecting you to whatever sedative he’d claimed good enough to handle your outburst. 

Your body went quiet within seconds, muscles relaxing and a numbness spreading from limb to limb. Your imaginary fight with Rafe ended and tears fell from your eyes at the helpless feeling. After a moment, Rafe moved his hand and shifted off of you as Ward tossed a spare blanket over your form.

“Go to your room, I’ll handle this.” 

You could tell Rafe wanted to disagree with Ward’s directions, but with a final glare your way, he removed himself from the room. Ward watched as your expression drooped, eyes blinking slower as the medicine kicked in. 

“I told you, you’ll never see them again.”

Heavy tears blinked from your eyes as you tried to fight through, tried to stay awake to warn the woman downstairs of your horrendous conditions, of how damaged they’d left you. But you couldn’t, despite all your efforts, you couldn’t. 

And as your vision faded to black, all you could think of was your brother and how you wanted to be with him again, more than anything in the world. 

--

And now, John B was going to be sick to his stomach so he stood up to pace while fighting the bile in his throat. Rafe Cameron. Rafe Cameron took away something you’d never even had a chance to consider.

“Did he…” The open ended question made John B dizzy at the thought of everything that you’d gone through, and when you shook your head no, he choked out a cough instead of the lunch he was threatening to leave in the bush.

You watched him from your spot on the stairs, heart racing as you recounted everything you’d told Kie earlier that day. “There was so much, um, scar tissue from the kicking…and the drugs. A-and they said it caused permanent damage that even if I wanted to get pregnant, I wouldn’t make it long.”

“When did you find out? The hospital? Or-or-” John B stopped pacing, his hand tugging at his hair to keep him from absolutely raging in the cemetery.

“It was when you got arrested,” You continued to explain around your tears before he lost his chill. “There was so much bleeding and… I didn’t know what to do…so I told Pope, and his dad took me to the hospital and-”

“Pope knows?” John B had never sounded so upset at the idea of one of his best friends finding out this information before he did. You were his sister, his other half no matter what happened. He wanted you to trust him, to lean on him for everything and anything you wanted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrugged lightly, your voice cracking as you spoke, “Because I’m embarrassed? And ashamed and JJ’s going to leave when he finds out and-”

John B picked you up from the stairs and held you so tightly, he could’ve sworn you disappeared. His chest shook with your sobs as you sunk into the embrace. You weren’t even 19 yet and the possibility of growing a family with your boyfriend, John B’s best friend, was practically non-existent. 

Adoption was always an option, but John B knew what you were grieving, because he had almost grieved it when he lost Sarah on that table in Nassau. Plus, let’s not lie, the chances of you all getting your shit together and getting approved for that kind of thing were slipping away by the day. There was still so much time in your lives (you hoped), that you shouldn’t be hearing this news at such a young age, but like you said, life had been so cruel. 

John B stood there, with you in his arms, for as long as you’d let him. You cried for most of it, but a part of you was relieved he knew. You had tried to keep the conversation away as long as possible, like if you didn’t speak of it, you’d never have to accept that it was real. But it was, and you had to come to the realization that John B wouldn’t be an uncle to kids that you’d created on your own, that JJ wouldn’t ever get to redeem himself as a Dad to kids of his own, that you’d never get that experience.

 “I’m so sorry, I… I should’ve been there, I should’ve never left without you,” John B apologized and placed his hand on the back of your head to hold you closer. “God, I shouldn’t have-I didn’t mean for this to happen. I never meant for any of this to happen.” 

 “‘S not your fault,” You mumbled, every word being so honest. It had taken a lot of thought, but you couldn’t and you wouldn’t blame John B for what he’d done. He was a terrified kid, and you were too in your own ways. He was running for his life and you were watching from the sidelines. Older and younger. Brother and sister. Trapped in this horrible spiral life had given you.

“What are we looking for?”

An unsuspecting voice had you and John B diving for a hiding spot, your brother tugging you behind a gravestone that would keep both of you from prying eyes. John B held a finger to his lips, teary eyes making contact with yours as you were wrenched out of your heartbreaking conversation and back into reality. 

Keeping his hand on your shoulder to hold you out of view, John B peeked around the gravestone to see two figures wandering the cemetery with a lantern, obviously looking for something other than a deceased loved one. 

“We’re looking for an angel. A gatekeeper. One that looks a bit like her. Hello, Stede Bonnet,” A woman answered the question. “Isn’t that a beauty? Excellent, come on.”

You shivered, whether from the cool stone against your back or fear, you didn’t know and risked glancing over to see the two figures investigating another grave a few feet away from you. They were pulling out heavy tools in an attempt to open whatever was lying inside. 

“Shit,” John B whispered as you watched the woman place the amulet you’d found in the shipwreck into the stone, the headstone scraping open as she did. You quickly recognized the man as the one who had caught you and JJ while diving and again in the hospital, so that left this woman to be his boss.

After a moment of silence and more scraping noises, they disappeared under the stone, down into the tomb that lay beneath. Thunder cracked overhead and you jumped, grabbing onto John B’s arm in surprise. 

He moved away slowly and your grip tightened to stop him. “John B!”

“Shh, just stay behind me. We’re so not done with that conversation, by the way.”

You shuffled out slowly in fear of someone getting the jump on the two of you. John B paused in front of the headstone that the two people from earlier read; the angel statue had an outstretched hand, which you followed to the tomb they disappeared in.

“The gatekeeper will guide the way,” John B repeated as he followed your gaze. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” You gasped out in shock, realizing they very much had figured out the words on the amulet faster than you’d planned. “Do you think…”

“They’ll be fine,” John B reassured, although you couldn’t tell if he was speaking more to himself or you. “They’re smart. Right?”

You tilted your head in consideration. “Better than us being down there.”

“Yeah, yeah. Way better than us.”

“Pope’s super smart.”

“Right and Cleo’s got her knife.”

“Sarah’s not dumb, she’ll be fine.”

“Kie can have her moments, but-”

Your reasoning was cut off as the headstone shifted and the two individuals from earlier climbed out. John B pushed you behind him further into the shadows of the building as you watched on with curious gazes. Lightning lit up the sky before thunder boomed around you, the storm clearly moving in closer despite your wishes. 

You needed to find your friends. And fast.

--

navigation -- series masterlist

ask me anything

[amorisxx]

Snickerdoodle pt. iv

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader, Patrick Zweig x reader, Tashi Duncan x reader summary: Art comes out of retirement to test out his coaching skills. Your relationship with him continues to spiral. warnings: smut 18+, cheating, divorce, rough sex, piv, marijuana use, slight angst, hastily proofread word count: 7.7K divider by @cafekitsune <3 prev part

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Kaleb decides he wants to play tennis. Or that he wants to “get serious” about it. He’d done tennis camp every summer along with soccer camp, and he’d enjoyed it enough. But for some reason, he’s determined to be a tennis player now. You blame it on how much time he’s been spending around the Donaldson’s. Between the various play dates and carpooling, he and Lily have been attached at the hip.

The two of you are enjoying a quiet evening  on a weeknight when he brings it up. 

“Lily doesn’t really like tennis,” he tells you in between bites of mashed potatoes. 

“Well that’s okay. Sometimes our friends end up having different hobbies,” you say.

“Hm,” he puts his finger to his chin, “kinda like you and Mr. Art?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well he’s like the greatest tennis player ever,” he says, spreading his arms out wide. “But you’re terrible at tennis. And you guys are friends right?”

His assertion has you placing your fork down. “Okay, first of all, I’m not terrible at tennis. Secondly, it’s really not fair to compare me to a professional tennis player, K, he’s had years of practice.” Then, you reluctantly think of the last thing he said. About the two of you being friends. 

Images of Art kneeling above you in bed dance through your mind. You think of the last time you were with him. How he’d laid his cheek on your thigh while you threaded your fingers through his tufts of blonde hair. His gaze searing as he watched you in all your post-orgasmic bliss. Your chest was still heaving as you tried to recover.  

You clear your throat. 

“Yeah, um, I guess we are friends.” You avoid eye contact with Kaleb and pray he changes the subject. You don’t want to think about Art. 

Unfortunately, your son is too young to properly read the room. If he was, he’d see the way you’re clenching your fork in your fist. Or he would’ve realized by now that his mom is a harlot. Instead of calling you out on your immorality, he turns to you with express earnestness. “I wanna play tennis like Mr. Art,” he says definitively.

He then furrows his little eyebrows and asks you, “you think I can be as good as him one day?”

You smile, reach over to smooth your palm over his curls, and tug his ear. You say what every parent would. “I think you can do whatever you put your mind to, my little monkey.” 

He grins at you, dimple poking out.

After all, you’re almost certain this is just an eager phase prompted by Lily bringing Tashi to school for career day. Tashi mentioned to you that Kaleb was very eager to ask questions about her job. Apparently, he thought it was super cool that she “got to coach the best tennis players in the world.” You’re worried that before dinner is over he might ask you to put in a word with her about coaching him. 

Once you’ve finished eating, tucked Kaleb in, and tidied up the kitchen, you finally get to relax with a cup of lavender chamomile tea.

Before you settle into the refuge of your bed, you make a note to sign Kaleb up for club tennis. 

ᯓ

You’re at a gas station near Kaleb’s school when you realize your dumb credit card has a faulty chip. You grab your purse and lock the doors to your car, having been forced to go inside the store and pay for your gas the old fashioned way. 

The door shuts behind you with a ring of a bell. The unmistakable smell of fuel fills your nostrils as it mixes with stale coffee and the emblematic stench of small convenience stores. You grumble when you see there’s a short line. 

With a sigh, you take a detour down one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of gum. You pick out a random pack of spearmint, but your inner child lingers on the yellow packaging of juicy fruit bubble gum sitting beside it. When you were little, your mom would’ve made you pick one or the other. Without a second thought, you pluck the yellow pack out from the shelf and head back towards the front. 

On your walk back, you glance out the windows, checking to make sure the pump you’re parked at is still number 5. 

The line is shorter now. There’s only two people. You think you recognize the dark head of the person standing at the counter. They’re digging through the back pocket of their jeans and pulling out a leather wallet when your cellphone dings. It’s an email notification from your boss. You read the subject header before dropping the phone back into your purse, hoping to avoid whatever stressor awaits you there for a couple more hours or so. When you look back up, you’re met with the face of the dark haired stranger. 

His eyes meet yours. Patrick Zweig sends you a mischievous smile of recognition as he saunters toward you. He snaps his fingers. “I know you.”

“Hi, Patrick,” you say through your tight smile. The last time you’d seen him, he tried to blackmail you into going out with him. If he wasn’t so attractive, you’d probably be repulsed by him. 

“Long time no see.” He pockets his package of Marlboros. “How you been?”

“Um just busy you know,” you hum. “You?” 

He nods. “Same, same.” He looks you over, smile growing wider when he meets your eyes after lingering on your cleavage. He doesn’t even attempt to be discreet. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes to the side.

Thankfully, the bald guy in front of you finishes up his transaction so you have an excuse to say “excuse me” to Patrick as you approach the register. You glance back when you hand your money to the bored cashier, catching one last glimpse of Patrick as he exits through the door. You nibble on the inside of your cheek, feeling the tiniest hint of disappointment. 

You accept your change and two packs of gum and make your way back to your car. Not wanting to waste any more time at this point, you toss the plastic bag into the passenger seat and hurry to pump your gas.  

You’re leaning against the trunk while the fuel fills your tank when you hear a small “hey.” 

You’re startled as Patrick approaches you again. You look around suspiciously. “Um are you stalking me?” 

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was standing over there taking a smoke.” He points towards his beat up suv. You wonder why he doesn’t have a better car. You thought tennis players made money. “And I saw you. Didn’t get to say goodbye earlier.” 

You click your tongue. “Well, bye.” 

“Wait—I hope I didn’t rub you the wrong way last time.” He rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “I kind of have a fucked up sense of humor.” 

“It wasn’t the joke,” you supply. “It was more so you trying to blackmail me into going on a date with you.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know why that didn’t work.” The grin he gives you sends a shiver down your spine. 

This time, you smirk, your gaze tracing the length of his body, from his Nikes to the curly wisps of hair flying in the wind. The gas pump clicks, signifying that your tank is full. You don’t remove it right away because you’re busy letting Patrick type his number into your phone. You wish you could say you played hard to get, but that would be a lie of monumental magnitude. 

You don’t actually intend to call him, content to let his number go forgotten in your phone. After all, what type of woman would get involved with the best friend of the man she’s having an affair with? 

Later on, when you’re having a glass of wine, mommy duties complete for the night, you pause on his number as you tap through your phone. You inhale, take a sip from your glass, and quickly save his contact before swiping out of the app. You can blame it on your being slightly tipsy when you notice that he’s saved as “for a rainy day.” 

ᯓ

It turns out that the tennis thing isn’t just a phase. You don’t mind of course. You’d always support your kid in whatever he pursued. The only issue is that Art fucking Donaldson thought it would be a good idea to train little Kaleb. As if you needed more reasons to be around the man. 

You’d told him that you didn’t think it was necessary because your son was only eight years old. Surely, he wouldn’t need a retired professional tennis player to train him. His tennis lessons at the local club would certainly suffice. Plus, you imagined he had more important things to attend to than give private lessons to a third grader. 

On a random weeknight, you’d gone to pick Kaleb up from a play date with Lily, hoping to grab him and get back home before the rain got any worse. Art had greeted you at the door, placing a hand on the small of your back. 

He decided to bring up the topic again. Even Tashi, who was usually busy with training of her own, chimed in, claiming it would be a good opportunity for Art to find real meaning in tennis again. Whatever that meant. Patrick, who you had been avoiding thinking about, once again inserted himself into a conversation, pointing out how young he and Art were when they first started playing tennis. According to him, it was never too early to learn how to properly hit a ball with a racket. 

ᯓ

The thought of Art spending time with Kaleb through tennis is an endearing one if you’re being honest with yourself. But you know you would have an intense fight on your hands should Chris find out. 

Ever since Art had stepped in with your ex at the fall festival, he’d harbored an attitude toward him. He’d gone as far as complaining about all the time Kaleb spent at his house, accusing you of trying to turn your son against him. If it weren’t for the court mandated visits, you’d have simply told Chris to go to hell. But in an attempt to maintain peace for your son’s sake, you reassured him that Kaleb only spent so much time around Art because Lily was his best friend. 

You asked him if it was worth destroying his son’s friendship. He conceded for the time being, but you’re sure if he found out about any extra tennis lessons, he’d blow a gasket. 

Ironically, you had never been offered the freedom to express such possessiveness. You had to be content each and every time your son stayed at his father’s new house with his new fiancée that you barely knew anything about. You handle some occasions better than others. 

This time, though, when you watch Kaleb go through the front door of their luxurious home, Spider-Man backpack affixed on his back, your stomach churns. Chris’ fiancée smiles and waves to you with her left hand. Bitterly, you think it’s a miracle she can even lift it with the large diamond wrapped around her finger. She places her hand on your son’s shoulder, pulling him into their home, as if she wasn’t the one that helped wreck yours. 

Maybe it’s the fact that this past week would’ve been your anniversary, but your shoulders shake with sobs throughout the entire drive home. You sniffle as you think about Kaleb building a life with his soon to be step-mom. You hope she treats him right, but, ultimately, you wish he didn’t have to know her at all. 

It doesn’t help that you aren’t able to bury your sorrows in Art’s chest or on his dick. He’d already told you about the gala he’d be attending that weekend for the Donaldson Foundation. You haven’t seen him since last weekend, and you ache to call him, but the thought makes you feel nauseous when you think about the wretched irony of seeking comfort in a married man. In a decision that’s almost homogeneously pathetic, you sit in your lonely driveway and send a “hey” to ‘for a rainy day.’

ᯓ

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to offer to come over. You send him your location as you pop open a bottle of wine. 

You reach for a glass, your eagerness causing you to apply too much force as you slam the glass down. It breaks under the pressure of your haste, immediately cracking at the stem. The inconvenience is too much for you. You curse before bringing the entire bottle up to your mouth. You take a swig, red liquid spilling out of the corner of your mouth. With a gasp, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Pitifully, your vision starts to blur again as your eyes swell up with hot tears. You resort to sitting on the kitchen floor, taking the occasional drink, and wallowing in your despair. 

You’re propped against the cabinet, knees to your chest as you cradle the green tinted bottle of red wine like a toddler holding a stuffed animal, when you hear your doorbell ring. You stumble to your feet, dragging them as you move toward the door. When you swing the door open, Patrick is standing there with his hands in his pockets. He looks you over once, mumbling that you “look like shit” before stepping into your home as if he’d been there a thousand times. 

He lifts his eyebrows when he sees the neglected pieces of glass on your counter. He looks back at the bottle in your fist before groaning. “Please don’t tell me you’re an alcoholic.” 

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m just having a pretty shitty day.” 

“No shit,” he snorts. 

You send him a glare. “I don’t even know why I called you,” you say and rub your temples. 

“Because I’m obviously easy and you know it.” He smirks. 

It makes you laugh, your red, puffy eyes squinting back at him. 

Patrick eventually convinces you to smoke the joint he’d brought with him. You haven’t gotten high in years, and you find yourself mindlessly rambling about your life as you pass the joint back and forth to him. You’d stopped crying a while ago, your eyes now red because of the weed. 

You and Patrick are lounging on the floor of your living room. You’re dragging your fingers through the shag rug underneath you and leaning your head back on the sofa when you hear him laugh. He sounds like he’s far away, down through a tunnel, but when you turn your head, his face is right beside you. 

“What’s funny?” You grunt. 

He shakes his head. “S’nothing.” 

You frown and shove his bicep. “Tell me,” you say, scooting closer to him. “I hate feeling left out.” 

His smile falters for a second like he’s remembering something, but when you blink he’s sporting a melancholic grin. “It’s just—you kind of remind me a lot of Art.” His head falls to the side to really look at you. “I mean not like completely, and not really how he is now, but when you’re upset—it reminds me of when we were teenagers.” 

“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not,” you say. It comes out as a whisper. Your faces are so close that you don’t want to startle him. 

“Hm.” His eyes flicker to your lips. “Not a good or bad thing. Just a thing.” 

“That’s why you like me?” You mumble teasingly. “Because I remind you of your boyfriend?” 

He smirks, lips so close to yours you feel his breath fan them. “Who said I liked you?” 

“You don’t have to.” You’re just the slightest movement away from kissing him. If you tilt your head just the tiniest bit—

He lets out an almost imperceptible moan when he finally presses his lips to yours. It’s so quiet, you think you might’ve imagined it. It all happens incredibly fast, but feels like slow motion. Your head is fuzzy and your body is tingling as Patrick grabs your waist, hoisting you onto his lap. It takes you a moment to build momentum, your sensory overload working against you.

When you’re finally able to match his energy, the kiss is searing. He’s sucking your lip into his mouth like you’re already his, hands roaming everywhere he can get them. When he bites your bottom lip, you suck in a breath, giving him room to thrust his tongue into your mouth. You mewl at the way your mouths seem to fit together like velcro. Your toes curl and you tighten your fists into his dark locks when you feel his hot tongue traveling down your throat, leaving white hot bites that feel like being branded. His teeth sting and your cunt throbs as you impulsively rut against his length. 

Patrick rubs his large palm over your ass before abruptly smacking it, making you release an embarrassingly airy moan. His teeth tug on your earlobe. “You like that?” 

You only nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

“Hmm?” He mumbles, continuing to lave over the skin behind your ear. His hand comes down on your ass again, harder this time. 

You let out a pathetic squeal and slam your hips down against him in search of some kind of friction to relieve the ache between your legs. “Oh god—please fuck me—“

His mouth meets yours again. You can barely kiss him properly, panting about needing him to fuck you right now. 

He really is easy, you think, but it’s not like you have room to talk.

ᯓ

The first time Patrick Zweig sinks his cock into you, you’re on your knees, face pressed against your rug. The slam of his hips threaten to take your breath away as tears cling to your eyelashes. He’s rough, possessively grabbing your flesh with no regard for potential damage. When he experimentally grips your hair in his hand, tugging your head back gently, you see stars behind your clamped eyelids.

Patrick nearly whimpers at the way it makes you arch your back into his thrusts with increasing intensity. He groans something about you being a slut and fists your hair with less restraint. Your walls clench around him when he wraps his hand around your throat, pulling you to his chest. 

He grunts into your ear. “I knew you liked it rough, could tell from the first time I saw you.” 

The tears have started to spill now. Whether it’s from the humiliation or the utter ecstasy, you aren’t sure. All you know is that you almost sob when Patrick drags his tongue alongside your face, collecting the salty tears.

ᯓ

He buries himself inside you for a second time no more than twenty minutes after you’ve both cum. You gasp and claw at his back as his body presses you into your couch cushions.

You have to admit that Patrick knows how to fuck. Knows how to read your body, tapping into just the right frequency to get you off. 

It’s obvious that you’ve been craving this type of treatment from the way you’re responding to him. But you’re sure that he must have a sexual sixth sense because in the midst of fucking you wildly, he grabs your ankle that’s dangling by his ear, turns his head, and plants a sweet kiss to the bone. It makes you melt into the sofa. 

He leans down to shove his tongue into your open mouth. Softly pats your cheek, relishing in your cock drunk state. 

“Does he fuck you like this?” He murmurs into your neck.

You don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. 

“Huh?” He prods. 

You choke down a moan. “Better. He—“ You cry out when you feel him start rubbing harsh circles into your clit. “He fucks me better.” 

He huffs out a laugh through his smile, but his hips slam down harder as if he’s determined to change your answer. In less than a minute, you’re biting down on his shoulder when you feel another orgasm rack through your body. 

ᯓ

You take a longer break this time. Stopping to pour yourself a real glass of wine. One with its stem intact. Patrick lazily inhales from a cigarette as he watches you, with hooded eyes, attempt to hold a throw blanket over your bare torso. In contrast, he nonchalantly spreads his thighs over your couch, body on full display. 

His eyes leisurely meet yours. They shine prettily in the dim lighting of your home. His dark lashes flutter on each drag of his cig and it makes the corner of your mouth curve up when you take a sip. The lamps have cast a cozy shade of amber over the room. It blankets Patrick’s skin in a golden aura reminiscent of something being baked in an oven. 

Patrick reminds you of the gingerbread man, you think. It makes you press the tips of your fingers to your lips to stifle a giggle. 

He tilts his head at your odd behavior, but he assumes the weed must still be affecting you. 

Once you’ve placed your glass on the coffee table, and he’s put out his cigarette, Patrick is pulling you by the ankle, tossing your blanket to the side and kissing his way down your abdomen. 

You yelp when he captures one of your hard nipples in his mouth but let him press his hot kisses into your skin nonetheless. 

You end up cumming for the third time that night with his head buried between your legs. 

ᯓ

Patrick leaves while you’re asleep. 

When you wake up around 3am to an empty house, you think it’s for the best. You check your phone. You have a missed call from “a.d.” and a text from Patrick that says “had fun” with a winking emoji. You don’t respond to either, instead, opting to pad your bare feet to the bathroom. You desperately need a shower.

In the morning, you tidy up your home from the events of the night before, cringing at what took place on the terracotta colored sofa.

When the buzzing in your head doesn’t stop after cleaning your entire living room from top to bottom, you find yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. 

You’re frantically kneading dough when the doorbell rings. You frown, not expecting company, but clean your hands as best you can as you make your way to open the door. Sometimes, your talkative neighbor, Mrs. Taylor, likes to come knocking on your door early in the mornings. 

You’re surprised to find that Art is standing on the other side with a latte and a bag containing a chocolate croissant. You assume it’s for you. He places his things down on the table by the door, the one that holds your catch all tray, and scoops you up into a hug. 

He groans into it, making you smile. “Hi,” you mumble into his chest. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” his voice comes out equally mumbled. “Missed you.” You can hear the grin in his tone. It makes your heart clench. 

You allow yourself to hold onto him, despite the ever present worry that you should be reining yourself in when it comes to him. He moves to let you go, grabbing your face in his palm and kissing the side of your head. You whine and lock your arms around his waist in protest. You inhale his scent, all warm and familiar. You’ve missed him. 

“Baby,” he laughs into your hair. You grunt, squeezing him tighter. “Okay, c’mere.” He pulls you into him, securely engulfing you in his arms. “I got you, I got you.” 

You eventually release him long enough to walk into your home. 

You’re relieved that you’d been overtaken by a cleaning spell this morning because you fear that Art might take one glance at your couch and figure out who had been here. That he’d smell him in the air. 

You’re afraid he might’ve detected it anyway when he freezes in the walkway separating your kitchen from the living room. You nibble on your lip as you try to search his body for any signs that he’s onto you. 

To your relief, Art is actually focused on the copious amounts of cookie dough you have on the counter of your kitchen island. He turns to you with the all knowing look of a father, his eyes creased with concern. “Oh no, what happened?” 

ᯓ

After a therapy session in which you decide to stop letting your ex influence your decisions from afar, you finally relent, allowing Art to begin practicing with Kaleb on their private tennis court. It seems like since you got involved with their family, that’s all you ever do, give in to everyone’s requests. In any other context, it would be disturbing, but the sight of Kaleb racing to the court with an oversized tennis bag fills you with joy. The bag threatens to pull him down, but his excitement keeps him upright as he makes a beeline for Art. 

You don’t know who’s more excited to see Art between the two of you. Your son’s tennis instructor waves at you from across the court. And you have to fight the rush that flows through you, threatening to cut off your oxygen, and give a simple wave in return. It makes you feel like a kid with a fervent crush. You could gag.

You remind yourself that you’re here for Kaleb. Not you.

You think that as long as you get to see him happy like that, you’d agree to anything. It’s a scary notion, but becoming a mom has made you aware of a lot of terrifying realities. 

ᯓ

It’s this maternal need to preserve your son’s happiness that leads you to another prolonged encounter with Tashi Duncan. She’d caught you when you were dropping him off for tennis lessons one day. Apparently, she had a free day. Lily was spending the day with her grandparents, and Patrick is, thankfully, nowhere to be found. You try to hide your relief when she tells you that. You don’t think you can face him right now. 

She insists you join her in their sunroom while the boys practice. You try to think of an excuse to turn her down, but you decide your karma from sleeping with her husband has built up too much to take the chance of tacking on more. So, when she offers to make you a cup of tea, you oblige and sink down into the fabric of a warm sofa.

When Tashi reappears, she sits down with a cup of steaming hot tea for the both of you. You thank her with a smile, letting your eyes trail over her figure. She looks ethereal. The sunlight pouring through the glass forms a halo of light around her, illuminating her like a Madonna painting. She has her hair pulled back into a low ponytail that causes her to have to tuck the loose strands behind her ear every now and then. The motion makes you take notice of her slim neck and the way her collarbones dip into her loose-fitted button down. Even dressed casually, she looks like a goddess. 

You feel your heart start to beat a little faster and reach to take a sip of your tea. You wonder how she knew that lavender chamomile was one of your favorites.

It’s only awkward for a moment because the two of you quickly fall into a conversation about what she’s missed now that Art has taken over attending the PTA meetings. That’s how you’d initially met her. She had actually been the one who you exchanged communication with about carpool and play dates. Art’s retirement allowed her to focus on tennis and other aspects of raising Lily that she preferred. You giggle when she admits that she never really liked those meetings anyway. You don’t tell her that you always had that inkling. 

When you mention that Cynthia is still advertising her knitting business at every single meeting, she sucks in a laugh before leaning toward you. She presses her lips together, holding in her giggle. “Guess what?”

You squint at her, your expression already anticipating a joke. “What?” You all but sputter out. 

“I’m probably responsible for like half the sales on her Etsy shop.” She says like she’s admitting to something top secret. It’s a lot like the expression Lily takes on when her and Kaleb are playing “secret agent.”

“Girl, what?” You didn’t think she’d be a fan of crocheted animal figures. 

“I ordered one for my mom for Mother’s Day,” she explains. “She fell in love with the thing I swear, thought it looked just like her little Yorkie, next thing you know she’s asking for the link to share with all her friends.” 

You’re snickering into your mug imagining Tashi unintentionally being Cynthia’s best saleswoman.

She smiles at you. “I’m serious. Apparently, amigurumi is the new thing. It’s gonna be flying off the shelves. That’s why I had to go ahead and put in my order.”

“Of course you know the official term.” You toss your head back. “What’s yours look like?” 

“It’s a little tabby cat,” she smiles wistfully. “Like the one I had growing up. Her name was Aphrodite.” 

It’s a fitting name.

You’re biting back a grin as you take a sip from your tea. You sigh at the taste. “How’d you know what type of tea I liked?” You ask absentmindedly. 

“Art mentioned it to me.” 

You freeze. “Art?” 

“Yeah he says you like to make it before bed. Now, he’s hooked on it.” 

All the blood in your body rushes to your head. You feel that unwelcome yet proverbial sinking in your gut. You think you might start projectile vomiting.

“Are you okay?”

You don’t respond. It’s hard to speak when you feel like you’re dangling upside down on a roller coaster.

“Wait… you didn’t think I knew did you?”

For some unintelligent reason, you decide to play stupid. Usually, in times of danger, humans resort to fight, flight, or freeze. You choose fucking idiot. “Knew what?”

“That you’re fucking my husband.” Tashi says quite unceremoniously.

“What—what do you mean?” You squeak out.

“Don’t.” She laughs. “I’ve known the whole time.” 

“How?” Your voice is shrinking smaller and smaller to your ears. The sound of Tashi’s voice, her pert laughter, drowning it out.

“Art tells me everything.”

“And you’re okay with it?” You attempt to ask though you can barely hear it.

You know your question reaches her ears because she shakes her head and tells you, “I suggested it.” 

Your eyes go wide. Her divulgence seems to propel you forward on your metaphorical roller coaster. In a snap, it brings you out of your stupor.

“I told Art that he should fuck you.” She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s as simple as telling him to pick up some carry out on the way home. 

You’re confused, and your head is starting to hurt from the whiplash, and you wish this ride would end already. “I’m—I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.”

“Okay, well, Art’s been attracted to you since the day he met you,” she says plainly. “But he’d never actually do anything about it because that’s just who he is. He needed that push—“

“That push?”

She nods. “He needed to know he could do it and everything would be fine. He’s still figuring out how to be open to stuff like this.” She explains, gestures vaguely in the air. “He’d never break up what seemed like a happy marriage, but when it was clear that your marriage was far from happy…well he started to warm up to the idea.”

“What do you mean far from happy?” The shock has you feeling unreasonably defensive.

“Clearly something was off. You never seemed happy with him. You’ve said it yourself that he was a dick.”

“Um—okay, well, I’d say something has to be off if you’re coaching your husband into sleeping with unsuspecting women.” You shoot back. Your gaze is sharp and accusatory.

She lets her eyes fall down to her lap, picking at little buds of lint being exposed by the sun’s glow. “You’re right, something was off between us,” she says like it’s something in the past. Like maybe they’re good now, but at one time they weren’t. “But Art knows how I feel about him.” Then, her gaze returns to you. “Something tells me your husband either didn’t know or didn’t care.”

Her comment strikes a nerve. Chris did know something was off, and she was right, he didn’t care. He made you feel like needing more from him made you selfish. As if the reminder of the vows he made to you was an affront to him. He knew you were unhappy. That you felt ignored. But he didn’t care. When you’d served him the divorce papers, you naively thought that he’d realize what he might lose, that he might beg for your forgiveness, promise to be better. Instead, you watched him sign the document in the same way he’d signed receipts for dinner before closing the tab and tucking the pen inside. 

You think you envy her. Because she has a husband that actually doesn’t want to leave her. 

“Hey.” She grabs your attention. Her voice softens when she sees your glassy eyes peering back at her. “I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to offer an explanation.” 

You work to swallow down the onslaught of emotions threatening to rise up like bile. You release a fractured noise from your throat, letting the revelation fully soak in. “So you really knew this whole time then? Or rather you orchestrated it?” 

“Okay, that’s a little extreme,” she says. “When we found out you were getting divorced, I mentioned to Art that he should pursue you. That’s all.” She shrugs. “I never knew if he’d actually do it or when he’d do it. All I know is that the first night he came home smelling like you, he fucked me like he did when I first agreed to be his tennis coach.” 

“Then, he was constantly meeting up with you or staying to talk after PTA meetings,” her fingers curl to form quotations around the word, talk. “But I knew what was up.” She bites her lip. “It was honestly kind of hot.” 

You frown. The thought of him sleeping with her immediately after being with you has your stomach in knots. The worst part is that you can’t stop wondering if he’d showered first. If he’d cleaned himself up or if he’d went straight to her, buried himself inside her, cock still sticky with your fluids. In a way, it’s like you had also been inside her. If you think about it long enough, you can imagine what it must feel like. So, you don’t think about it. Instead, you fix your gaze on the golden pothos plant sitting on top a table to your right. The tapping of your nail against the ceramic mug fills the silence. 

She gives you a questioning look. 

Ignoring the implications of what she just told you, you settle for the anger you’re feeling instead of dwelling on any confusing arousal. “Do you not realize how fucked up this is, Tashi?”

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah! It’s fucked!” You throw your hands up. “I mean I’ve been running around feeling guilty, thinking I was a fucking homewrecker while the two of you get off on a cheating kink!”

She can tell you have more to say, so she leans back and lets you go on.

“I mean how could you do that? I was fucking depressed.”

She snorts. “Not so depressed that it ruined your libido. You two have been going at it like rabbits.” Her smirk makes your cheeks burn. 

You place your mug down onto the table. “Wow. You know what?” You’re on the edge of the couch now, body rigid. “You and Art can go fuck yourselves! This is seriously messed up.”

She raises her eyebrows. “As messed up as you fucking another woman’s husband?” 

Her words drip with mirth, and it pisses you off that the fiery look in her eyes is poking at a budding desire in your belly. “This is ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself. You’d rather focus all your energy on being outraged than interrogate why this is kind of turning you on. You’re about to stand up to leave when she places a hand on your arm.

“Are you seriously mad right now?” She asks you. 

An incredulous look takes over your face. “What do you think?” You spit out.

“Well, would you have preferred I not know?” She asks as if you’re the crazy one here.

“I—“ you squeeze your eyes shut, and try to gather your thoughts. “Obviously not, Tashi.” You glance up to the glass paned ceiling. “I just—it would’ve been nice to know what was really going on. I mean he never even told me that you knew.”

“Well, did you ask?” She asks simply. 

Did you? You think back to the past couple of months. The more you and Art hooked up, the more you avoided directly mentioning Tashi. He didn’t bring her up more than what was necessary, so you suspected he was actively trying to keep it from her. 

To be fair, he did mention a couple of times that he’d told Tashi you two were going to meet up for lunch, but you thought he must’ve been leaving out the activities that followed. And if she happened to call him while the two of you were together, he would casually tell her he was with you. You obviously assumed he was downplaying your friendship because there was no way Art would be so nonchalant about a mistress. But, apparently, the word mistress didn’t even apply to you. 

“I mean, I guess I didn’t.” You stammer. “But I feel like that was on him to bring it up to me.”

“Well that’s where you went wrong. Art can get in his own way sometimes.” A pensive expression works it’s way onto her face. “Or maybe part of him did kind of get off on feeling like he was sneaking around.” The thought seems to bring a small smile to her face. 

It still doesn’t make sense to you. You try to tamper down the sinking feeling that you’ve been nothing more than a pawn. “I just don’t understand why you two couldn’t proposition me like a normal couple looking for a third,” you say.

“Who said you were our third?” 

“Oh, so there’s other women you’ve sent Art to fuck?”

“No. I—I don’t just pimp out my husband, okay?”

You back down.

“We already have a…third I guess.”

You look at her with furrowed brows. 

“Patrick.” She answers.

“Patrick? Like Patrick Patrick?”

She nods.

You laugh cynically. You didn’t think this situation could get any worse.

“I know.” She sighs. “I know how it seems—”

“Was that part of the plan too?” You’re out of breath, chest heaving. 

She looks genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“Me and Patrick,” you blurt. 

“Wait a minute, you’re sleeping with Patrick?” She’s scooting closer to you. 

You shake your head. “It just happened once.” You think of how he’d shoved your face into the rug, fucking into you as he grunted out various obscenities. “I was high. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

She looks away for a moment, brows drawn together tightly. She’s piecing together what you’ve told her. 

“I—I didn’t know he was with you guys,” you try. 

She waves you off. “No, it’s not that.” She sits back. “I’m just not surprised that he wormed his way into your pants. He just couldn’t take that Art had something to himself.” She’s speaking to you, but her eyes are trained ahead. 

“So, you really didn’t set that up too?” You ask meekly. 

“God, no!” She says. “I had no idea.” 

You believe her. 

“Look I don’t care what type of weird shit you tennis players are into, if you guys have wild orgies or whatever. I just would’ve liked to have known that I wasn’t a hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite?”

You nod. “I mean I sit here and give my ex shit for cheating on me with that skinny ass whore from Modesto. Hell! That’s why I got so much fucking alimony.” You’re rambling now. “And, then, I go and let Art fucking Donaldson screw me and then send him back home to play loving father and husband like it’s nothing. God! And on top of it all, I also sleep with his best friend! I became the whore from Modesto.” 

Tashi’s watching you like you’re a kid experiencing big feelings.

“I felt like a home wrecker.” You sniff. “But apparently I’m actually not…because it was your idea, well only Art, not Patrick, and I—it’s all just fucking with my head.”

Tashi swallows. “I honestly thought you’d be relieved to find out.”

She looks at the frown on your face, takes in the way your plump bottom lip is jutting out. She reaches for your hand. “We’ve never really been the best at communicating. Me and Art. For the past year or so, we’ve gotten better at talking to each other, being honest about what we want, but we’re still working on doing that with other people I guess.” You let her thumb rub the back of your hand before you gently pull away. 

You grab your mug again. The handle is cold to the touch. 

“I promise we didn’t mean to fuck with you. Honestly, I think Art really likes you.” She offers you a small smile.

You look into your mug trying to still your reaction. You don’t care. 

Tashi’s gaze feels heavy on the side of your face as you feel her watching your expression. You start to fiddle with your watch. Checking for the time. Except your watch is too busy displaying your increased heart rate to offer the time. 

You sigh. 

She reaches out to you again, but this time she brings her hand up to your face, moving the curls falling down over your eyes. You let her nimble fingers caress your cheekbone before trailing down to your chin, guiding you to look at her. 

She gives you a steady, knowing smile. “You fell for him didn’t you?” 

Your cheeks go ablaze, and you try to look away from her. 

“Hey.” She grasps your chin in a firm, but gentle hold. “It’s okay.” She nods as if it’ll telepathically make you agree. 

You clear your throat. “I know you say that, but this is all new to me.” Your voice is slightly wobbly and you think you might cry. “I—I didn’t think it’d happen but it did. I thought I could get him out of my system but now,” you inhale and press two fingers against your neck, subconsciously trying to self-soothe. “Now, it’s like—it’s like I can’t stop.” Your voice comes out almost like a whisper. Like you’re afraid to admit the truth. 

And, really, you are afraid. You’re fucking terrified. 

You’re scared to fall in love with a man who already has one—two people in his life that he’s in love with. The last time you entrusted a man with your love, he was only meant to love you, and he couldn’t even give you that. 

What if you realize you’re absolutely enamored by Art Donaldson and he realizes the same thing Chris did? That there’s something about you that makes you unworthy of love. That the depth of you is as deep as your cunt goes and that’s it. 

What if he realizes that he already has what he needs in Tashi, even Patrick? What if they realize they actually aren’t willing to share?

You apparently voice the last bit aloud.

Tashi tilts her head, some of her strands have fallen loose again and she wears the prettiest pout on her lips. “Do you want me to prove it to you?” 

You gulp when her hand presses into your thigh, and she brings her face impossibly close to yours, forcing you to hold her gaze. “You want me to prove that I’m okay with it?” Her eyes flit between each one of yours with a level of seriousness you’d expect from someone like her. 

Her expression demands an answer, and so, you give a faint nod, transfixed on the woman in front of you. 

You gasp when you feel her mouth on yours. 

You learn that Tashi tastes sweet when she has her tongue in your mouth. You think you can taste the tartness of the lemon she’d sucked on earlier. It’s good, and you realize you’re fucked because you really like kissing her. 

Her tongue twirling around yours has you panting quietly, and you keen when you feel her manicured nails press into the nape of your neck. You haven’t kissed a woman since your last girlfriend in college, and you find you miss it. Something about it feels like drinking sweet tea on a hot summer day. Climbing into cool sheets at night when you’re bone tired. Or the feeling you get when you discover the song that you’re going to replay for the next week. 

It also makes you feel absurdly wet. 

The two of you work up a rhythm of pulling away for a breath before coming back together like magnets, letting your foreheads gently press together as you breathe deeply, thumbs caressing skin, eyelids fluttering. 

Your tongue is sweeping across Tashi’s lip, on a path to enter her mouth again, when you hear someone clear their throat. 

There’s an audible smack as you yank yourself from Tashi, eyes flying to the doorway of their sunroom. 

Art is standing there staring at you, gaze shifting from your face to the hand you still have placed on his wife’s neck. His jaw is clenched, and his bulge is painfully evident in his pants. 

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: I've been waiting for this since the first post. Let me know how you feel about the reveal <3 as always, my asks are open!

[dameronology]

complex (logan)

summary: honestly i was just listening to complex by katie macleod and i started typing and this is what happened, it's only 800 words but hey-ho.

warnings: arguments, so much swearing, logan is kind of a dick

Your residual anger hung thick in the air like heat in the summer.

Your apartment was full of signs—little reminders of your argument, tiny clues to point to the hurt in your chest. The blankets on the sofa were still tangled from where Logan had slept there last night. There were two empty bottles of whisky beside a smashed plate on the coffee table, matched with angry claw marks where he'd made the wooden structure his victim. Most obviously, you and the man you loved stood on each end of the room and the argument, chests heaving from shouting and fists balled up with rage. 

"I fucking hate you," you declared.

"No, you don't," Logan deadpanned, "you hate me right now, but really, you love me."

"Don't," you paused, taking a deep breath, "don't tell me how to feel."

"But you're allowed to tell me how to feel, huh?" he challenged.

There was another strangled sigh in your mouth. You couldn't keep sighing. You needed to come up with something new. Yelling had never been your thing. Maybe Logan's, but not yours. He hadn't even yelled for this entire fight. There had been heated exchanges, sure, but even in his most frustrated moments, he hadn't dared raise his voice. He had that much self-control.

"I can't look at you," your eyes fell to the floor.

Logan let out a snort. "Can't look at me, huh? Can't look me in the eye?"

This whole thing had started because the furry fucking moron had said something stupid. Then, he'd made it even worse when you'd pointed it out. It was like Logan had brought himself a proverbial shovel and was rewarding himself by digging a hole. He was ten feet down, and he couldn't see anything, save if he looked up and saw you glancing down at him with bleary eyes in his self-sustained grave. You could have reached down your hand to help him out but it was too far.

"Fuck. You."

Your chest heaved as you shoved past him, shoulders hitting his with a thud. Logan had barely even processed what had happened before the bedroom door slammed in his face. The force caused a picture on the shelf beside it to fall, the glass smashing into three separate pieces. He leant down to pick it up, turning the frame over. It was a picture of you at Coney Island two years ago; the wind was blowing your hair back, faced pressed to Logan's as he scowled. They were sweeter times.

Logan glanced up at the ceiling - or the sky, whatever the closest thing is.

"Whoever the fuck is up, that's not fucking funny."

He stopped at the door.

To say his heart broke when he heard you crying on the other side would be an understatement. There was a lot of sounds that Logan hated; his ring tone, his alarm sound in the morning, Wade Wilson's voice...but above all, the sound of you crying felt like a punch to the throat. It was even worse for him to know that he was the one who caused it.

Logan didn't stop before he opened the door. He booted it, body crossing the room in seconds to meet you at the bed. You were curled up, hugging his pillow to your chest and crying into yours.

He fell to his knees beside you, warm hands pulling your arms away from your face and towards him instead. A pair of strong arms came to wrap around you and in seconds, you were pressed to his chest.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, "don't cry. Please don't cry. Punch me, slap me, fuckin' kill me if you want but please don't cry."

A little sob escaped your throat. "You're so frustrating."

"I know," Logan gave you a small smile, "christ, I know. And I am so fucking sorry."

He re-centred you on the bed, organising the pillows so that they were behind you. The mattress dipped beside you as he climbed under the covers, pulling you back into his side. You were still glaring at him, still refusing to throw you a ladder down his special grave.

"I let my anger get the best of me sometimes," Logan said, "maybe I don't shout at you or get angry the way I do at other people, but it...it manifests in more fucked up ways, I think. I like arguing. I love riling people up. I don't like doing that to you, though."

"You did, though."

"I know, sweetheart, I know," he murmured. "I'm trying my best. I know my best is absolute bullshit but...I am trying."

You tangled your fingers with his, giving his hand a squeeze. "I know. It's okay if you want to keep trying."

Logan softly smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I love you."

"I love you too."

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 2

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1

There’s a note in Eddie’s locker. It flutters down to the dirty linoleum when he opens it to try and find his missing Biology textbook. He stares down at it, perplexed, until Jeff bends down to pick it up.

“Hey!” Eddie cries, snatching it out of his hand. “That’s mine!”

“Whatever, dude,” Jeff replies, leaning back into the closed locker beside Eddie’s and crossing his arms.

Eddie pays him no mind, too busy unfolding the note and bending over it to read.

He reads it again. And again. And again, each pass over the sign-off making his cheeks feel hotter.

It’s not like Eddie’s a stranger to getting notes in his locker, but they’re usually death threats. Or requests for drugs. Not…not this.

“What’s it say?” Jeff asks, breaking him from his shocked reverie.

“Nothing!” Eddie shrieks loudly enough that multiple heads turn to scowl at them. Eddie hastily stuffs the note into his pocket, and smiles at Jeff. “Let’s go get lunch, huh?”

Jeff squints at him suspiciously.

Eddie, in a desperate bid to distract him, starts rambling about this week’s campaign. It seems to work. By the time they’re settled in with matching shitty lunches, Jeff’s wheedling him for information on the next big bad instead of the note burning a hole in Eddie’s pocket.

It’s probably a joke, definitely a joke.

He finds himself combing the packed lunch tables anyway, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anyone paying more attention to him than usual. There’s nothing. Harrington’s letterman on a different girl, a few band geeks sitting closer together than usual, nothing else.

No one looks at him at all.

He gives it up as a bad job and forgets the note entirely until he finds a wet, pulpy mess in his pocket on his next laundry day.

A little part of Eddie mourns the only love note he’s likely ever to get, cruel prank or not.

But there’s another one there the following week. There’s an envelope this time–it’s light purple, his name written in a dark, careful black atop it.

He’s alone at his locker, no nosy friends to wheedle it out of him, but the hallway is full of other students rushing to make it to their next class, so he presses it carefully into his monster manual and bides his time.

He wants to wait until he’s in the privacy of his own home to open it. Eddie barely makes it to his van after school before he’s collapsing into the relative privacy of the windowless back and tearing through his backpack like a rabid dog.

He tries to be more careful with the envelope. But it’s sealed, and his prodding fingers tear it open in jagged lines.

That same light blue paper is nestled inside. He slips it out and unfolds it to read in the dank recesses of his parked van.

  Eddie –

  You always look so happy when you’re with your friends. I like the way your dimples always seem to peek out no matter how small your smile is. The big ones are my favorite, when you’re jumping up on the cafeteria table with all your teeth showing.

  You didn’t jump up on any tables last week. Was that because of me?

  You seemed upset after I gave you my letter. Do you even want me to write these? I don’t want to be a bother. If you do, maybe you could write back? Leave your reply in the back of the WXYZ encyclopedia, no one ever uses that one.

  If you don’t reply, then I won’t bother you anymore, okay?

  Yours, always,

  Your Secret Admirer

It could still be a joke. Eddie wouldn’t put it past some of the jocks in the school to put their girlfriends up to a long-con. Still, his heart’s fluttering like there’s a bird stuffed in there trying to get out.

It could be a joke. But Eddie’s already mentally picking out stationary and pondering word choices. There will be a letter tucked into the designated encyclopedia come tomorrow morning.

Eddie’s got a maiden to woo.

*** 

“What if he doesn’t respond?” Steve hisses in Chrissy’s ear.

She bats him away, which doesn’t seem like very good girlfriend behavior to Steve, but what does he know? He’s had exactly one real girlfriend, and she’d ditched him for another guy within the year.

“He’ll respond,” Chrissy whispers back, soothing his anxiety with a gentle pat to his shoulders.

The library’s not as empty as it was the last few times. Steve feels his heartbeat kick up every time someone looks up from their coursework and glances their way. At this rate, all his hair’s going to turn gray, ruining his best feature well before there’s even a flicker of a chance to kiss Eddie Munson on the lips.

“Why did we pick the library?” Steve asks.

Chrissy pauses in front of the bookcase holding the damning shelf of encyclopedias. She raises her eyebrow at him and asks, “what, you’d prefer the boy’s bathroom?” drolly.

“I remember when I thought you were nice,” Steve mutters quietly enough that he hopes she can’t hear him. By the way she rolls her eyes, he has no such luck.

Then, without further prompting, she bends down and pulls the WXYZ encyclopedia off the shelf. Steve’s heartbeat ratchets up as he peers over her crouched head and watches her dainty hand flip the cover open. There, tucked between the front board and the cover page, is a crisply folded piece of paper clearly ripped carelessly out of someone’s notebook.

Steve doesn’t care; he’d still open it if it was written on a used piece of toilet paper.

He reaches down past where Chrissy is still crouched to retrieve the note, but just like before, she slaps his hand back.

“Chrissy!”

She doesn’t respond, just plucks the note and slides the encyclopedia back into its place. Once standing, she links her arm with his, running soothing fingers up and down his forearm even as she pulls him along toward the back of the library.

She pushes him down into a vacant chair with deceptively strong arms; he always forgets how difficult cheerleading must be. Once he’s slumped into his own chair, she pulls the one across the table to his side and seats herself primly on it, legs crossed at her thighs.

Only then does she unfold the note and lay it gently on the table in front of him.

       Secret Admirer,

       I don’t know if this is a prank or if you genuinely like me, so I’m not really sure what to say. No one’s ever had a crush on me before, at least that I know of.  

       I didn’t know my hair was nice. My uncle keeps trying to get me to cut it. One time I brushed it and it was so poofy I wore a bandanna until I washed it again. But you probably didn’t need to know that. I’m glad you like it though.

       The paper you picked is really pretty, and I can smell the perfume you sprayed on the envelope. Fresh flowers in the spring, or a sunny day.

       –Eddie

       P.S. You can keep writing. Your notes have been the best part of my days, and I hope mine will be for you, too.

Steve reads it over and over again. Eddie’s handwriting is spiky, but carefully rendered to be readable. The post script takes a little more squinting at the page, letters and words crowding over one another like he’d added it at the last minute.

From the few classes they’ve shared, a small part of Steve was worried he wouldn’t be able to read it at all. But, no, Eddie’d taken the time to smooth out each letter, even while half convinced this was a prank. And the bit about his Uncle and his poofy hair? Adorable.

Steve brushes his fingers reverently over the words, half afraid they’ll smudge beneath his fingers. His face aches from the force of his smile.

“What should I say back?” Steve asks, looking up at Chrissy, feeling manic, hopeful, brave. Only then does he notice her carefully averted gaze, the way her body is turned just slightly away. He pushes the page toward her. “Come on, Chris, read it.”

She leans back toward him, smiling as she readjusts her body in a better position to read. “I didn’t want to presume.”

“Aren’t couples supposed to share?” Steve asks, because even when he’s happy enough to beam light straight out of his pores, he’s fundamentally a bitch.

Chrissy doesn’t respond, already too absorbed in Eddie’s words to pay him any attention, not that he can blame her. Steve waits, bursting with stupid, tender feelings until she’s read the thing through and put the page back on the table, placed perfectly between them.

“So, what should I say?” Steve asks.

Chrissy, never one to make things easy on him, starts the way she’s started every other letter-writing session so far: “What do you want to say?”

*** 

The letter her and Steve had written together is in her bag, Steve understandably too fearful to carry it himself. She’d taken it home, used her nicer stationery and a decorative envelope because, as Steve had pointed out repeatedly, Eddie’d seemed to appreciate how pretty the last letter was.

He’d sounded almost wretched when he said it, like proof that Eddie liked the pretty embellishments she’d put on his words was all he’d needed to know that his feelings would never be reciprocated.

She hadn’t known what to say.

So, she’d taken it home, gussied it up, and brought it back to the school, waiting for an opportune moment to push it through the slats of Eddie’s locker.

Steve’s been walking her to class and to lunch, playing the dutiful boyfriend up. She likes it, all this time with him.

He’s the best boyfriend she’s ever had.

Jason, his only competition for the title, has looked more and more pinch-faced every time they’ve crossed paths. She wishes, almost, that he’d yell at her, hit her, do something. It feels like waiting for a bomb to blow.

It’s not a surprise when the explosion finally hits.

“Are you serious, Chrissy?” Jason asks, and she spins, heartbeat rabbiting in her chest to find him storming toward her. And there’s a look on his face that she’s never seen before–not even when they’d broken up that first time.

His eyes are hard, mouth open like he’s one second away from shouting, and as he speaks, both his fists clench as he steps toward her. She can’t help the way she stumbles back into Steve, feeling comforted as his arm comes out to steady her.

“You replaced me with him?” and he sneers that last word, like Steve’s gum he’s scraping off his shoe.

Jason used to go on and on about Steve back in their Freshman year, before whatever the hell that had happened with Nancy Wheeler had mellowed him out. Before that, he’d been the unmitigated king. King of the keg stand, sure, but king of the court, king of the cafeteria, king of them all, and Jason had deferred to him.

But after, as Steve closed in on himself–Carol and Tommy still distant placeholders at his sides– Jason hadn’t talked about him anymore. Like he was infected now, and whatever he had might be spreading.

Chrissy'd only liked Steve more.

So, she shores herself up with the pressure of Steve’s arm on her back and points a shaking finger directly into Jason’s enraged face. “We broke up, Jason Carver,” she says, surprised when her voice doesn’t even crack. “It’s none of your business who I see.”

Jason’s mouth hangs open, clearly shocked, and a small part of Chrissy aches for how it was before. She always thought they’d be those high school sweethearts who got married right out of college. They’d just fit, or she thought they had.

He used to be nicer, sweet almost, in the way he’d talk to her.

It’d been a long time since Chrissy would classify any of the words coming out of his mouth as sweet.

Jason’s looking between them, eyes wide, something hurt leeching in past all that anger as he says, “you’ll come back,” in such quiet assurance that it makes her gut twist.

Chrissy watches him turn and walk away, stuck in the moment, until Steve squeezes her waist and asks, “are you alright, babe?”

It’s only with the word “babe” falling out of Steve’s lips that she realizes they’ve attracted an audience. So, she smiles like she’s leading a cheer for all to see, looks up into Steve’s eyes and replies, “never better.”

They continue on their way into lunch.

Once there, she eats as Steve watches Eddie’s latest table-top rant with hearts in his eyes big enough to see from the moon. Like he hadn’t given an almost identical one the week before. Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He’s transfixed, like Eddie’s a succubus and Steve’s stuck in his thrall. Until she elbows him in the side and he goes back to his lunch after shooting her a wounded look.

Boys in love are stupid creatures, and she’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect this one, even if it’s just from himself.

[brehaaorgana]

Your failure to understand how these things correlate to each other is, in fact, not a sign I didn't understand what you said. It's a sign you don't understand how American politics works.

Bless your little Canadian heart or whatever, but leftists are a part of the democratic base, whether or not they are registered as, or vote as, democrats. Leftists are an assumed part of the democrat voting base until they vote otherwise. This is how campaigns are run, this is how the democratic party functions, and this is elections and voting 101 in the United States electoral system.

When people who fall directly within the voting base of a major party loudly protest that party's candidate; decry courting undecided, moderate, or even voters across the aisle in order to gain more votes; and also actively seek to redirect votes in the voting base away from that candidate, they are directly undermining the success of that party's attempts to solidify their base and gain additional votes from outside of it.

Spoiler: leftists loudly working to detract votes from the strongest party on the left gets read by undecided or apathetic voters as "well not even the left likes the Democrat or wants to vote for them." This undermines active attempts by democrats to court those same voters.

Literally they were undermining democrat attempts to gain voters:

The democrats worked to gain votes. They worked up until the last minute, as any party does. And while there are plenty of failings on their part, it's factually incorrect to state that leftists who voted third party or who refused to vote didn't impact the overall safely democratic voting base. When leftists LITERALLY show up to democrat attempts to rally their base & appeal to undecided voters to win an election, and they then say "don't vote for them, they suck and they're not doing a good job appealing to you" that does, in fact, have an impact. And the impact is that it becomes easier for Republicans to win. Leftists working against the democratic party candidate actually does weaken the democratic party's attempts to solidify the left voters, gain moderates, and win an election. The job to appeal to voters becomes harder if they can't convince their own base to not actively undermine them. Again because the BASE of the democratic party is not solely limited to registered democrats (who are supposed to be the guaranteed base), but everyone on the left.

When you divide the voter base of a Democrat or Republican candidate you make it mathematically easier for the other major party candidate to win.

Again I stress this is not about your personal values, ethics, or how much you agree with anyone. This is about math. This is quite literally shit I learned in a college class called "United States Voting and Elections" taught by my academic advisor whose PhD was centered around elections and voting psychology.

The ways in which elections are won or lost did not change. The impact of dividing the base on the left never changed. The impact of lower voting turnouts has always been something that benefits Republican candidates and makes them more likely to win office even when they LOST overall votes as compared to 2020.

These things are interrelated. The democratic party candidate always has to court voters across the aisle. Leftists splitting the base on the left always impacts the success of a democratic candidate. Third party candidates do not win American presidential elections.

I didn't address your comment further because I linked to an already expansive discussion I'd written that elaborated on the point.

Tl;Dr the point you made made it clear that you don't actually know anything about the political science or the math behind united states elections and frankly, neither do the people I was complaining about in this post. Idk what you want me to address really. "Democrats failed to convince voters because they sucked!" Okay so let's talk about the people who loudly reiterated they suck and don't vote for the democrat because there's literally only two parties who have a chance of winning the presidential election.

Idk guys, maybe people are blaming leftists who refused to vote because of genocide because I literally saw them holding political rallies last weekend in a swing state telling people not to vote

Like it wasn't just tumblr leftists saying not to vote for Kamala, or at all, because of Palestine. Those were real people I walked past last Saturday in Pennsylvania, a key swing state. They had megaphones in front of Philadelphia city hall and a sizeable crowd. I feel like we can, in fact, say they are partly culpable here.

[a1ecmcdowell]

coincidence — rafe cameron x pogue!reader!

part of the short n' sweet x obx collection, found here!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤincludes, pogue!reader. cheating. sad!rafe :(. i promise i love sofia.

❛ what a surprise - your phone died, and your car drove itself from l.a. to between her thighs! ❜

you and rafe were a bit tumultuous. he loved you in private, and he loved you so much that it sometimes ached, like the sweetest form of violence. 

but in public, he could never manage to switch off the part of his brain that rejected every pogue he came across like he did when you two were alone. it was like he was more concerned about what his friends thought of him and his relationship than he did about your feelings. 

he was pulling back. you could see the signs of it in the ways he started having excuses to keep you from coming over, how his hand would subtly slip from yours when you were out together. 

and you couldn’t just pick apart his brain and fix whatever the problem was, because he didn’t talk to you enough anymore to let you in. 

you didn’t know if you were even still together, but he wouldn’t just ghost you a year into your relationship. he couldn’t. 

you’d decided the night before that you were just going to show up and demand an answer from him. it would probably be a fight, you knew; but what could hurt more than being with someone that didn’t want you any longer? 

that next morning was cloudy gray and speckled with misty raindrops. it didn’t feel like a very good omen about what was coming, but it didn’t slow your footsteps up his porch.

your hand raises to knock on the door at the same moment that it pulls open, and out stumbles — a girl. short brown hair, pretty glossed lips, wearing nothing but a pink bikini top and denim shorts. 

and behind the open door, strong hand wrapped around the edge of it, is rafe. smiling at her like he hadn’t smiled at you in weeks. 

the smile falls the moment his eyes lift to you, and the girl apologizes as she dodges running into you, and it all feels like a big fucking slap in the face. 

he’d been the best part of your life for so long. this hope that you could be more than the cut. and all of this time, he was waiting for the moment that he could dump you back off on your side of outer banks.

“why didn’t you call?” he asks, like that’s the first thing anyone should say when they’re caught cheating. 

you can’t tell if you’re more angry or hurt. both emotions feel like a hot, heavy weight sat right on your sternum. “you don’t answer anymore.” 

“because i’m busy.” 

there’s no remorse in his eyes. actually, you can’t even tell if there is, because he’s looking away from you like he’s already cut you from the picture of his life. 

“what, screwing other girls?” you snap, your voice biting and raw. 

his jaw flexes, tongue pressing into his cheek. “it’s complicated.” 

“i don’t think it is, rafe.” you shake your head, your lips pressed into a tight line. “you were cheating, and you’re mad you’re caught.” 

“oh, you think it’s that simple, huh?” he takes a step closer, his frame taking up the entirety of the doorway. “y’think overnight i just started thinking about wanting to fuck someone else?” 

you falter. no, he’s not going to get away with flipping this on its head and blaming you. making you apologize. 

“you can’t just blame me because you don’t want to take responsibility—” 

his fist slams against the wooden doorframe, and you flinch, because this really was going to be as volatile as you thought. you’d hoped that you were wrong, but you were right, and he was angry that you weren’t just some stupid little pogue he could manipulate. 

“i am taking responsibility. yeah, i fucked sofia,” he seethes through his clenched teeth, “yeah, i’ve been sneakin’ around, what the fuck else do you want to hear?” 

your arms wrap around your chest, and you have to resist the urge to stumble backwards. sofia, sofia, sofia. it plays in your head on a loop, the girl he deemed worth ruining what you had for. 

“why?” is all that you can manage to say. 

his eyes finally drop down to look at you. they’re so blue in the dawning sunrise that you wish, wish, things were different right now, so you could smooth the creases in the corners of his eyes. “m’not good for you.” 

“bullshit.” you spit it out before he’d even finished speaking. “if i thought that, i wouldn’t have stuck around as long as i have. i wouldn’t be sticking around now.” 

“you shouldn’t,” he says just as violently serious as the last, “i’m— i’m trying to push you away, sweetheart—” 

sweetheart. 

it shouldn’t affect you like it does, after how he’d just hurt you like this. but it does, of course it does, because you loved him like the sun loved the moon, and even when he was trying to break this, you’d always be in his orbit. 

“you can’t,” your voice is small as it leaves your lips, but your words aren’t, “i’m not goin’ anywhere. this is one good thing you can’t ruin. not on my watch.” 

he stares at you with that intense blue gaze of his for a long minute. the seconds tick by like hours while you wait for him to say anything. 

and he doesn’t — not with his words, anyway. his arms move from the doorway and encircle your waist, tugging you into a tight embrace. 

you’d known about how much he struggled with wanting acceptance, craving validation that he never got. you’d never expected him to be so used to rejection that he tried to cause it himself, just to be in that familiar place again. 

“m’sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers into your hair, pressing his lips to the crown of your head and leaving them there. “don’t deserve you. i don’t.” 

“you will, and you do,” you push, your fingers curling tightly against his spine. “when you go wash her perfume off of you.” 

his laugh cracks, but it’s a laugh, so you feel better about this. about him. about where he’s at in his head. “of course.” 

“and delete her number.” 

his hands raise to your face, framing it between his large palms. “already did it, baby. but you’re real cute when you’re jealous.”