#and everything shut off. Everyone is gone.

[lilimaginebean]

love tropes

💕 happy valentine’s day

ENEMIES TO LOVERS

SAKUYA KIYOOMI didn't expect to kiss you. He always liked organisation, planning things and cleaning. On the contrary, you were somewhat disorganised, and although you brushed your teeth three times a day and washed every day, it wasn't enough to him. Due to that, all your interactions were awful. Nevertheless, everything changed when you were assigned to be the chemistry lab parents. On an afternoon, were you two were discussing again and he with no arguments left, decided to kiss you. In that moment, you both discovered the solution to all your arguments: just a little love. Some small argument? Holding hands. Shouting? Hugging for 5 seconds. Insulting? Nothing that kisses couldn’t solve. As the days went by, these signs of affection became more and more present, and the arguments began to disappear. Now every affection sign wasn’t to shut each other up, but to fight for who loves the other more.

CHILDHOOD SWEETHEARTS

TSUKISHIMA KEI met you when you moved to the new neighbourhood at the age of 7. At first he was with you because he wanted to be polite and because his mother told him to, and you were with him because he was your only acquaintance. But as the days, months and years went by, so did your relationship. At what point did you become so close? Was it when you took care of him when he fell ill at the age of 12? Was it when he comforted you after your first break-up at the age of 15? Or did it happen at that New Year's Eve party where you both ended up confessing your love for each other? As if you cared, the only thing you mind was in how to tell your family you were getting married to your childhood friend.

FORBIDDEN LOVE

MIYAS's relatives are untouchable. That's the main rule to avoid complicated situations between you and your bestie, Osamu Miya. You always thought it would be easy since you have never met him, until you finally ran into him while helping Osamu in his restaurant. ATSUMU MIYA on the other hand had the same conflict: how could his brother have such a stunning and kind friend and not tell him? Even worse, that he had forbidden him to go out with you? The short-term solution was to start seeing each other in secret. But after a year, he came to your flat to tell you that he had found the long-term solution. It took him only two days to set his plan in motion, at one of those dinners the Miya family, he decided to get down on one knee and propose to you. Atsumu knew he couldn't go out with Osamus' best friend, but Osamu had never forbidden him to marry his best friend, right?

SECOND LOVE CHANCE

You met OIKAWA TORU when you were 16 and started dating within three months of meeting each other, turning into the high school couple. What they didn't expect was that one day, out of the blue, you broke up with him. News spread fast and all rumors began to appear. Everyone had no idea what had happened between the two of you, but everything changed when they found out that he was moving to another country. What they didn't know was that you broke up with him not because he was leaving you, but because he didn't want to leave you. You couldn’t forgive yourself if he chose you over his dream, and despite he was at first against of the break up he then thanked your selfless action. But there was one thing more, the day before he parted, Oikawa visited you one last time and asked you to wait for him for 5 years. He was a man of words, and he still is, since today is the fifth anniversary of that day, and is right now in front of your apartment door.

DRUNKEN HOOKUP

KAGEYAMA TOBIO wasn't the kind of man who liked hookups, but it was his birthday, you looked stunning in that bar and you were both a bit tipsy. He didn't know how to pull you off, but he wasn't stupid enough to ask. One thing led to another and you ended up having a night of passion in his apartment. When he woke up the next day, you were gone and he thought he would never see you again. Everything changed when the coach introduced his team to their new manager, you. His first thought was what to do, considering he still found you attractive and there was a policy of no relationships with staff members. Oh, he will need his sister’s help so bad.

MATCHMAKER

You were there for love, always helping your friends with their romantic problems, helping your little cousin ask her crush out, being the romantic counsellor for almost everyone you know... You were so into love, but so into the concept of love that you didn't even realise that one of the most wanted bachelors, USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI, was crazy in love with you. He was always bringing you flowers, chocolates, gifts, and you, being the hopeless romantic that you were, thought he was helping you with the dating stuff. Not only you were oblivious of this, but taking into account how he was sometimes clueless while interacting with others made all your interactions funnier. Everyone knew about this dynamic and whenever he tried to confess his love, many students were eavesdropping or staring from their classes. As always, you didn’t reject him because you didn’t even consider he was confessing his love to you. And as every time, Ushijima always took literally notes on a notebook of your reactions for the next love confession. He definitely deserved better.

THE NO FEELING HOOKUP

The no feelings pact, where you suggested it to KUROO TETSURO and he accepted it. Of course, the first thing you both paced was no feelings, and the moment one of you had them, you both stopped. What liars you were. You fell in love with him after only two months of this kind of contact. Meanwhile, he fell in love with you a month before you suggested it. Neither of you stopped, and each other's things began to decorate each other's homes. You both said it was to be more practical. What liars you were. You began to accompany him to events, and so did he. You said it was because these events made you horny. What liars you were. The way he stared at you, the way you smiled at you. Everyone thought you two were love birds, and you always denied it while he covered his blush. What liars you were.

SLOWBURN

KOTARO BOKUTO knew it the first time he saw you set the ball and asked you if you could help him practise his volleyball shots. You nodded. It wasn't perfect, but he still thought it was the best set he'd ever had. From that day on, he always tried to persuade you to go out with him, he always walked you home, invited you to his matches, and dedicated all his spikes to you. He was such a sucker of you. Sadly, the years at your side were coming to an end, you were about to graduate and go to a university in Tokyo, and he still had one year left. On your graduation’s night, he payed you a visit with a bouquet of flowers in his hands and a deep confession of love in his heart. Finally, after 238 invitations, 121 gifts, 98 spikes dedicated to you, 34 confessions of love, 10 deep conversations, 8 kisses and 1 emotional goodbye, you accepted him.

[cambankromyy]

THE ISLAND LOOKOUT (pt.11): midsummers! - (smau & irl au) childhood bsf!rafe cameron x thornton!reader

series masterlist; general masterlist; taglist

an; this and next few chapters will irl heavy bc everythings kinda happening... and theres sorta? smut in the next chapter....

part 10 - part 11 - part 12

the road stretches ahead, bathed in the last streaks of sunset, golden light pooling over the asphalt as sarah presses the gas a little harder. the wind rushes in through the open windows, thick with salt and summer heat, tangling in your hair, mixing with the sharp bite of tequila still burning on your tongue.

cleo’s in the passenger seat, fixing her earrings in the mirror, grumbling when the car jolts. she’s still half-dressed, one strap of her dress slipping off her shoulder, her lip liner uncapped in her lap.

in the backseat, you and kiara are a mess of limbs, leaning into each other, tipsy and flushed, passing her phone back and forth. the film shots from earlier flicker across the screen, hazy and golden. champagne glasses clinking, dresses caught mid-spin, sun-bright flashes of bare shoulders and smudged mascara.

“this one,” you say, tapping the screen.

“nah, this one,” kiara counters, flicking to another.

cleo twists around to look at you both, unimpressed. “you’re both annoying. just post both.”

sarah scoffs, fingers tight around the wheel. “she was gonna anyway.”

music thumps through the speakers, vibrating through the seats, drowning out the distant sound of waves. your legs are tangled up in kiara’s, your body humming from the drinks, from the speed, from the restless, breathless feeling building in your chest.

midsummers is waiting, and for now, everything is endless.

midsummers always had a way of feeling the same, no matter what. same people, same expensive drinks, same air of quiet competition disguised as effortless luxury. you knew exactly how the night would go before it even started.

you walked in with jj, your arm hooked through his like it belonged there. it wasn’t a statement, not really, but island lookout made it one anyway. the group chat lit up before you even made it past the entrance.

the night moved fast after that—jj, john b, and pope caused a ruckus, stealing a golf cart and nearly getting kicked out before kiara smoothed things over. champagne refills. cleo stealing a sip from your glass when she thought no one was looking. jj grinning like he knew something everyone else didn’t, still buzzing from their little stunt. pope deep in conversation, probably against his will.

and somewhere in the mix—rafe.

not with you, but never far. standing with sofia, leaning against the bar, watching you. always watching.

at first, you almost expected him to say something. maybe a comment when you walked in with jj. a look, at the very least. but he didn’t.

he just stood there with her, not even pretending to be interested in whatever she was saying. not touching her. not really listening.

his attention was elsewhere.

on the way you leaned into jj’s words, laughed at something stupid he said, let your fingers graze his arm without thinking.

you ignored it. pretended you didn’t see the way his jaw tightened. pretended you didn’t notice him at all.

a few hours in, the ballroom started to feel too crowded, too loud, and john b and jj wouldn’t shut up about needing a smoke. so you all slipped outside, onto the club’s back patio, where the air was warmer, thicker, but at least quieter.

the joint passed easily between all of you, laughter blending with the distant sound of waves. for the first time all night, things felt easy. like none of it really mattered.

but then your drink was gone.

so you went back inside.

you took the long way back inside. not on purpose, really—just following the same path your feet had always known, the one that led around the side of the building, past the quiet stretch of lawn where the party sounds faded into the hum of cicadas.

it wasn’t the first time you’d ended up here.

when you were kids, this was your hiding spot. the place you and rafe would duck into when your parents were about to drag you home, out of some sense of obligation to make you sleep at a reasonable hour. it was where you learned that if you stayed quiet long enough, they’d eventually give up looking.

but you weren’t the only one who remembered.

rafe was already there.

three weeks. that’s how long it’s been since you last spoke. the longest either of you had ever gone without saying something, anything.

he looked up at the sound of your steps, eyes flickering over you in the dim light.

“what are you doing out here?” you blurt out.

he doesn’t answer right away. just rolls his glass in his palm, ice clinking against the sides. then, low and unreadable, “needed a minute.”

you walk toward the ledge, sitting next to him and leaning back against the stone, shoulder brushing his for half a second before you shift away. “you and maybank a thing now?”

the question is too casual. too offhand.

you glance over at him, raising an eyebrow, unsure how to answer. “would you care?”

his jaw flexes. he leans in slightly, closing the space between you just enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath.

“i asked you a question, mac.”

your stomach flips.

he only calls you mac when he’s trying to remind you that he knows you better than anyone.

you tilt your chin up, feigning nonchalance. “i mean, we showed up together. people talk.”

“that’s not an answer.”

you smile, slow and knowing. “neither was yours.” you know exactly how to tick him off. you know him better than he knows himself.

his nostrils flare, but instead of getting irritated like you expect, he just… laughs.

it’s quiet, breathless, like he hates himself for finding you amusing.

you tilt your head slightly. “where’s sofia?”

his lips twitch, like he’s amused you even asked. “probably looking for me.”

“hm.” you say, maybe a little too joyful.

he doesn’t respond right away. just watches you for a second, then looks off, like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be.

and then, quiet, almost like he’s not sure he should say it

“you look good.”

your breath catches. it’s the kind of thing that would’ve meant nothing coming from anyone else.

but it’s not anyone else. it’s rafe.

you don’t say anything, just watch him, waiting to see if he’ll take it back. if he’ll smirk, make some half-assed joke to brush it off.

but he doesn’t.

your phone buzzes before you can process whatever that was.

you have 3 text notifications from jj.

you don't respond, you can feel rafe’s gaze on your screen. so you just turn your phone off. you glance back up, half-expecting rafe to look pissed, but he just smirks, slow and easy.

“its ok. don’t keep your date waiting.” nodding. like hes trying to convince himself it's actually ok.

and with that, you're gone. you're spiralling as you walk back into the club.

you walk back into the event room, and JJ’s already looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night. he’s grinning, eyes slightly glazed, cheeks flushed from whatever he’s been drinking, and he waves you over like you’re supposed to know exactly what he wants.

You don’t hesitate. you know whatever jj’s on is guaranteed to take your mind off of whatever weird tension you just had with rafe.

by the time you reach them, sarah and john b are already scheming.

"we’re leaving," sarah declares, like it’s not even up for debate.

"tannyhill, " john b adds. "the function continues."

jj slings an arm around your shoulder, casual, warm, familiar. "c’mon, kook. no way you’re tapping out now."

you scoff, shaking him off but not stepping away. out of habit, you glance over your shoulder—rafe’s back inside, back together with sofia. but you don’t give yourself the time to figure out why, or if the previous interaction with him was even real.

You disappear with your friends into the night, laughter bouncing between you.

tags: @italk2god @angelicameron @marleymarleymarleymarley, @queenvane64, @raeven-marie43 @idiotussupremus @sereneera @yesshewrites1 @inlovewithchriss @ethanthequeefqueen @amterasuu @popou61 @drewsstars @yannew @anothertimegirl @flvredcas @yootvi @mrsdrewstarkeyy @niaunofficial @cooper8224 @rafegetinmybed @pogueprincesa @6r4cie @adalia-lovelace @bee-43 @drewrry @masongetinmybed @defnotayonna @lcversvoid @my-name-is-baby @lolasangelz @polli05927 @laniirackssss @rafecameronswifeyy @starsval @hypnotizedstarkey @wintercrows @d-daxx @dontknow3m @jjasmiineee

[mistressmxggot]

Chapter 8- ✰ Wrong Path, Bitch ✰

"𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆... 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴."

Tags: Kidnapping, drinking

~You skipped breakfast again. Your appetite was completely gone these past days, butterflies constantly sitting heavy in your stomach. You were trying to figure out how to get home. She had humiliated you, and of course she couldn't care less.

In a brief passing, she had told you there would be some get-together, party or whatever tonight. Now on top of being heartbroken and embarrassed, you had to pretend to be okay with that heathen of a woman. Still, you would glance at her when you had the chance. She was your weakness and you just couldn't get away from that. It was just something you had to accept, but you wouldn't show weakness to her anymore.

You were more sad than anything. You should be more angry and you sort of were, at least at Vivian. Ambessa was always different. God why did you have to be so weak?

Everything was annoying you. Everyone was annoying you. That servant girl you had danced with, whatever her name was, did she even tell you her name?, didn't even talk to you. No smiles, no good morning, nothing. Fuck Vivian, how about that, fuck that stupid whore. You grunted, yanking your blankets over your head. If she comes into this room asking where you are, your head just might explode. You had gotten some water and went right back to bed. Her slaves had probably told her that you didn't eat. Well if she wanted you to eat, she shouldn't humilate you.

Your sighs and grunts filled the room. You had that stupid party tonight. Of course she would want you there, to look presentable. Oh you hated rich people. In your night gown, you groggily lingered towards the library. You couldn't care less what you looked like.

Curled onto an ottoman, your head rested on your arm. An exhausted sigh left your lips. No books were interesting you. Would she be angry if you left her? Would she even notice? You figured you could ask to go shopping, and use that money, and have an excuse to leave this hell house. Of course that would mean waiting till tomorrow. This stupid party was just something you had to bear, then you could go home. You weren't gonna tell her anything, just ask for the money, pack, and disappear. Your head was spinning, eyelids fluttering shut. This was just entirely too much.

A large, rough hand nudged you out of your sleep. You slowly gained consciousness. The disturbance was annoying you. Looking up, she was there, at your side. Your breath hitched in your throat, gaze glued to the ground.

"It's late, you need to prepare yourself."

A nasty realization bit at you. It had been hours of you resting. You were still exhausted. Of course. This party was imminent.

"Sure whatever."

You began to gather yourself, stacking the two books you hadn't read atop of eachother. She stayed there. You could feel her looking at you.

"Can you go?"

"Just making sure you don't fall back asleep."

That really annoyed you for some reason. Everything she said annoyed you. Everything she did annoyed you. You quickly got up, leaving the books there. She could deal with them.

After showering, you did your makeup with what she had left you. There was nothing dark except for mascara. Everything was pale and pink. She like, really liked you in white. That's what color your gown was, layed out for you. It was beautiful at least, but everything here was beautiful and elegant. The dress was off the shoulder, floor length, and backless. It was finished with a silver belt. You would be lying if you said you didn't like it.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, your stomach and chest tight. Something was wrong. This party... you didn't know. You were still so upset. You wanted her to like you, to touch you.

The door creeked open, your tears quickly wiped away. Another servant entered, put in a simple black dress.

"Miss Medarda would like to have you now."

You gulped. You had followed by her side for the beginning of the evening, silent as she introduced you as some sort of close buisness partner. You thought it would be mentally easier to just be a servant, but it wouldn't be fun to serve pretentious rich people all night. It was good when you finally got to drift off.

You knew you were drinking too much, the wine was just too good. Honestly, you wouldn't mind embarrassing her either. You sat at a table, eating too many hors d'oeuvres and saying too much to this odd looking man. Her servants cleaned up after you, making you feel a little guilty. The man asked you if you enjoyed Ambessa's company. You weren't exactly sure what he meant by that. You just wanted this night to be over. You wanted to go home.

Now dancing with another man, about a couple drinks too many flowing through you, he chatted with you.

"Between you and I, I'm surprised Ambessa brought you here with her. She's not the type to connect with someone like you."

Your eyebrows furrowed.

"I apologize, that sounded aggressive. I only mean that she isn't usually the type to be so connected with a partner. I suppose you are good for her, lighten her up a bit."

He chuckled, spinning you around. The wheels began to turn. Ambessa usually wasn't the type to tell her intentions. You felt your hands heat up.

"Excuse me I have to use the ladies room."

You quickly snatched your hands away from him. He looked puzzled. Yeah you could relate. You hurried off to the bathroom, taking a full glass of wine with you, not sure whose it was. With a loud shut, you locked yourself in.

"She isn't usually the type to be so connected with a partner. I suppose you could lighten her up a bit."

You were so angry. Ambessa was the most ridiculous person you had ever met. Every situation just deepened your hatred and embarrassment. You downed the glass of wine. You didn't want to look at yourself in the mirror, you couldn't. You just wanted to go home.

The night had passed in a blur. You had returned to the man and danced some more. You knocked over a vase and...now you were in Ambessa's room. She was undressing, obviously tired.

"Do you need something?"

You glared at her. "You could have fucking told me."

She couldn't even glance at you. A deep sigh left her.

"What are you speaking of now?"

"Are you serious?! You could have fucking told me I wasn't meant to be a buisness partner. You just had to humiliate me even more didn't you? I couldn't just be a buisness partner? Why did I have to be... basically your prostitute?"

She turned towards you. "That's what you want don't you? You are not that special, and it is very audacious of you to assume I would jeopardize my reputation for you. I believe you have been mistaken. I did tell them you were a buisness partner. Still, it doesn't matter how many of my dresses and how much of my jewelry you put on, it's very challenging to take the look of undercity whore off of you."

You looked at her.

She chuckled. "You're very obedient, which is good, but your lack of action disappoints me. It is weak. It seems you have no discipline. You have served me very well in the thrill of the hunt. You have satiated every hunger, in almost every aspect, but it angers me how easy you have yielded yourself to me. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Now you only squirn when the wolf's jaws are wrapped around your neck. You need to fight back. Think little lamb. The wolf has you, ready to swallow you whole. All you can do it cry and throw tantrums. Pathetic."

Your throat felt tight. Why? Why did her words hurt you so much? Maybe it was how she seemed to not care at all, how she didn't care about the situation or about how hurt you were. You told her you were humiliated. She didn't even respond. She only responded to the fact you weren't understanding her or how to be vicious like her. Before you could stop yourself, you burst into tears. She looked offended, and it only made you cry harder. You heaved and held you stomach, tears ruining your makeup. You just sobbed. You couldn't hold yourself together infront of her anymore.

Ambessa sighed and mumbled under her breath. "Cry and throw tantrums.." You cried harder, covering your face.

"You're very drunk and it's making you emotional. Sleep. You need it."

Sure. Whatever. You left her room, face red. Rictus glanced at you with pity. Your dress- correction her dress and jewelry lay in a mess on the floor. You had since stopped crying, the pillow hugging your cheek. The alcohol was fucking you up. Your sadness turned to shame, them sadness, then back to shame, and soon to anger.

No no no! She wasn't just going to get off that easily. You shot up from your bed, blankets falling to the floor. You whipped it open, only to be face to face with Malik. Shock sobered you up real quick.

"M-Malik? How did you make it here?"

Your voice shook. You weren't sure what you were feeling. His face... well he looked furious.

You gulped. "Malik. You came for me!"

You reached your hands and stepped out to him, but he quick backed up. He didn't look happy at all.

Large arms wrapped around you, one at your throat and another at your mouth. You tried to scream, but you couldn't breathe. Malik stared at you with obvious disgust. The man holding you began to drag to away from your room.

"Keep her in check. It would be nice to go unnoticed."

You heard a door swing open. At the end of the hallway, you could see Ambessa and Rictus, looking right at the three of you. Two more of Malik's men approached from behind the corner. You tried to reach out for Ambessa.

"Shit! We need to leave, now!"

The man threw you over his shoulder, following Malik.

"Ambessa!" You shouted for her, watching as her and Rictus ran towards you. They were too far away. You couldn't process what was happening. You were out of a window, then on the ground, and then... it went black.~

You. Always. Masterlist.

This is kinda short and it took 50 years to come out I know 😭 Chapter 9 is it tho and it will be out hopefully by the end of tomorrow. I promise it won't take forever this time

Taglist: @maaaaaaaaaaari , @ivorydevil , @trizxyp , @ambessaswifey , @randomstuffthatdontmakesense , @simplyxwwww , @last-dropsevi, @vffantasy, @fruitfulfashion , @trexsuit , @youngtastemakerfart

Lmk to be added.

[strawberryshortcake1495]

Sock Opera Alternative Ending…?

“I am giving you away, you are a woman now!” I said in my best Grunkle Stan impression. “Waddles, the rings!” This was fine. I could do this all night until I get my body back. My eyes trailed upwards and as the words left my mouth, my voice still held that stupid high-pitched tone.

“Oh no.”

Mabel and the demon possessing my body come flying down on the wooden cake hung up by a thin rope. Only now that rope wasn’t holding onto anything and they both land hard on the stage with a loud crash. The noise is too loud and I find myself scrambling to get farther away, even though I know nothing can hurt me.

“Get out of my brother’s body, you evil triangle!” Mabel cries out. Bill holds her back with my arm as they tussle for the journal. “Children fighting? I can sell this!” Grunkle Stan says, pulling out a video camera. His voice sounds too far away and I’m sprawled out at the edge of the stage. I can’t move. Why can’t I move?

With one swift move, Mabel snatches the journal and slams it on Bill’s- well, it’s technically MY face. By the impact and the loud “PLAP” sound that can be heard, I know it’s gonna hurt like hell once I get my body back. She probably broke my nose or something, but I’ll manage.

“You can’t stop me, I’m a being of pure energy with NO weakness!” Bill screeches. I’m in a somewhat dazed state as I watch them fight like two hungry cats. I can’t feel my body. Wait, I’m not even in my body. What the hell am I thinking???

I try to focus my eyes on the two of them, and that’s when he locks his fingers around her neck.

That wasn’t all either. Once he was sure he got an iron grip on her, he twists his waist and fucking slams her onto the remains of the wooden background and puppets. When I hear her cry of pain, I’m brought back to myself. Without thinking, I zoom over to them.

“NO, STOP! LEAVE HER ALONE!” A guttural cry rips out my throat, but no one hears me. The audience has become seemingly aware that this isn’t part of the play and I watch as Soos and Wendy run upstage to pull him- ME off her.

“Dipper, get off her!” Wendy yells. “What are you doing, dude?!” Soos asks nervously. Their pleas fall on deaf ears as Bill tightens his grip. “Get off me!” He says aggressively. Too aggressively. He then proceeds to slam Mabel again onto the broken floorboards, the chipped wood slicing away at fabric and skin.

I begin hyperventilating when I see her face turning blue as she stares at him. Her eyes literally bulge out of their sockets and her mouth is wide open, trying futilely to breathe but his hands are pressing down on her windpipe, effectively cutting off her air. Despite this, the journal is tucked neatly in her arms and she holds onto it like a lifeline, refusing to let go.

“OH GOD, NO NO NO! LEAVE HER ALONE! STOP! STOP! LEAVE HER ALOOONE!!!” I cry desperately, my voice seemingly having raised in pitch or so. Of course, he doesn’t stop. Mabel begins to lose consciousness. Her eyes slowly flutter shut and her grip on the journal goes slack.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god oh god. Is she dead? Did he kill her? Oh my fucking god. He killed her. He killed my sister. Everyone thinks I killed her. That- that-

Bill watches as the journal slides out of her arms and reaches out to grab it, but then Grunkle Stan slams his video camera right into the back of my head. The action sends my body crumbling down, and Bill goes flying out like a frisbee. “Woah woah woah, hey!” He screams. Then he’s gone.

Subconsciously, I fly right back into my body. I know everything will hurt like hell, but if I let that demon hurt my sister, then is it really that bad?

The first thing I feel is my heart pounding in my chest, a steady beat that sends waves of bile to my throat. Then the real pain floods through me. I feel my arms aching with the stab marks from the forks, my eyes stinging from the Pitt Cola, and the pool of blood forming around my head.

The pain immediately sends me into shock and the only thing I can focus on is the rapid rise and fall of Mabel’s chest as air rushes into her lungs, half of her hair spread out on the stage with the rest covering her face.

Slowly, my breathing matches hers and I just lay there as stars dance in my vision. I can’t breathe. Why is it so hard to breathe? The last thing I see before blacking out is Stan’s wrinkled face shifting from surprised fury to regretful horror as he realizes what he’s done.

[elliecore4eva]

Hi guys! I just started a new series I will be finishing my previous please hang on! this is a new series I have started!

Pairing: Ellie Williams x Sunshine!Joel's Daughter! Fem! reader

I really hope you like it

Genre: Angst

THE SUNSHINE THAT FELL FROM THE SKY

The Tipsy Bison was alive with laughter that night. The hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the low melody of some old record playing in the background—it was warm, familiar, safe.

And you?

You were the brightest thing in the room.

Tucked beside Ellie in your usual booth, your smile lit up the space like a summer morning. You always did that—made everything feel softer, easier. You laughed at Jesse’s dumb jokes, nudged Ellie when she was being her usual grumpy self, leaned into her with that touch that told the whole town, I love this girl.

You didn’t notice the way Ellie had been getting tense all night.

But Jesse did.

And Jesse, being Jesse, made the mistake of pushing just a little too far.

He leaned back with a knowing smirk, nudging Dina. "I mean, come on, have you ever seen someone more whipped than Ellie?"

Dina snorted. "Not possible. She’s like, clinically obsessed."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Oh, fuck off—"

"Nah," Jesse cut in, grinning. "For real. If you told Ellie to bark, she’d do it."

That should’ve been harmless.

You had laughed, playfully bumping Ellie’s shoulder. "I mean, would you?"

And that was when it snapped.

Ellie slammed her drink down so hard the glass rattled. The entire table went silent.

You barely had time to process before she turned to you, voice sharp as a blade.

"God, would you just shut the fuck up for once?"

It was like the whole room exhaled at once.

Your breath hitched.

Your smile, that same sunshine-bright smile that Ellie had once called home, flickered.

"Ellie—"

"No, seriously," she cut you off, voice raising, cracking. "You just never stop, do you? Always so fucking cheery, always acting like life is some goddamn fairytale—"

"Ellie, stop." Dina’s voice was sharp.

But Ellie was too far gone.

And she wanted to hurt you.

"Do you even know how fucking exhausting it is?" she went on, laughing bitterly. Loud now. Loud enough for the whole bar to hear. "Walking around, acting like everyone loves you, like you’re just so fucking special—"

Your hands trembled.

"I—"

"What? Got nothing to say now?" Her words were venom. "For once in your life, you’re actually shutting the fuck up—"

"Ellie, that’s enough!"

Joel’s voice boomed from across the bar, but—

You moved before he could.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve weakly.

"Dad, please."

It was soft. Barely audible. But it was enough to make the whole world stop.

Joel froze.

And Ellie?

Ellie felt her stomach drop out of her fucking body.

Because even after everything she just said, after she had ripped you apart in front of everyone—you were still protecting her.

That realization was like a blade through her ribs.

And it got so much worse when you spoke again.

Your voice was so small.

"I’m sorry," you whispered.

And then you stood.

And walked away.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t slam the door.

You just left.

Wiping at the silent, steady stream of tears running down your face.

And the moment you were gone—the whole town turned on her.

Please note that follows, reblog, comments and likes are very much appreciated!

Part 2

[wolftheidioticfan]

OH holy shit that is deeply tragic I need to pull the brakes before I become irreversibly sad for the rest of the night

[opens-up-4-nobody]

The way that the sun hits leaves and clouds. I feel like I could watch the colors change forever. If I could slow down for that long.

[jackienautism]

im just bitter but the next time i see someone refeer to kaitlyn as "the normal one" is the day i finally kill

[narugen]

can i be negative i’m going to be negative in tags

[unproduciblesmackdown]

being alive at the time i gleaned some general elements abt encanto but never actually heard we don't talk about bruno beyond awareness it existed popping off & i think i heard like the title recited off key off rhythm but in a way that indicates speak singing nonetheless lol so upon experiencing it it's like oh but it's the Verses? while the last refrain goes harder but prior to that it's comparatively underwhelming to said verses which feels appropriate like verses / pieces of a larger picture & that a "we don't talk about him" as a disappointing Lid on infinitely richer more characterful & dynamic "but: talking about him" instances. like well personally it'd be like um seven foot frame....anyway besides being able to firsthand go like oh damn Real (the kind of thing you know exists if alive at the time) it's like alright hang on lol. one thing when a core theme is yeah like "is it a refuge if 'especial' vulnerability ultimately gets pushed out rather than made safer" subset like the parties whose even observation of truths (problems) & drawing attention to them is seen as Ruining Things, like if you're painted as Making futures that aren't simply what's desired or reassuring rather than a guidance via just observing & sharing the truth. but then it's like whaddaya mean living in fear of bruno stuttering and stumbling you could always hear him sort of muttering and mumbling lmao like now that's just Association between the Truth Perceiving & Telling behavior & behavior that's just apparently distinctive of the same person. & like Not Accidentally when [what if people were magic] specifics are obviously primarily abt a metaphorical meaning & like, indeed it was made clear like oh this situation isn't Just b/c [boo we hate your prophecies] & that [an Ability that isn't directed towards what anyone Wants / is "weird" even by these magic standards] isn't Coincidentally given to someone who just so happens to already be "weird" in other ways & be set up to have a different perspective & be pushed away due to having the supposed "extra" vulnerability of unmet needs / insufficient support, same as someone who doesn't "correctly" have any kind of magic ability....like yeah banger and also like Oh Yeah Kind Of Devastating re: that metaphorical resonance allowing for like [set the metaphor aside] now hang on with this about this disabled family member lol. misinterpretation to The Ruinerrr / The Problemmm / The Maliciousss etc (i.e. the scapegoatinggg) despite their efforts likely entirely to the contrary. then despite like, efforts aside, Just Existing, always kind of muttering & mumbling like & what of it. & then like oh sorry weird pets. weird [auspicious for adaptable tenacious thriving surviving; either way simply creatures, existing] pets.

truly like As Is The Idea I'm Sure quickly becomes like hands behind back standing at the window Uh Oh Sisters musing on all the [disabled person] metaphorical & already literal elements there. blair witching it in contemplation like We've All Been There whether being so resented for the mere disruption of "existing in a group as the 'abnormal' odd one out" or like people talking shit abt anything associated w/you as soon as you've left the room, which is also made relevant like, this wasn't Only directed at this person when seemingly permanently gone, nor were they unaware / unaffected prior....pacing in the Musing parlor like things don't Have to be compared to billions but i only ever even see so many things & it's like billions sure is like "get scapegoated rword" & then said scapegoating is presented as only beneficial & we hate autists & even beyond that it's like, grabbing billions, Imagine If Things Meant To Be About Something Were About Something. quite a contrast when they are & furthermore like, deliberate thought & Care for [who gets scapegoated & why] & the truth of like, people getting pushed aside & out who have a key perspective & are primed / liable to come through for others similarly vulnerable & the supposedly Ruinous, Problems Generating disruptiveness is actually the strongest effort to make essential changes to a group. & come through with like, it'd be undermining thee point if it was "reassuring" us like oh haha people will be supportive b/c bruno will be more normal, so great that it Didn't like no, no Normality Reassurance(tm), presence of abnormalities(tm), Good, & everyone Can Deal b/c if you don't then it's pushing this person away, is exactly what happens, including even if they're still Around but are being mistreated b/c that is entirely part of that pushing away like anyone's victim blaming is ready to pounce at any time but if someone can't stand to stay / leaves b/c they can't see another option like that's not out of nowhere nor Regardless of what full support & flexibility they were getting lol. these Active Measures everyone loves so much, which are everywhere always & would include Staying & Trying To Make It Work & those efforts would be "disruptive" & resented & Bringing It On Oneself & etccc smh

that is to all say like. Woww when clearly basically the core thread was these beats of like, the crucial site of [thee scapegoated], & why that comes down on someone & how that plays out. endless ideas about how someone weird(tm) & disabled (&/or queer. but there's no Or here lol. & again like it's a Context like, to even be the one person without kids? likely not living up to "full" correct sexuality in that way alone; any oppression's logics of "inferiority" being logics of ableism, ready examples being that "inferior" race, gender, sexuality (& their experiences as people classed as inferior) all being pathologized as disordered) are seen & treated as someone Ruining Things & who cannot belong like whew. bracing. winding. which, i also recall like i was watching with headphones & during this one dialogue pause i was like "?? what's this Extra Sound i heard there" & had to go over it like twice before being hit upside the head like well it Was still the dialogue pause but it was also bruno Stuttering in a very quiet whisper for the duration of that pause before continuing like iiiiiiii x_x

[medicinemane]

.

[29121996]

.

[phantomrose96]

Anyway Mouthwashing spoilers

I'm turning Curly over in my head for the narrative punishment he's put through. Like you could you COULD interpret him as a pure victim, framed for Jimmy's crime and forced to suffer in skinless silence while his assailant gets to assume his role but it's more than that, to me. It's not just Jimmy bad Curly good. It's Curly's enablement of Jimmy that sets all of this in motion and, now, how will you take Responsibility, Curly?

It's Curly's "I've known Jimmy a long time. He'll listen to me." It's Curly's brand of leadership that hinges more on being seen as a good leader than on actually taking action. Because being seen as a good leader requires everyone to like him and that's more important to him than actually protecting Anya from Jimmy.

You could say "Jimmy just had everyone fooled into thinking he was a decent guy" except no you can't, because Anya hid the gun from him knowing Jimmy may go ballistic learning she's pregnant with his baby. And she hides the gun because Curly wouldn't. "Why do they have locks on medbay and the cockpit but not in the sleeping quarters?" Anya asks to Curly. Curly knows Jimmy raped Anya but his brand of I Need To Be Liked leadership asserts that Jimmy deserves a seat at the table of this solution. Curly won't do anything. He won't do anything even when he says he'd do anything.

And this is even after Jimmy tore into Curly with left-field accusations about the crew being laid off being something Curly wanted. All the evidence we have says the whole crew is being let go, Curly along with everyone, but Jimmy turns on him and makes it out like Curly wanted this and Curly is the enemy to everyone else on the ship. Curly won't stand up for himself. He won't shut Jimmy down. Swansea holds onto the axe because when locked up the axe requires the Captain to unlock, and maybe Swansea recognizes he's on a ship with a Captain who would not use the axe on the man who needs it.

Curly never wanted anything bad to happen. He never tried to hurt anyone. He never crashed the ship. But he's the one person who could have shut Jimmy down for every horrible sign and action along the way and he didn't he didn't he didn't he didn't. And the very first time he tries to intervene is when it's too little too late. HE gets eviscerated. He gets all his skin burned off. Because of what Jimmy did, but because of what Curly allowed.

And now his chance to act as Captain is gone. His chance to do right is gone. Jimmy is captain now and everyone who knows he's a monster is no longer capable of acting against him. And now skinless voiceless eternally watching, Curly has to lie in his own blood and bear witness to what Jimmy is doing, to everything he enabled. At Jimmy's mercy now like all the others, who physically beats him now and who is there to stand up for Curly? Enable. Enable enable enable.

[gloomwitchwrites]

For call of duty, can you write how 141 would react to you coming home after being announced KIA?

Love your work btw ❤️❤️

Not gonna lie, anon, but I genuinely read this as us reacting to the 141 coming home after being announced KIA, not them reacting to us coming home. I literally dumped everything I had planned and redid it because I missed that ONE word. (oops). Still, it's an emotional one. Your tears fuel me. :)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Task Force 141!f!Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): angst, reunions, fluff, kissing, secret relationship, established relationship, grief/loss, swearing, mild humor, suggestive themes, mild sexual content

Word Count: 2k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

Reality isn’t fair. It’s not kind or forgiving.

A week gone and John is simply floating, going through the motions, simply existing. This is why you don’t date military while in the military. It’s shit like this. It’s being told the person you love is fucking dead and now you’re the one left to pick up the pieces.

There wasn’t even a body. Vaporized is what they told him. Instant and painless. You felt nothing. It’s a small comfort, but John would rather have you in his arms than knowing you’re nothing more than atoms.

He sighs, and then puffs on his cigar. Smoke curls around him. It’s all quiet on base. Everyone is gone other than the routine patrol. John sits alone in his office, looking for files for an upcoming mission.

There’s a soft knock on is office door.

“Come in,” he says, not knowing who it might be but it must be important for it to be this late.

The door clicks and then creaks as it opens. John glances up, the cigar halfway to his mouth before the world around him completely stutters to a halt.

A phantom—a vaporized phantom—stands just inside, one hand on the doorknob. You are unharmed—clean. No scratches or wounds that John can see and wearing civilian clothing.

John is already standing, already moving, unable to resist the urge to remain in his chair and write this all off as a delusion. The cigar is forgotten, probably burning a hole in the wood of his desk. You match the forward momentum, shutting the office door, reaching out to him. When his arms go around you, and pull you in, John realizes that this is not an illusion. You are real and alive and here.

“You’re dead,” he murmurs, disbelief in his tone.

“I know. And I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—”

John grasps the back of your neck in a harsh hold, pulling you in for a kiss. He silences your voice, only needing your warmth and taste. You melt for him perfectly, answering the kisses with your own. With a gruff groan, John presses you up against the closed door.

“John,” you mumble, pulling back slightly.

“How are you here?”

“I’m sorry. We had to. It was the only way to extract me safely.”

John presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in. “Never again. Promise me.”

“Promise, John.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

One. Two. Three.

The seconds tick by, and still, Kyle refuses to move. For the last two weeks, Kyle has been cold and distant, sitting in the recliner in the corner of the living room.

He doesn’t read, doesn’t return the numerous missed calls and text messages, and he doesn’t turn on the television. He just sits, staring off into space, unable to figure out where his life will go next.

Why you? Why are you gone and not him?

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. You should be alive and whole and happy. You should be home, wrapped in Kyle’s arms.

Kyle sighs, running his hands over his face. An overwhelming wave of grief bubbles up, threatening to rip a sob from him. Leaning forward, Kyle rests his elbows on his knees, cradling his face in his hands. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The wave crashes against his resolve, eroding some of the numbness.

The coffin is empty. No body to bury. He still hasn’t contacted your family. He can’t do it. Can’t face them. That fact that he is here and you are not is a failure on his part. Kyle promised that he’d look after you, and now you’re gone.

Around him, the air stirs—shifts. Kyle rubs at his face, sudden awareness slipping in. There’s an anticipation in it—a tension.

“Kyle.”

That voice. He knows that voice.

Shaking his head, Kyle keeps his face covered, his breathing becoming ragged.

“You’re not real,” he gasps.

Phantom fingers lightly brush across the back of palm, traveling to his wrist. Another set join them, and two warm hands gently wrap around his wrists. They tug, and Kyle surrenders, glancing up at the delusion his consciousness is creating.

Your smile is a beacon in the dark. It is everything he’s dreamed up these aching days, only wanting to see you again. And this is no dream, this is the waking world—reality. Somehow, you are standing before him, grasping his wrists, smiling down at him with such happiness that Kyle doesn’t entirely understand how this could be possible.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Kyle.”

He’s standing, wrapping you up in his arms. There is no mistake. You are here. You are here.

Kyle murmurs your name over and over again like a mantra. He touches you everywhere, needing to know that every inch of you is real and not a figment of his imagination. You curl against him, tears forming, threatening to fall and stain your cheeks. Kyle kisses them away, grasping the sides of your face to steal your breath.

You melt beneath him, and Kyle’s only desire is to keep you near him, to relearn your every moan and whisper. He can get answers later. Later. Right now, you are here, you have returned to him, and that is enough.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny made the choice, and now he has to live with the consequences.

It’s his own fault for caring about you, for deciding that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He should have found a civilian. That way they’d be mourning him and not him mourning you.

Three months and the missive still burns a hole in his chest. It’s folded up nicely, faded and worn from him unfolding and refolding it, tucked into an inside pocket beneath his bulletproof vest. It’s right over his heart. Right where you should be. Right where you belong.

The missive doesn’t belong to Johnny. It’s addressed to Captain Price, but the man handed it over to him, because he knew—even though Johnny did his best to hide it. He didn’t want to share what he had with you with anyone. That was just for the two of you.

“You all right, Soap?”

Simon’s voice cuts through the static.

“I’m aces, Lt. Don’t worry about me.”

The words feel false on Johnny’s tongue. He hates lying—but he especially hates lying to Simon.

Even behind the balaclava, Johnny can sense Simon’s frown. But the big bloke says nothing, appearing content with his answer.

“Price wants you in Conference Room B.”

“Now?” asks Johnny. “We’re supposed to transfer out in a few.”

Simon shrugs. “He didn’t say much. Just said he needed to talk to you before we leave.”

Johnny sighs but he goes, patting Simon’s arm before jogging to one of the main buildings. It’s inconvenient—and Price could have just met him on the fucking tarmac.

“What do you need, Captain?” says Johnny, pushing open the door.

Captain Price stands just inside the doorway. And he’s not alone.

At first, Johnny doesn’t understand. It’s like all but one singular bulb has been extinguished, the remaining light illuminating the one ghost in the room. Because that’s what you are. A ghost. Unreal and ethereal. Not reality at all but a simple hope in the back of Johnny’s mind that has finally blossomed into delusion.

“Soap.” Price’s voice is gruff. He sighs and then takes a step away from you. “I’ll leave the two of you to it.”

He brushes past Johnny, lightly squeezing his shoulder as he makes his exit.

And Johnny does not move. He stands in the doorway like a bloody git, unable to understand how you’re standing before him.

You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead.

Your smile is hesitant at first, your movements even more so. It’s a tentative walk to him, and you don’t touch, you only gaze at him, eagerness and hope in your eyes.

“Johnny,” you breathe, and he knows that voice.

So crisp and clear and real.

Johnny reaches out, and pinches. He pinches your arms, your waist, your cheeks.

“Ow,” you laugh. “What the hell?”

You are not cold, but warm. Solid.

Johnny laughs in disbelief. “Had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”

Your arms go around him and suddenly, like a firework bursting with color, Johnny is happy and whole.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon shuts the front door and frowns.

Whenever Simon comes home, Bravo always greets him. The all-black German Shepherd is a singular ball of energy, turning in quick circles and tap tap tapping his paws against the hardwood in anticipation of back scratches and belly rubs.

For the past week, Bravo’s presence has been the one bright thing, the only bit of happiness keeping Simon going. The rest of it was snatched from him, torn apart and shattered, scattered to the wind. The letter is tucked inside the drawer of the bedside table. He only read it once. And once was enough.

You are dead. That’s what the letter says anyway. And it infuriates him more than anything. Every mission you’ve ever been on has been with Simon. Except this last one. And on this last one, you did not come home.

“Bravo!” shouts Simon, dropping his keys in the designated spot next to the front door.

Removing his coat, he hangs it up, and then kicks off his sneakers. Sighing loudly, Simon heads down the hall but Bravo does not emerge. Simon pokes his head into the living room and finds no dog. Kitchen, and still nothing. He even checks the backyard. No Bravo.

As Simon turns into the bedroom, he comes to an abrupt halt.

There’s Bravo on the bed, and sitting on the edge—

“You—”

You hold the letter in your hands, attention turning to Simon as he enters. Standing quickly, you extend the arm holding the letter while you bring a singular finger to your lips, implying silence.

Simon’s stomach flips, and then twists quickly. He moves across the room a couple strides, grasping your waist and pulling you close. He says nothing, only searching your face as you keep that finger pressed to your lips.

You flip the letter over to the blank side.

Compromised.

Everything clicks into place. Either you faked your death or someone lied.

Simon cups the side of your face as you drop your finger away from your lips. His mouth replaces, tasting and seeking, wanting to remember. You open for him, accepting it all. His hands tighten on your waist and it takes every ounce of Simon’s control to not throw you onto the bed and rut like an untamed beast.

But he does refrain.

Simon has the car loaded and the alarm system armed in ten minutes. Even on the road, Simon doesn’t speak. He’s not sure if he can. All he does is keep his hand on your thigh, squeezing tightly, attempting to ground himself and keep his focus on the road.

At the safehouse, Bravo takes off, running through the tall grass as you and Simon enter the barn through a small side door. The moment the bags are dropped onto the floor, Simon is on you, fisting your clothes, tugging at them in a need to seem them gone.

“Simon,” you groan against his mouth.

He wants answers. He needs to know what happened. But reconnecting with you is far more urgent.

“After,” he begs. “Please.”

You nod, understanding.

The two of shed your clothes quickly, falling onto the sofa in a tangled heap. Simon’s hand delves between, fingers finding your arousal. You’re ready for him—just as eager as he his. He makes no gentle effort, just a quick thrusts until he’s in to the hilt. Your brief gasp is swallowed up by his mouth, tongue delving inside for a taste as he starts to thrust.

This is what he needs. More than anything.

Talking can come after.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

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@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[criminalamnesia]

Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.

[itneverendshere]

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

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

💌MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

That phrase haunted him for years.

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

He got angrier, distant. 

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

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

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

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

He hated himself for that. 

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

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

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

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

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

His his chest was on fire. 

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

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

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

She should’ve been there.

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

Gone. Just like that.

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

They’d forget about her in a week.

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

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

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

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

That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.

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

“Figured I’d find you here.”

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” you asked eventually.

He snorted. “Do I look okay?”

"Sorry, stupid question."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can talk to me, you know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not going anywhere.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After her funeral, things changed.

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

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

Except when you were there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t here anymore.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t deserve you—he knew that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I come in?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shrugged, the movement almost casual. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She knew. She always knew.

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

She squeezed his hand. “Promise me something?”

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

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

He nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

That was his fault.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t just make it up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to know the truth?” 

“Yes,” he bit out, his chest heaving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her silence was louder than anything she could have said.

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

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

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

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

“I ended it. This morning.”

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

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

Topper still had that number. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “What can I do?”

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

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

“Okay.”

“What if she’s not ready?”

He had no right to demand more.

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

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

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

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