#and his sometimes stupid and sometimes heartbreaking stories

[ronavorona]

[dior-luxury]

hiiiii hope you're having a good day! Can I request Idia, Azul, Ruggie, Jamil, Lilia, Ace + anyone else you like with a reader who has a crush on them but is utterly convinced there's no way he likes them back? Just "he's so cute and I love him but he's way out of my league, oh well back to daydreaming" Thank youuuu ~ 👾 nonnie

You Being Convinced They Don't Like You Back

( ✧ ) ────── pre-boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] ace . ruggie . azul . jamil . idia . lilia

- [𝐩:𝐬] Self-deprecating thoughts / Low self-esteem . Mutual pining . Angst with a happy ending . Romantic insecurity . Fluff

Note: I literally am in LOVE with this prompt hello 🥹 thank you so much for requesting 👾 nonnie! I hope my writing exceeds your expectations ( ´ ω ` ) .

Ace Trappola

The library was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, the hum of distant conversation muffled by the towering shelves of books and the occasional creak of an old wooden chair. You sat in the farthest corner, your favorite spot, hunched over your notebook but not really writing. Not really thinking, either.

You were doodling again—him, of course. The slightly messy hair that was always a shade redder in the sunlight, the crooked smirk that came out right before he teased someone (or charmed them), and those stupid little hearts he sometimes made with his hands just to be annoying. Ace Trappola.

You sighed and dropped your pencil, watching it roll off the desk. “Ugh, why is he so cute,” you mumbled under your breath, face down in your arms.

It wasn’t like he knew you existed in any special way. Sure, you were classmates, sometimes group partners, sometimes sparring partners in flight class. He joked with you a lot, yeah. But he joked with everyone. He winked at everyone. He didn’t look at you the way you looked at him—soft, lingering, completely lovesick.

You were convinced Ace belonged in a whole different universe than you. He was bold, charming, magnetic. And you? You were… fine. Okay. Passable. Not his type, whatever that was. So you kept it inside. You giggled with your friends about how cute he looked in his uniform, you wrote little daydreams in your journal and then crossed them out, and you tried to survive the actual conversations with him without letting the pink in your cheeks get too noticeable.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t have known—was that Ace had been hovering outside the aisle for the past five minutes.

He’d come to return a book, seen you, and almost walked away. But your muttering had stopped him cold.

He leaned a little closer, his heartbeat just a bit too loud in his ears. Did you just call him cute? No way. You were probably talking about some manga character.

But then you sighed again and muttered, “He’d never like someone like me. Not when he’s... him.”

And something in Ace's chest twisted.

He stepped out casually, pretending like he hadn’t just eavesdropped on your heartbreak. “Yo,” he said, tossing the book on the return cart. “Didn’t know you talked to yourself. Should I be worried?”

You jolted upright, face turning crimson the moment you saw him. “A-Ace?!”

He leaned on the edge of your desk, eyes scanning your doodles. “Wow, that guy looks exactly like me,” he teased. “You got a little crush or something?”

You tried to cover the page, but it was too late. Panic surged in your chest, your throat tightening as every possible excuse dried up on your tongue.

Ace tilted his head, smirk fading just slightly into something softer. “Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Was that about me back there? What you said?”

You froze. Busted.

He laughed—gently, not the loud, showy kind. “You think I’m out of your league? That’s rich. You literally do everything better than me except math, and I still think about how you beat me in Spell Target last month.”

You blinked, stunned.

Ace grinned wider, leaning just a bit closer. “So... maybe I’ve got a little crush too. Don’t go writing me off like that next time, yeah?”

Ruggie Bucchi

It was late afternoon, and the Savannaclaw lounge was mostly empty—except for you, perched on the steps outside, and Ruggie, balancing a tray of snacks with a practiced hand. You’d offered to help, but he’d waved you off with a grin.

“Relax, I got this.”

You smiled politely, folding your arms tighter. Not that he’d notice the way your chest fluttered when he smiled like that. That sly, sleepy-eyed grin that made your stomach dip every time.

Ruggie was… everything you weren’t. Fast-talking, adaptable, clever, confident in a way you never could be. He made jokes even when Leona was glaring daggers. He knew how to turn scraps into something useful. And you? You were just you.

No way he’d be interested in someone who wasn’t cool, cunning, or at least a little dangerous. He needed someone who could keep up with his sharp tongue and trickster nature. Not someone like you who blushed too easily and got tongue-tied every time he looked your way.

You fiddled with a loose thread on your sleeve, sighing. “He’s way out of my league,” you whispered to no one.

Unbeknownst to you, Ruggie was returning from the lounge, just in time to hear that.

He paused in his step, the grin faltering as the words sank in.

Out of your league? Him?

He tilted his head, watching you. You looked… soft. Tired. Not just from today, but maybe from carrying that weight in your chest. The kind he knew too well. Ruggie bit the inside of his cheek and walked over quietly, plopping down beside you without a word.

You looked up, startled. “Oh! You’re back.”

“Yeah.” He offered you one of the sweet pastries he’d snagged from the kitchen. “You looked like you needed somethin’ sweet.”

You took it, hesitating. “Thanks…”

The silence lingered a moment too long. Then Ruggie said casually, “You know, I heard what you said.”

You froze.

Ruggie turned his head to look at you, his smile smaller now, more sincere. “You think I’m outta your league?” He snorted. “That’s a laugh. You’re the only one around here who’s nice to me without expecting somethin’ in return.”

You stared, lips parting, but no words came out.

“I notice things, y’know,” he continued, voice lower now. “How you bring extra snacks just in case someone forgets lunch. How you patch people up after training. How you always wave to Grim like he’s the main character or somethin’.”

You smiled weakly. “He thinks he is.”

Ruggie chuckled. “You’ve got no idea how easy it is to like you, do ya?”

The air went still.

He leaned a bit closer, a mischievous spark lighting back up in his eyes. “So, what d’you say we make this official? You stop pretendin’ I don’t like you, and I stop stealin’ snacks to get your attention. Deal?”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded—furiously.

And Ruggie, with a smug little grin, nudged your shoulder and whispered, “Knew you liked me, too.”

Azul Ashengrotto

The lounge was closed for the night, lights dimmed, the usual chatter of customers replaced by the quiet shuffle of papers and the gentle clink of glass as Azul organized the bar. You sat alone at one of the side tables—he’d offered to let you hang out while he finished work, a kind gesture wrapped in professionalism. You didn’t question it. You were just happy to be near him.

Azul was perfect. Not in an untouchable way, but in the dangerously magnetic way. His intelligence, his poise, the calculating way his eyes always seemed to know more than he let on. He could make a deal with a king and still get the better end of it. He ran a whole business while juggling classes and contracts and never once looked like he was struggling.

Meanwhile, you were just… you. No cunning. No genius intellect. Just someone who barely passed alchemy and still got nervous speaking in front of people. Azul was miles above your league.

So, you admired him from afar. You listened carefully when he spoke in class, hung onto his every word when he got passionate about potion theory, and then pretended not to ache when he’d smile politely and move on without knowing how he affected you.

Tonight was no different.

You watched him from behind your drink, your heart fluttering as he adjusted his glasses, sleeves rolled to his elbows. You sighed under your breath, “He’s so beautiful. And way out of my league. Oh well. Back to daydreaming…”

Azul looked up.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but his mer ears were… sensitive. The words hit him harder than expected. You thought he was out of your league?

He swallowed hard, turning away quickly to hide the sudden redness in his cheeks. Was that a joke? Were you playing him? No, no—your voice had been too soft. Too sad.

He closed the ledger and made his way over to your table, rehearsing something casual to say. But he couldn’t do it. The usual charm slipped. He sat down across from you instead, unusually quiet.

“Everything alright?” you asked.

“Yes,” he said too quickly. Then, after a breath: “I overheard something just now.”

Your heart dropped.

“I didn’t mean to. But you said…” He paused, searching your face for any trace of irony. “You think I’m out of your league?”

You froze. Busted again. Why did the universe keep doing this to you?

Azul looked… uncertain. Vulnerable. His fingers tapped the edge of the table in a rare moment of nervous fidgeting. “You have no idea how intimidating you are to me.”

You blinked. “Me?!”

“Yes. You’re so—genuine. You smile without scheming. You care without a contract. That’s not something I’m used to.” His voice dropped, soft and serious. “And I’ve liked you for a while. But I didn’t think someone as… sincere as you could ever return that kind of feeling.”

Your chest clenched. “Azul, I… I do. I have. For a long time.”

He gave a breathless little laugh. “Then perhaps… a real date? No contracts, no business. Just us?”

You nodded, overwhelmed but glowing. And for once, Azul Ashengrotto looked flustered. Adorably so.

Jamil Viper

The sun was setting over Scarabia, painting the desert sky in shades of gold and crimson. You sat at the balcony edge of the dorm’s main building, legs dangling, fingers absentmindedly picking at your sleeve as you watched the horizon burn.

Jamil was training below—moving with that smooth, graceful precision of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much attention he was getting. But Jamil never asked for attention. He earned it quietly, consistently, and refused to let it change him.

You had it bad. So bad it was kind of pathetic.

He was calm, composed, mysterious in the way that made your heart race just a little. But also kind, thoughtful, and far too selfless for someone with his level of talent. You loved the way he took care of others, even when they didn’t realize he was doing it. You loved the way his eyes lit up when no one was watching and he actually let himself enjoy something.

And of course, you’d convinced yourself he’d never return the feeling.

You were ordinary. Not someone with elegance carved into every step. Not someone with a voice that could silence a room. You were nice, and dependable, but not the kind of person who got someone like Jamil Viper.

You sighed and murmured to yourself, “He’s so cool and so out of my league… but I love him anyway. Guess I’ll just keep dreaming.”

Unfortunately, your voice carried.

Jamil paused mid-step, hearing your words. The rhythm of his movements faltered for just a second. He glanced up, spotted you on the balcony, and blinked.

Your eyes met. Panic.

He jogged up the steps—not fast, but direct. Intentional.

You stood, heart racing. “J-Jamil, I didn’t know you—”

“I heard you,” he said, his voice even, but there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “What you said.”

You turned crimson. “That was—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not for you to—”

He held up a hand gently. “Can I be honest with you?”

You nodded, too stunned to speak.

“I’ve spent a long time trying not to like anyone,” he said slowly. “Because it’s easier. Because I don’t get to have things I want. People expect me to stay in the background, to be useful—not to be seen.”

Your breath hitched.

“But then you came along. You’re kind. You notice things most people overlook. You see me.” He looked away for a second, a rare flicker of vulnerability. “And I didn’t think I was allowed to want someone like you.”

You were stunned. “Jamil… I see you because I care. I’ve always cared.”

He looked at you again, softer now. “Then maybe we’ve both been idiots.”

You laughed shakily. “Definitely.”

Jamil stepped closer, a real smile pulling at his lips. “Then let’s stop pretending. I like you. And I’m not letting you drift away into daydreams anymore.”

Your heart soared. Maybe… just maybe… you were enough for him all along.

Idia Shroud

The glow of the computer screen lit your face as you sat cross-legged on the floor of Ignihyde's rec room—aka Idia's fortress. You’d been invited to a co-op gaming session, not unusual since you’d proven yourself in battle simulators, strategy MMOs, and the occasional horror VR run.

But what was unusual… was that Idia had invited you.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal. He was probably just being friendly. Maybe he appreciated that you didn’t make fun of his Otaku shrine or that time he totally short-circuited a project trying to install AI voice lines of a waifu into Ortho.

Still, every time he laughed softly at one of your dumb jokes, or his fingers brushed yours when you handed him a controller—you felt that dizzy, heart-thumping feeling in your chest. And you reminded yourself, for the millionth time:

“He’s brilliant. Cool in a mysterious, tech-wizard way. That anime hair glows. He’s basically a boss-level character. And me? I’m just a side quest.”

So you kept your feelings locked behind your own firewall and resigned yourself to the background.

Tonight was no different. After you won a particularly chaotic match, Idia leaned back in his chair, hoodie half-draped over his head, giving you one of those rare, sheepish smiles. “Y-you’re really good at this… I mean, I knew you were decent, but like… whoa. T-totally NPC-crushing it.”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “Guess I just like playing with you…”

He froze. Not visibly, not obviously—but if you’d been watching closely (and you always were), you’d notice the way his avatar just… idled.

You were about to awkwardly fill the silence when you heard it—his voice, quiet, uncertain. “You know, I always thought you were… like… out of my league.”

Your brain lagged.

“Wait—what?”

Idia pulled the hood further over his head, hair flickering in shades of anxious pink. “I mean, you’re normal. Like, good at talking to people, and helping Ortho with projects, and you actually listen when I go off on anime world-building lore instead of hitting skip like everyone else.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “But I thought I was just the sidekick here! I mean—you’re… you. I figured there was no way someone like you could like someone like me.”

He glanced up, eyes wide and glowing faintly. “No. You’re not ‘someone like’ anything. You’re just… you. And you’re kind of my favorite player two.”

Silence stretched.

And then he blurted, fast and fumbling, “So—uh, do you wanna maybe do a… real date co-op thing? Like a—non-digital questline?”

You beamed. “I’d love to.”

And somewhere in the corner, Ortho’s little scanner lit up green. “Successful confession: confirmed.”

Lilia Vanrouge

The Diasomnia garden was especially quiet in the evening, the moonlight bathing the stone paths in silver as soft wind rustled the leaves. You often came here after a long day—it was peaceful, and you could just… think.

And of course, he was often there.

Lilia.

Sometimes humming an old lullaby. Sometimes practicing aerial flips. Sometimes just tending to the strange, glowing plants with that serene little smile. He was enigmatic, ageless, playful in a way that made your heart ache. He flirted with everyone, joked like he’d seen centuries of stories unfold—and maybe he had.

You were utterly, hopelessly, in love with him.

But you’d buried it. Because how could someone like Lilia Vanrouge—mysterious, powerful, ancient, and radiant—ever love someone like you?

“He’s basically immortal. I’m mortal, awkward, and sometimes trip over nothing. He’s been alive since kingdoms rose and fell. I’m just trying to pass my midterms without dying of stress. He probably sees me like a cute stray cat or something.”

So instead of confessing, you smiled, nodded when he teased you, and let the daydreams pile up where he couldn’t see.

Tonight, you didn’t notice him approach until he sat beside you, quiet and uncharacteristically gentle.

“Lost in thought, little one?”

You startled slightly, then laughed. “Yeah. Just… life stuff.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, gaze flicking over your face like he was reading something written across your skin. “You've been sighing a lot lately.”

You tried to deflect. “Guess I’ve just been thinking about someone.”

His eyes twinkled. “Ah… a crush, perhaps?”

You flushed. “Maybe.”

Lilia tilted his head, fangs barely visible behind his grin. “And what is this mysterious someone like?”

You bit your lip. “He’s… incredible. Playful but wise. Mysterious. Totally out of my league.”

That grin faded—just slightly. “Out of your league?”

You nodded, sighing. “Yeah. He’s someone who probably sees a million people every day and never notices someone like me. Which is fine. I’m just… daydreaming. That’s all.”

Lilia was silent for a beat. And then he did something you hadn’t expected.

He took your hand.

“You know,” he said quietly, “for someone who’s lived as long as I have… very few people surprise me anymore. But you? You always do. With your honesty, your kindness… and the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

You froze.

“I do notice,” he added, voice lowering, soft as dusk. “And I would be a fool not to return the favor.”

You stared, eyes wide. “Wait… you—?”

“Yes.” He smiled, a touch bittersweet. “And I’ve been waiting for the right time to say it. But it seems we’ve both been sitting in our little corners of longing, haven’t we?”

You nodded, heart hammering.

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. “Well then… perhaps it’s time we step out of the daydream.”

[biteofcherry]

In your peripheral vision, you see the other women in line trembling. Some cry quietly, and some try to brave through it. Some are quite flirtatious with their smiles and cute pouts.

Perhaps they're the smartest of them all, playing to the new fate instead of showing weakness, so the sharks won't rip them to pieces.

Most of them are young and you know what that means. Regardless of how the new regime tries to sell it.

They're ripe for the picking.

Brave soldiers and other useful cogs in the machine need to be rewarded. With wives. Or playthings.

It's heartbreaking to witness. Repulsive.

What the hell you're doing here, is the biggest mystery, though.

You and a few other women, who are past the typically desired age of below the point when the brain is fully formed. Or at least under thirty years old.

As you study the proceedings, forcing yourself to just stay still and survive, you quickly find the answer to your question.

A small team clad in dark navy combat suits, sans weapons and tactical gear, are marching down that line. Two men and a woman, who's probably supposed to put you all at ease. She's the one who decides if a woman is lead on the left side - where all those young, beautiful women are directed; or to the right.

As you notice, when it comes to "older" women, she studies not only their looks (those she briefly glances over) but reads files on the sleek pad in her hands. Then either points to the right, or have the soldiers escort them out.

To freedom, you hope, since you didn't hear any gunshots or dreadful ghost stories upon completely missing women.

Considering your own looks, your age and the fact you had zero influential connections, nor do you come from a wealthy family, your certainty to be released grew.

Seriously, there is nothing they could be interested in when it comes to you.

When it's your turn, the woman gives you a glance over.

You expected a quick, bored one, like with so many others. Unexpectedly, her gaze slowly drags up back to your face.

She tilts her head to the side, curiosity twinkling in her eyes.

"You're not scared." She states.

"It would be stupid of me to not be scared." You reply steadily. "This summoning was sudden and nothing has been explained."

"And yet your breathing is regular, pulse doesn't appear quickened, you're not shaking like a leaf." Even if you despise the woman for being a part of this dark command, you have to admit she's perceptive.

A tiny sigh escapes your lips, clearly one of annoyance, though you hope it won't get you killed on the spot.

"It's obvious you're targeting women who are useful," you say, meeting her gaze. "Either in their beauty, youth and fertility-promising hips, or in their connections, wealth, or potential to bring political power."

"Since I fall in neither of those categories, I simply assume I'll be released back into my boring life."

Sometimes, it truly is a blessing to not stand out and be just an average woman.

The woman stares at you for a long, silent moment, before her mouth twitches in an amused smile.

She brings her wrist to her lips and says into the tiny, unnoticeable intercom:

"I've got someone you should meet."

You frown at that, suddenly feeling a spike of unease.

Would they punish you in some way just because you didn't shake in fear?

The woman doesn't point at you to move neither left nor right. She keeps you in place. But she orders one of the men accompanying her to bring your things, which have been taken from you when you were all guided into the big hall.

Just your handbag and within it your phone.

A few moments later, the entrance to the hall opens and an imposing silhouette strides in.

Breaths all around are taken in hitched, panicked rushes. Most of the women recognize the infamous leader, who brought the havoc and change that rocked your world.

He moves in a fluid prowl. His eyes quickly scans the area to settle on the woman who has to be within his close inner circle if she is allowed to address him by his name.

From her, his gaze shifts to you, and that's when fear switches on all of your survival instincts, flooding your body with adrenaline and your head with voices screaming at you to either run or play dead.

The woman gives him the pad, undoubtedly with your personal data on it. Her smirk isn't cruel, rather amused, as she explains why you're so interesting.

"Smart girl, figured out the workings. Held my gaze without flinching, too."

"Waiting for a gold star for understanding the basics of politics?" The man snorts, browsing through your file.

"A simple goodbye, go home, would suffice." It slips out of your mouth before you're able to stop yourself.

His eyes lift up from the pad. Crystalline blue of his irises slides you open like a scalpel.

"Her phone." He gives a short comman without taking his eyes off you.

The intensity of his gaze makes you gulp. A small betrayal of nerves that he notices instantly. A predator's triumph glinting in his eyes.

You would be really stupid not to fear him.

For physical aspect alone. He's much bigger. Broad and heavy. It would be no hardship for him to overpower you.

"Intel files are one thing," he says, skimming his fingers over your smartphone and easily bypassing all security.

"Apps, browsing history, and private folders, provide the juiciest truths."

Corners of his mouth twitch as he notices your pupils widening.

His smirk stretches into a wolfish grin when he looks down at the phone in his hand and opens one particular private folder.

Somehow, you know exactly which one.

With photos of you that shouldn't be seen by anyone other than you, or a man who you wanted to see you naked.

He is not that man.

Embarrassment fills you in a scorching wave, but you grit your teeth in hopes to not show how much you want to grab your phone back and hide.

You're not ashamed of those pictures. It's just that they are intimate and shouldn't be seen by someone like the monster in front of you.

"There are no juicy truths," you grit out. "Some risky selfies are the staple folder of ninety percent phone users."

"Ah, but are they smart enough to not only figure out the system here, but in what capacity to show me defiance without crossing the line that could cost you your life?"

He looks up at you again, with hungry interest and growing amusement.

"Don't sell yourself short. And tell me- are you, really?"

Before you ask what he means, he lifts your phone up, showing you the photo currently on the screen.

Not even the most scandalous. You with slightly tousled hair, cheekily smiling, with the tip of your tongue peeking out. And wearing a tight crop top with bold, pink letters.

Brat.

You know, you just know that you should drop your gaze and let the trembling part of you out on the surface. That would undoubtedly push you back into the bag of boring, mundane lot. Lose his attention.

That self-preservation instinct he claims you have doesn't react fast enough, though.

Forcing your lips into a tight smile, you reply in a stupidly challenging tone:

"I'm a fucking delight."

Something flashes in those blue eyes. Danger and joy.

Slowly, he slips your phone into his own pocket.

As his eyes hold you gaze captive, your heart hammers to the staccato of doom approaching you.

"Take her to my penthouse." He commands, not raking his eyes of you.

He drinks up each flicker in your eyes and the parting of your lips as his intent sinks in.

You won't be returning to your home.

"Assign someone to transfer her belongings and oversee the bureaucratic procedures. They have a week to prepare everything."

Your fingers twitch at your sides helplessly as he takes a step towards you. Then another, until he's fully looming over.

A single finger curls under your chin, tilting your face up.

"You're going to be my delight."

He says it almost softly, but it still cuts through you like a heavy guillotine.

" 'Til death do us part, brat."

_______________________________

Who is he?

[dina-winchester]

The Things We Don’t Say

Pairing: Teen!Dean x You

Warnings: slow-burn, emotional, soft heartbreak, no use of Y/N, teenage angst

A/N: In the early seasons, Dean wears a ring—and this is how I’ve always imagined the story behind it.

It started with detention.

Dean Winchester walked into your life like trouble wrapped in leather—smirking, cocky, a little too charming for someone who clearly didn’t care about homework or rules. You’d rolled your eyes the first time he leaned on your desk, spinning a pen between his fingers like he owned the place.

“You’re not from around here,” you said flatly, arms crossed.

He grinned. “What gave me away? My rugged charm or the fact I parked in the principal’s spot?”

He wasn’t just passing through, though. He stayed. Enrolled at the school. Started showing up in classes like he hadn’t just wandered in off the road. He’d mutter something vague about his dad getting work nearby, but you never pressed.

Over the next few weeks, you saw more of him. In the hallways. At the diner after school. Sometimes leaning against that black car in the parking lot like he was waiting for someone—but his eyes always found you.

You didn’t mean to fall into step with him. It just… happened.

You started talking between classes. Then after school. Then in the middle of the night, when he’d sneak up to your window and tap on the glass like something out of a movie.

By fall, he was driving you to school. By October, he was kissing you behind the bleachers. And by the time winter hit, everyone knew you were his. He didn’t need to say it. It was in the way he stood a little closer, the way his eyes tracked you from across the room like he couldn’t help it.

You’d never said I love you. Neither had he. But it was there, thick in the air between you. In the way he held your hand. In the way he pressed kisses to your temple when no one was looking. In the way you curled up in the front seat of the Impala, tucked under his arm, and felt safe.

In the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he kissed your forehead before letting you go for the night. In the way he smiled, quiet and real, when you laughed too hard at something stupid.

He never said what his family did. Never said where he came from, or why he always seemed to carry so much weight in those green eyes. You didn’t ask.

He stayed. That was enough.

You spent spring wrapped in his flannel shirts, riding in his dad’s Impala with the windows down and the music too loud. He’d reach for your hand without thinking. He’d kiss you like it meant something.

But he never said it.

Then summer came. And with it, the ending.

You had him—really had him—for nearly a year.

A full year of late-night drives and flannel jackets, of shared secrets and stolen time.

He told you on a Tuesday, in the middle of an empty field behind your school. The same place he kissed you for the first time.

“Dad got a job,” he said, voice low, hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where?”

He shrugged, not looking at you. “Couple states over. He wants to leave by the weekend.”

Silence fell between you. Heavy. Familiar. Like this was always coming.

You swallowed. “How long?”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. “I don’t know. Could be years.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you. But it still hurt like hell.

You stepped closer, heart already breaking. “So that’s it?”

He reached for your hand, laced his fingers through yours. “I don’t want it to be.”

You didn’t say anything. Just squeezed his hand and nodded once.

The next day, you sat with him behind the gym before school, his arms around you, your head resting on his shoulder. The air smelled like summer heat and cut grass. You held something small in your palm—a silver ring, worn but strong. You’d had it for years, tucked away in a drawer. Waiting for the right moment. The right person.

Dean looked at it, brows pulling together. “What’s this?”

You didn’t explain. Just reached for his hand—your fingers brushing his knuckles like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go—and slid the ring onto his right ring finger. It fit like it had always belonged there.

“There,” you whispered, eyes shining. “Now I’ll be with you. Wherever you go.”

His throat worked as he stared down at his hand. “You sure?”

You nodded.

But the moment stretched too long. And the silence between you filled with everything that wouldn’t fit into words. Your chest ached, tightening like it couldn’t hold another breath.

“I’m not gonna say goodbye,” you murmured, voice barely holding together. “I can’t.”

He looked up at you—and the look in his eyes just undid you. He stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat between your bodies, the panic barely hidden under your skin.

“Then we won’t,” he said quietly, firmly. “Screw goodbyes.”

You blinked up at him as your throat tightened.

“This is just ‘I’ll see you later,’ alright?” he added, resting his forehead gently against yours. “You and me? We’re not done. Not even close.”

You tried to be strong. You really did. But the moment cracked you open, tears slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“God, I was fine yesterday,” you laughed through the tears, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “Now I can’t even keep my eyes dry for five minutes.”

Dean’s hands were on your cheeks in a second, thumbs brushing gently under your eyes.

“You don’t have to be fine, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice breaking in ways he’d never let anyone else hear. “Not with me.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.” His forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t want to either.”

You reached up, curled your fingers around the collar of his shirt like that might somehow keep him here. Keep time from moving.

And then, because you had to say it at least once before he drove away—

“I love you, Dean.”

He exhaled like the words knocked the air out of him.

His arms wrapped around you, tight, grounding, like he could hold the pieces of you together. You buried your face into his neck, breathing him in, trying to memorize every second, every heartbeat.

And when he kissed you goodbye, it was slow and quiet and full of desperation. Like a promise he couldn’t say out loud. Like maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.

He wears the ring for years.

Even when it gets scratched.

Even when the silver dulls.

Because that ring? That moment?

It was the first time someone told Dean Winchester he was loved.

And meant it.

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! Feedback is very much appreciated. 🥰

Read part two here

[msfantasy-comics]

The Cruel to be Kind

Tim Drake x Reader

Summary: A story in which Tim is cruel to you in order to be kind

A/n: Y/n is depicted as the popular girl. Admittedly, after the rooftop scene I kinda got fatigued from writing …

Warning: sexually suggestive.

Your friendship with Gotham’s beloved hero, Robin, was mysterious, to say the least.

The first time you met Boy Wonder, his eyes darted around nervously while you stood in stunned silence on your apartment rooftop. Gotham’s golden boy, stuttering and stumbling over rushed apologies for disturbing your night.

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you recall the memory—when Robin was shy and sweet, so unlike the confident vigilante he is now.

“Well, well, what’s got you all smirking?” Robin’s voice calls out as he swings down from the ledge, loud and cocky as always.

You sigh, already surrendering to his teasing. “I was thinking about when we first met. You were so shy back then.”

You watch, amused, as his ego visibly inflates.

“You just can’t stop thinking about me, can you?” he grins smugly. “Admit it—you want me, don’t you?”

He wiggles his brows, and you can’t help but laugh. The spark of courage bubbles up. “So what if I do?”

For the first time ever, Robin falls completely silent. His eyes lock onto yours, wide and unsure. You feel a twinge of regret—maybe you went too far? But before you can take it back, a booming laugh bursts out of him, like you just told the best joke he’s ever heard.

“Don’t tease me like that, Y/n,” he chuckles, then softens, his tone turning almost reverent. “My poor little heart couldn’t take any false hope… not when it’s already yours.”

“I’m not teasing.”

He stills again, brows furrowing as if trying to figure out whether you’re serious. Your words hang heavy in the air, crossing the line that had long kept your banter safely flirtatious. Neither of you had dared to go beyond it—until now.

“I’m tired of pretending this is all a game,” you continue, heart pounding. “I like you, Robin. Romantically.”

You search his face, desperate to know if he’ll laugh again—if he’ll wave it off as another joke. His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes flicker across your face, searching for signs of insincerity. But there are none.

You exhale sharply. “Why do you always act like you want to be with me, but the second I say how I feel, you pull away?”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares out at the city, shoulders heavy.

“Because I can’t be with you,” he says quietly.

“Why the hell not?” Your voice is sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. He’s never heard you like this.

“Because I’m a vigilante,” he murmurs, eyes still on the skyline. “I’m dangerous. I can’t risk your life.”

He takes a slow breath. “I’ve seen what happens when heroes fall in love with civilians. Once the mask comes off, the mystery disappears. You’ll see I’m just a guy. Nothing special.”

The silence stretches again—painfully long—until you finally find your voice.

“Is that really what you think of me? That I’m so shallow I’d stop caring about you once I see who you are underneath the mask?”

You step back, a bitter taste in your mouth.

“If you never intended to be with me, why visit every night? Why make me feel like this meant something?” Your voice cracks, anger and heartbreak rising. “You acted like it was real. Like we were real. But now that I’ve said something, you get cold feet? I feel so stupid. You should just go.”

You turn away, face burning with embarrassment, blinking back the sting in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he says softly. “Sometimes… you have to be cruel to be kind. It’s better this way.”

And just like that—he’s gone.

You were utterly mystified by the whole situation. Your heart weighed heavily with a mix of confusion and disappointment, and as much as you tried, you couldn’t reason why Robin had made the decision he did.

If he’d truly decided that he couldn’t be with you, then he should never have toyed with your heart in the first place—should never have coaxed it open just to walk away once it was laid bare. You couldn’t fault his reasoning, not entirely, but the way he misrepresented his intentions grated on you deeply. If he didn’t want anything beyond surface-level flirting, he shouldn’t have shown up at your balcony every night at exactly 7 PM with all that smoldering intensity. He shouldn’t have made you feel like he needed you, like he wanted you.

Weeks passed. You hadn’t seen him since. And while you were somewhat glad—relieved even—there was no denying the pang of disappointment that still tugged at your chest.

You were at a gala, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone, trying not to admit you were checking for any recent sightings of the Boy Wonder, when the loud music jarred you out of focus. You bumped into someone.

“Oh—sorry, Tim,” you muttered, awkwardly glancing up and hoping you hadn’t mistaken him for the wrong Wayne.

“Uh—yeah—no problem,” Tim replied quickly, eyes darting away awkwardly. You figured he didn’t remember your name.

“It’s Y/n,” you offered helpfully.

“Yeah—I know. I mean, everyone knows your name…”

You shifted uncomfortably. Tim seemed to realise how that sounded.

“Not in a weird way,” he added quickly. “It’s just… you’re kind of famous.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Tim snorted. “Please. You’re Gotham’s most popular socialite. You have literal fan clubs.”

You groaned, face heating up with secondhand embarrassment.

The whole interaction made you pause. Tim’s awkwardness—it was eerily familiar. It reminded you of someone else, someone who used to stumble over his words when he first showed up on your rooftop every night.

His gaze shifted to your phone.

“You a Robin fan?” he asked, and your heart pinched at the name.

“Ah, yeah, I guess… I don’t know.” You chuckled awkwardly. “I used to see him running around the rooftops all the time. Lately, I haven’t. I just got a little nervous, y’know? Like… something happened.”

God, why were you oversharing?

Tim smiled kindly at your flustered honesty. “Well, I can assure you he’s fine. I actually see him pretty often—Bruce is, uh, one of Batman’s biggest benefactors. Anyway, come on, let’s drink.”

The rest of the night became a blur.

Gin, champagne, laughter.

You and Tim wandered from the party and found yourselves walking the gardens, where playful banter turned into something more.

Maybe it was the alcohol or the comfort of his familiar energy, but you grabbed his collar and pressed your lips to his.

Tim kissed you back without hesitation.

Suddenly, you were straddling his lap on a garden bench, frantically clutching at each other, lips pressed, hands wandering, both of you desperate for something more.

Maybe not love—but certainly escape.

That was all until he released a throaty chuckle.

It was unmistakably his.

It couldn’t have been, could it?

It might be the alcohol misleading you but it had to be him, right?

But despite the train of thought that delivered you to that destination, you remain firmly planted in Tim’s lap, not daring to let him leave again.

“Take me on a date.” You demanded despite Tim’s frantic kissed planting along any of your exposed skin.

“Love nothing more.” He agreed.

You woke up with that giddy feeling buzzing in your stomach.

Later that day, you were supposed to meet Tim for a date. You got dressed, did your makeup, and waited at the little Italian place he’d picked… but he didn’t show up.

The news played silently on the diner’s mounted TV: Robin seen fighting the Riddler atop Wayne Tower.

He messaged you later with profuse apologies and asked to make it up to you.

You said yes.

This time, he invited you to a movie. You waited outside the theater, bouquet of his apology flowers in hand… and scrolled to see a news alert: Robin seen pursuing the Joker through downtown Gotham.

Another apology. Another reschedule.

Third time’s the charm, right?

You found yourself at an extravagant picnic set up on the hilltop overlooking Gotham. It was romantic, quiet… and empty. Thirty minutes passed.

You started eating alone.

Another notification lit up your phone: Robin in combat with Poison Ivy at Gotham Botanical Gardens.

You’d just popped a grape in your mouth when you heard footsteps pounding toward you. Tim skidded into view, slightly breathless, slightly sweaty.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I had another meeting.”

You didn’t even look up. “That’s okay, Robin—I know you’d be here on time if you could.”

He froze. “Huh? What? No—I… Wait. What?”

You glanced at him, expression deadpan.

“Please, Tim. That tiny mask and skin-tight suit weren’t fooling anyone. Not your voice, not your hair… definitely not your cologne.”

Tim blinked. “Oh… right.”

You raised a brow. “Some ‘normal guy,’ huh?”

He groaned. “Shush, you.” He retorts, pulling you in for a kiss which you gladly returned.

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | i.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Birdsong fills your ears as you meticulously unearth the last few weeds in the soil. Careful to not damage the stems, you pull gently while barely disturbing the dirt. The last step is pruning. With ginger motions, you cut each crooked branch pointing in the wrong direction. Beads of sweat drip down from your forehead into the soil.

The heat from the sun is unforgiving today.

But you welcome the labor, even with the sweltering weather. Time flies when you spend it in the garden.

It’s a welcome distraction, the kind you’ve sorely craved as of late. Idleness does you no good. It often ends with you curled beneath your blankets, drowning in a puddle of your own tears.

Each day you wake up hoping none of it was real.

The harsh reality swiftly claims its right however.

It’s everywhere. All the painful little reminders. 

The empty chair at the dinner table. All the spots he loved in the house, now desolate without him. His untouched room, lacking the messiness he usually favored.

And there’s all the times you turn, words tingling on your tongue, hoping he’ll be there to listen to you as always.

Then you remember.

Your brother can never listen to you again. And neither will you listen to him.

You’ll never hear his stupid laugh again or his crazy stories.

And your whole life you’ll turn, hoping to see him standing right there, beside you, but he will not be here.

Your grip on the shears loosen. They hit the vibrant green grass with a quiet thud.

You lift your eyes to admire your handiwork.

The garden looks nice; the flowers are thriving. The roses in particular.

They have bloomed wonderfully this year, having blushed to a gorgeous scarlet.

Your heart sinks. 

If only Sejanus were here to see it. Your brother spent most of his life helping you tend to this garden. Whenever he wasn’t busy at the Academy or with the various tasks Strabo had for him, your brother was here, with you.

You both worked in silence, basking in the warmth of the sun and the pleasure of each other’s company.

The garden turns into a watercolor rainbow before you as your eyes well up with tears.

“We have company, sweetie.”

You swivel towards the familiar airy tone your mother often uses. She often emphasizes the importance of poise and decorum in every situation. Even in the current situation, your mother’s held her head high. Still, you don’t miss the subtle red rims around her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks. 

Like you, she’s suffering. While you may not share blood with your family, having been adopted when you were three, your bond with your mother has always been as strong as if she gave birth to you.

Confusion has your brows collide into each other.

“Company? We weren’t expecting anyone.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, gripping your shoulders. Heartbreak flashes in her eyes, the same soulful ones as her departed son. “I’m hurting too, but you can’t hide forever.”

She cups your face and advises, “Go put on a nice dress, and wash up some. You have dirt on your face.” Disapproval pinches your mother’s features as she gauges your disheveled appearance. She sighs. "You know you don’t have to do that. This is what we have staff for."

Help. You suppose your mother refers to the Avoxes who tend to the yard sometimes. The sight of them fills you with rage and disgust.

Just one of the Capitol’s many crimes against its own people. Who would even clip someone’s tongue as punishment, then have them serve their tormentors?

It’s beyond vile and sadistic. But what else to expect from a place that openly sponsors child murder?

At times, you feel as if you’re living amongst beasts masquerading as human beings.

Still, you feign nonchalance. Some opinions cannot be voiced aloud, even to your parents. Especially to your parents.

"It calms me down," you explain, shedding your gloves and removing your wide-brimmed hat.

“Sweetie…”

She gives you yet another lecture on proper ladylike behavior. As usual, you only listen with half an ear, checking out about five minutes into her querulous spiel.

You’ve heard it at least a million times before. Still, you indulge her like the dutiful daughter you are.

She then reminds you to get dressed. You don’t have to be told twice.

You head to the back door connecting the garden to your room. 

While you do as you’ve been instructed, inquiries crowd your mind. Your parents haven’t been too fond of visitors lately. Besides, what kind of company requires you to dress up?

As you head to your massive closet, you wonder who’d visit your family at such a time. 

Your mother’s refrained from entertaining altogether and your father’s poured all his energy in his business, turning down most social calls. 

You randomly pick a dress, a pale blue one with a sweetheart neckline, before making your way downstairs.

Faint chatter echoes from the sunroom near your father’s office. You follow the hushed voices.

Astonishment rushes through you when you realize who’s having tea with your father.

You haven’t seen him since reaping day.

“Coriolanus?” you gasp.

He stands to his full height at the sound of you calling his name. Your surprise multiplies. 

He seems so…different, yet you can’t pinpoint what exactly about him elicits that impression within you. After all, he's still the same tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, dashing young man you knew before. 

But something has changed. You can feel it.

Even the air around him moves in a different way, it seems.

He makes his way to you, surprising you further by grabbing your hand and brushing his lips over the back of it.

“You look lovely,” he mumbles, cobalt eyes finding yours.

Warmth rushes to your cheeks. You don’t remember Coriolanus ever being so…chivalrous. 

“T-Thank you,” you stammer.

“I’ll let you two kids catch up,” your father states, nodding at the blond before taking his leave. 

“How are you holding up?” the young man asks, escorting you to a nearby bench. 

It occurs to you that he’s still holding your hand, his long slender fingers curled around yours. Cheeks aflame once again, you draw it back and tuck it in your lap.

Coriolanus’ brow twitches at your tiny gesture.

“I…Dad said you were the one who brought the box with his things. That was so thoughtful of you.”

A subtle smile spreads on his lips.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it means a lot,” you insist, shaking your head. “Any part of him it’s…it’s important to keep it.”

You fidget as he studies you, his crystalline gaze unreadable.

“But you have the most important part with you all the time. In the end it’s all we have, right? Our memories.”

Your heart swells with warmth.  He’s right, you surmise. After all, every memory of your brother is yours. Forever. They will never be taken away.

You’re a little taken aback though. Who knew Coriolanus Snow to be so sentimental? 

“Thanks, Coryo.”

His mouth tenses at the nickname but his tight-lipped smile expands. You used to call him that when you were little, having witnessed Tigris do it. It stuck and he never corrected you.

“I missed you. I think the last time you came to our house you were like seven or eight, right?” A soft giggle leaves your lips. “Janus had to drag you there. He kept asking and you always said no.”

He shrugs.

“All the other kids were picking on him. I didn’t want to make it worse for him.”

Your voice softens. “But you never did. Pick on him I mean.” They may not have been the closest but you remembered how much it meant to Sejanus at the time, that at least one kid in his class wasn’t harassing him for being from a district. While some thought he was merely upholding the grace befitting his name and status, you believed otherwise. You’ve always been convinced that beneath the sturdy layer of indifference he drapes over himself, Coriolanus is kinder than he seems. He was kind to you after all.

He spoke to you many times, even playing with you when many other children wouldn’t. Over the years, you grew a bit apart but he’s always been sweet whenever you ran into each other. 

“So, what have you been up to?” he asks, changing the subject.

You sigh. “Not much,” you admit. “Gardening, reading, going to class. The preparations for the wedding take up most of my time anyway.”

His jaw ticks as a slight crease appears on his forehead.

“A wedding? Are you helping someone plan their wedding?”

“No…It’s for my wedding actually.”

Your engagement ring glimmers, catching the sunlight as you show it to him.

Coriolanus’ frown deepens.

“You’re engaged? I didn’t realize.”

Enthusiastic, you nod. “Yeah, he’s amazing. We met at Uni. Dad doesn’t like him too much though.”

This seems to catch his interest, his head leaning sideways.

“Is that so?”

“His family’s from the districts…and Dad said his breeding will drag down to our name.”

Just saying it boils your blood. How hypocritical of your father when the Plinth house had its roots in District 2. Sometimes, it stuns you how far your father’s strayed from the plight of his own people, going as far as sponsoring and financing the barbaric practice the Hunger Games are. 

Sejanus never stood for it, rightfully so. 

It’s one of the many reasons you miss him. He never embraced the horrors of Panem, fighting against your father’s plans for him at every turn. In the end, it even got him killed. 

“He just wants what’s best for you." He pauses, plucking your hand from your lap. His long fingers twine with yours. His tone dips, oozing concern. "I do too. You deserve the best. I hope you know that.”

A wave of emotions engulfs you. You don’t notice you’ve begun shedding tears until he reaches up to your face, using his thumbs to collect them. 

You give a watery smile.

“Thank you. For everything. For the box. For coming.”

He traces your tear-stained cheek with his finger. 

“I should have reached out more," he says, glistening blue eyes locking with yours.

Your hands cover his. You never expected in a million to hear such words leaving Coriolanus’ mouth. He’s always been so…aloof.

This is the kind of change you can only welcome. You often hoped Coriolanus would open himself more to others.

“It’s okay. We can catch up now. Make up for lost time," you chime.

His lips twist upward. "Right. We have all the time in the world."

Struck with the abrupt realization of your closeness, the way he cups your face being easy to misconstrue for an onlooker, you scoot backwards and clear your throat. 

Flames tickle your cheeks.

You’d be lying if you said you never harbored a little crush on the handsome heir of House Snow growing up. He on the other end, never seemed to notice you, his attention always on girls like Clemmie or Arachne. It makes sense, you suppose. They are, after all, cut from the same cloth. Bonded by generations upon generations of hoarded wealth and an elusive code of rules and conduct you never fully grasped.

The mere way you hold a cup of tea gives you away. 

But it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re older now and about to get married. You can’t wander the wistful lands of childhood fantasies anymore. 

So while keeping a careful distance, you offer solemnly, “I… Dad is attending this fundraiser tonight…to funnel the promotion funds for the next Hunger Games." Your brow furrows as disdain coats your tone. You can’t believe plans to repeat this ghastly tradition are being set in motion. "I didn’t want to go but he wants the family to present a strong front." 

You pointedly omit to speak of your father’s blackmail and all he threatened to take from you if you didn’t show up, starting with the roof over your head.

See how well you fare as district trash, how long it takes you to crawl back home and beg for scraps.

You discard Strabo’s harsh warning to the deepest recesses of your mind. While you know he loves you, he also doesn’t tolerate any misstep from you. They took you in after all, saved you from a life of misery. Otherwise you’d have grown up an orphan. Instead, you get to live a lavish, easy existence in the lap of luxury, now the heir apparent to the Plinth fortune since Janus has passed.

You’re grateful, of course, for all they gave you. You just hate having to forsake your origins and partake passively in the slaughter of innocent children. Once you’re at the helm of the company, you’ll do everything in your power to stir up change. Every tidal wave begins with a small ripple. Perhaps one day all those tiny ripples will come together and form a tsunami, one that’ll wash away the sins of the Capitol and too many years of injustice.

"You should come. I could introduce you to my fiancé,” you offer.

Hopefully seeing both of them in one place will cement which one of them is your past and which one is your present. You don’t like the way a single touch from him flustered you so easily.

While you’re thrilled to resume your friendship with him, you and Coriolanus can never be more than that. 

Besides the obvious matter of your impending nuptials, the two of you are so different. There has to be someone out there for him, some lucky girl that’ll make him so happy. And you bet he’ll make her happy too. 

One thing's for sure however. That girl isn’t you. 

Coriolanus sizes you up before giving a slow reply.

“I look forward to it,” he says.

[wheneverfeasible]

Confession

wc: 3k || rating: T+ || AO3 || cw: referenced homophobia, homophobic language || summary: Eddie comes out to Wayne

Eddie Munson was bi.

Bisexual, meaning liking boys and girls and anything in-between.

What. The. Fuck.

It was all stupid Harrington’s fault. Steve. God, why did it have to be a preppy jock? There were plenty of other guys that could have snapped that realization on him, but no, he had to watch Steve Harrington spit out demobat blood (if it could be called that) after ripping its fucking spine out that made Eddie realize ‘huh, I think I like guys.’

It wasn’t like Steve was the only guy he was attracted to, he was shocked to realize. No, now that he knew that it was a possibility, his obsession with some of the musicians of bands whose music he wasn’t even that fond of started making a lot more sense, as well as how he’d reacted to some of the guys he’d gone to school with, or who had bought from him, and Jesus H. Christ, that guy at The Hideout had been hitting on him, hadn’t he?

So yeah, Eddie was dealing with a little bit of shock at his attraction to his friend, as well as the fact that that attraction was also apparently becoming a legitimate crush. Because that was healthy and safe to do. Especially when last he knew, Steve was still hung up on Nancy. And in a weird codependent relationship with Robin. Seriously, if he had to listen to Dustin complaining about why Steve wouldn’t just date Robin one more time, he was going to pull his hair out.

But so Eddie was bisexual. That was fine. Once he’d had his little crisis—and he’d been given plenty of time to think about it while recovering from being the main course at the all-you-can-eat Eddie Munson buffet—he’d done a little bit of research into the topic. Which was how he’d discovered that he had unintentionally been telling every gay man (if he came across any) that he apparently liked to top and was into inflicting pain with his sexual partners (suddenly the guy at The Hideout made more sense).

And…okay, maybe Eddie left the bandana there. He didn’t know, but the idea of it wasn’t too bad. Maybe. Maybe he should look into getting other bandana colors too, just in case.

It didn’t matter. He was still inexperienced, had only been with chicks before, and even then there had only been three of them. Two of them had only slept with him for the story, and the third one…well, everyone needed a little heartbreak in their life he supposed. Maybe he and Steve could compare notes.

The idea of sleeping with a guy, however, was not…unpleasant. It took him by surprise, sure, but he thought he could be down to trying some things out.

That wasn’t the issue on hand, however. It wasn’t what was eating him up inside, making him nauseous as he gnawed at his cuticles, pacing back and forth in the new double wide trailer the government had bought for them after Forest Hills was repaired. (R.I.P. to his uncle’s mug and hat collection.)

And there it was. The issue. His uncle.

Eddie could keep it a secret, sure. Could stay firmly inside the closet he hadn’t even known he’d been in, sitting safe and secret. But…that went against Eddie stood for. Sure, he knew he couldn’t shout it from the rooftop that he maybe sometimes thought about what it would feel like to have one of his best friends’ dicks in his mouth, but this was his uncle, man. This was Wayne.

Christ, he wished he had Ronnie, his former best friend, here to talk with her about all this. (He had also discovered another identity he hadn’t known about, asexuality, which he thought was right up Ronnie’s alley and wished he could tell her, but that was impossible now. She’d left Hawkins behind for a fresh start and he couldn’t blame her.)

But that meant that he was all alone. He loved the new friends he had, loved his band, but…well, this was something a little more complicated. And he wanted to tell his uncle. But…

Eddie gulped, every crunch of gravel outside the trailer sending an electric current through him as his anxiety spiked. His uncle should be home from work soon. Eddie paced a small circuit, knowing he needed a cigarette but also not wanting to go outside. His uncle had declared the new trailer a smoke-free zone. He doubted it would remain that way after this conversation.

He’d like to think his uncle would be supportive. After all, this was Wayne. His uncle loved him, had been there for him even when his own father hadn’t, and had stood by his side even when the whole town thought he was some psycho satanic serial killer. Hell, Wayne had walked in to Chrissy’s mangled corpse in his trailer and hadn’t once suspected Eddie of being guilty.

But having a queer for a nephew?

His uncle was progressive, but that didn’t mean he’d feel as complacent about his nephew being…what he was. His uncle had taken him in after he’d already grown and never expected him to help with the rent money, though Eddie did anyways with the money he got from dealing. But so Eddie was an adult, had a GED to his name, and didn’t need his uncle’s charity anymore.

Gravel crunched outside, the familiar sound of a truck engine rumbling along, and Eddie knew his uncle was home. Fuck. He hoped he didn’t leave this encounter with a black eye. Or worse. Hell, there were some people in this town that if he told this secret to, he wouldn’t leave the encounter at all. Not alive at least.

He knows his uncle isn’t like they though. He knows. Still, the fear persists. He’d always known he’d be too much for his uncle eventually. Would this be the final straw?

Wayne’s footsteps sounded on the porch.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Eddie had, in case he had to leave quickly, already packed a duffel. He wanted to trust his uncle, and he did, really, but…but there was that sickness going around, and Reagan, and Hawkins was such a conservative town, and Eddie just couldn’t know, not for certain. Not with something like this.

“Heya kid,” Wayne said with a gruffness to his voice that spoke of long hours at the plant, though there was the small relieved smile that curled his lips when he got home and saw Eddie there. Like Eddie’s presence was a reassurance now. Eddie hated that he was about to ruin that all.

Because sure, there was a possibility that Wayne would accept him, or at least not kick him out, but Eddie had seen too much shit to think that things would ever be easy for him. It was the Munson Curse.

“Hey Uncle Wayne,” Eddie said, and maybe it was the title, maybe it was the way his words warbled in his throat, but Wayne immediately stopped from where he was moving to pour the morning’s coffee into a generic mug and turned to face Eddie with a furrowed expression.

“Everything all right, Eds?” he asked quietly, hesitantly, and took a large stride over to where Eddie was hovering by the coffee table. He froze, however, eyes widening, when Eddie flinched. Wayne swallowed, his gaze darting over Eddie as though looking for an injury. “Eddie?”

He could do this. His uncle deserved to know he had a fucking fairy living under his roof. Maybe he wouldn’t care, or maybe he’d be fine with it as long as Eddie never acted on it, or maybe…maybe…

Eddie thickly swallowed against the rising burn of bile in the back of his throat. He wanted his uncle to know because this was a part of who he was and it was important to be honest with himself and with his only family member still alive that genuinely loved him, just…he hoped he didn’t lose that love with his confession. But he wanted Wayne to know. Even if it hurt.

“U-Uncle…” Eddie wrapped his arms tightly around himself, his tone almost pleading. He blinked back the burn behind his eyes next, willing the words to come out of his mouth. As soon as he’d fully realized the truth, fully known what it meant, he knew that he’d tell Wayne. No matter what, he wanted his uncle to know this about him.

Wayne’s face grew slightly panicked at Eddie’s response, the way he held himself, the tone of his voice, and Eddie could tell the older man wanted to reach out for him but was taken aback by Eddie’s earlier flinch. Christ, would Wayne still want to hug him after this? Touch him? Be in the same room as him? Breathe the same air?

Would he tell Eddie that Alan Munson had been right all these years when he’d continually abandoned Eddie because he’d somehow known his own son wasn’t worth sticking around for?

Wayne took another step closer and Eddie panicked.

“I’m bi!” he exclaimed suddenly, wincing as he withdrew into himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he subconsciously braced for some sort of physical attack. “I’m bisexual,” he whispered, his words shaking.

There was silence, stillness.

Eddie drew in a shaky breath and risked opening his eyes to look at Wayne, expecting disgust, revulsion, perhaps even anger. Instead, all he got was…confusion?

“What?” Wayne asked, his expression full of his lack of understanding what Eddie had just said.

Eddie swallowed again. “I…I’m bi? I like…both girls and boys,” he clarified carefully, though there was a touch of confusion in his own words, his brows furrowing as they only seemed to stump Wayne further. Eddie frowned, figuring he was as clear as could be.

“Did…” Wayne began frowning a little himself, still looking confused. “Okay? But you’re lookin’ like you wanted t’ tell me somethin’.”

Eddie blinked.

“I’m bi,” he repeated pointedly, his arms dropping to his side.

Wayne rolled his eyes to look at the ceiling for a moment in mild exasperation before looking at Eddie again. “Son, did someone say somethin’ ‘bout it?” His lips twisted into a small scowl. “Did that Harrington boy say anything?”

“What? Jesus, no!” Eddie exclaimed, because why the hell was his uncle bringing up Steve when he’d just come out to him? His insides still warmed at being called ‘son,’ however. “Wayne I’m…I…” The panic started up again despite everything and he swallowed nervously. “I like boys, Wayne. I’m a queer.”

Wayne just blinked at him, his scowl turning once more into a confused frown. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s the truth!” Eddie exploded, not having expected his uncle to think he was making it up or lying. Jesus, and what a thing to lie about.

“Obviously,” Wayne snorted in answer, crossing his arms over his chest as he let his gaze roam over Eddie as if looking for an answer. “But I need to know what this prelude is for.”

Eddie felt lost. He stared at his uncle in confusion, his earlier fear and anxiety slowly draining away as he tried to make sense of what was happening. His uncle sounded…sounded like he already…

“You knew?” he asked, voice soft and fragile.

Wayne’s brows lowered, and Eddie felt a little offended that Wayne was looking at him like he was an idiot. “Eddie…I’ve known since you were twelve years old and told me you thought Big Bill Broonzy was pretty after lookin’ through your mom’s old records with the biggest blush on your face.”

Eddie gaped. He vaguely recalled something like that, but that wasn’t…he hadn’t…Jesus fucking H. Christ.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Eddie huffed in sudden annoyance.

“I thought you knew!” Wayne protested, throwing his hands up and looking like he was losing what this conversation was even about. “Wait, you mean to tell me that you’ve been makin’ moonin’ eyes at the Harrington boy and you didn’t even know you liked him?”

Eddie’s blush now could rival any he made when he was twelve. He stuttered, gaped, and dragged a whole handful of hair to cover his face in his embarrassment. “I know that,” he whined. “God, have I have been that obvious?”

Wayne snorted, rolling his eyes as he moved to finish pouring himself that cup of coffee. “Had me worried he finally said somethin’,” he muttered to himself. He turned to point the plain white mug at Eddie. “If he or any of the others do, you let me know, Edster, you got that?”

Eddie softly groaned, burying his face in his hands next as he stumbled back to drop onto the sofa. No wonder Robin had started giving him those looks. He gulped. And…and Steve. Steve had been smiling at him more often, was…was lightly touching him with lingering fingers, had even used that voice on him that he’d use on the pretty girls that stopped by Family Video…

Steve hadn’t been using that voice on any pretty girls that stopped by Family Video recently.

Gulping, realizing that that was not something he had the ability to think about right now, he focused on the truly important thing. He lifted his head to stare at his uncle with wide, shining eyes, his heart fluttering so madly in his ribcage he’d almost thought he’d trapped a bird in there. He licked his lips, eyeing his uncle with wary hope.

“You…you don’t mind?” he asked, needing to clarify, needing to know. “You don’t mind I like boys too?”

Wayne snorted, reaching for another mug and pouring it half full, leaving enough space for him to pour a godawful amount of sugar and a splash of milk in it, just like his nephew liked it, before taking it over to Eddie. He sat down on the sofa next to him, hanging it over. Eddie was grateful for it, even if it was room temperature now.

“Son, I know you ain’t lived here with me long, and I know your father…well, Al’s always had his faults. But we’re family, kid. I’ve loved you since the moment Elizabeth told me she was pregnant with you. Nothing is ever gonna change that, you hear?” He sniffed, taking a sip of his coffee. “‘Sides, ain’t nothin’ wrong with love. You just got lucky, and your chances for love have doubled now.”

Eddie glanced over at his uncle with a shy smile, relief and affection for the older man coursing through him. He cradled his own mug between his hands, drawing in a shaky breath. Wayne knew. Wayne knew and he still loved him. A small, tearful chuckle escaped him and he hastily wiped away one of the tears that fell down his cheek.

“Eddie…” Wayne sighed, sounding regretful as he set his mug on the coffee table and turned to properly face his nephew. “I am deeply sorry if I have ever made you feel like I wouldn’t accept you, like my love for you was conditional.”

Eddie hastily shook his head, setting his own mug down to mirror Wayne’s position, curling one knee halfway on the couch. “You didn’t,” he reassured. “You didn’t, I just…I…” He felt bad now for doubting Wayne. For packing a bag like he was going to get tossed out at any moment. For thinking even just for a second that his uncle would ever hit him.

Wayne studied Eddie’s face before letting out a soft sigh and a small nod. “I understand. It’s not safe out there right now, especially not with everything.” And Wayne didn’t even know everything. He couldn’t, not with all the papers Eddie’d been forced to sign while being patched up after everything. But he knew that he didn’t know, so there was at least that.

“I shouldn’t have doubted you,” Eddie murmured. “I trust you, Wayne. That’s why I wanted you to know. As soon as I was sure, I wanted you to know.” He huffed. “Meanwhile, you knew before even I did.”

Wayne grinned then, reaching out to clap Eddie on the shoulder, making the younger man grin back. “Here I thought it was just some unspoken understanding between us. Guess I know why you always seemed confused when I bought more mugs with rainbows on them.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie moaned, slapping a hand to his face. “I am such an idiot.”

Throwing his head back with a laugh, Wayne relaxed against the sofa, making Eddie chuckle and do the same. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, boy. Just know that you’re safe here, and so is whoever you bring around.” He huffed. “Even if it is the Harrington boy.”

Eddie quickly shook his head again, his hair fanning around him at the force of it, a nervous laugh escaping him. “Oh no, Wayne. Absolutely not. Steve is as straight as they come.” He smiled a little ruefully at that, and though Steve had been smiling at him like that, it was just because they were friends. Expecting anything else would just lead to more heartbreak.

Wayne gave him a disbelieving quirk of his brows. “Whatever you say, kid.”

Eddie rolled his eyes in response. “You thought he had said something homophobic earlier.”

Reaching for his mug, Wayne gave a one shouldered shrug. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone projected anger at themselves outwards.” He eyed Eddie. “They good to you though? Your friends. You feel…safe with them?”

Eddie thought about that. He trusted them, with his life actually, and not just in the figurative way. They’d proven that they’d save him, time and again. He even had his very own brand new walkie-talkie and call sign to show for it. He was part of something bigger now, something real, which was just what he had always wanted. Even if it was all over, their little group was a forever sort of thing.

Smiling, Eddie nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” He glanced over at Wayne with a soft look. “But no matter what, I know have you to back me up so…yeah, I feel safe because I know at the end of the day, I won’t be alone.” He had needed to tell Wayne first, but maybe…maybe he could tell the others too. Eventually.

Wayne gave a short nod. He seemed content with that answer. “Just remember to use protection when you bring your boy over.”

“Wayne!” Eddie screeched scandalized, but his uncle only laughed.

Of course, it still took several months to get there, but when Wayne came home early one day to find Eddie and Steve shirtless and making out on the sofa, all Eddie could do was give his uncle a sheepish smile.

When the next day Wayne came home and chucked a new pack of condoms at his head, Eddie just gave another scandalized screech while Steve, once again next to him, flushed a bright cherry tomato red.

They’d use them, of course, but it was the principle of the matter.

[teenidlegirl]

꣖　 BEAUTY OF THIS MESS 　꣓　 ᤢ♥︎　 CHAPTER　.　18 　!

꒰⠀⠀⟡⠀.⠀military!miguel⠀𝓍⠀fem!neighbor!reader⠀.⠀⟡⠀⠀꒱

ᤢ　.　summary　♥︎　੭　you and miguel finally have your big conversation. he finally gets the chance to explain himself, you learn a heartbreaking truth, and figure out where to go next.

ᤢ　.　content　♥︎　੭　fluff, angst, pregnancy, background stories, past character death, past violence, flashbacks, mentions of blood, trauma, emotional distress, sorta hurt/comfort

꣖　　previous　　⋅ ꪆৎ ⋅　　masterlist　　⋅ ꪆৎ ⋅　　next　　꣓

the smell of pancakes awakes you, filling up your senses. slowly opening your eyes, your remember everything from yesterday. after the stupid fight between joel and miguel, you took miguel back home to patch him up and demanded that he should stay the night. he obeyed like a puppy, no matter how many times he rejected the offer. you also realize this is the first time miguel has been in your home in two months. the last time he was here, miguel walked out and disappeared for three weeks. now, he’s back and making breakfast in your kitchen.

you snap out of thought when a white fluff ball walks towards your face. the sight makes you smile as luna greets you with happy licks and a wagging tail. after saying good morning to your dog, you get up from bed and put on a cardigan over your nightgown to shield you from the chilly morning air. sipping on your fuzzy slippers and scooping luna in your arms, you head to the kitchen and find miguel cooking. his broad back faced to you. that navy blue compression shirt hugs his muscles so perfectly. the way his back muscles ripple as he maneuvers around the kitchen.

goddamn that is a sight you miss so much. to see him again, in the flesh, especially in your home. just a cute domestic scene of the man you still love. you really miss miguel so much it hurts.

but the pain that he inflicted on you hurts still. although you’re happy to see him and have him in here after a long time, that doesn’t erase the heartbreak miguel left behind when he left you alone to deal with a life-changing situation for three weeks. those were the shittiest three weeks of your life. three weeks of crying. three weeks of pain. miguel caused that, the very same man cooking breakfast in your kitchen at this moment. now that he’s here, you have to know where the fuck he was during those three weeks. it’s the question that never left your mind.

as he serves a plate meant for you, miguel turns around not expected to see you there standing at the opposite side of the kitchen island. “oh buenas dias, amor. i was gonna take this to you so you wouldn’t have to get out of bed.” he offers a sheepish grin.

there goes your heart fluttering because of his kindness, against your opposing thoughts. “the smell of pancakes woke me up, i had to get out of bed.”

your joke makes him chuckle lightly. “you still should get back in bed, i’ll bring this to you.”

“no, it’s okay. i need to wash my sheets anyways. now gimme those pancakes, pretty please.” you hop on one of the barstools with much glee.

miguel couldn’t resist the cute smile of yours, a sight that he misses so dearly.

you enjoy your pancakes while miguel cleans up the kitchen. damn, those pancakes are delicious. you forgot how much you miss his cooking. you remember how great of a cook he is but damn do you miss eating the food he made. resurfaced memories of the mornings and evenings miguel would cook, either at your place or his, when you were dating. chitchatting and sometimes goofing around while cooking delicious meals. his food always hit the spot, even simple as pancakes.

moving on to a much more serious topic, you wanted to know of his condition and if anything improved overnight. the memories of those awful bruises still makes your heart squeeze painfully.

“how are you feeling?”

“a bit better but some places still hurts like shit but i’ll be fine. that asshole didn’t do that much damage.” he rubs the back of his neck with a hand.

“still, he hurt you enough.”

miguel notices the concern laced in your tone, his heart swells. “i’ll be okay, mi amor. i promise.” he leans a bit over the island to find your eyes, reassuring you that he will be fine.

your concerned eyes meet his serious yet reassuring eyes. you know he will be fine but you can’t not be still concerned about his health. no matter the circumstances, your heart still beats and aches for him. you simply offer a small smile then continue focusing on your breakfast.

miguel lets you eat in peace as he cleans up the kitchen, washing and putting away dishes. once he finished, he can’t help but silently admire you. your disheveled hair, slightly droopy eyes, and sleepy face. every detail of you is so precious. the gorgeous warm hue of the morning sun makes your figure glow beautifully, as if an angel sits across from him.

you are an angel, his angel.

god he missed you so much. to wake up and see you there in the same place as him. to have you there in general, you gracing him with your angelic presence. miguel misses waking up to find you beside him in bed. the softness of you against his roughness. your warmth smoothing him as he awakens, the only source preventing his nightmares. sharing these cute small moments with you while cooking, eating, cleaning, shopping, walking, just anything.

the longer he admires you in silence, realization creeps up to him. you two agreed to reserve the big conversation today after a good long rest from yesterday’s shitshow. suddenly, anxiety invades his body. miguel is nervous as hell to address the elephant in the room, mainly due to your reaction and fear that his reasons won’t be justifiable. he imprinted a large scar on you that will forever be there, it will never heal, not for a long time.

but this will only be his chance to explain himself. miguel can’t lose that opportunity, not when it can lead to a possible future with you and the baby. however, this cute quiet moment between you two right now does not mean things are back to normal. it does not mean it will be like that after the conversation. it will be your decision whether to forgive him or accept his reasons and determine the outcome. it will be your final word.

you also are nervous as hell. a much needed conversation yet you are afraid to discuss it. mainly because of what will be the outcome and future of your relationship. you desperately need to know his reasons. despite the quiet moment right now, the anger and resentment still lingers, bubbling inside you. the pain he left you remains in your fragile heart. the same heart beating with intense anxiety.

it’s the calm before the storm.

you finish your breakfast, which was absolutely delicious, and about to get up from your seat to out away the now dirty plate until a calloused hand stops you by gently taking the plate from your hands.

“hey, i got it.” you pout.

his heart flutters at that pout. goddamnit you’re so adorable. “i got it, preciosa. you stay there.”

“but i just wanted to—”

“no buts, i’ll do everything.” he cuts you off softly with a smile that makes your heart leap once again.

you know this is his attempt of making things up to you. it’s a small start yet it doesn’t change anything or erase the pain. miguel knows it as well.

“we need uh… we need to talk about… y’know?”

a heavy sigh escapes his lips. “we do… uh… let’s head to the couch to be more comfortable, ¿si?”

you nod, hop off the bar stool, and head to the couch. you sit on one end and miguel on the other, some distance between you two. luna comes up to snuggle with you on your lap. anxiety invades both your bodies. now it’s time to discuss this situation, learn the truth, and find a solution, or not. but nevertheless, you were ready to know the truth.

miguel is the more nervous reck, practically sweating his ass off due the anxiety invading his veins like a virus. this is his one and only opportunity.

“i regret what i did… it was a mistake i’ll regret for the rest of my life because leaving you was the stupidest mistake of my life.” his sad eyes meet yours. “i promised to never hurt you pero… i did the one thing i swore to never do… and i hate myself for it.” he adverts his gaze, feeling undeserving often look at you because of the shame and guilt.

you can only offer a pitiful glance. ever since he returned, you have noticed the self-loathing consuming him whole. the guilty and shameful glint in his eyes every time they meet yours.

“i deserve all of your anger and frustration. i hurt you and saying sorry won’t fix anything, it won’t take away the pain i caused you.” a heavy sigh left his lips as he bring up a hand and rubs the temples of his forehead. “i-i was scared… i was afraid that i—”

your brows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and concern. what was miguel afraid of?

another heavy sigh. “when you said you were pregnant, i panicked… i just… i just couldn’t believe it. i couldn’t believe i would be a father, that i would have a baby… i never considered it before and… i was so… scared.” he lowers his hand but never looks back up to face you, instead down at his lap, too afraid to meet your eyes. “i was scared of becoming a father and having a baby because… i would fail you both…”

your frown deepens. “fail us? miguel, what do you mean?” how could he fail you and the baby? it doesn’t make sense. now you’re more concerned.

he had to reveal the truth.

“gabriel… you know that him and i joined together?”

miguel didn’t need to look at you to see you nod, just from his peripheral. he feels his heart aching, proving how hard it was to talk about his brother because the pain and guilt are still strong. you can see him struggling. the way he’s hunched over as if he’s in pain. eyes screwed shut, brows furrowed deeply, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, knees bouncing. you just want to scoot over and hug him. you almost do but he then continues.

“one mission… it was more intense than others.” he starts off quietly. “it all went wrong unfortunately, we were outnumbered, things went downhill so fast and…” a sob that was threatening to escape was bitten back down his throat as flashbacks of that mission infiltrates his mind. the closer he was to the memory, the harder it was hold back the tears.

flashback of the bullet striking through gabriel’s shoulder, hitting an artery. miguel’s heart stops as his brother collapses onto the ground while the rest of the team fight off the enemy. panic invades his veins as he rushed to his wounded brother, collecting him in his arms and seeking shelter behind a wall, ignoring the pleads of his squad.

“s-shit…” gabriel groans in pain. “definitely hit the spot.” a weak chuckle escapes his lips.

“you’re okay… you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay, hermano.” its also as if miguel is telling himself that, allowing the panic to consume him.

the younger o'hara shakes his head slighty, a weak smile on his lips that are slowly dripping in red. “i-i don’t think t-this time, pendejo…”

“no, no, no. you’re gonna be okay, gabri. ¿me oyes? you’re gonna be fine.”

but the red ooze dripping from gabriel’s lips and the color draining from his skin said otherwise. he was losing him, he was losing his baby brother.

“d-don’t worry a-about me…” a cough of blood makes miguel’s heart ache immensely. “i-i finally g-got to be who i-i wanted to b-be… e-especially contigo, hermano…”

tears swell in his eyes as miguel watched his brother take one final breath and heart beats one last time. a scream of agony erupts from his throat as he clings onto his brother and break into tears.

“miguel?…”

the angelic tone of your voice snaps him out of that horrific memory and looks to see your hand rested on his arm then up to meet your eyes. his own swelled with tears. miguel didn’t realized how close you are, now sitting right beside him.

seeing those gorgeous brown eyes swelled with tears breaks your heart. he was so lost in thought to the point of panicking. you didn’t hesitate to move over and comfort him, you were so worried. you just wanted to pull him into your arms and hug him. miguel shuts his eyes and turns away from you, concealing the tears and guilt.

“gabriel died in combat.”

your heart drops at the heartbreaking revelation.

gabriel died?… now it all makes sense why he was so hesitant to talk about his brother.

he lost him.

miguel fought hard against the tears but no avail, he allowed the dam to break. you don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around him and pull him into a tight embrace, which he accepts immediately. collapsing into your arms, holding you tightly, gripping onto the material of your cardigan as if he’s afraid to let you go, that you would slip out of his arms just like gabriel, as he sobs into your shoulder.

each sob of his breaks a piece of your heart, to the point of your own eyes swelling into tears. it hurts you to hear him break down but you are there to catch him. you embrace his sobbing, shaking figure tightly. digging your fingers into his hair, his grip on your tightens as a response. you don’t ever let go.

“lo siento mucho, miguel…” your soft voice whispers in his ear, making him embrace you tighter.

you feel utterly heartbroken for him. he lost his baby brother in combat, that is traumatic. by what miguel has told you, he and gabriel had a great sibling relationship. he was always by gabriel side for everything. miguel deeply cared about his baby brother. the one person who understood him.

eventually, miguel’s sobs die down and manages to catch his breath after releasing an infinite amount of tears. that left a large wet stain on your cardigan but you don’t care, miguel was all that mattered.

very slowly, his head rises from your now soaked shoulder and leans back to give you some space but still remains close. you look at him but his glossy eyes don’t meet yours. with such tenderness, you wipe his tears with your thumb as you cradle his face. miguel still doesn’t look back but gently rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. you simply sit there in silence, basking one another’s presence as miguel takes time to calm down.

after a few minutes of silence, you decide to break it by whispering to him. “you okay?…”

miguel nods slowly and exhales heavily, leaning into your touch as you continue caressing his face. he had to catch his breath to calm down but really you were what calmed him down. utterly melting under your touch, the softness and warmth of your body relaxes him immediately. you are his anchor.

“i was sacred…” barely a whisper yet laced with such remorse and regret. “i was scared of losing you and the baby like i lost gabriel.”

you look up at him with furrowed brows of concern but he still hasn’t meet your eyes.

“losing us? you won’t lose us, amor.” you reassure him in a gentle manner, caressing his cheeks as a way to make him look at you but no avail.

miguel leans away and finally looks back, frowning however. “i failed gabriel, what if i fail you? i failed to protect him, what if i fail to protect you both?”

you shake your head frantically. “you won’t, miguel. what happened to gabriel wasn’t your fault—”

“yes it was.” he cuts you off, turning away but you stop him by gently gripping his chin to look back.

“no, it was not.” a bit firm but still soft. “i know you blame yourself but it wasn’t your fault. just know that gabriel was happy to be with his brother, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere or anyone else but you.”

those glossy brown eyes soften a little by your words. perhaps you’re right, gabriel was at least safe in his arms during his last moments. at least miguel was there with him. it would have been worse if it was any other scenario and miguel didn’t want to think that.

“miguel, escúchame…” those same soft brown eyes look up at you as you cradle his face. “i know you’re afraid and now i understand why… but i promise you won’t lose us, you won’t fail us. we won’t go anywhere, we’ll always be here, with you.”

miguel swears he could cry once again. all he can do is just stare at you with nothing but adoration in his eyes. heart sudden refilled with love that you always provide. those ugly doubts and fears slowly fade away by your words of comfort and reassurance. he rests his hands on top of yours, gives them a gentle squeeze then brings them up to his lips and places a soft kiss to them as a sign of affection and gratitude. the act emits a soft smile on your face.

“i know we just had a heartbreaking conversation but… i still need to know what happened those three weeks.” you look at him hesitantly.

miguel knows you’re right. he admitted his fears and reasons but still hasn’t fully explained himself, especially during those shitty three weeks.

“i know…” his hands release yours as he leans away, turning away to run a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. “i… i have this hidden cabin off the outskirts of town, that’s where i stayed during those weeks. i didn’t do anything. i barely ate or slept, always had nightmares every time.”

your brows furrowed concerningly. “nightmares?”

another heavy sigh escapes his lips. “of you and the baby… me dying in combat and leaving you alone with the baby… failing you both…”

another revelation that shatters your heart. his trauma has worsened to the extent of having nightmares of dying and losing his family.

this poor, poor man.

“my phone was completely off, i never received any calls or texts. when i did turned it back on, i saw your text about your doctors appointment and i cried…”

your eyes widen slightly in surprise. he… cried?

“you went alone… i wasn’t there for you… i hatred myself for that, i still do.”

the unpleasant memory of your first appointment flashed across your mind. how utterly heartbroken and abounded you felt sitting in the waiting area full of couples. how anxious you felt when you entered the examination room, learning about your pregnancy, and seeing your baby for the first time. how angry you felt when you mentioned to your OB that miguel wasn’t in the picture.

one last sigh from his lips before miguel turns to you with pleading eyes. “mi alma, i know what i did is unforgivable and i’ll forever regret it for the rest of my fucking life. no amount of sorrys could ever take away the pain i caused you. i hurt you and i will never forgive myself. you have every reason to hate me, i deserve it all.” very slowly, his hand gently takes yours. “but know that i love you, i never stopped loving you and never will. eres mi mundo, mi corazón, mi alma gemela, todo.”

it was impossible to not feel bashful by all the adorable endearments. every nickname miguel gave you, it never fails to make your heart flutter.

“i know i can’t go back change the past, i know i can’t take away your pain from those three weeks but i promise you that i want to be part of this.” miguel said sincerely, eyes boring into yours. “i want to have this baby with you, i want to be a father, i want to be a family and raise this baby contigo.”

sudden a rush of adoration flows through you, almost overwhelming but… in a good way? his behavior since last night proved how different he was, he’s still the same kind man you fell in love with and how he wasn’t against having the baby. the way his eyes widen then soften and smiled when he touched your baby bump for the first time proved to you that miguel already loved the baby. you want nothing more than for him to be a part of this family and have this baby together. but that doesn’t mean the consequences of his actions are ignored.

“i… i’m so happy to hear that, miguel, and i want nothing more than to do this together but…” your tone turns more serious. “i can’t forgive you, not yet.”

miguel expected that and he did not blame you one bit because he doesn’t deserve your forgiveness.

“you hurt me, miguel. i know it was bomb dropping news, it was a shitshow, i take part for being irresponsible about the pill, and that it triggered your fears but you hurt me real fucking bad.”

he did and miguel will never forgive himself.

“those were the shittiest three weeks of my life. you weren’t there when i needed you the most.”

he can hear the hurt in your voice and it pains his heart. he has caused so much damage.

“now that you’re here, i’m gonna tell you this.”

miguel’s attention is precise and solely on you, prepared for what you will say.

you look up straight in his eyes with pure sincerity. “if you want to be a part of this, you have to work for it. show me that you want this.”

miguel understands completely. prove his commitment to this family, to you and the baby. and goddamn he will, miguel will do everything he can to prove to you that he wants this.

“i will, i promise, mi amor.” his hands give yours a gentle squeeze, signifying his words.

you believe him.

this is the beginning of rebuilding your relationship. it will require lots of progress but you have faith miguel will prove himself and the love will soon be restored.

it’s a good starting point.

꣖　𝓣ags. ♡ྀིྀི　꣓⠀⠀@reverieblondie @nina-from-317 @kavimoo @aly29a2001 @lazyjellyfish300 @tojishugetiddies @aphinthestars @novelaaaaaaaa @imamexican @obessgurlll @deputy-videogamer @lovehadlovelost @agoddoesnotplead @saintdiior @whoopwhoppghost @tomalymme @skadiloki @asterrrrose @glossygreene @youcantseem3 @resident-clown @kutsipie @zuevcs @totorotales-08 @meowgirl1 @sukunash0e @sirendyes @leahnicole1219 @lisa-takeshi @yehet-moi-ohorat @slowlyshycomputer @wasitforrevenge @webshoootrz @f1-hoff @chaeriescola @espressopatronum454 @trocaderoisyummy @totallygyomeiswife @mcmiracles @celestialgarden23 @tatatida @whdhjfjvjvjfjdhsj @nocturne-light @xenop0p @juneonhoth @ghostsdoll @marshmallowsforever @ibelyss @imissubaee ꣖　if you’re not tagged, age/age-range is require since this fic is 18+, context for reasons why　꣓

©⠀TEENIDLEGIRL⠀♡⠀don’t plagiarize or repost my work

[compressingsins]

|| At My Worse

Bakugo x chubby f!reader

Warnings : Established relationship, past bullying, body worship, loving Bakugo (a bit OOC but it’s just to fit the story), reader and Bakugo are virgins, future au both are adults, nsfw, creampie, car sex; Minors do not interact, please.

Hiiii! So I’ve been seeing way too many TikTok’s of Bakugo’s death and even though he’s not dead! I’m getting tired of seeing them, so I decided to write just a cute little story for our angry baby. Hope you guys enjoy! 🫶🏾

Please do not copy or rewrite my works without my permission. 🫥

"You're such a pig! Stop picking up food off the ground and stuffing it in your mouth, that's nasty!"

You sat in the sandbox with your head down, your eyes trained on the ground as you tried to zone out the mean comments. But it wasn't easy, being only five years old and getting bullied by other kids brung tears to your eyes. It wasn't fully processed in your mind as to why you're always getting bullied. Daily, you get picked on about your weight and your parents never happen to see it. And as a kid, you don't understand why your small body was much bigger than other kids. Though, it never became an real issue to you until you started coming to the public playground and park to just play.

Three kids, like you, stood around your tear stained frame and locked you in to pick on you. They kicked sand at your back, and sometimes they took your toys. But what made your tears stream more was when they all decided to knock down your sandcastle that you've been working on for so long.

"This isn't even a sandcastle! It's more like a pin full of pigs, where you belong!"

"Yeah, I bet you're the queen of all pigs!"

You couldn't understand why kids were so mean and they're just as young as you. It's always bright and sunny but they've always made it dark and gloomy, somehow. There's things other kids tell you that a child shouldn't know and when you tell your parents, they just automatically think that you're overreacting. You're a child, there's no way you can make up some of the things you tell them. But they just always shut you down with some stupid excuse that you're sick of hearing. You just wish that you had at least one friend who cared because before all the bullying, you didn't really even care for having friends.

Now, you just need someone to help you and have your back. Because not even your parents have that, they believe what they want while you sit there and get bullied. You can't really understand anything, as only a mere child, and with other kids telling you that you belong in an orphanage or that you were adopted, it's painful. Funny thing is, you actually know what all that heartbreaking stuff means. Even as a child. But your sobbing was only to their amusement.

"Gosh, you're such a crybaby! Do you want some food to calm yourself?!"

Your child mind didn't know how else to react, only to cry at the utterly mean comments of these other kids. You know personally that you don't deserve any of this, not as an innocent child who just wants to see the world and enjoy it as much as she can. That's just something you couldn't do. Because apparently, there are other people in this world who'd rather see your misery than your happiness.

"Hey!"

A loud voice shouted in the distance in front of you three, your eyes slowly looking up along with the other kids. There was another kid who was running towards you, with spiky ashy blonde hair and fuming red eyes. You weren't afraid but you were thinking that he was just coming to pick on you too, which brought a nervous throb to your heart. He didn't seem nice. Not even in the slightest...

"What do you want?" One of the kids questioned while holding your toy in her hand.

"Leave her alone, idiots! She didn't do anything to you!"

What? This kid was... defending you? Your gaze averted back to his face and softened from how defensive he became. It's like he was trying to protect you and you felt a sense of relief and happiness flow through you.

"What's it to you? She doesn't even have any friends defending her, so why do you care?"

"Because I'm gonna be just like All-Might, someday! Which means..." He stated before reaching out and grabbing your arm to pull you out of the middle of the kids, "...it's my duty to protect everyone who's helpless agaisnt a villain! Do you wanna fight, come on!" The blonde haired kid was the first person to ever defend you, and it made you feel so... respected now that you had that. This kid doesn't even know you and that warmed everything. You no longer felt like you were alone with him grasping onto your arm and protecting you.

Even with his slightly light voice, the kids didn't seem like they wanted anything to do with you anymore. "Whatever, she doesn't have any friends anyway so screw you losers!" One little girl said as her friends followed behind her, with you and the blonde haired kid watching them. His hold on your arm had ceased to be released as you grasped at his hand but he wasn't paying attention, "Well, she has a friend now and that's me!" And his words stopped your actions on trying to release the tight hold he had on your arm, no one had ever referred to you as their friend.

He growled as they got more and more into the distance, but turned to you once they were completely gone. He still had a hold on your arm, keeping you close to him so you couldn't go anywhere but his hold was a little too tight.

"You're holding my arm too tight!"

He frantically let your arm go before apologizing, "Oh, my bad!"

You rubbed the spot on your arm that he was holding before looking back at his face, that was smiling at you which made you softly smile.

"Those kids didn't hurt you, did they?"

"No. Just took my toys and... destroyed my sandcastle."

His eyes were sealed on your face as he gasped from hearing your story. Your eyes landed on the ground in front of you, a glimpse of his feet in your sight.

"Your sandcastle, that's so cool! We can share my toys and build another sandcastle, if you want to. But I only have hero toys, oh, maybe we can make a hero sandcastle!" You didn't know what to say or do but you wanted to. You really wanted to build a new sandcastle with him, even if you just met him. A nod and a smile was sent from you to him before you replied.

"Well, yeah! I'd love to build a new sandcastle with you!" You both ran away to another clear spot where no one was as you both sat on your bottoms in front of each other to build the sandcastle, "I'm ____. What's your name?"

The little boy looked at you before smiling and replying with closed eyes, "I'm Katsuki Bakugo! And someday, I'll become the hero that'll always keep you safe!" A twinkle was in your eyes, staring at the boy's face that you never want to forget.

Katsuki Bakugo... your hero.

…

…

…

"Why don't you smile during your interviews on tv, Bakugo?" You questioned your bestfriend as you walked down a dirt road with him as the sun was setting, "You need to stop being so stubborn and actually try to look like a hero. It doesn't hurt to smile, you know." You sighed and continued talking. Bakugo usually took days off just to hang with you and relax, or so he calls it. You've never complained about him always wanting to hang with you and take the day off, just because you enjoy his company. The both of you have been friends ever since you were five and now you're in your twenties.

You have other friends, but they're not as special as the grumpy Bakugo. And you've never really understood why he became so grumpy because as a child, he was so sweet and always smiling. But now if you want him to smile, it's basically like you have a better chance at winning the lottery than doing that. But none of that mattered, he's still special to you in each and every way. "I'll smile, when I get the reason to." His response was short like always, so you didn't really mind it at all.

"Geez, Bakugo! How come you just became so damn grumpy, once we hit middle school? What happened?" He didn't answer you as you both continued walking down this trail. The only sound was the birds chirping and the wind blowing through the leaves in the trees, but the silence was expected to you. Everytime you asked this question, he always got silent for a while, for some reason. You don't know why.

Even if he's your bestfriend, there's things that he doesn't tell you. But you don't mind it because obviously, as a person, there's things that'll be kept private. You know there's private things that you keep secret and don't tell anyone, not even Bakugo. It was just some things you were uncomfortable with. But your trail journeying this dirt road was nearly over, considering you were on your way to your apartment that was on this road. It's a country apartment complex and you decided to live in it because you didn't want to be in the big dangerous city. Not that there aren't heroes there, you just enjoy the country.

Your apartment building was right there which you pointed out, "I'm home... finally!" You quietly cheered, since you both have been walking a long time. The male alongside you grumbled as he continued trailing beside you with his hands in his pockets, his eyes sealed on your building with slight distaste. He didn't like you living all the way out here because he confessed that he couldn't protect you. It was a real shock but you tease him about that all the time.

But you appreciated the fact that he always walked you home, no matter how far it is from where he lives. Though, you always let the male know that you were okay and could protect yourself out here, if something was to happen. Even if it did, you live in an apartment with others so you had back up.

"Thanks again, Bakugo. You're always welcome to stay and rest up, so you can head out tomorrow, you know."

"Duh, I know that. I don't wanna freeload off of you, for a day."

"A half of day, idiot. Practically a quarter and you won't be freeloading, especially since I want your company! Come on, Bakugo, you never wanna spend the night at my apartment."

"I have legs, I can fucking walk all the way back home..." He grumbled which made your eyes roll in slight irritation and annoyance, "...besides, I'm a hero and usually use my walk home as a time to make sure everyone's safe."

That actually wasn't a stupid idea and you know he can keep anyone safe. When you were younger, you didn't know Bakugo would become this strong and a real Pro Hero. The only problem that you personally have is that he does things more differently than normal heroes. Like, cursing out a civilian to move to a safe area. You guess it works but it's still unacceptable, when it comes to saving someone's life. He is the great Katsuki Bakugo everyone knew from UA High school, so you knew there are some people who knows how he acts. Maybe it was okay when civilians rather investigate situations than run, so that's one reason he could do that.

But still, he can just use a stronger and more disciplined tone to get them to move, not make them be afraid of him since he is a hero. But you said nothing else as you were now walking up the staircase to your apartment, which always nerved you when you're with Bakugo because for some reason, he always walked extremely close behind you. You've never brought it up just because you figure it's just another sense of security, from the male.

He waited patiently for you to pull out your keys and unlock the door, along with you walking in your apartment like a guard dog. You were so thankful of how protective he is over you, even if he is always so damn grumpy. You've accepted that grumpy side of him so long ago, just because he accepted you for you back then. Your hand slipped into the jacket pocket you were wearing, jingling it first to make sure your keys were in it which they were. You pulled them out and found the right key before inserting it into the door of your apartment, turning it in silence as you could only hear the soft breathing from Bakugo. He always waited until you locked the door.

You pulled your key out before stepping inside and turning to face Bakugo who was still standing there with his usual angered expression. He never ask for them, but you felt it was appropriate to give him a goodbye hug that he always slowly accepted. Sometimes, he'd hug you longer than what felt necessary but you never mind it.

"Thanks again, Bakugo. Make sure you—"

"I know that. You better make sure your damn door is locked and—“

"My alarm is on, if someone tries to break in. Gosh, I know! Stop worrying so much about me, it really doesn't suit your character."

He only clicked his tongue before letting you go and you did the same, before taking a step back to reenter your apartment. His hands were back in his pockets as he stared you down from the other side of your door. You honestly hate when he has to leave, just because he's the main important person you've had in your life. But you knew he didn't want you to waste time, as he says, and hold your door open so people wouldn't know you're home. He's so protective over you that somebody would possibly mistake him for your dad, just by his security around you. You adorn his security and welcome it because you don't have a quirk to defend yourself.

He even accepted that you're quirkless, and that's another thing you loved so much about him. No one really said anything about you being quirkless, it just made you feel alone along sometimes. However, the friends you've gained at UA high was more than you could handle. None of them judged you for anything, you even had two perverts complimenting you. It was just class 1-B that always said something to you. But their mean words were shut down, when Bakugo decided to nearly commit murder. But not just him, if he wasn't around, your entire class did their absolute best to protect you and did a damn good job at it. Yeah, you got bullied in school but you miss the experience you got to share with your friends.

"By the way, Bakugo, I've been meaning to ask you are you free Saturday night? There's a new cafe I wanted to try out!"

His eyes just stared into yours, a glare being sent from him that was making you think he didn't want to. You frantically waved your hands in your face, trying to just brush off what you just asked.

"Uh... you don't have to, Bakugo! I just wanted-"

"I'll be there, dumbass. You're not taking no one else but me but if you're not there by five, then I won't be there."

He turned his back before you could reply but you heard him loud and clear, "I'll be there!" You shouted, watching him walk away until he turned a corner to proceed down the stairs. It didn't take him long to leave your view, which you decided to close the door behind you.

...

...

...

Bakugo just felt as if you just asked him on a date. You've asked him to places before but he felt as if asking him to a cafe was a date. If he was being honest with himself, he has been wanting to go on an official date with you before. But his attitude and pride was getting in the way of that confession. He felt as if he'd be seen as soft for confessing something like that. The thought alone brought a bright tint of pink to his cheeks, his hand covering the embarrassment.

Now all that was in his head was you, and what he wanted with you. He couldn't stand how he was, when it came to you. He's a hero but he wants to be the only hero for you, in each and every way. But he has never confessed to a girl before, so if he was to be rejected by you he didn't know what he'd do. That thought was bringing a headache to him, which was irritating in a way. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, a sigh escaping him to pacify that irritation.

"Ngh-! Fucking stupid..."

...

...

...

"Where is he? He told me to be here before five and he's not even here!" You whisper shouted to yourself and swirled your spoon in the cup of coffee a servant gave you. You poured sugar in the cup and watched the substance dance around in the liquid, grazing the sides of the cup and sticking to it occasionally. It was ten minutes after five, which meant he was late even if you knew you could wait. But still, he wanted you to be on time when he's not even here on time.

The cafe was nice, though, quiet and not with many people. It was just the kind of place you could relax and not worry about anything. Besides that fact, all the servants that came over to you were nice. None of them said a thing, only delivering a smile to you that made you comfortable. But your concentration broke once a voice sounded out and entered your ears. "I'm right here, dumbass..." The voice said, obviously being your bestfriend who still looked angry once you turned to him, "...so you can stop stirring that damn coffee like an idiot."

You never cared about how disrespectful he was, just jumping up to hug him as he shamelessly returned the hold. But he didn't want to hold it longer than thirty seconds, though you didn't complain. He took his seat and you did the same and sat across from him, staring blankly at him. He wasn't annoyed, more like irritated already with being around others. Bakugo knew how people were, even if you were never expecting it, he was expecting everything that assholes had to say. His eyes were already scanning the room, trying to see if anyone looked like the asshole type.

Quite frankly, everyone was attending their own thing and staring at whoever was across from them and talking. He felt a sense of relief wash over him. He didn't have to murder someone today. He never wanted to admit it most of the time, but he always loved hanging with you and only you.

"Why the hell did you want to come to this place? Doesn't seem like anything special to me."

"Stop being so grumpy, can't I hang with my bestfriend?"

He groaned in annoyance but you were right, he didn't mind hanging with you. However, clapping came from behind you and Bakugo along with hysterical laughing. The laughing sounded like it was getting closer to the both of you, which made you both turn around to the source. You couldn't help but think how familiar that laugh sounded. Like all life from your body just escaped, as you turned your head to be met with the main person who picked on you in high school. Monoma, who instantly made you turn away, even though he clearly saw you.

"Ah, your bestfriend? Who would wanna be bestfriends with this loser? I'm guessing you're still a loser too, ____, so you're perfect for each other!"

"What the hell do you want, you damn extra?"

You could hear Bakugo growling practically, eyeing Monoma down as if he wanted to murder him. He, however, knows how much he hates beating up people in front of you. But, you knew Monoma only came over for trouble and to pick on you, as if you're not full grown adults, now.

"I can't come over and greet the two losers I've known from high school!?"

"You're fucking with us because..?"

"Because of you, ____!" Monoma called you out with a point which made you turn to him with wide eyes, "I missed the days when I could roast your ass, without your stupid boyfriend coming to your rescue!"

You knew he was referring to Bakugo, but you could see how Bakugo was holding himself back from killing this asshole. This isn't how you wanted your hangout session with Bakugo to go, not knowing that Monoma was coming. If you were being honest with yourself, you didn't even know that he was in town. You knew he was a hero as well, but you didn't know if he was a pro since you've only seen him a few times on tv. Not like you're friends or anything, so you didn't really care about his appearances on tv. But you didn't want to deal with this, so you grabbed Bakugo by his wrist.

"Uh, this isn't necessary can we leave now, Bakugo? We can just continue this at my—"

"Still the same ole ____, huh?" Monoma interrupted, which made Bakugo tear his wrist out of your grasp.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know what I'm talking about! The same weak ass ____ that always hid behind everyone in her class! Your quirkless ass shouldn't have even attended UA high!"

Hearing those words only replayed your bad experiences in high school, overpowering the good experiences that you only wanted to remember. You know you're quirkless and that's why you hated hearing someone just speak it like it wasn't obvious to you, already. "And why the fuck is that a reason for her not to have attended UA high? You don't need a damn quirk to be a hero. Your weak ass shouldn't even be a pro."

The blonde haired male only laughed, basically brushing off Bakugo's insult that should hurt any hero. You just took a hold of Bakugo's wrist again and tugged on it, trying to get him to just come with you and leave. This wasn't worth your time and you didn't want to deal with Monoma, anymore. "At least I have a quirk that can save someone! And what the hell can she do, hm?! Run away and cry what a loser!" He had a point but you know that you weren't really interested in being a hero, when you found out you wouldn't develop a quirk or ever have one. It was a bummer for a while but with Monoma constantly bringing up, it's bringing up all those terrible feelings you've had knowing you wouldn't get a quirk.

"You better shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you..." You knew he would defend you but seeing the death glare he sent to Monoma warmed your heart. However, you didn't want this to go farther than it has to.

"Oh yeah, what're you gonna do?! Attacking another hero will get your ass suspended from being a pro yourself, so you can't do anything! This is hilarious, you're such a klutz!"

He was such an asshole it hurt. You didn't understand why he was so damn unnecessarily rude, especially when you've done absolutley nothing to him.

"Bakugo, can we please just leave! This isn't worth it, please stop getting mad—!"

"You've always had a knack for running away, ____! Hm, I always wondered where you'd go. Maybe someplace where a buffet is being served!"

"Shut your damn mouth, you fucking extra! I don't mind getting suspended from being a damn hero, if that means assholes like you won't bother anyone again! Just because you have a quirk doesn't make your scrawny ass a hero! If you can't shut your damn mouth and protect the weak, then you're just as bad as the villains!"

"Bakugo..."

He was practically fuming, but the fact that he was standing up for you brought such warmth to your heart. He has stood up for you before but this for some reason took the cake. Your hands tugged on his wrist as you pulled him away from the laughing male, that only continued to talk while Bakugo growled at him but followed behind you.

"Yeah, you should probably leave, you know! In case you don't wanna worsen your already bad reputation as a person. You know—where you're such an asshole to everyone!"

That would've been the last straw for Bakugo, if you didn't stop him and wrapped your arms around his strong arm.

"Come on, Bakugo, he's not worth you losing your position as a hero! Don't let him anger you, okay?! Please, for me!"

That stopped all his yelling, his body physically losing all tension as he let you drag him away from the male and outside the cafe. However, once you were outside and away from the cafe, Bakugo snatched his arm out of your grasp. You should've saw that coming but you followed after him. He was so upset and storming down the sidewalk, looking like he wasn't going anywhere in particular. His taller form caused him to take bigger and longer strides away from you, making you have to jog and run after him and shout his name before he just ran off somewhere without trace.

"Bakugo, wait—please!" You called out, which made him stop and turn to you with a glare, his body still as tense as it was when you two were in the cafe arguing with Monoma.

"Aren't you tired of shitheads pushing you around?!"

"Yeah... but I can't do anything about it."

He continued to approach you until you eventually hit your back agaisnt something, making the blonde male pin you agaisnt the object with his body extremely close to yours. Like really close, his body flushed agaisnt yours and his eyes beaming holes into your skull. "You can. You just let those fuckers take away your confidence to make you think you have to bow down to their asses. Geez, you need to know you have friends." You knew that, but it just didn't seem like it anymore, since everyone was doing their own thing as pro hero's. You couldn't really rely on anyone like that, only Bakugo who always tried to be there for you. But being a hero, you know that he doesn't really have time to always relax and kickback with you.

"Yeah, but nobody's there for me at my worse..."

"You really are a dumbass aren't you? I haven't stuck around and kicked your bullies asses for nothing, ____!" It sounded like... he was pouring his heart out to you, but you couldn't tell since he's always angry. So maybe he was just making it clear that he wouldn't allow anyone to mess with you.

"Wha—what are you saying..?"

He couldn't help the pink that dusted his cheeks as he looked down at your face that looked concerned. But he knew he couldn't hold back anymore, it's been so long and he has been holding this in for years. "I'm fucking in love with you, dumbass! Why can't you just see that, damnit?!" He pushed himself off your body as his shocking words reached your ears, your eyes widening from the unexpected confession. Bakugo... is in love with you? You wouldn't have never expected him to be in love with you, him of all people. Just because you didn't think you were his type and that he preferred being only your friend.

"Wha—why didn't you ever tell me, Bakugo?"

"How the hell could I?" He questioned you with his back turned, "I mean... in middle school, you were with some idiot that didn't deserve you. I got so damn mad at you, just because it felt like you fucking neglected me. Like you were stringing me along. I hated you for some time damnit!"

"Is... that why you stopped smiling?"

"That and some other stuff. The only reason I stuck around after you got a boyfriend was because I've never been in love before. But I valued your happiness more than my wants and just stayed your fucking friend." It was silent after he said that because honestly, you didn't know how to feel. You were in love... but not with the guy you dated in middle school. You were a child but you still felt things. Though, you only dated him for one reason.

"Bakugo, please look at me..." You could hear the growl emitting from him before he turned to you, "...I only dated him to fill the empty void that someone else didn't seem interested in filling. I've been in love with you too Katsuki Bakugo, ever since you helped me on that playground when we were kids. But I've never told you because I didn't think you were into me!" His head jerked back at your confession as a gasp escaped his lips, but his shock only made you continue pouring out everything you felt about him.

"Yeah, you became an asshole but still... I'm fucking in love with you, Katsuki! I've never been in love with anyone as much as I am with you. You're practically the only one that cares about my existence, and that's why I'm in love with you! You see past my looks and forget about societies standards! Not once have you commented negatively about my weight, and I love you so much for that! I don't wanna see you with anyone else... I need you. So damn much, it hurts..."

Your voice quieted as you neared the end of your words, but he heard you and couldn't stop his actions of crashing his lips agaisnt yours. Your eyes were wide, taking in the soft texture of his lips that instantly brought a warmth to your entire body. You didn't think you could be even more in love with Bakugo than you already are...

...

It came as a surprise as you found yourself in the backseat of your car, your back agaisnt the seat with Bakugo pressed firmly between your thighs. His lips were attacking any part of your flesh he could see, the sensation sending toe shaking chills throughout your body. Your nails dug into his jacket on his shoulders, slightly pushing it down which made the male help you rip it off his body. He was left in a orange loose t-shirt that you took a hold of, once he exposed the vibrant color to your eyes. But he wasn't hesitant in finishing his meal, sinking his teeth back into your collarbone he showcased for his teeth to nibble on. His tongue grazed some of your skin before pulling it in between his top lip and tongue, before letting his teeth take over and deeply mark that spot.

Your body has never experienced this feeling before, a tickling sensation that sparked a flame in your body that your brain couldn't compensate. The only form of communication that you transferred was your nails digging into his shoulders, driving into his shirt that only encouraged his actions. The man above you wanted to devour you whole in which he was. You needed to stop though, because it was overbearing at the moment. Your hands tapped his shoulders, since your mouth couldn't produce the words to get him to stop. He made sure to suckle hard on the spot of your throat that he was attacking, before coming to a stop and pulling off your throat with a pop. He sat up and looked in your eyes with slight irritation.

"What's the problem?"

"Bakugo, are we really about to do this?"

"Why not? We feel the same way about each other, don't we?" He questioned with a sign of annoyance laced in his voice.

"Yeah, but I haven't... you know."

He knew what you were getting at, but that didn't phase him at all. He's in your exact same boat, that's why he wasn't really feeling anything after you said that to him.

"I haven't done it before, neither, so what's the damn problem?"

"You... haven't?"

"No! How could I when my heart has been stuck on you all my damn life! I honestly don't even find anyone else that attractive..." He turned away from your face as he said that, kind of like he was embarrassed which you found cute and leaned up to place a kiss on his cheek. He jolted out of surprise, his eyes wide as he stared down at your giggling form with the apples of his cheeks tinting red.

"You're so cute, Bakugo, I can't really handle it."

"I'm not tryna be cute!" He shouted which only made him even cuter, "And stop calling me Bakugo, damnit! Call me by my first name!" You only continued laughing at the male above you, which made him soften again and stare at your beautiful form underneath him. He couldn't deny how much he was waiting for this, his face even softening and losing the usual angered expression it held.

"Well, Katsuki, thank you for being real with me. I love you..." You couldn't believe how bold you were being but you couldn't help it, you've loved him for years. And personally, his heart couldn't handle how you showcased your affection for him. No one has ever showed him this kind of affection before, and it's practically magical as he's seeing it from you. He never wanted to be with anyone else but you, so that's why his soft side that is extremely rare is coming out.

"..."

His words were mumbled so softly that you didn't even register what he said. Your hands grasped his face to make him lock eyes with you, but he did everything to to avoid your gaze.

"What did you say?"

"I said I love you, ____!" He yelled but it was still heartwarming to hear from him. "Stop tryna make me be a whimp, you know I fucking love you. Now let me love you and show you that I'm not shitting you."

You could already see how serious he was, but you wanted him to make love to you too. Even if you haven't done this before, knowing he hasn't done it neither made this all the more special. No matter that it's happening in the backseat of your car. You were nervous but you were ready, no matter if you're not experienced, he's not neither and that's all the more reason for you to be ready. You've both loved each other for years, so just getting him to finally return that love made some nervousness fly away.

"Then, let's not waste anymore time, Katsuki~."

He was surprised by your words, but his shit eating smirk returned as he didn't even bother taking off his shirt, and pulled it apart from his body. Your eyes widen from slight surprise, seeing how forceful and ready he was. As his toned body came into your view, his muscles flexed and tensed from the cold air that ghosted his skin. Bakugo was even more fit than you thought, his arms containing thick veins that made his body even more attractive. It just made him look stronger than he is. You didn't even know the sight of his veins would be a weakness for you.

"I didn't realize you'd be this needy for me, but I don't hate that."

His words were followed by him sitting on the other end of your carseat, his back against part of the door and seat while he sat back. You were confused as you sat your body up and looked at him, confusion spreading across your face from his actions. It's like he could read your mind and answered your question.

"I wanted to take my time with you but you seem like you really want me to fuck you. So, come on and take what you want~."

That embarrassed you and halted your body also of wanting him so badly. You did want him but when he put it like that, you couldn't stop how embarrassed you were.

"It's embarrassing when you put it like that, Katsuki!"

He chuckled and eyed you from his corner, his gaze only heightening your embarrassment. "Just strip, ____." He could see how you visibly tensed up from that, and he already knew what that was about. He smacked his teeth before continuing to talk, "Stop letting your past thoughts get in the way. There's nothing wrong with your body, I fucking love it. Don't even ask how I've already seen you naked, before.” You really wanted to know the answer to that. But it wasn't as important as this moment. You were just slowly pulling off your clothes, Bakugo watching you as he undid his belt. He pulled it from around his hips and dropped it upon the floor, his eyes boaring holes into you as you stripped.

"Okay, it was an accident. You invited me over to your place and I was looking for you. Shit, you know how quiet your shower is and when I went into your bathroom, you were stepping out of your shower and I saw everything. So before you ask, no I'm not a fucking creep." You chuckled, he looked so embarrassed that that had happened but you didn't mind. He was so cute. He saw how you stopped at just your shirt and underwear, but he didn't mind that. He knows how you feel about your body and wants you to be comfortable, so he had absolutely no problem with what you were doing. He snatched your body up and guided you to his lap, your body straddling him that embarrassed you.

"Look at me..." He spoke and you did as told and as you did, your heart melted from the soft smile that was plastered across his face, "...all of this..." He gestured to your stomach before placing a soft kiss agaisnt your belly, "...belongs to me. Don't be embarrassed, we're doing this together, not with anyone else." You didn't know Bakugo could go completely out of character because of you. He stared into your eyes the entire time he unbuttoned his pants, his arm wrapping around your body so he could lift you up as he lifted his hips to lower his pants enough to display his underwear that had a bulging tent in the front of them.

He... was so damn attractive to you, that you couldn't help how your body squirmed on top of him. His hands went to his crotch, letting your body lean against the carseat behind you while he fished himself from his boxers. You gulped from hearing it slap agaisnt his abdomen, but you couldn't bring yourself to look. "Come on, ____, look down. Unless you want it to be a surprise?" You didn't respond to that which enlightened a chuckle from him. He leaned forward to your ear and whispered into it, "I'm taking that as a yes~."

You could feel his hard length poke into your stomach from the position, poking into it and smearing the liquid of pre-cum against your abdomen that made you quiver. You were nervous as he lifted you up and pulled you agaisnt his chest, securely holding you with one arm as he gripped the base of his cock with the other and angled it to your anticipating hole. His hold on you tightened, once he began lowering you onto his throbbing cock, the tension in the air thickening as the thick tip seeked entrance on your virgin tight hole.

Bakugo wrapped his free arm around you while lowering you more, onto him, his breath catching from the feeling of your walls trying to swallow only his tip that could barely enter you correctly. You were so unready, that your walls didn't quite brace themselves for the thick tip protruding into your entrance, only to stop as a thick barrier kept the blonde haired male out of your body. The lump in your throat was harshly swallowed, once the male forcibly began prying open your insides that necessarily needed that force, if you both wanted this to genuinely happen.

But pain shot to your brain as he hit a thin barrier, the tightness worsening it which made you clamp your arms around the males neck, only for Bakugo to pull you against his chest and hold you to help you pacify the pain. "It hurts, huh..?" He questioned, knowing that he wanted to just plunge his entire throbbing length inside you, "Just try to calm down, ____. We're both taking part in this, so just relax and focus on me and not the pain." His voice always soothed you and took all the pain away, so it wasn't really hard to focus on only him even if you could still feel the pain that merely felt like a sting from a needle or a bee.

Even so, you still weren't naturally opening up to him which caused the male to softly start rutting his cock into one of your barriers, your teeth clamping down on his shoulder the more he moved. He was nearly losing his mind already, the squishy and gummy texture of your warm walls sucking a thick load of pre-cum from his trembling tip that made Bakugo practically moan out your name. He was so blinded by your gummy walls that he didn't realize your teeth punctured his skin, though, he couldn't control himself as he grasped your hips and began fucking himself up into you.

The pain wasn't as bad as before, slowly fading the more he drove himself into your sopping heat. You still couldn't speak, your grip on his shoulder only tightening the more he hammered into you. "Fuuuck, ____~!" His voice called out, which only made you clamp down tighter on the thick organ that was leaving and reentering your body for a desirable feeling that your body drooled over. He could literally feel your insides shaping to remember his thick cock, only his and that he will make sure of. You only belong to him and no one else and he wanted you, most importantly to know that.

His hands pushed your body against the front seat behind you, one of his hands going to hold your stomach down while his other traveled to your throat to apply pressure that caused an electrical nerve to shock every part of your body. Your eyes were closed shut, the dominance of him fucking desperately into you getting to your mind that nearly took over it. His eyes stared at your fucked out face with twin patches of pink painting his cheeks, your eyes sealed shut as your lips were parted.

You looked so erratic, riding his hard cock only for him to dominate you in the process. His face held the same expression as yours, pleasured and nearly taken out, only though his eyes were opened and focused on your body. The image of the woman he fell in love with caused his cock to already twitch, his veins pulsing along the skin of his cock which you could feel that transmitted a vibration through your walls and signaled for your cervix to clamp down on his cock. That partly stopped his movements, the males eyes closing as he sucked in a breathe before letting his hips move, once again. You've never felt anything as amazing as this, to be connected with the man of your dreams in such an intimate way.

"Katsuki..! I feel like- ngh~! I'm gonna explode!" You confessed, only getting a harsh snap of his hips in the process.

The blonde's hold on your throat tightened, only for him to pull your face closer to his where he licked the side of your cheek, "Then I'm gonna make you explode like dynamite!" His hand forced your head back into the seat, the pounding of his throbbing length increasing only for that pleasure to be added with an even greater sensation of his thick fingers rubbing harshly at your drooling pearl. He could feel how you tightened which made him squeeze harder on your throat, your hands going to his wrist as you felt your core throbbing and quickly trembling around his thick cock.

Your juices sloshed out, making Bakugo's eyes trail to your heat that swelled with every harsh thrust of his hips. The sensation was nearly too much, only pressuring your walls to release and your cervix nearly choke on his cock. "Damnit, I'm gonna fucking cum!" He sounded so angry about it, like he didn't want the experience to end which you could understand and agree with. You loved this feeling you were feeling with him, even though your body could hardly handle it.

"Katsuki, please~! I'm cumming!" You screamed, making the male wrap his arms securely around your body and practically fuse your bodies from how tight his hold was. Your cervix burst harshly agaisnt his cock, making Bakugo's eyes shut tightly and plant his face in your shoulder while you did the same from his harshly fucking cock.

"Damnit, ____!" The male shouted as his cock twitched inside you before shooting thick jets of cum into your womb, the sensation causing his and your toes to curl. "Fuck, I'm so fucking in love with you!"

His words were almost muffled but you heard him, "I... I love you too, Katsuki." You breathlessly moaned agaisnt his hard chest. And he wasn't lying, he was going to stay true to his word that he'd be the only hero to only protect and love you for however long you live. His hold on you loosened as he let your back fall agaisnt the front seat, again. Your bodies were drenched in sweat, his hold staying on your hips as he stayed buried inside of you. His eyes opened to meet your face, taking in your still fucked out expression.

"Wanna do this again, at your place?" Your eyes snapped open to look at his smirking... no, smiling face that stared into your eyes. "This time, we can go as many times as we want. And I fucking wanna go until morning."

Well, you were fucked quite literally . It would be an understatement to say that he was very good sexually, so you knew that in bed it would be a different story...

...

...

…

This work was originally written by @compressingsins , if you see anything similar, please report it to me. 🫶🏾

[vampiriito]

Pillow talk and pleading the fifth amendment (r.c flashback)

(JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom..

warnings; mentions of drug use, over-dosing? (not quite), me losing the plot lowkey, mentions of troubled family life, (please don't hate me for this chapter i promise the plot is going somewhere.)

Rafe hated the Cut. Hated the trailer park trash that always gawked at his SUV whenever he pulled up for a drop. He made a habit of keeping his interactions with Barry as short as possible. Classism, for him, was less about superiority and more a defense mechanism—a way to cover up the gnawing jealousy he felt toward the recklessness pogues lived with. That dangerous kind of freedom that came from having nothing to lose.

He learned that from you.

You were always in his orbit, whether he liked it or not—Sarah’s best friend, the one always hanging around the Cameron estate like you owned the damn place. It started with the way you'd linger in the pool, shameless in the way you’d swim and sunbathe like it was your home. It probably ended last night. You, in that barely-there vampire costume, looking like a bad decision wrapped in cheap lace and glitter. And then there was the after—after he’d hate-fucked you into the mattress only for something softer to slip through in the comedown. Something far more dangerous. Something that stung worse than a bullet wound—something he'd had the misfortune of feeling both.

You were a storm. He’d point you out in crowds just to mock you with his friends—“that one,” he’d say, “made for party-girl shit.” All smudged mascara, thrifted clothes soaked in body glitter, cheap vodka on your breath. Armor. He knew it. Knew it covered something broken underneath. But that first night you agreed to sleep with him, you didn’t act broken. You were magnetic. And while you were stuck feeling guilty for letting it happen, he was already thinking about how to get you into his bed again.

Luck was on his side. You were in love with someone else—a guy who had a girlfriend. Your best friend. The one who treated you like a sister while trailing after Kiara like a lost dog. Your stupid little heartbreak story sent you spiraling, and you landed in Rafe’s bed like it was where you were always meant to end up.

Rafe was a strong man. He’d had plenty of girls—one-nighters, married women, even two girlfriends at once. Love and sex were background noise to him. A vice, like alcohol. Something to take the edge off. But you—fuck, you were coke. The addiction he hated but kept close anyway, tucked away in drawers and behind locked doors. Just like you.

Naturally, he hated you. You were from the wrong side of the island. Loud-mouthed, sharp-tongued, angry in the same ways he was. And yet he was getting attached. Quietly. Pathetically. He’d rather cut his own head off than admit he’d grown to tolerate you—maybe even like you. Maybe the way he touched you during sex gave it away, maybe his tone slipped sometimes. But he was always high enough to ignore it. And so were you. Until those two times you showed up sober. And he felt it—how the intimacy ate away at you, twisted itself with guilt. And in the worst, most Rafe way possible, he reveled in it.

But you were beautiful. And no man—least of all Rafe Cameron—was built strong enough to survive the full impact of beauty and anger combined. If there was anyone on this island weak enough to beat the shit out of someone for you, to stay up all night taking care of you after you got spiked at a party—it was him. And somewhere along the line, he stopped searching for you in crowds just to laugh.

Now, he looked for you because he wanted you to look back. Because usually, it meant you were bitter enough to let him inside you. And fuck, that was his favorite feeling these days. Second only to coke. Or maybe they were tied for first—he couldn’t really decide, not after you'd let him snort a line off your tits, skin still warm from the anger and lust coursing through your veins.

He thought about it now, standing outside Barry’s trailer, enduring the wait like it was some sick form of penance. The heat was unbearable—thick and clinging to his skin, making his polo stick to his back like a second, sweat-soaked layer. It was made worse by the rot of the Cut itself—the muddy stench of marsh, the sharp tang of rusted metal, the musty funk of damp plywood and moldy insulation. It all fused together into something that made his stomach turn, a reminder he didn’t belong here, not really. Even after all this time.

He was leaning against the passenger door of his SUV, lazily scanning the trailer park like he wasn’t seething inside, already regretting not sending someone else to pick up. And that’s when he saw you.

You were a ways off, just far enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he knew the shape of your body like the back of his hand by now. Legs stretched out on a sun-bleached lawn chair in front of your sad little trailer, which you so generously referred to as a yard. Bikini barely hanging on, skin slick with sunscreen, earbuds in, sunglasses on—completely unaware that he was watching.

You glistened.

And Rafe—God help him—leaned forward slightly like an idiot, squinting past his Ray-Bans as if getting a few inches closer might let him drink in more of you. You looked unreal. Mouth-watering. If he were any closer, he might’ve dropped to his knees just to get a better look. He moved his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, like some parody of a high school jock ogling the prom queen. He was disgusting. He knew it.

But so were you. That’s what made this whole thing feel fair.

He watched as you shifted positions on the chair, angling your head up to the sky, eyes closed behind mirrored lenses. He wanted to reach out and taste the sweat-slick slope of your neck—the dip of your collarbones. He wanted to feel all that sticky sunscreen under his palms, wanted to hear the sharp exhale and sigh when you opened your eyes and found him lingering. He wanted to see your shock.

But you didn’t see him. He watched as you shifted around on the chair, like you were struggling with your headphones. And then he thought about walking over there.

He wanted to feel your heartbeat under his palm—wanted to feel it jump at the realization you’d been watched. He didn’t think about what would come after. He didn’t think about what would happen when you got angry, which would inevitably turn him on. He didn’t think about the fact that you were the reason he was standing outside this shitty, trash-infested trailer park—didn’t think about the fact that he’d never once before been this desperate for somebody. He just thought about walking over there and getting you to look at him.

The screen door of the trailer slammed shut, and he looked straight ahead, gaze locking on your younger brother as he ambled to the lawn chair, plopping down into the seat beside yours. You didn’t even look up. He tried to imagine what your brother’s voice sounded like, but he’d never spoken a single word to the guy. He watched as your brother reached over and tapped your shoulder, said something you didn’t hear due to your earphones. You finally opened your eyes, glancing over at your brother, speaking a few words back before reaching up and pulling your headphones off.

Your expression was solemn, unexpectedly soft as you pushed the cheap sunglasses up onto your head, fingers threading gently through your younger brother’s hair. Rafe couldn’t hear what you were saying—not from where he stood, not over the barking dogs, the buzz of old radios, and the muffled arguments bleeding from cracked trailer windows—but he didn’t need to. The way your lips moved, the way you tilted your head just slightly, like you were trying to protect him from something only you understood, said enough. He hadn’t even known you had a younger brother. And he sure as hell had never seen you like that—soothing, maternal, smiling in a way that wasn’t bitter or taunting, just… warm.

You looked like the perfect fucking picture of an older sister. It should’ve been disarming, maybe even charming. But instead it messed with his head more than he liked. Especially because you were still lounging there in that absurdly small bikini—stars and stripes stretched tight across your chest and hips, and he knew damn well you didn’t give a shit about patriotism. It was probably just the cheapest thing on sale at that trashy lingerie place a few blocks away, the one with flickering neon lights and busted mannequins in the front window.

He felt something in his chest that he had no name for. Something he hated. He felt like an outsider, staring at you through a window, not a part of your world. For the first time, even seeing you in a place like this, he couldn’t think of a single derogatory nickname. He felt… vulnerable, somehow. Like he’d been cut open. Like he was nothing more than a man with too much anger and a heart that bled just enough to be lethal. He didn’t like the feeling, not one bit.

You said something to your brother—something that was probably kind. Something that was probably meant to comfort, or calm him down, or offer some sort of reassurance. Rafe didn’t try and listen or read your lips to figure out what. He was more focused on the fact that you could actually be nice. That you weren’t all harsh edges. That maybe, just maybe, there was some good in you. It was a strange, disorienting thought.

But he got stuck on it anyway—on you. Even as the screen door of your trailer flung open with a violent creak and your mother barreled out two minutes later like she’d been lying in wait for a fight. She was older, but it was hard to place exactly how old. Maybe in her forties, maybe barely past thirty. Women in the Cut aged differently. Stress and cigarette smoke had a way of settling into skin like premature rot. Her bleach-blonde hair was piled messily on top of her head, dark roots bleeding out like a warning sign, and every step she took down those flimsy metal stairs looked like it was powered by rage.

Rafe could tell she was trying to keep her voice down—probably didn’t want the entire neighborhood hearing whatever filth she was spitting—but it didn’t matter. The venom in her posture did most of the talking. And yet, Rafe wasn’t sure what distracted him more: the ugly, unfolding scene or the fact that you’d stood up now, your bikini riding high on your hips, thighs tense, back straight as you stared her down with all the quiet fury she deserved. He felt torn—his eyes flicking between your ass and the fire building in your expression.

Your little brother clung tighter to your side, clearly used to this routine. You didn’t even flinch, just curled your arm around his shoulders and kept your fingers threading through his hair like it was the one anchor you could still offer him. You were shielding him—not just from her words, but from the attention, the shame. Your voice was sharp now, no longer inaudible, cutting through the trailer park air in short, furious snaps as you argued back.

Whatever she said next made your expression flicker, just for a second. Not fear. Not weakness. Something deeper. Something that made Rafe’s gut twist without knowing why. You said something back that made her scoff, loud and bitter, then spin on her heel and disappear back into the trailer, slamming the screen door behind her like it owed her money.

Rafe realized he’d been holding his breath. Still leaning against the SUV, one hand on the roof, the other twitching at his side. You didn’t see him—too caught up in crouching next to your brother now, brushing hair off his forehead, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear. You looked tired. Not just physically, but in that quiet, bone-deep way that Rafe only recognized because he’d seen it in his own reflection once or twice after a bender.

And fuck if it didn’t gut him a little. Because this wasn’t the version of you he liked to laugh at. This wasn’t the glitter-smudged party girl with a sharp tongue and too many opinions. This was the version of you he wasn’t supposed to see. The kind that made him forget every reason he’d ever convinced himself he hated you.

And it made him want to hurt something. Or someone. Maybe himself.

He wanted to kick himself for looking. He shouldn’t have looked. He should’ve just kept waiting for the coke and driven home, where he could get high and forget every single thing he’d seen. Instead, he pushed himself off the car like an idiot—like a stupid, stupid idiot—and started marching forward. There was probably a reason his mother taught him to stop and think before acting. It never ended well. And right now, Rafe looked like he was itching for a fight. He felt like he was itching to break something. Or someone.

It wasn’t until he was standing a few feet away that your brother’s gaze flicked up, eyes widening as if he’d just realized the strange guy in expensive clothes had seen the whole thing. The look on the kid’s face was all the explanation Rafe really needed, and the thought came quickly:

I hate this place. I hate this trailer park. I hate that I’ve just seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

He hated it. He hated the poverty. He hated the trash. He hated your mother. He hated every dirty second of this.

A part of Rafe wanted to storm back to his car and tear ass out of the trailer park as fast as possible, like somehow that would make him forget what he’d just seen. He wanted to go home, get high, climb into bed, and pretend this shitty little neighborhood existed in a different universe. It would be easier that way.

But what he wanted and what he felt were two totally different things. And right now, he was feeling a whole lot of things. Anger. Disgust. Discomfort. Dislocation. Disgust at himself. Dislocation in this godforsaken place. Discomfort at the raw, naked memories your fight with your mother had managed to drag to the surface.

And anger. Always anger. At the world in general. But right now, it was anger at your mother. At you. Like it was your fault he’d gone and seen something he shouldn’t have—something you would’ve never shown.

The anger boiled hotter in his chest as his gaze snapped from your brother to the screen door, which banged open again—louder this time, like it had had enough of the dysfunction it had to frame. One more outburst and the damn thing would fly clean off its hinges, Rafe thought. But it wasn't your mother coming out this time, not at first. It was some guy. Her flavor of the month, by the looks of him. Probably late twenties, early thirties, barely older than Rafe himself but already worn down in the way people from the Cut often were—too many smokes, too many fights, too many failed get-rich-quick schemes staining his hands and breath.

He stood behind your mother, shirtless, smug, beer in one hand, the other hanging at his side like it was just waiting for an excuse. And then his eyes landed on you—lingering, slow, and lecherous in a way that made Rafe’s stomach turn violently. It wasn’t a glance, it was a fucking appraisal. He looked at your bikini-clad body like it belonged to him. Like he’d already thought about peeling it off you. And it took everything in Rafe not to move.

His jaw tensed so hard he swore he heard something crack. His hand twitched at his side again, itching toward the switchblade tucked in his back pocket—not because he planned on using it, but because the grounding weight of it reminded him he could. He could storm across that busted fence, drag the guy down the steps by his greasy ponytail, and make sure he never looked at you again.

But he didn’t. He stayed right where he was—rooted at the flimsy gate to your yard, stuck somewhere between predator and coward, pride and concern. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing anymore. The coke was the reason he was here. That was it. That was supposed to be it. Pick up from Barry, drive back, ignore the filth clinging to his clothes and the way his lungs always felt heavy after stepping foot on this part of the island. But now he was watching this play out like it was a fucking TV show, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t move forward. Couldn’t walk back.

And it was you who froze him. You—hands on your little brother’s shoulders, shielding him again, standing between him and your mother’s latest mistake like a human wall. You were speaking through your teeth now, voice low but dangerous, chin raised in defiance that didn’t match the dread Rafe saw tightening your body. You weren’t scared for yourself. You were scared for the kid clinging to your side.

And that did something to Rafe. Twisted something inside him that had already been straining under the weight of his own damage. He shouldn’t care. He fucking shouldn’t. But he did. Enough to stay longer. Enough to let the sun cook his skin and his temper just a little more as he stared down a man he knew he’d see in his dreams later, face bloodied and broken at his feet.

He stayed there, watching it play out. Listening to the man behind your mother slur insults like he was throwing back whiskey.

When the guy leaned back against the door frame behind him, sucking on his cigarette like he owned your entire property, like the trailer, the yard, and especially you, were his to do as he pleased, Rafe thought about killing him. He could do it. He could do it without breaking a sweat. He’d have never felt better. He’d had the same fantasy about your mother, too. But his eyes were locked on yours now. Watching your face. And he couldn’t look away. Even as the dread in your eyes turned to anger. He almost smiled at the way you’d suddenly transformed from weary to wildfire. It was fascinating in a way. Even if he’d only seen this version of you a few times before. Even if it wasn’t the version he liked to think about. It was like watching you suddenly go feral-—like there was this animal lurking deep down, only kept under the surface by some frayed leash.

And yet he still wanted to stay. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was that same twisted, dark fascination he often felt when watching the trainwrecks that littered his own life. But the other possibility… that was more uncomfortable. Less understandable. It made the back of his neck prickle in a way he didn’t want to think about. So he did the only thing that had worked for him before—he turned off his thoughts. Let his brain go blank. Drowned out the sound of your raised voice and the sound of his own thoughts. Just stood there. Just watched. Just waited.

He felt stupid standing there, stupid watching this play out like it was some reality TV show or an interactive performance. But his legs stayed rooted, and his mind stayed empty as he watched your mother lean into the door frame, eyes flicking over to the guy leaning heavily against the trailer like he had no bones, cigarette dangling from his fingers. She seemed to be looking for backup. Looking for approval. Some kind of validation from the guy who had left behind a trail of skid marks and beer cans to get here.

Rafe’s temper flickered again as he saw the gleam of satisfaction in the guy’s eyes. He couldn’t look away now. It was like watching vultures circle around a dying bird. He felt sick to his stomach as the smirk on the guy’s face morphed into a greasy smile, and he leaned in to whisper in your mother’s ear. You were still yelling, screaming almost, hands clenched at your sides so hard that your knuckles had turned white. It made him hate you. It made him hate your mother. It made him hate the way the kid at your side flinched away from the commotion he usually grew up with. The feeling drowning the anxiety he was supposed to feel once you, your mother or dead-beat boyfriend would inevitably notice him standing there like an idiot.

You were in the middle of biting out another warning, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, when your little brother tugged lightly at your wrist. You glanced down briefly, saw the way his eyes were fixed on something just to the side, brows drawn in confusion. You turned slightly, expecting another nosy neighbor or maybe Barry looking to get involved again—but instead, your gaze collided with him.

Rafe Cameron.

Leaning against the rusting chain-link gate like he owned the place. Still as stone, arms crossed lazily over his chest, one foot pressed back against the gate as if he hadn’t just watched your family drama unfold in real time. But his eyes—those unreadable, ocean-blue eyes—were trained directly on you, not a single flinch of embarrassment or shame for getting caught. Just calm, controlled heat. The kind that made your mouth go dry even though your entire body was flushed with humiliation.

Your stomach dropped. You had no idea how long he’d been standing there. Long enough, clearly. Long enough to have seen your mom screaming and the beer-soaked bastard behind her giving you the kind of look that made your skin crawl. And long enough to see you play the parent for a kid who still hadn’t let go of your wrist.

"Are you fucking serious—" you muttered under your breath, blinking like he might disappear if you looked away.

But he didn’t. He just tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his lashes. Not smug. Not entertained. Just… watching. Like this had all been inevitable. Like he’d been waiting for the curtain to drop.

Your mom followed your gaze instinctively. “What the fuck now—” she started, before trailing off at the sight of the Kook prince himself. Her face went through about three different expressions before landing somewhere between irritation and sharp interest, brushing her fingers through her fried hair like she suddenly gave a damn about appearances.

“Isn’t that Ward Cameron’s boy?” her voice cooed, suddenly too sweet, and Rafe’s jaw twitched at the sound of it. His eyes never left yours. He didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t blink. Just stood there like a storm waiting to happen.

“Go inside,” you told your brother quietly, nudging him toward the steps without taking your eyes off Rafe. “Now.”

Your mom was already halfway to turning into her flirtiest self, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her too-tight tank top, but your tone cut through her like a slap. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It was the kind of sharp that made people obey, especially when it came from you.

And still, Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited. Waited to see if you’d walk to him or pretend like he hadn’t seen every vulnerable, unvarnished piece of your life you never meant for anyone like him to know.

His body tensed almost imperceptibly as your brother disappeared back into the trailer, but he could still feel the heat of his eyes on him through the screen door.

Something twisted deep in his gut as he forced himself to stay still, forced his gaze to remain focused on your face. His fingers dug into his own arms. The taste of anger and humiliation and disgust was all mingled in his mouth now. The guy behind your mother was still looking at your back like you were a piece of meat, and Rafe wanted to knock the teeth right out of his mouth.

He heard your mother’s voice, too sweet and high-pitched and fake, but he didn’t look at her. He just kept his gaze fixed on you, watching your shoulders tense like you were about to face down a storm. He saw the way you looked, eyes like fire and heart pounding in your clenched fists. He saw the way your mother smiled like she’d just won the damn lottery, not even noticing the threat in your eyes.

And he held his breath like he’d never need to breathe again.

He felt your anger like waves crashing on a shore, the tension in your body so hot and powerful he swore he could see the sparks of electricity flashing underneath your skin. It was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. More than the money. More than the parties. More than the drugs. Even in the middle of a shitty trailer park, with your hair in a tangled mess and your face contorted in fury, you’d never been more beautiful. It made his chest hurt.

He was barely breathing now. If it was possible, he was standing even more still, barely blinking. He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t look in your mother’s direction. He just stood there, trying to look casual and failing, like some kind of human statue. Watching you. Watching everything.

It felt like he might snap. Like he might step forward, maybe grab you by the wrist. Maybe storm across the yard and—he wasn’t sure what. He kept his feet glued to the ground, the anger in his lungs turning into something more like anticipation.

You stared back, the fury and everything in between coiling with the shame you felt. At the fact that out of everyone on this godforsaken planet, Rafe Cameron had to be the one to witness your trailer park fights with your tipsy mom, in a cheap, laughable bikini. A sight he only got to see on TV. Something he'd probably skip on Netflix—like another season of Shameless or whatever else the world liked to gawk at and pretend wasn’t real for people like you.

You wanted the ground to split open. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the ugly, clumsy way things happened in your life. Like maybe the porch would cave in and crush your mother’s boyfriend. Or maybe a power line would snap and knock you out cold. Anything but this—the stillness, the silence, the slow bleed of humiliation.

There was a brief pause. Your mom and her boyfriend lingered behind you like shadows, still buzzing with the energy of the fight, but even they seemed to sense the tension tightening the air. You waited. Braced yourself. For the smirk. The laugh. Some drawled-out insult dressed up in that clipped, condescending tone only Rafe Cameron had mastered.

But he never spoke.

He just stared. Bored. Detached. His weight shifted against the gate a fraction, but the rest of him stayed maddeningly still. Like he was watching the last few moments of a movie he didn’t care about, waiting for the credits to roll. And maybe that hurt more than whatever insult you’d been bracing for. Maybe that dead-eyed disinterest felt worse than cruelty.

Because in his silence, you felt seen. Not in the way people romanticized it—no, not like poetry or connection. This was invasive. Like someone had peeled your skin back and left you raw in front of an audience that didn’t even care enough to react. You felt exposed. Cut open, with Rafe Cameron glancing at your rotting insides with a casual, bored expression.

And yet, there was something else there. Something you couldn’t quite name. Because behind the arrogance and detachment, there was the faintest flicker of something human. A muscle in his jaw ticking. The way his tongue pressed into his cheek like he was holding something back. He looked at you too long, too intently, for someone who was supposedly above it all.

And in that second, you realized he wasn’t just watching you. He was trying to keep his distance. Like this moment, this version of you, was something he wasn’t supposed to see—and didn’t know what to do with now that he had.

He’d never thought it was possible to stare at something and have it feel like acid against his skin, but watching you now, he felt like his body was being burned to a crisp. And, like a idiot, he didn’t do anything.

He felt like a voyeur. A trespasser, sneaking a peek at a family he’d never know. The world around him was on pause. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. It made him twitch like he’d walked inside the wrong dream.

He couldn’t even tell if he was still breathing. Probably not. His heart did feel like it had stopped a few minutes ago, thumping against his lungs like a trapped bird. He wanted to look away so bad, but he was stuck somewhere between the fascination he’d always had for you, and this new feeling that he couldn’t name.

It was like you were two different people. The one he knew and the one you were now, trapped in this shitty trailer park with your shitty mom and her shitty boyfriend like some sort of sick joke.

And it made him feel like all of it—his world, your world—was some sort of sick joke, too. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to look away. To drive back to his shitty house and forget it all in a smoke-filled room or a vodka-soaked bottle.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to see you. To see you like this. See all of you. He… he just wanted.

He felt his jaw clench involuntarily. The words had been perched on his tongue for a good few minutes, fighting to be released. Anything to break this silence, this weird, suffocating bubble you’d both been trapped in for the past ten minutes. Anything. Say something.

Nothing. He felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton, like his throat was lined with sandpaper. All he could do was stand there like a statue, hands clenched in his arms, trying not to blink. He didn’t understand it. He was never one to hesitate. He was action not thought, violence not control.

Your attention shifted over your shoulder when your mom made a comment about how nice Rafe was, in a tone so drastically different from the one she was using a minute ago that it would've made you laugh—if your throat wasn't already burning from the heat, the shame, the sting of old wounds cracked open in the sun. The word “nice” sounded absurd coming out of her mouth, like trying to staple a silk ribbon onto a grenade.

The heat gnawed at your skin, relentless. The sunscreen you’d slathered on earlier was now mixing with sweat, a sticky film that made you want to crawl out of your body entirely. You swallowed hard. The discomfort prickling at the back of your throat and stomach felt almost unbearable—like nausea, but sharper. More personal. Like a sickness born from being seen this way.

You shook your head in response to your mom’s comment—whatever it was—snapping out of your trance like someone had yanked a chain. You scurried to the lawn chair you’d been lounging on, every limb awkward, scrambling to find your denim shorts. As if Rafe hadn’t seen you naked before. As if he hadn’t had his mouth between your thighs less than twenty-four hours ago, like he hadn’t come undone in the dark hush of his bedroom with your name on his tongue.

"He’s not—" you started, voice catching in your throat as your shaky fingers fumbled with the zipper. "He’s probably lost on his way to Barry’s," you muttered, barely audible, stumbling over your words as if they were barbed wire.

Your gaze stayed locked on your hands, unable to meet his. Not out of modesty—because there was nothing modest about what the two of you had done—but out of something much worse: humiliation. This wasn’t the version of you you ever wanted him to see. Not barefoot in the dirt, not in a bikini that cost five bucks, not in front of a trailer with peeling paint while your drunk mom flirted with a boy barely older than you.

Not like this.

You managed to fasten the button with a shaky breath, denim sticking slightly to the backs of your thighs. And even then, you felt like it was too late. The damage was done. Rafe had seen too much. And he hadn’t said a single word. That was the part that made you feel insane—that terrifying silence. That unreadable expression. You didn’t know if he was judging you, pitying you, or worse—feeling nothing at all.

He saw you trying to move, trying to put the pieces of your fractured soul back together as quickly as possible, pulling your shorts on over your bikini bottoms like a shield - a thin, weak shield against something so much more powerful. Your mother’s voice seemed to fade into background noise, the sound of cicadas and the marsh washing it out. All he could see was you. Only you. Your trembling fingers and trembling legs. The burning scarlet spread across your cheeks. The way you couldn’t meet his eye. His chest felt like it was cracking in half.

He’d stared at you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. But he hadn’t said a damn thing. He hadn’t said anything at all, like a complete idiot. He felt like the worst kind of fool. He couldn’t be a coward and he wasn’t a weakling, so why couldn’t he speak? Why couldn’t he speak? Why did the words feel like hot lead on his tongue?

Speak. Say something.

He knew he should look away. He knew this moment wasn’t meant to be his. But he just couldn’t. He just stood there, like a statue. Like a voyeur. A trespasser. A stranger looking at the most sacred version of yourself—the raw, unpolished version he wasn’t supposed to see—and all he could think about was how beautiful you were. How you looked like one of those girls on TV that he was so disgusted by. How you’d somehow turned a trailer park into the most beautiful place on the planet just by being there. A place he didn't want to linger in.

And he did. He lingered. For what felt like forever. He wanted to stay there. Keep his eyes glued to you and your trembling frame like someone watching a car wreck. He wanted to study every crevice of your body and face until he had memorized you like a poem. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to be allowed to look at you. Like that. In the middle of a trailer park that he was supposed to hate like a curse word.

He felt like he’d lost his ability to speak, all because he'd seen you. Something raw and vulnerable and beautiful. Something that made his skin crawl with how real it was—the sound of your mom flirting, the cicadas singing through the thick humid air, the heat, the sweat, the dirt and the gravel; it wasn’t just a movie for a bored audience to watch on the couch. It was real life. You were real. And you were beautiful, even now, even when you were shaking on your feet like he'd punched you.

He might as well have punched you. It would’ve been less humiliating. A bruise would’ve been easier to explain than the feeling curdling in your stomach now—hot and rancid. You could’ve cried, you were that close. Not from hurt, but from shame, from the exposure of it all. The daylight was too honest. Too revealing. There was no bass to drown it out, no party fog to blur the edges, no alcohol to blame it on. Just Rafe fucking Cameron standing there, seeing too much.

Your arms crossed over your chest like they could shield you, like they could rewind time and keep him from seeing what your mascara and vodka usually hid. But he didn’t look away. He wasn’t saying anything, and somehow, that made it worse. If he’d laughed or called you a name or done his usual smirk-and-scoff routine, you’d have known what to do. But this? This staring? It made your spine itch and your jaw clench, made you feel like a bug on a pin.

It was too intimate. Too quiet. Too close to real. And it made you want to scream.

Or maybe he was storing it. Tucking it away to throw in your face later, to wield it like a weapon the next time you told him off or dared to look uninterested in his stupid games. Maybe he’d say something about your trashy little yard the next time you crossed paths, or mention the look in your eyes right now—glassy, tight-lipped, humiliated—when he wanted to remind you exactly where you came from.

He stood like a psychopath, unmoving, silent, like he had all the time in the world and nothing to say. But you knew he was freaking out too. You knew that expression wasn’t as calm as it seemed. Not with how his fingers twitched at his side, like he was deciding whether to light a cigarette or punch someone. Not with how his jaw flexed once, twice, like he was biting something back.

"Barry's down the street—" your voice cracked, breath catching on the way out, and you hated yourself for it. "Two or, uh… three trailers down."

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not when you were this close to coming undone. The words stumbled out like they belonged to someone else, thin and fragile and stupid. You said it mostly to cut your mom off, who was still cooing about how “polite” he was, still trying to play hostess like she hadn’t been screaming at you five minutes ago.

But Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t say anything. Just stared.

He felt like he was bleeding out, watching you try to hold yourself together like you didn’t want to be seen at all. He felt like he was watching something sacred. Something no one was meant to see. He felt like an intruder in your world. He knew because he was. And he wished he’d never seen it, because it felt like he was watching something die. You were so broken. So raw. So vulnerable. He could feel your fragility from here. You were trembling. He had to look away. Because he didn’t know what to do with this version of you.

He couldn’t look at you any longer. Your brokenness was too much to fathom. Just like your beauty. He was caught between wanting to grab you and put you back together, or run for his life. Because it felt more than human to look at you this way. To look at your broken pieces and feel something close to human empathy. But if he got in too deep, got too close, got too attached… he’d be just as broken as you. Maybe that’s why he was trying to backpedal. To turn around and go back to what he knew. It hurt less that way.

Your mom’s words had become a distant buzz in the background. Rafe’s gaze was trained on you. On your shaking shoulders and trembling hands. On the way you tried to hold yourself together, like it hurt to break apart in broad daylight. And for a moment, there was only the sound of your mother’s high-pitched chatter, the buzz of cicadas in the trees, and the slow, steady rhythm of his own pounding heart, trying to stay calm—trying to pretend like this was an average Friday night and not the most intense moment of his life. He didn’t know why.

And yet. He was glued to your face—to the pain visible in the redness in your cheeks, in your trembling fingers, in your averted eyes. He stared like he couldn’t look away. He stared because you were too beautiful to look away from. And for a second, you weren’t broken—you were just fragile. You were human, and real. And it made his chest hurt.

What the hell was he going to do with that?

He’d never really thought about his own humanity before. But now… maybe it was different.

The silence had settled around you like a haze, thick and awkward and suffocating. But his brain was firing up ideas. And most of them were downright bad. He wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe a joke, or even an insult just to make you look at him… something. Anything, just so you’d look at him. He wanted to say something, goddamn it, but…

But it wasn’t sickness. It was pity. Sympathy. Or whatever passed for sympathy in his cold, cold heart. You were so fragile. So real. Like you were breaking apart in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull you into his arms and hold you together. And he’d never, never wanted to hold anything so much in his entire life. He wanted it so bad, it hurt. It was scary. It felt like… like he was human. Just like you.

Your brows drew together, knotting in visible confusion and disbelief as Rafe continued to stand there like some uninvited phantom—rooted to the spot, watching, silent, like if he stayed still long enough he'd become invisible. Your mother kept talking, her voice shrill and useless in the background, throwing out nonsense about the weather and whether Rafe liked Coors or Bud Light, and her boyfriend grunted in lazy agreement like he was being paid to play audience. None of it mattered. Not with him standing there like that.

You felt like a fucking joke. Like the punchline to a skit you didn’t sign up for. The sun was too hot, the sweat was sticking to your skin like shame, and there you were—bleeding out in the middle of your own personal circus. You swore you could almost hear a studio audience laugh track behind it all, the kind they used in sitcoms when a character got caught cheating or walked into a room naked. Because that's what this felt like: like Rafe Cameron was watching you with no clothes on, except this time there was no thrill, no teasing, no sex. Just your cracked foundation showing.

He looked at you like you were foreign. Like he had stumbled across a live documentary of something too ugly to process. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. He didn’t even flinch when your mom offered him a beer, like she thought he was a friend of the family and not the guy who had you crying out his name last night to let you cum. You let your gaze wander over him, his expression unreadable but present. Leaning against the flimsy gate like the chaos inside your yard was some exhibit and he was a detached spectator behind the velvet rope. Like he wanted to understand but didn’t know how, or maybe didn’t want to admit he already did.

You fidgeted with your fingers. Something small. Something to do with your hands while your insides twisted up. And then your eyes met his—and the bottom dropped out.

It wasn’t disgust. Not really. It was worse.

It was pity.

Thick and quiet, the kind that radiated off him like a heatwave, the kind that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed until you couldn’t breathe properly. It was the way someone might look at a dog on the side of the road with a broken leg. With that vague ache of guilt that didn’t quite outweigh the urge to look away.

And Rafe didn’t even blink when your mother kept talking about him coming in, like it was some fucking barbecue. Like the scene she just caused didn’t even exist. You snapped—gaze tearing away from Rafe as you turned sharply to her, voice tight, not loud but enough.

"He's not coming inside, Mom."

The silence after your words felt heavy, like it dropped a few degrees around you. Your tone was stiff, brittle, like you were trying not to crack apart in front of everyone. And when she blinked at you, confused, half-drunk, you could barely hold back the shake in your voice.

"You can't be serious right now…" you muttered, the words falling out bitter as you turned away, your jaw locked as you gave her that look—the one you always gave her when she pushed it too far. When she made you feel small in front of strangers. Except this time the stranger wasn’t just anyone. It was him.

He was quiet. His face was calm, but his chest was pounding. It was like you were throwing him through a loop.

Rafe Cameron. The guy who hated everybody and everything, who got off on being a massive douchebag in the hopes of turning people away—was frozen in place.

Because you were the one thing he couldn’t look away from. He was too invested.

And it made his chest feel like it was caving in. His heart was beating so hard it felt like he was underwater. He kept staring, and he could tell you knew it. He felt like his veins were buzzing with something alive and dangerous, like he was falling in through deep, dark water, and all in one brief second he had the insane urge to walk through the gate and pull you against his chest just so he could feel your pulse and know that you were beating too. God, what the hell was he getting into?

He could hear your mother’s voice now, sounding far away in his ears, talking like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn’t just cracked open in the past two minutes. And he could feel your mother’s boyfriend staring the top of his head, like he thought all of this was funny. And he knew that if he saw the guy’s face right now, he would punch it.

He’d never wanted to protect anything in his life so much as he wanted to protect you now. And it was scary. It was scary to feel a stranger’s pain like it was his. It was scary to want to look after somebody else. It was scary to feel this much about another person. But it was the kind of scary that left his chest pounding, and his lungs expanding, and his blood feeling thick in his veins. Rafe Cameron was never scared of anything, and now he couldn’t figure out how to feel. He couldn’t figure out what to do.

You were fragile. So fragile. And the guy part of his mind was telling him to walk away now, before it got any worse. But the other part of his mind was telling him to fight. To run to you. To protect you from everything. To give you anything you wanted. To put you back together, like you were made out of the same glass that made up his world. He wanted to wrap you in something warm and soft and keep you for himself until you stopped trembling. He wanted to be the one to make you laugh like normal. He just wanted…

He wanted.

And while Rafe was going through a mind-numbing revelation right there in front of your trailer—standing out like a sore thumb in that baby blue polo and spotless white shorts, Ray-Bans perched perfectly on his head—you were unraveling in real time. The silence between you was suffocating. Not the charged kind that hung in the air before one of your usual fights, no. This was something heavier. More humiliating. Like being dissected under a spotlight.

You were growing more and more restless with every second he didn’t speak. The longer he stood there—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes unreadable—the more it felt like he was watching something rot. Like you were some feral animal in a cage he’d stumbled across on a field trip to the dirty side of the island. This wasn’t one of your friends accidentally walking in on another screaming match with your mom. This wasn’t someone who understood, someone who came from the same mess. This was Rafe. And Rafe had the sick, rich luxury of pretending like your world didn’t even exist until this very moment.

And he was using it. Weaponizing it in the worst way—by saying nothing at all. Just standing there, infuriatingly calm, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart last night in his bed. Like he didn’t know how soft your voice got when you were close to crying. Like he hadn’t held you still with those bruising hands and kissed you too long for it to be casual. He schooled his face so well it almost offended you. Because all that silence? It made you feel small. Powerless. Like a fucking joke.

And just like him, you were frozen. Watching him the way he was watching you. Waiting for a move, a jab, something—anything—to relieve the pressure building in your chest. If he said something, you’d probably drop dead from the shock. If he turned around and walked away, you’d explode with fury. But anger—anger was easier. Cleaner. It gave you somewhere to put the pain instead of just… swallowing it down like bile.

"You have the wrong house, Cameron," you said again, the words sounding thinner now, straining under the weight of everything unsaid. They hung there, stupid and flimsy, especially with the clear view of his expensive SUV parked just a few yards down—right in front of Barry’s trailer. Like he’d walked over here on purpose. Like he wanted to see more. Hear more. Like he wanted to get close enough to witness the parts of you he didn’t deserve to see.

And that thought alone made your throat close up.

He heard your words, but it felt like a fever dream. Everything felt wrong—he felt like his body was moving on its own, controlled by some foreign power because he couldn’t seem to do or say anything else. He looked around, half expecting to see a camera crew or some stranger with a microphone standing behind a camera, filming what felt like one of those candid-camera-style shows. But all he could see was your mom’s trailer, a few stray trash cans, and your mom’s boyfriend with the greasy, stupid face. He wasn’t thinking straight. Nothing could get through to him;

His head and heart were pounding. All he could think was: You’re not supposed to see this, and he felt wrong for feeling something this heavy, this close. He felt like he was stealing something. Like he’d accidentally walked in on your therapy session, and now he was standing there listening in, taking up space and absorbing your secrets without even meaning to. He hadn’t heard you talk like that before. He never knew you could sound that small.

His silence was making your shame curdle into something uglier—anger, red and hot, spreading under your skin like sunburn. Your mom’s incessant babbling about Natty Lights and off-brand beers scratched at your overheated brain like nails on a chalkboard, every syllable amplified by the fact that he was still standing there. The fucking Rafe Cameron. And suddenly everything was louder—your heartbeat, her voice, the sound of your brother's nervous shifting next to you—until it all snapped.

"Jesus, Mom, can you shut the fuck up?" you barked, arms flailing out to your sides in a mix of desperation and rage, your voice cracking just enough to betray how close you were to breaking. "He's not coming inside our shitty trailer like he’s some family friend—he’s not even my friend!" The words tumbled out before you could catch them, too fast and too frantic, fueled by humiliation. And Rafe still didn’t say a word. Not even a flinch. Just stood there, perfectly still, like he was observing some zoo exhibit instead of your actual life burning down around you. Too quiet for it to be deemed as normal.

Your mom went quiet then, her mouth still half open from whatever pointless story she’d been dragging on about, eyes wide with the same shame now reflected back at her. She looked almost sobered by your outburst, like she was just realizing what this looked like from the outside—from Rafe's perspective. And maybe that’s what made it worse. That this had to be the moment where she suddenly decided to act like she gave a shit.

"He’s not even responding to you," you continued, voice rising as the tremble in your body finally bled into every word. "You just keep going on like this is normal—like you weren’t ready to slap me clean across the face ten minutes ago!" Your voice cracked again, this time sharp and slicing, carrying every buried frustration from every night spent slamming doors and swallowing pride. And still, Rafe was silent. Still watching. Like this was a fucked-up show he couldn’t look away from.

He felt like you’d punched him in the chest. Your voice was so loud and so… broken. So desperate and embarrassed. He hated it. He hated that look on your face. He felt guilty. That was new. He was never guilty. He never let himself feel guilty. But for you… guilt felt different. Guilt felt hot and sharp like a knife stabbing through his gut. And all he could do was stand there and listen.

His chest was tight. Tight enough to feel like his lungs were about to give out. Like his heart suddenly couldn’t find any space to beat, and he could feel the world spinning around him like a bad trip. You didn’t sound like yourself. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or a sly smile in sight. You were falling apart in front of him, and he was powerless. You were falling apart and he was a stranger, watching you burn. He couldn’t just stand there. He had to do something, anything.

Before he could do anything—before a single word of apology or explanation could leave his mouth—you turned your fury on him, cutting off whatever courage he might’ve worked up. You stormed toward the gate, barefoot and furious, dripping in sunscreen and shame, all teeth and fire. "Did you not hear what the fuck I said?" you snapped, your voice pitching above the ambient buzz of the Cut, your small frame shaking with emotion as you glared up at him—like a warning shot. You probably looked insane: slathered in melting sunscreen, cheap drugstore sunglasses perched atop your head, barking at a trust fund golden boy in a goddamn American flag bikini. The humiliation only made you angrier. "You have the wrong house, Rafe!" you spat, voice louder now, not quite cracked but dangerously close. "Why are you just standing there like some mute? Go the fuck back to your precious SUV, asshole!"

You were clinging to the anger like it was the only thing keeping you upright, letting it fill your lungs so you wouldn’t break down right in front of him. So you wouldn’t cry. So you wouldn’t ask him why he looked at you like that, like he understood something, when he was supposed to be laughing like always. You hated this. Hated that you couldn’t read him. Hated that, for a split second, it felt like he saw you. And you hated that it mattered.

He’d never felt the force of someone’s anger like that before. He couldn’t even begin to think how to respond. He was so used to being the one to make people shrink away, to walk away with their heads between their legs, that feeling your rage come down on him almost felt like a shock of electricity.

He opened his mouth automatically as you kept going, but the words wouldn’t come out. His mind froze the second he saw your face, and… you looked like you were about to cry? He felt his stomach drop.

Rafe had seen plenty of women crying before. Hell, he’d made plenty of girls cry. And he was usually the cause of it. He’d never felt bad about it before. He never bothered to ask if they were okay, or if their crying was his fault, because the answer was usually yes. And that’s exactly the way he liked it. But you were different. Everything was different, and watching his words—or lack of—break you with their absence, left him feeling like he’d just witnessed something sacred.

He’d never seen anything so beautiful. And he was pretty sure he felt the world stop turning just to watch you. The sun, the sounds of the water, the laughter from the neighbors—everything was just background noise as you stared at him. Your face, your eyes, your trembling hands, and the way you held them in trembling fists by your sides. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He’d never seen this side of you. This raw, naked side of you, like you were giving something intimate and fragile, like a baby bird. And he didn’t even know what to say..

“I thought you’d at least have the common decency to say something.” You spat again, voice raising with your anger as your body trembled, fingers twisted so hard into your palms they'd probably leave new, fresh marks atop of the existing ones. "Are you stupid? Deaf? Or do you just like playing mute? Because if you really did hear me, you’d be running to your car before I shove you there myself."

He was silent. He couldn’t get even a single word to form in his head, let alone make it past his lips. You were livid and he didn’t blame you. He wanted to apologize, but you were yelling before he could even think of where to start. He felt sick, his mouth open, his eyes glued to your face like a man who’d just found religion. He wanted to walk up to you and pull you against his chest. But he was rooted to the ground like his feet weren’t his own. He’d never felt like this before.

Your hands shot out, shoving at his chest as lightly as you could while being angry and on the verge of crying, "Jesus, are you listening to me?" you asked, fingers curled around his forearm now, shaking him lightly as you yelled in his face.

And suddenly it was like the world stopped again. Your hands were on his body—your hands. And he almost flinched, like your touch was poison. The feeling of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, like he was suddenly alive again, suddenly feeling everything he shouldn’t be. Your voice was in his ears, and he could understand you so clearly, he could probably hear your heart beating in your chest if he tried hard enough—and his beat just as hard. He could smell your shampoo. And then he did the only thing he felt like he could do. He snapped back.

“Watch your tone,” he said, his voice a deadly calm as he pried your hand off his arm, holding it in his hand as he stared down at you—or into you, he couldn’t figure out which. His grip was gentle but firm as he held you, not to keep you from running but to keep you from falling apart completely. He was trying not to hurt you anymore than he already had, and he sounded like he was holding back his own emotion, not letting the rage or panic show on his face when he spoke.

Your brows raised enough to probably get lost in your hairline when he spoke, scoffing as you looked up at him, meeting his calm gaze head on like a bull "Me? You're the one on my fucking property, dick!" you yelled back in exasperation, a small gasp escaping from your mom behind you, as if you made the worst mistake talking back to the Kook Prince.

His face twisted into a scowl, his gaze burning into you like he wanted to rip you apart from the inside out. He’d never felt this way before. In all his life, he’d never once felt like this. Like he was stuck between screaming at someone, and dropping to his knees. His grip tightened involuntarily, fingers pressing into the skin of your wrist, his heart thumping so hard he was practically vibrating.

He was struggling to keep it in, his fingers trembling with the force of his restraint. He didn’t know what he wanted more: to punch something, or to pull you into his chest. It was like there were two voices. One screaming, let her go, let her go. and the other, quieter but just as intense, screaming, hold her, hold her, don’t let go. He settled on somewhere in the middle, letting his grip loosen but not daring to let you go completely, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist like a shackle.

He tried to calm his breathing, but he felt like his thoughts were racing a mile a minute, probably from the coke he snorted earlier. He’d just been standing there, watching your life break apart into pieces. Now it was your turn to see his life crumble. He hadn’t felt something this strong—this uncontrollable, ever. And it was making him go completely crazy. His thoughts were coming to him, rapid fire. Words like, let her go, hold her, stop, don’t let go, and let her see what happens to you too.

"What the fuck is your problem?" you asked more quietly now, still angry and ashamed, but you were crumbling under the weight of his touch and gaze.

He felt your anger slipping away like you’d lost your breath, your trembling voice coming out in a strangled rasp as your chin shook with the effort of holding your tears back. You were falling apart, and he’d never felt more guilty. You’d just been standing there, giving everything you had. All your hurt and anger, and he’d stood there like some deaf mute, watching the most beautiful girl on the planet fall apart in front of him.

It felt like the world was ending, like it was falling into a massive blackhole, and the only thing he could do was look at you and listen to the sound of his own heartbeat. It was like your voice was the only thing loud enough to break through the storm of thoughts. Your trembling body, shaking as you bit down on your lip to keep it from trembling as much. The tiny quiver in your voice, and your eyes, full of tears that might fall at any second. He’d never realized how much emotion a person’s eyes could hold. It was like he was seeing you for the first time.

He couldn’t look away from the pain written in that look. He’d never been so scared. He felt like if you cried, he might die. He felt like he’d break, and the world would end. His throat felt so tight, like he would never get another breath in if you actually broke down. He wanted to hold you so bad his palms ached. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was that he wanted your pain to stop so bad it hurt. He wasn’t even sure the pain was from you. It was like he’d taken some of it, just for himself. And for a split second he regretted approaching you that night and getting tangled in your life, like he had any right to be here. He didn't. He didn't know how to act either. It was like someone put him on a stage, in the middle of a performance that he didn't get the script for.

You felt lonely, standing there—ashamed, angry, and so uncomfortably cracked open that it made your skin crawl. Like this was the end of the world, like everything had narrowed to this trailer, this moment, this boy who wasn’t supposed to see you like this. And yeah, it sounded stupid when you thought about it. Because you didn’t feel like this when you saw JJ with Kiara, not even when it gutted you to watch him hold someone else with the same hands that used to hold you. That had ruined you. That pain was sharp, sure, but it was expected. You’d braced for that one, anticipated it like the return of a bad season. But this? This felt different. Like you were walking through that dark, twisted forest from Snow White—the one where every shadow looked like teeth, every tree wanted to gut you—and the hunter wasn’t far behind. Only he wasn’t chasing you with a blade. He was just watching. And that was somehow worse.

Because Rafe fucking Cameron stood there like a statue, silent and unreadable, his baby-blue eyes raking over your sun-pinked face like he was seeing a ghost—or worse, someone he’d never known to begin with. There was no mockery, no smirk, no punchline to knock you off balance. Just that eerie calm, that unnerving quiet that made your chest feel too small for your ribs. It was psychopathic. Disarming.

"Rafe," you said, his name barely pushing past your dry lips, softer than you meant it to be—less a warning, more a sound of panic. Of defeat. Like a cry for help you didn’t have the right to make. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Your voice shook as you tried again, harder this time, shoving the trembling lump down your throat. "Get your coke and leave. Now."

Because if he stayed another second, you weren’t sure what you’d do—whether you’d hit him, kiss him, or crumble right there in the dirt. And you didn’t want to find out.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the world seemed to have been muted. He was stuck in a vacuum. Every sound seemed distant. Every movement felt too slow. Every word froze in his throat. He just stared. Watching you like you were about to disappear. And in that moment he felt like he really was crazy. Maybe the Kook Prince really was just a psychopath. Because the way he was standing there, like the most unfeeling, unbothered person in the world, was more cruel than if he’d just hurt you physically.

He didn’t realize he was holding your wrist tighter. His eyes were glued to your face, watching you with a kind of intensity that felt like he was trying to burn a picture of this moment into his head. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest. And he felt like he might be breaking the skin in your wrist, like he’d never feel anything other than this feeling. And he wasn’t sure he wanted anything other than this. Because if this wasn’t the most intense moment of his life, he didn’t know what was. His boring life could never amount to you. His impulsive decisions that made him Rafe Cameron, weren't anything close to the aching feeling he was experiencing while looking at you. While seeing a glimpse of your family life with his own damned eyes.

You shook your head, snaking your wrist from his hold only to grab his, your smaller hand looking laughable trying to assert dominance over him. You tugged him angrily, towards Barry's trailer, and you wouldn't have been able to move him if he didn't cooperate. And he did. He let you tug him away, barely listening to your muttered words and curses as you dragged him closer and closer to his SUV.

He let you tug him forward like a rag doll, the world spinning too fast like he'd just stepped off a roller coast, his blood pumping too fast and hard in his veins. He couldn’t look away from you as you moved away, the sunlight casting over your body and making you look like something too pure for the world you lived in. You looked so beautiful and angry that his throat felt like it might combust. You looked like an angel with a devil on your shoulder, like a fairy that could burn this trailer down if she wanted. And he wanted to get burned.

He felt like a sinner in a church, like a trespasser in a house of worship. Something sacred. Something forbidden. You felt like the ocean. Untamable, wild, dangerous, and beautiful. You could give life and take it away without feeling a thing. And right now, he felt like you could end his heart with a snap of your fingers. He wouldn’t mind. He let you tug him to his SUV, his eyes never leaving your face as he tried to listen to what you were saying—tried to hear your voice over his thoughts.

You slammed him against the driver’s side door hard enough to rattle the metal, the sharp clang echoing down the dirt road like a gunshot. His back hit it with a thud, but Rafe didn’t react—didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t do a damn thing. Just stood there, still as stone, his blown pupils swallowing the blue in his eyes like he’d snorted seven lines back to back. You hesitated—just for a second—your fingers still wrapped tight around his wrist before you dropped it like it burned you. Because maybe it did.

Maybe he wasn’t all there. Especially after last night’s party. Especially after the way he looked at you then—and the way he was looking at you now, like you were the only thing on earth still spinning.

But you didn’t care. Not about the scene you were making, not about your mom’s nosy stare or the man in the doorway who still smelled like your father's ghost. Not about the neighbors watching you manhandle the island’s golden boy like he was a stray that wandered onto your rotting patch of front yard. None of it mattered. Only the anger did. Only the fire simmering beneath your skin, threatening to spill out in full force if he didn’t stop looking at you like that.

"Are you—" you began, your voice sharp as gravel before cutting yourself off with a frustrated shake of your head, disbelief curling your lip. "You're fucking insane. You know that?"

You jabbed a finger in his direction, the accusation shaking in your hand. His gaze followed it, slow and lazy, like he wasn’t high on coke but on you, like your rage fed something in him he didn’t know how to name. It only pissed you off more.

"You gonna go laugh with your buddies about the scene you just witnessed?" you spat, voice cracking as your shame twisted into something bitter. You let out a dry, humorless laugh and looked away, eyes burning. "Make some stupid joke at my expense? Call it the trailer trash matinee special?"

Your voice dropped, quieter but sharper. "You got what you wanted, Cameron. Now get the fuck off my side of the island."

“Jesus..” he muttered under his breath, his stomach sinking in guilt. Because you looked—and you felt—so far away from him. Like you’d run a million miles away, taking his heart with you. He reached out, his hand gently circling around your wrist, stopping your hand before you could poke a hole into his heart. And you flinched away, like he’d branded you with his touch. He dropped his hand, eyes burning with a raw and feral sort of emotion that felt like a knife to your spine.

He never took his eyes off your face, watching you like everything he ever felt depended on your next sentence. It felt like he couldn’t even breathe without your permission. Like he’d burst into flames if you didn’t look at him. He tried to take a step forward, but your eyes burned into him, making him freeze, his fingers shaking with the need to touch you—not like a boy trying to get a pretty girl, but like a man trying to hold onto the only thing in the world worth holding. But you’d only push away.

He bit his lip, his eyes glued to you like you might disappear if he didn’t watch every single twitch of your finger. You felt far away, standing right in front of him. And he hated it. He’d never hated anything more in his life. He swallowed, his throat so dry he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so close to his own breaking point. It took him a beat to find the courage to speak, his voice coming out in a whisper. “I’d never do that.”

"And what the fuck did you do for the past 3 years, then?" you snapped back, words more louder than his soft, broken ones "You wanna tell me you didn't spend your free time picking on me and my friends in your free time, at any chance you got?"

“That’s .. different” he said, almost weakly, his eyes glued to yours like he was trying to remember every detail, every flaw, like he'd forget if he didn't. He wanted to take a step forward, but he'd probably end up on the wrong end of a slap if he tried. And he'd probably deserve it. But he couldn't tell you the reason he used to bully you. Because that would make him sound like some lovesick puppy. And Rafe Cameron didn't get in love. He got into fights. He didn't apologize to people. He beat them up.

“If you’d just give me a chance,” he said, the words coming out like a tired plea even to his own ears. “If you’d give me ten minutes to..” he trailed off. What was he even going to say? How could he make you even listen to him for ten minutes, let alone make you listen to the words he never thought he’d even feel, let alone say out loud? He was at a loss, his fingers shaking as his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for the right words. “I can make it up to you.”

You scoffed, the sound scraping out of your throat low and bitter, curling into something mocking by the time it hit the humid air. It didn’t even sound like you—hoarse from yelling, from biting back too much for too long, your lips chapped and split from the sun and the fury. And somehow, none of this felt like it was about your mom anymore. Not really. That storm cloud that had been hanging over your head since yesterday had finally broken open, spilling everything between you and Rafe into the space between your bodies—hot, suffocating, electric.

You saw it clearly now, how this wasn’t about the trailer park or the fight or even the neighbors who were probably watching from their windows like you were some fucked up episode of reality TV. This was about what changed. What twisted and snapped and rearranged itself after that first time, after the second, after the third. It was about him, standing in your part of the island like he didn’t belong but refused to leave. It was about the way he looked at you last night like he was terrified and addicted all at once.

And it was about you. About the guilt eating you alive. For letting him touch you. For liking it. For wanting it. For betraying everything and everyone you were supposed to be loyal to. This was your side of the island, where your sins weren’t allowed to follow you—but here he was, watching your world rot from the inside out.

You took a step closer, your chest barely brushing his as you stared up at him, venom dripping off every word. Your voice dropped, a private snarl meant only for him.

"Make it up to me?" you hissed, your lip curling. "You fucked me a few times and suddenly you’re finding God? Trying to repent like some born-again saint?"

You tilted your head, sarcasm dark and sharp as a knife. "What—being inside me suddenly made me worthy of your respect?"

You watched his face carefully for a flicker—regret, guilt, shame—anything. But he gave you nothing. Nothing but those stupid blue eyes, wide and fucking calm, and it made you want to punch a hole in the sky.

His hands shook at his sides with the anger building behind an iron wall he’d spent his entire life perfecting. If his body didn’t feel like he’d just been hit by lightning over and over and over, he would’ve been furious. He’d never been this angry before. But he wasn’t sure his body was even able to process that amount of rage and lust at the same time.

He closed his eyes as his head swam with the overwhelming onslaught of emotions flooding through him, drowning him in wave after wave of heat and confusion. For a moment he wished he was still high. Just to cope with what he was feeling. To get rid of that cold, hard look in your eyes that made it feel like you’d punched a big hole in his chest. Like you’d reached into his chest and ripped his heart out and spat it back at him in disgust.

”What the hell was happening?” he muttered, his gaze flicking back up, meeting your burning one with a tired and defeated look. He was used to violence. He was used to fighting, pushing, pulling, breaking anything good that got in his way. But the one look he couldn’t stand? Was the hate burning in your eyes. He shook his head, like he was having a silent conversation with himself, trying to hold back everything he wanted to say. If he did, this would be over. There was no coming back from his confession.

And all it took was a breath and two words.

”Please, listen.” He said, and it felt like a breath of air after weeks of drowning. He couldn’t keep eye contact with you. He couldn’t look away either. He felt like a fool, standing there with his heart in his fist, his life in your hands. But all he could do was stand there and stare at you for a beat, his eyes drinking in your face, memorizing every last detail. It hurt, but maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was the universe’s revenge for every other girl, and for every snide remark, and punch he landed.

"What is wrong with you?" you snapped, the words bursting out of you like a reflex, voice laced with disbelief and something dangerously close to fear. Your face twisted in confusion, lip curled in something between disgust and panic as you stared at Rafe like you were trying to make sense of what he’d become in the span of minutes—wide-eyed, too still, high out of his fucking mind. He looked like he was vibrating inside his skin but anchored to the dirt like he couldn’t move. Like he didn’t want to.

And then your head jerked sideways, zeroing in on Barry slouched on the creaking porch of his trailer like he was watching a rerun of some show he’d already memorized—beer in one hand, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. The bag of coke—Rafe’s coke—rested casually beside him, completely forgotten. That look in his eye, too calm, too entertained, made your stomach twist.

"What did you give him?" you barked, already halfway across the gravel yard, stomping up to him like you were ready to drag the truth out of his mouth with your bare hands if needed. You towered over him, shadows from the half-collapsed porch roof cutting across your face. "Barry. I’m not fucking around. What the hell did you give him?"

Barry leaned back, cool as ever, a smirk pulling at his chapped lips as he took a slow sip of his beer before nodding toward Rafe without a care in the world. "Same shit he always asks for. But he added a little extra on top today. Said he needed to take the edge off."

You blinked, mouth parting in disbelief. "The edge off?" you echoed, looking back at Rafe, who was now just barely shifting, like he was somewhere between space and time. It was like looking at a cracked version of him—one wrong word and he’d shatter.

You spun back around, voice lowering into a dangerous hiss. "Are you fucking serious? Did you watch him snort half the bag? He’s barely functioning, Barry!"

Barry shrugged, utterly unbothered. "He’s a big boy. Didn’t seem like he wanted supervision."

You stared at him, seething, your fists clenched at your sides. The worst part was that Rafe had done this to himself. And still—still—you couldn't stop the way your heart dropped at the sight of him swaying slightly on his feet like gravity was optional.

There were a million things running through Rafe’s mind, but that was the problem—he was thinking too much. He couldn’t get a grip on his body, on his thoughts, on his feelings. And even with everyone looking at him like he was insane, he didn’t feel present—like he was watching everything happen from a third-person point of view. He was too high, he didn't even register it. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this right now. But that was what cocaine did to him, right? Took away the fear. Took away everything. It always made him feel like he was invincible. Untouchable.

In a way, Rafe really was invincible. He could feel his blood pumping like a hummingbird’s, but he could barely hear you. He only caught glimpses of your face, and they burned through everything else. He couldn’t even feel it when his fingers started shaking, his thoughts going fuzzy and fast, a mile a minute. He’d never felt so alive and yet so disconnected. What he wouldn’t give to feel that way without the drugs. What he wouldn’t give to feel like this right now with you.

All he knew was that he was watching himself get high of coke. He was watching you look at him like you despised him and would rather be any other place on the planet. He couldn’t think anymore. Because he didn’t need to, once the drugs kicked in. He was in the clouds. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He could feel the world spinning beneath his feet, but he wasn’t even here. He was somewhere else, somewhere far, somewhere better and brighter.

And then he felt your hands on his forearms—small, warm, grounding. And he was back here again. Blinking slowly, vision narrowing until the blur started to resemble your face. You were saying something, your mouth moving with purpose, frustration, panic—but it came through like muffled static. He didn’t understand the words, but he tried. Because despite everything—despite the heat, the shame, the chaos—he was still trying to get something, anything, from you. Like a lifeline he’d already frayed down to threads.

You shook him again, a little harder this time, the panic clawing its way up your throat. "Rafe, talk to me," you hissed under your breath, your fingers curling a little tighter around his arms. "Don’t fucking shut down on me right now, please." But all he did was stare. Pupils wide, lips parted slightly like he was trying to form a thought but couldn’t grab onto one long enough to make it real.

"Jesus," you muttered under your breath, tearing your gaze from his and snapping your head to the side with a glare sharp enough to slice flesh. Your voice rose again, venomous and wild. "He’s fucking gone, Barry! And you were gonna sell him another bag?" The disbelief in your tone cracked mid-sentence as you gestured toward Rafe with one hand, still holding him with the other like he might float away otherwise. "You just gonna let him OD in your fucking yard while you sit there and sip your pisswater?"

Barry just shrugged again, expression unreadable behind the veil of his indifference. "He asked for it. I didn’t tie him down and make him snort it."

"You’re unbelievable," you spat, voice shaking now—not just with rage, but something closer to desperation. Because you didn’t know what to do. Not with Rafe, not with this version of him who had no business being on this side of the island. Not with yourself.

You looked back at him, at the sweat starting to bead along his temple, the vacant stare, the way his body swayed just barely in your grasp like the ground was unreliable. "Rafe," you tried again, softer this time, a tremble in your voice you couldn’t mask, "you have to tell me what you took."

He had to fight to keep his eyes on yours. But you felt like the only thing in the world he could cling to right now. It was easier to look at you. Easier to focus on the sound of your voice, your trembling words, than to focus on the fact that he couldn’t feel anything and everything all at once. You were here, looking at him like you actually cared if he lived or died, and he’d never been so scared yet so in love.

He forced his words past his dry, sandpaper-like throat, struggling to get the words out. “I took uh..” he muttered, his eyes flicking to the half-full bag by Barry’s feet, his throat too dry to speak. Cocaine. “The usual.”

He felt dizzy. Too many thoughts and feelings were running around his head—and his heart and his body. It was like he’d been on a carnival ride, except instead of sugar and junk food, he had snorted way too much coke and now he was stuck on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Everything was going a mile a minute, and he couldn’t stop it.

In a way, he wasn't even surprised. He did a lot of coke. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary. But it was different this time. Because you were here. And you were looking at him like he’d somehow committed a crime you couldn’t even name. You’d never looked at him like that before. He realized he hated it, but he couldn’t find the words to tell you that. Even though he wanted to. Even though his heart was screaming the words in his head.

As Rafe finally spoke, or tried to, you realized—yes, it could get worse. Of course it could. The universe, in all its twisted sense of humor, was laughing straight in your face now, mocking you with its sick, cosmic grin while this 6'2, blue-eyed magnet for destruction stood swaying in front of you like a fucking statue mid-collapse. You could practically hear the punchline being delivered somewhere in the sky, like your life was a sitcom with a very cruel writer.

And now he was maybe overdosing. Slowly. Quietly. Like he didn’t even want to make a scene about it. And that was somehow worse.

Panic gripped your spine and coiled tightly around your ribcage as your eyes darted over him—his slow, unstable sway, the way he blinked like it took effort, like each one was a decision. Your mind reeled. You’d done coke before—too much of it. You knew the familiar rush and crash. You’d even had your heart racing hard enough to think maybe this is it. But you always made it through. You’d sleep, sweat, cry a little—wake up with your nose raw and your pride bruised.

But Rafe? You weren’t sure he’d just sleep this off. Not with whatever the fuck Barry sold him. Not with how he looked like he wasn’t in there anymore.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, teeth scraping torn skin you didn’t even realize was bleeding. Your hands were still half on him, grounding yourself as much as trying to keep him upright. Your head was spinning and you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“What the fuck do I do?” you barked at Barry, voice trembling even under the fury. You whipped around to face him, your body tensed like you were ready to lunge. “What do you do if he fucking drops dead on your porch? Huh? You think the cops won’t come crawling through your front door if they find Rafe Cameron foaming at the mouth in the middle of the goddamn day?”

Your voice broke slightly at the end, too choked up to fully mask the sheer panic rising up like bile in your throat. Because despite the anger, despite the sheer absurdity of the situation—despite everything—you didn’t want him to die here. Not on The Cut. Not like this. Not in front of you.

Barry exhaled slowly, annoyed, unbothered, looking up at the sky like you were overreacting. “He’s not gonna die,” he said with that same careless tilt of his mouth, “he’s just on something strong. It’ll pass.”

"Are you sure about that?" you growled. "You wanna bet your shitty house and freedom on that? ‘Cause I’m not fucking risking mine."

And for a second, you wished someone else were here. Someone who knew what to do. Someone who could take this weight off your chest and carry it for you—just for a second. But there was only you. You, a rattled girl in a sunscreen-slicked bikini, standing between a drug dealer and a boy who looked like he might crumble if the wind blew too hard.

Rafe felt like he was dreaming. Or dying. Possibly both. He’d never been this high before. He’d never felt so invincible. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten here, or what he’d said. Just you.. and your voice. He could hear you talking, but it was like he couldn’t see you. And he wished he could see you right now. He wished he could grab on and never let go. Instead, he felt himself drowning. Like he’d taken a swan dive into the water and never felt the bottom.

Everything was a kaleidoscope of color, lights, and noises. He could see everything and nothing at the same time. He didn’t even realize he was sweating, his skin feeling like pins and needles and sandpaper. He felt everything and nothing at once. And he felt like he’d never stop. That he’d just stay floating in that endless black ocean with his head pounding and his blood humming in his veins until he died. Because this is what he deserved. And he could take it. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried. But it was the first time he felt like he was dying.

But then you were standing in front of him and he felt like he could breathe again. You looked like a dream, your voice cutting through the fuzz and noise and panic and fear and pain in his head. And he wished he could just hear you forever. He forgot what you were saying but he was hanging on every syllable like you were the only thing still connecting him to this planet. He tried to say your name, just so you’d look at him—but all that came out was an incoherent mumble.

He felt you grab his arms, and he almost wanted to cry from how good the feeling felt. You were right there. You were real. If you were real, then maybe this was too. Your touch felt like something he’d give his soul to keep. He almost did just by accident. Your hands felt so warm; so much warmer than he’d ever deserved. He could feel everything—the pain, the pounding, the high, your hands. Everything. And it was enough. Enough to make him feel like he’d done a lot of things wrong in this life, and maybe it was time to do them right.

His eyes found yours again. And you were looking at him like you wanted to kill him. Or like you wanted to hold him. He couldn’t tell which one. And somewhere beneath the high, his heart constricted at the thought of you seeing him like this right now. Maybe this wouldn’t end well. Maybe this was it. But for just a few moments, you were holding him. And you hadn’t let go.

Despite the out-of-focus glaze in his eyes, they were still locked on your face—glassy, dilated, and distant, but there. It made your throat tighten. Like he was trying to stay tethered to you in whatever fragmented corner of consciousness he still had left. Like he was trying to say something without saying it, and that killed you even more.

You felt your lips start to tremble, your brows scrunching in on themselves, expression contorted as you fought hard not to sob. Not now. Not in front of Barry. Not while Rafe was looking at you like that. He looked like he was swaying at the edge of a cliff, one strong gust of wind away from toppling—and the worst part was, he was trying to stay upright. Trying to keep it together. Maybe for you.

You turned your head toward Barry again, and the anger you’d been clinging to melted off you like water running off wax. The weight of it—the realness of it—settled heavy in your chest, so thick you could hardly breathe through it. This was real. Not a threat. Not a tantrum. Not some dramatic little scene. This was Rafe Cameron actually OD'ing in front of you.

And you were just standing there. Watching it happen.

"What the fuck do I do?" you asked again, your voice breaking as you stared Barry down like he might suddenly turn into someone useful. Someone responsible. He didn’t. "He’s—he’s dying," you breathed, panic making your voice higher, tighter, thinner. "I just—" your eyes flicked back to Rafe, swaying slightly, fingers twitching like he was trying to hold onto something invisible, "I’ve never had to deal with someone OD’ing in front of me.”

The words poured out fast and frantic, mostly to yourself, more a frantic confession than a real question. You didn’t even care that Barry was watching you unravel. Your heartbeat was in your throat. Your lungs felt too small. Your knees were unsteady, your hands slick with sweat where they’d held Rafe. And you were seconds away from crying, full-on collapsing in front of him, because the idea of him dying right here—on The Cut, under the sharp sunlight, with your name probably being the last thing he tried to say—was enough to shatter something deep inside of you.

He could hear you. He could feel you trying not to let the fear crack through your voice. And he felt like the world’s biggest fool. Because he'd never seen you look so scared in your life, and yet he felt like you were his only lifeline. Like you were the only thing holding him up. And he couldn’t stop himself from staring at you, his lips parted in awe at the fact that you were even here with him right now.

He saw your face contort slightly, and his chest ached at the sight, the high making it feel like he was in hell. He tried to blink and focus on you, but the bright blue and orange and yellow behind his eyelids made his head spin and his stomach lurch. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his hands shaking more than ever. All he could do was stare. All he could do was try and hear your words. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice, the tone, the cadence, the way your voice would pitch when you got upset.

God, his heart hurt. The more time he spent looking at you, the more he felt like he’d never been this scared in his life. Because despite feeling so high that he wasn’t even sure if what was happening right now was real or not, he could tell you were scared. And he knew he was the one causing it. All he wanted was to make sure you never looked at him like that again. He’d do anything to get you to stop looking at him like you felt sorry for him, like he was some drug addict who couldn’t even hold himself together.

It felt like he was being tortured. The high that was supposed to be an escape was turning into a trap. He felt trapped inside his own body and mind, his thoughts running so fast that they weren’t even thoughts anymore. He kept staring at you, his eyes following you every move, his mind focusing on the sound of your voice. If he could just hear you he'd be fine. It was all he wanted. You were all he wanted. And yet you felt so far away. And he felt more alone than ever.

You kept shaking your head, like denial might somehow undo what was happening in front of you. Your eyes never left him—watching every subtle sway of his body against the driver’s side door of his SUV, like he was barely tethered to consciousness. And suddenly, the pieces started fitting together with the kind of clarity that came too late. He’d already been high when he got here. Maybe not enough to crash right away, but enough for this to be inevitable. Or maybe he was crashing now, unraveling from last night’s high in slow motion. Either way, he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Shouldn’t have been anywhere near your house, looking at you like that. Like he was seeing something that wasn't there—or maybe seeing everything too clearly.

You should’ve known something was wrong. From the moment he appeared at the edge of your yard—still, silent, unreactive. He hadn’t mocked you. Hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t said a single cruel thing. And that should’ve been the giveaway. But you’d been too wrapped up in your own shame, too consumed by the heat of embarrassment and anger, to notice that Rafe Cameron was falling apart right in front of you. That he hadn’t come to throw jabs or wave your pain in your face—he’d come because he had nowhere else to go.

And now… this. Now he was here, barely standing, flushed and pale at the same time—like his body couldn’t decide if it was boiling or freezing. The color drained from his face while sweat gathered at his temples, his breaths shallow and slow and wrong. Too wrong. His knees buckled slightly and he slumped harder into the car, mumbling something you couldn’t understand, something fragile and broken that didn’t belong to him. Not Rafe.

"No, no, no,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as your hands shot up to cup his face, thumbs pressing into his clammy skin. “Rafe—Rafe, don’t—don’t fucking do this.” His cheeks were too warm, too damp. His skin felt waxy beneath your palms. You squeezed gently, like the pressure alone could hold him there, keep him there.

He blinked slowly, his gaze slipping somewhere past you like he didn’t even know where he was anymore. And it fucking terrified you.

"Listen to me. Please. You need to stay awake, okay?” you said, forcing calm into your voice, even as it wobbled beneath the weight of panic. Your eyes were brimming with tears now, clinging stubbornly to your lashes. “You’re not allowed to die in front of me. Do you hear me? You’re not allowed to do that.”

You shook him gently, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, trying to anchor him back to you—desperate for something, anything to tell you he was still there. That you weren’t already losing him. And somewhere in the blur of your fear, your shame, your helpless rage—you realized this had already gone so far beyond what you thought it was. This wasn’t about one night. This wasn’t just about guilt. Or anger. Or hate.

This was Rafe, and he was yours—even if only in this moment—and he was slipping through your fingers.

He felt you grab his face, and for a moment he thought the world might be okay. Your hands were so soft. So warm. So real. And for just a second he felt like this was all worth it. Like he would gladly die right here in front of you if it meant you’d keep touching him like this for the rest of his life. It took everything he had to listen to you, but he focused on you as you said his name. He focused on your voice, your touch, the way you said his name. Anything to let him stay there and hear you for a little longer.

Your voice was trembling, and he wanted to tell you to stop, don’t cry. It’s okay, don’t cry. Don’t cry because of me. He wanted to pull you close and never let go. He never wanted to see you cry again because of him. He felt sick thinking about the tears in your eyes, and how this was his fault. He was the reason you were crying. He was the reason you were begging him to stay. And he couldn’t find the words to tell you he’d stay forever if you let him. If you just let him.

He couldn’t even think anymore. Everything was fuzzy and distorted and the air was too heavy to breathe. The world was collapsing around him, slowly and with horrifying clarity. He felt like he might throw up, the thought of vomiting on you adding to the humiliation. The dizziness was getting worse, even when he wasn’t moving. The pounding in his head was getting stronger, and the voices he could barely grasp were fading in and out of nothing, like he was sinking deeper and deeper and he didn’t know how to stop it.

The sound of your voice felt like the only lifeline he had left, his whole body gravitating towards the sound of you, following your touch like you were the one thing keeping him in place. He hadn’t even realized he was trying to speak, trying to say something to you, but the words couldn’t find their way off his tongue. It was like he was drowning, so out of control to even realize his own body was failing him, even though he knew something was horribly wrong. He felt his tongue go numb, his thoughts swimming in his head. But he couldn’t seem to stop staring at you.

You watched as he tried to form words, his mouth moving without purpose, his voice too weak to carry whatever thoughts were trying to crawl their way out of him. And your heart cracked right down the center. What the hell was your life turning into? It felt like a cruel joke—like every time you thought you’d hit rock bottom, the universe showed you it had a basement. Then another. And another. You must’ve done something truly awful in a past life, something vile and unforgivable, because this? Watching Rafe Cameron's body slowly shut down in front of you? This had to be some kind of penance.

Your face twisted, sour and desperate, blinking back the sting in your eyes as his lashes fluttered, his head lolling. You could’ve screamed. “No, no, Rafe—look at me.” His eyes rolled back slightly, and that was it. That was the thing that cracked through your panic and made it burst like floodwater into full-blown terror. You gripped his face tighter, shaking him with less gentleness this time—your voice rising. “Rafe!”

"He's dying." The words left your mouth like a punch to the chest, your voice breaking as you whipped your head toward Barry, no longer pretending to be composed. “He's fucking dying, Barry!” you repeated, louder this time, shriller, more unhinged. “We need to call an ambulance—I don’t know what the hell to do, I don’t—” You were blinking so fast now your vision blurred, hot tears clinging to your lashes, your throat tightening with the weight of the helplessness you never wanted to feel again.

He was going to die right here, in front of you, surrounded by everything ugly and broken you’d always tried to keep hidden. And you didn’t know how to stop it.

He felt you grab his face, your touch so desperately tight that he almost whimpered. He felt like his skin was on fire, like the whole world was tilting and spinning, and the only thing he could really focus on was the way you were shaking him, the way your voice was trembling. He wanted to answer, to say your name. To tell you everything was okay. To tell you he’d stay awake for as long as you asked. He couldn’t find the right words to say. But he could hear you. And that’s all that mattered right now.

His mind was too overwhelmed to care about how bad he looked, how terrified you sounded while you were begging him to open his eyes, to look at you. He felt sick to his stomach. He could feel his heart pounding in his head. He felt like his brain was melting. But somehow, you were still there. Trying to hold him together while he felt himself falling apart right in front of you. And he wasn’t sure if the shame he felt was worse than the terror of dying. Right here, in this moment, he wondered if he deserved your kindness.

His eyes blinked open again, your image flickering in and out of focus. Your face was blurry, tears clinging to your lashes, and he could’ve sworn he saw you start to cry. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe you were just crying for real. He felt like he might throw up or fall. The car was too warm and you were holding him up, but he felt so distant from everything. Like he was slowly drowning. And if he died right here, in your arms, he didn’t think he’d mind so much anymore.

Barry stood frozen for a second, still slouched on his porch like he had all the time in the world, and it made your stomach turn. The sight of him—so unmoved, so casual, while Rafe's body swayed like a tower about to collapse—felt like something out of a fever dream. When he finally stood, slow and infuriating, you could’ve leapt over the porch railing and throttled him.

"Calm the fuck down," he muttered, stretching like he’d just woken up from a nap, and not like someone’s overdose was unraveling feet away. “He’s just ridin’ it out. He’ll be fine. Kid’s built like a tank, he can handle it.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “Handle it?” you echoed, voice cracking as you tightened your hold on Rafe’s face again, trying to make eye contact with eyes that barely stayed open. “He’s not fine, you fucking moron, he’s not even coherent! He can barely stand!”

Barry shrugged, lighting a cigarette like it was just another Tuesday, like he wasn’t witnessing the slow death of a twenty-something in front of your trailer. You could’ve screamed. The rage was making your hands shake now, and Rafe’s full weight leaned into your palms, his legs beginning to buckle. You staggered back with him, trying to keep him upright, your feet slipping a little in the dust.

"Jesus Christ," you hissed to yourself, under your breath. “Fuck—okay, okay—”

You grabbed Rafe’s keys from his pocket with trembling fingers, the weight of them feeling like salvation in your hand. There wasn’t time to wait for help that may or may not come. Not from people like Barry. Not in a place like this. You yanked the door of the SUV open, guiding Rafe with all the strength your shaking limbs could offer, your shoulder under his arm as he sagged deeper and deeper into himself.

"I swear to God, Barry, if he dies—if he fucking dies—" you didn’t even finish the threat, too busy shoving Rafe into the passenger seat, strapping him in with a roughness that was more panic than anything else. You slammed the door, sprinting around to the driver’s side, throwing yourself behind the wheel like you’d done it a hundred times before, despite the fact that you didn't even have a license to begin with. The engine roared to life, and gravel spat out behind you as you tore out of the yard, leaving Barry’s front porch, your mother’s voice, the scorching sun and your shame in the rearview mirror.

He felt the weight of your touch, holding him up, your fingers trembling but strong, your words sharp and strained, and the sound of your voice cutting through the haze in his head. He felt you grab his keys and open the door, felt your arm under his, and the relief that followed even though he didn’t understand why. He could feel the seat underneath him as he was pushed down, something sharp and tight against his chest, and all he could think about was you. How your hands felt. How your voice sounded. And how it would feel if he died right now.

He felt you slam the door, his vision flashing through the window as you sprinted around the car, the sound of something sharp and loud filling his head. The engine roared to life, and for a split-second everything was clear. He could see everything. You, the car, the trees, the street. For just a moment, his head was almost clear. And then he felt the car pull forward, a sharp burst of pain shooting through his head as his head hit the headrest. The trees and street flashed by, one blending into the other, and then he just felt sick.

The car was spinning, or maybe he was. The world was tilting and twisting and he felt like he might throw up, his stomach queasy and churning. His head hurt so bad it felt like someone was pounding on the inside of his skull, making his head throb with each turn of the steering wheel. He wasn’t sure where you were taking him, but he was too sick to think about it. And he didn’t really care as long as you kept driving. His hands shook in his lap, his breathing shallow.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, his head pounding, the world spinning like a carousel. The trees, the houses, the sky, were spinning and swirling, and the car seemed to be speeding up. Everything was a blur of motion and light, everything was out of focus and he felt so goddamn sick. All he wanted was for the world to stop spinning. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he bit down, trying to swallow the feeling. Nothing looked familiar anymore. He was floating in darkness, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

"Rafe." you tried, your eyes fixed on the road, voice wet with tears and the sickening panic that he was already dead in the passenger seat. "Please, shit. Please talk to me." you mumbled, trying to focus on getting to the hospital and not on the fact that you were actually driving.

His eyelids flickered open, your voice reaching him through the darkness. He couldn’t speak—the sound caught in his throat before it even started. But he heard you. He heard your words, heard the way the trembling in your voice, and the way you breathed his name like an emergency. He felt his head tilt slightly toward you, his eyes slipping open. He felt sick and cold and weak, but your words were loud in his head. And he wanted to respond so badly.

His eyes were so heavy, his vision blurry. He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your voice. On the words you were saying. On the way you were begging him to talk, to say something to show you he was still there. He tried to speak, to say something in response. He wanted to tell you he was listening. He wanted to tell you that he didn’t feel very good. He wanted to tell you he felt like he would die just trying to open his mouth. But he couldn’t. Everything felt so heavy and he could barely move his tongue in his mouth.

One of your hands swiped at your face as the tears finally started streaming down your sun-burnt cheeks as if they were just as shameful as the moment bak in your yard, and you couldn't allow yourself to cry, because your gaze was becoming blurry and one wrong move could probably send you both swerving off the road. "It's gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine. You wouldn't die right now, would you? You wouldn't want me to be the last person you'd seen." you rambled, words blending together as you spared him a side-glance, breathing in relief when you saw that he was looking at you, as unfocused and vacant as he was, he heard you.

He wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you he’d never die so long as you told him not to. He wanted to explain that he would do anything for you. Anything you wished. That he’d live forever for you, regardless of how he felt or how bad he wanted things to change. The thought of you being the last pretty thing he saw was far from the worst death he could imagine. And he wanted so badly to tell you that.

But his mouth wouldn’t move, the words refusing to form. Everything hurt. He felt like he’d never felt this kind of pain before. Everything was so loud, and he felt so cold. He felt so sick. And you were crying. He knew you were crying. He knew his face was probably blurry, and that he couldn’t say a single word to calm you. And he hated it. He wanted to be able to tell you he was okay. He wanted to do so much more than just sit in the passenger seat, dying while you tried to save him.

"And i don't even know how to drive." you continued to ramble, the words stumbling out in an attempt to keep him grounded, or yourself. "I don't have my license, because my mom thought it was useless since i had my skateboard. But now.." you stopped, casting him another glance, dreadfully as if expecting him to be lying there motionless, "You shouldn't die." you spoke stupidly, tears still streaming down your cheeks freely even if you were trying not to sob or hyperventilate "You really don't want me to be last person that you see. I don't even have a license. And i'm panicking like a baby,"

He wasn’t really listening, his mind too foggy, and your voice too distant to really understand every word. But his eyes were trained on you. His breathing was shallow, his body trembling, every muscle tensed and strained. It felt like he was fighting for every breath, his thoughts too disconnected to comprehend the whole picture of what was happening. The pain was getting worse, his head spinning, all of it made worse by the fact that you were crying and he couldn’t do a single thing to help. You sounded scared. That much he knew.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, the road ahead a blurry smear of heat and pavement as you glanced at him again, needing—begging—for any sign he was still with you. “You shouldn’t die,” you repeated, quieter this time, like maybe if you said it gently enough the universe would listen. “You really don’t want me to be the last person you see. I don’t even have a license. And I’m panicking like a baby, I’m not built for this—”

Your voice cracked as you forced the SUV through a sharp turn, tires shrieking against the pavement like the world itself was screaming back at you. Rafe groaned softly, barely audible, and your eyes darted back to him, relief crashing into you hard enough to nearly knock the air from your lungs.

“Okay, okay,” you whispered, more to yourself, blinking away the salt that blurred your vision. “You're still here. You’re fine. Just hang on.” Your eyes flicked to the dashboard. You were speeding. Hard. But you didn’t slow down. Couldn’t.

“You remember that time you told me I looked like a stray dog?” you asked through clenched teeth, voice warbling with the tears you were trying to hold back. “Well, congrats. The stray’s driving your hundred-thousand-dollar car like it’s a fucking go-kart. And if we die, it’s on you. It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have shown up at my house like that. You shouldn’t have looked at me like that. You shouldn't have—”

Your voice broke and you finally let yourself sob, one hand leaving the wheel for a moment to swipe furiously at your wet face. You had no idea how far the hospital was. You barely even remembered how to get there. But you weren’t going to stop.

Because he was still breathing.

Because you weren’t going to let him die in the passenger seat.

Not like this.

Not when he saw you.

He couldn’t speak, his thoughts too disjointed, but he felt your hand on his arm and he felt the way you tightened the grip, and he heard the words coming from you. He heard you repeating that he wouldn’t die—that you didn’t have a license, that you were panicked. He didn’t know what it all meant, but one thing stuck with him. The last person. He didn’t want to leave you. He didn’t want to die right here, right now. Not with you like this, not with you crying and pleading.

He wanted so badly to say something—to open his eyes, to take your hand, to move or blink or do something. But everything hurt. Everything was too blurry and too loud. And he felt so, so sick. But you were there. Your voice was ringing through his head, his whole existence focused on you, on listening to you. And he felt so, so cold. So goddamn cold, he could’ve sworn he was already dead. And he knew the only thing still keeping him here was the fact that you were there, driving and crying and so, so scared.

He felt the car speed up, his head hitting the headrest as the world around him lurched and swayed. He felt his stomach churning, his head pounding against his skull. The trees were flashing by, blurry streaks of green. He could barely keep his eyes open. He knew you were speaking, but he couldn’t hear what you were saying. Your words were drowned out by the pounding in his head, and all he could see was the way your face was streaked with tears, the way you looked so beautiful even while you were crying.

He wanted to reach out to you. He wanted to help, to tell you he didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t even open his mouth, the thought of moving his tongue was enough to make his head feel like it would explode. He felt so goddamn cold, it was like he was shivering, and it felt like his eyes were getting heavier and heavier. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice while you drove. Because that was the only thing keeping him here, still alive, even if he was dying. He was still here. And he was still listening.

"You're gonna be fine, Rafe." you spoke, reaching to squeeze his shoulder and almost swerving off the road when you took your hand off the wheel. "Try and speak, tell me something,"

He heard your voice again, loud and urgent, your words cutting through the fog in his head like a blade. He forced his eyes open, his vision blurry, his head pounding. But he saw you. Just barely. Your voice was the only thing that was clear. And the thought of trying to speak was almost too much. He could barely feel his tongue in his mouth, and he was sure the world would spin if he opened his mouth. But he had to try. He had to do something, anything, to know he wasn’t already dead.

He felt his jaw working, his eyes focused on you. His body felt heavy. His head was pounding, and his stomach was revolting. He was so cold, and he was sure if he said anything right now he’d vomit all over everything. He opened his mouth, trying to form words, anything. All he wanted to do was tell you he was still there. That he was still alive. That he wasn’t dead yet. But his tongue was like lead, and every word died in his throat before he could even feel its sound.

He tried again, forcing his lungs to draw as much oxygen as possible. His body was shaking, his heart thumping, his head spinning, and he just wanted to hold you. He wanted to tell you he was okay, that he wasn’t going to die. But everything hurt, and every muscle in his body was straining, and he couldn't push the thoughts away. All he could feel were your fingers, squeezing his shoulder, your soft voice cutting through the spinning, and he would’ve started crying if he had any energy left to cry.

His head lolled slightly, another garbled noise scraping past his throat like it took all the effort in the world. You didn't know if it was a laugh, a cry, or just his body giving out on him. Either way, it terrified you. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached, and still, you couldn't stop talking—not because you thought your words would help, but because the silence felt like death creeping in faster.

"I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going,” you muttered, breath hitching, but you couldn’t stop the shaky laugh that followed, ugly and frantic. “God, imagine the headlines—Kook prince dies in coked-out crash with barely-dressed Pogue local. That’s gonna be great for my reputation.”

You flicked your eyes over to him again, and he was still slumped, still pale, still… off. You felt like you were in a fever dream. None of this felt real.

“I hate you,” you said again, more forcefully, your voice cracking. “I do. But if you fucking die right now—if you make me the last face you see before you croak—I swear I’ll haunt you in hell. I’ll wear this stupid bikini every day and remind you how humiliating this is. I’m not letting you make me your tragic fucking footnote, Rafe.”

Your throat tightened with another sob you didn’t want to let out, and your voice dropped to a whisper, raw and trembling. “Just stay awake. Please. Just—just don’t leave. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The highway stretched ahead endlessly, the speedometer needle trembling past the limit, the heat outside baking into the metal of the SUV. But inside, it was all cold panic and shaking hands and the horrible, crushing weight of death and the realization that if you didn't get to the hospital, he'd actually die.

He tried to force his mouth to move, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. He wanted to tell you he was fine, that he would never let it happen. But every word felt like a fight, and he didn’t think he had much more in him. But he needed you to know. He needed you to know. His lungs were aching so badly it felt like he was being stabbed with a knife, but he had to try. All he wanted to do was reach out and touch you, to feel your hand in his and have some sort of hope.

A/N: hi..., 😓 pls don't hate me for this chapter, and it if feels like i'm losing the plot and maybe i am a little. but it's okay because i'll make it up to you with a chapter of smut. just bear with me. and i hope i wasn't the only one sobbing while writing and editing this. he's not dying, he's just... being a little silly. i dunno why i start off wanting to write smut and i end up writing angst, i'm sorry ya'll. are you guys mad at me? don't forget to like, reblog, send asks and comment if you liked these chapters i promise to fix my posting schedule.😁💓 don't be shy to join my taglist!

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandom @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain

[netherfeildren]

Cannibals : 1. House of Fools

An At the Restaurant story; Part 2;

Pairing: Din Djarin x OFC

Summary: It's two days til Christmas, and the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, giggling at one another for absolutely no reason other than it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours.

It's two day's til Christmas, and one of the more bizarre aspects of life is how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship to real love AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alternate Universe; Modern AU Din Djarin; Holiday Season AU; Fluff and Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotionally Unavailable Idiots; But Also, Idiots in Love; Complicated Characterizations of Imperfect People; If that's not your thing, click away dear reader; Grief; Unprotected Sex; So Down Bad it Makes You Look Stupid; Commitment Issues; Found Family; Self Esteem Issues; Insecurity; It's Called Fuckboy Conversion Therapy Look It Up; Toxic Relationship

A/N: Happy New Year, beautiful people.

Word Count: 7.5K

Read on AO3

House of Fools

Glass shattered on the white cloth  Everybody moved on Help, I’m still at the restaurant

The tree is set with multi-colored lights and tinsel and care. It’s a good tree, the one the two of you put up together as his little brother cheers you on. Too tall, fluffy and charmingly droopy, shoved into the corner of the two bedroom bungalow you’d helped them move into months ago. 

Three years is a long time to know a person. It is an even longer time to love someone. 

And yet, sometimes, it remains a half-full sort of love. 

You watch as he lifts his brother’s small frame above his shoulders to set the star atop, final touch sparkle, and you’re still looking in through the window of this honest and heartbreaking home of two, even from your seat within their warm living room. 

Finally, Din turns, and gives you that pink-glow smile, the one you love. Right corner of his mouth, pulling upwards—a dimple, tan skin and the flush of his appled cheek, and he’s really beautiful, sometimes yours, dedicated to many things before he is dedicated to you. But you’re here. And you’re grateful. The spaces for the shiny red ornaments you’d been assigned, carefully chosen and hung on the tree. Your imprint is there, in this small decision. Your mark on their home, on their Christmas tree. Your handwriting, looping and careful on the tags on the gifts you’d helped him wrap beneath the branches. Grogu, not Greg, thank you, written out with all the care and consideration you feel for the small boy who you’ve come to love as much as you love his brother. 

The two of you had come to some sort of staid agreement in the past year. Together. That’s what you are. Afraid of each other, too. Perhaps. Afraid of what you feel, of what could become of it. But aware enough now that you can both understand you can not be without one another, so that any sort of lingering fear or trepidation was forced to become secondary. There were eggshells still, to be treaded on. A carefulness about the way the two of you approach one another day in and day out. An awareness on your part, that there is so much past loss and even more future responsibility awaiting him so that he’ll always live his life afraid and with bated breath for the worst still yet to come. On his part, the awareness of an easily broken heart and a willingness to give more of yourself than is right. And a promise to be careful with those things. Or at least to try. 

But you’re together and it’s not easy, per se, but it’s necessary, and you don’t ask for more even though you want it. Even though there’s still that small bit missing. And every time you look at him, every time he’s sweet and considerate and so aware of you it’s almost overwhelming, and when he touches you in that way that is so delicious it should be illegal, you’ll say: I like you so much, Din because you’re afraid to say the stronger word out loud. 

You prepare for the holidays with frenzy. In between classes and your thesis and a reading list so long you’re afraid your eyesight will never recover this finals season, you still find the time to do your gift shopping and help him with his. The three of you go out one evening in early December to buy their tree. Taller than Din, is Grogu’s stipulation and the decree that leads to the slightly hunched behemoth with the lopsided star held on by the sheer force of a zip tie’s will. 

The two boys meander slowly amongst the evergreens while you trail behind, watching them. The way Din towers over the young boy, occasionally bopping him over the chunky green hat with the droopy knit ears, listening intently at Grogu’s excited chatter. The sweater Din has on had been carefully chosen between you and your mother for his birthday, navy blue half-zip knit that makes him look so sexy and is so, so exciting to unzip, bearing the sharp edges of his collar bones, keeping him warm so that when you slip your hand beneath the hem and up against his hard stomach his skin almost burns. 

Or maybe it’s just you, the burning. Maybe it’s what you make together. 

Grogu had vetoed seven trees thus far—not fat enough, not tall enough, too wimpy, doesn’t have the right “vibe”. The kid said it needed to be wide enough so that all the naked little angel babies he loved to collect, and for which he’d been soundly sent home from school two weeks ago for—and this is a direct quote from the principal Mrs. Armorer as per Din—‘enabling a covert trading ring as if these artifacts were the most insidious of contraband being distributed amongst the most derelict of city streets’. An exaggeration surely, but Din’s own hatred for the little angels only reinforced the gravity of the boy’s crime. And as he’d so eloquently put it, “When I looked up in the shower the other day to find twenty of them watching me wash my dick, I knew we had a problem.”

If only he also knew you were the one constantly buying them for the kid. 

When you blink your daze away, resurfacing from your thoughts, the boys have disappeared. You can hear the sound of Grogu’s voice in the distance, high pitched and laughing, and when you look up at the dark night sky, the first flurries of snow are starting their spiral fall. The warmth of the cocoa the three of you had bought at the entrance of the Christmas tree farm has long since left you, and you burrow further into the damp warmth of the scarf wrapped around your neck, suddenly unable to catch any sound but the rhythm of your own breaths. 

You take a few more steps forward, peering through the trees and seeing no one—there had been so many people just minutes ago—when a strong tug at the back of your puffer pulls you between the branches of two of the larger evergreens. 

His breath is warm on your face, you can smell the sweetness of the chocolate and marshmallows, but his lips are cold when they press against the corner of your eye, pulling you in close against him, pushing you deeper into the pines.

“Kiss me. I’m cold,” he pouts, another flutter of lips to the apple of your cheek, the point of your chin, and then he’s licking against your mouth and his tongue is hot as sin, sweeter than the chocolate. You open for him, pulling him against yourself as tightly as he pulls you, pressing up on your tippy toes to get even closer.

“I couldn't find you. Din—” you gasp, kissing him again, again. 

“Can’t get lost in the snow, baby.” The puff of his laugh is warm against your face, the tip of his cold reddened nose nudging against your own. You cling to him more tightly, feeling unfocused, almost drunk—the tip of his tongue against the arch of your cupid's bow. There are snowflakes catching in his eyelashes. The deep green of the trees, the sky, dark and falling above you, the cold everywhere except for where he touches you, presses against you. 

“Need this kid to pick out a tree so we can go the fuck home and get in bed,” he says, shivering and grouchy. “Still gotta strap it to the car, lug it inside…” He buries his face in the warm space between your throat and scarf and whines. 

His hair is long enough right now it sticks out the back of his beanie, curling against the edge, and you tangle your fingers in the soft locks, holding him there pressed against you. You can hear Grogu sing-songing your names, coming up behind where you’re embracing with loud stomping gallops, bulldozing into your back hard enough he’d knock you over if you didn’t have his brother there to hold you up. The boy wraps his arms around your waist, shaking the two of you out of your daze, demanding you stop making out and get moving. 

“Don’t whine, I’m going to help you.” You say it laughing, fond and grateful. Grateful that you get the chance to be here with the two of them. 

-

“You use laundry softener?”

 Wham! plays softly through the overhead speaker of the empty grocery store. It’s early on a Friday, and both of you had found yourselves with the rare treat of being off work and out of classes at the same time. It would be a busy weekend for him, the last home stretch before Christmas. The 23rd and he’d be swamped at the bar the next two nights, facing the revelers returning home for the holiday, eager to get drunk on booze and merry joy. 

“Yeah. Don’t you?” He turns to press his mouth against your temple where you cling to his arm, slumped over the shopping cart he's been slowly pushing through each aisle. He has a list he’s not looked at once, throwing things into the basket thoughtlessly. When you get home, you know he’ll complain he got too much he didn’t need, but you keep quiet, happy to see him have his indulgence. 

“I do. Yeah.” You don’t know why the sight of the lavender scented softener makes you pause—the same one your mother buys for your parent’s home. Maybe because in some moments, the reminder that Din is also someone’s mother is more sobering and obvious than others. 

“Smells good,” he says as he reaches for a box of Scooby Doo fruit snacks. Two boxes of granola bars go in next, peanut butter protein for himself and double-chocolate puff for Grogu. 

Pressing your face into the hard muscle of his shoulder, you inhale deeply. Silently agreeing with a nod of your head, pressing your fingers into the swell of his bicep beneath the thick fabric of his dark hoodie. 

Tipping his chin, he gives you a sly, knowing look. “What?” He asks—half-crooked smirk. But you can’t even say, and anyways he knows. You drag your fingernails against his muscle, tummy going tight, hiding your face in the warm cotton, shaking your head. 

His laugh is soft and gently teasing. 

The post office is a mess after the grocery store, and the two of you stand in line for forty-five minutes, waiting to buy stamps and post the last minute Christmas cards to your friends you’d entirely forgotten about in the mania of turning in the final draft of your thesis to your advisor. Another thing that was in the home stretch—your fight to get your masters had been a long journey of indecision and self doubt, but you were so close to being done you could taste the freedom. Your edits were going smoothly, and your advisor, Luke, had been a great help this past year. Disheveled beard and mind in a million places at once, a little bit of a hippie, but always patient and kind and in tune with your wants and ideas when you were really desperate for him to be so. Din had been so supportive, as well. Staying up late with you when you needed to study or write, perfecting the art of a BLT and keeping you fed, because as he put it, there was much more to the construction of it than just bacon, lettuce and tomato. Even though they always ended up being nothing more than just that, it was the action that counted. 

You’d be presenting at the end of January, and you were looking forward to being done with school once and for all and being able to work. You’d been offered a position at the public library as the junior librarian over heading the non-fiction department, and you were more eager than words could express. It wasn’t only the idea of leaving behind your little job at the bookstore and being able to come home with something more than a meager paycheck, it was also the notion that you’d finally done something. You’d made a decision for your life, and you’d seen it through, and come January 19th with no extraneous tragedies, you’ll have succeeded. It wasn’t something you were used to, making a sure decision and seeing it to completion. Throughout the course of your program there had been so many times when you’d felt as if it was all a play-act, a game you were taking part in through each step and that eventually, the rouse would be up and you’d realize you weren’t actually passing your classes or enjoying the field you’d chosen for yourself or doing well at this thing you’d so agonized over the decision of. 

But here you are now. You’d committed to something and you’d seen it through and not only had you not coasted by, but you’d excelled to a degree that had gotten you a job you were extremely happy with. 

And amidst all this, there was also something about doing this and having the people in your life see you do this—having Din see you do this. Having Din see you commit to something and stick to it with your whole heart. You wanted him to know you were capable of such a thing. 

After the post office, he obliges you with a wander through the frantically busy Old Port streets. Picking up some last minute wrapping paper you’d been eyeing for the little box of earrings you’d gotten your mother, delicately hand-painted trees and golf leaf holly, some cigars for your father’s stocking. You purchase a box of assorted salt water taffy when his back is turned, large enough it should last him at least half the year, hopefully, considering the way he goes through it. And you stop to get a little cup of gelato to share between the two of you despite the twenty degree day. You walk slowly, your arm looped through his and your hands twined together, your fingerless gloves folded warmly into his fleece covered palms, protected. And this is how you best love being with him—sharing bites of sweet cream gelato from the tiny spoon held in his long fingered hands, he feeds you every other step—when he feels so yours. When he’s most like your boyfriend, and the whole world can see that the two of you are together so that it’s real, so that there’s proof and witnesses you can revel in. 

Perhaps it’s insecurity, this feeling. Low self esteem that demands constant reassurance. Perhaps it’s pride. Candid and unashamed elation you feel when people see the two of you on the streets together and know you belong to each other. 

He drives you over the bridge and into the Cape after lunch to pick up a package from your parent’s house that had been mistakenly delivered there. The place is quiet, neither of them home yet, but you can see the Christmas tree lit up and sparkling warmly through the large bay windows in the family room, your mother’s heirloom hand-blown ornaments backlit and glowing.

The kid is at a sleepover tonight, the last Christmas celebration for him and his friends before the 25th, smores and ghost stories and a game of white elephant. Making the most of your freedom, the two of you pick up large coffees before heading to the North Viewpoint to sit together for a few hours before Din has to head in for his shift at the bar. The sun begins to set at about four this time of year, and you’re able to catch the last fiery burst of it slipping beneath the water’s edge before you’re left in the murky darkness of the oceanfront. The horizon turns to a purple grey frisson you feel imitated in the over-eager beat of your heart. All there is to hear is the sound of your synchronized breaths and the furious salt spray crashing against the rock cliffs. It’s like you’re the only two people left in the whole world. 

It’s been a perfect day so far. 

Twin splashes of the Baileys you’d nicked from your parents house while Din hunted for your package, go into your coffees, and the two of you settle into a contented silence. The heater is on full blast, warming your frigid fingers and toes, while your Irish coffee melts you from the inside out. Makes you go all soft. The sweet of the drink makes you tipsy fast, and you eagerly go for a second helping from the thermos he’d prepared while he paces himself for his shift later. 

Frank Sinatra’s I’ll Be Home for Christmas comes on the radio, and Din drops your fingers he’d been playing with to turn up the volume. 

“This is my favorite one,” he says softly, reaching for your hand again and bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss against the quickly warming skin. Your fingertips buzz and tingle, suppressing a heart-set-to-burst sigh, and you want to say that it’s your favorite too, all of it. The two of you here together, the overwhelm of the water, so dark if you were to fall in you’d surely disappear off the face of the earth never to be found again. The suspended stillness of you sitting here before it. 

This is the neighborhood you grew up in, the exact spot you’d had your first kiss at thirteen and then clumsily gone to second base a couple years later with your highschool boyfriend. Din had found that small piece of your history endlessly fascinating, knowing he was sitting in the place of your ‘historic first fingering’. You’d tried to throttle him when he’d said that, flushing with embarrassment from head to toe, and then a flush of a different sort when he’d made you come on his own hand afterwards. And in record time, lest he be outdone by the competition of your teenage past. 

But it was true, this was a place significant to your history, and now, it had become a place the two of you found yourselves at often, together. The playground of your upbringing you’d been able to share with him as much as he’d allowed. All the times he’d driven you over the bridge to your parent’s house to spend the night—never coming in, but always kissing you soundly and waiting to drive off until you’d made it safely inside. It didn’t hurt your feelings, you wouldn’t let it, his not coming in. And anyways, you’d never formally asked him except for that time your father had thrown your mother’s fifty-fifth birthday party. A large and extravagant thing because he claimed double fives were lucky. Din had played dumb until the last minute, and then politely refused, sending flowers in his stead. You hadn’t been upset because you’d expected the refusal. He’d claimed he couldn’t find a babysitter, lied, but you knew it was a hard limit for him. The metaphorical line that could not be crossed. Whether that was because it would inevitably be a hallmark simply too serious and devoted to come back from. Or, and more devastating an option to consider, because it was too hard for him to see the happiness that still lived through your family, the care and love you and your parents had for each other. The closeness. You knew. You know. You could see it in the look in his eyes when he dropped you off once a week for family dinner and a sleepover, wine nights and board games and things he couldn’t understand. Saw the way he’d look up at you the moment before you’d open the front door, eyes full of yearning and hurt for parents who would never again be. A look that said he didn’t think he could ever belong to something like that. 

His twelve minute drive to drop you off was enough. It meant more to you than perhaps it meant to him, his bringing you to the doorstep of your home full of love and parents who were still alive. So you didn’t, wouldn’t, let it hurt your feelings, his refusal to join you. 

And anyways, your mother knew all there was to know about him. Your father, aware of his existence but unwilling to extend the benefit of his doubt or any sort of grace because he held it against Din that he’d never shown his face in their home. He couldn’t understand, thought that getting the chance to be with you should’ve been enough to cure whatever past trauma kept Din from committing himself fully to his little girl. Your mother was keener, though, more understanding. Especially after you'd run into him once at the grocery store together. He’d had to run in unexpectedly for last minute cookie supplies Grogu had conveniently forgotten to mention he needed for school the next day. And the way Din had blushed and stammered, shaken her hand no less than three entire times, babbling about how he was so glad he’d gotten the chance to meet her, the glaze in his eyes when he’d looked at you, like he was begging you to see how pleased he was, how ashamed, how confused and hurt and shy and out of his depth. How desperate he was to be approved of but how unwilling he was to let himself be. 

Your mother had held your hand afterwards, in the car on the way home, while you’d been unable to hold back a few helpless tears for the heartbroken boy you couldn’t help but love. And still, you promised yourself your feelings weren’t hurt. You promised yourself it was enough and that you could understand. 

He takes a long pull of his warm drink, and you watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, pressing your thighs together to assuage the tight heat in your belly. His cheeks are flushed with bright red splotches from the bite of the cold outside and the blasting heat of the car’s vents, the spike of whiskey, and you can see his eyes swing from one end of the dark ocean to the other. Wondrous, almost. You’d tell him you feel the same if you didn’t want to keep him. 

“What’re you looking at?” He says without turning, half smile and the flash of a dimple. 

“I think I’m buzzed already,” you mumble, cheek smooshed against the seatback. 

He laughs softly, corners of his eyes creasing so endearingly that your heart gives a stupid, pitiful throb. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Finally, he turns to look at you. You cross your legs tightly, can’t help it, and his gaze flashes briefly, knowingly, to your legs. “My little light weight. Can’t handle shit.” He chucks you under the chin, voice full of fondness, pinching the soft skin to pull you towards himself. 

“You know whiskey makes me drunk fast,” lashes fluttering as he presses a bitter sugared kiss to your mouth. 

“That’s your excuse for everything we drink.” You pout against him, breathing a don’t tease against his mouth when he kisses you again, changing the angle, deepening it, giving you his tongue. “It’s alright, I like you just the way you are.”

The sound of his favorite song throbs in your ears before it floats away, and then it’s just the sound of your heavy breathing again as you tug him closer by the collar of his sweater, wanting to pull him over the console and on top of you. His mouth slides a wet path over your cheek to suck on the sensitive spot beneath your ear he loves best, humming deep in his chest at the taste of you. 

Nothing has ever felt better than touching him. 

The hand at the back of your neck moves to your front, slowly pulling the zip of your jacket down; the sound loud and shocking amidst the heave of your panting. Despite the heater, you’re wracked with shivers as he pushes your jacket open and over your shoulder, cupping your breast as he sucks on your neck. 

“You gonna get in the backseat and fuck me?” He murmurs between wet kisses and a soft bite. 

He pulls you across his lap after your mad scramble between the seats into the back of his little 2008 hunk-of-junk Corolla, silver and shitty but reliable, according to Din. The space is too small for his tall frame, and the burst of biting cold that’s let in during his thirty second spin to join you in the back has you shivering against his broad chest. Long legs bent against your back and spread wide but allowing you ample space to sit on strong thighs. Now it’s your turn to taste him, scraping your teeth against the hard edge of his jaw while your cold fingers sneak their way under his hoodie, dragging your nails over the hard planes of his abdomen, pulling a gruff whimper from his throat. You spread your thighs wide, grinding down against the hard bulge in his jeans, finding the perfect angle to press your clit against the seam of denim. 

“Fuck, baby. Fuck me—” he moans your name and it’s the greatest sound in the world. Worth everything. 

Your kisses turn sloppy, desperate, fingers twisting tightly into his hair, pulling his mouth against yours until it hurts. And there’s something about the fact that no matter how many times the two of you do this together—whether it’s hard and fast in the back of a shitty car in the freezing cold or slow and deep and helpless, when he wakes you in the middle of the night, warm and naked in his bed, sliding over you and between your thighs, tasting your cunt before he’s pressing inside, needing inside of you—it’s always, always bursting with a sort of frenzy. A desperation, even in the slow, that helps make up for other things that might be missing—that proves a point. A promise in the way he touches you, like he’ll never get enough, like he’ll always want more, even if it’s just of this. 

When you pull him from his jeans, hot and heavy in your palm, his breathing goes ragged and the flush in his cheeks meets the hot splotchiness of lust crawling up his neck and over his jaw. His moan is broken, needy, head falling back against the seat and eyes rolling backwards, the soft curls around his ears damp with sweat. You lick your palm, gripping him tight and slick, twisting at the thick head as he tries to fuck himself into your fist, hips jerking helplessly. He’s yours like this. Gorgeous and vulnerable in the palm of your hand, moaning that you make him feel so good, that you’re doing it just right, that you’re his good girl. He wants you so much like this, gripping your hip with one wide palm, the other clutching at your ass to pull you in closer. You wrap your fingers halfway around the wide base, squeezing, other hand concentrated at the tip, working him round and round. You’d make him come like this, quick and sloppy in seconds if he’d let you, show him how good you are and how quickly you can make him feel better than anyone else ever has. 

But soon he’s demanding, “Inside. Want inside your cunt,” and shoving you sideways to rip your boot and one side of your leggings off, yanking the center of your thong aside to slick his tip against your swollen wet before he’s pressing against your entrance. All “Let me in. Let me in. You’re fucking perfect—” Chest heaving. 

He works himself inside slowly, in stuttered thrusts of his hips, moaning while he goes. Clutching at your hips and rocking you forward while he forces his way in from below. The sticky wet sound of your grinding against him, your clit rocking against his pelvis until you’ve taken him so deep the pressure is just this shy of painful so that you know you’re going to come quick and hard and wet. 

His hand snakes it’s way beneath your sweater, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers as he makes his way up your back, gripping tightly at the nape of your neck, squeezing, his other palm flat against the base of your spine to hold you imobile. Allowed nothing but the helpless jerk of your hips, chasing your pleasure, desperate for your orgasm while you feel him throb against the deepest part of you. 

“Please, Din.”

“Wait. Wait. Not yet. You feel so fucking good.” 

The sex is messy. He tells you he wants more. The wet sound of his thighs slapping against your ass as he starts to thrust again, gripping the swell of your bottom to bounce you on his cock, meeting each other on the up and down. In tune with one another’s bodies in a way you've never been with anyone else. Your cunt clenches tight, it almost hurts, and he laughs, bends his head to bite at your breast over the thick knit of your sweater. Please, baby, I want more. Hold on just a little longer. Your face and throat flush hot, burning, you can feel the sweat collect at your temples and along your spine as he tugs gently at your nipple with his teeth, fucks into you with snapping hips, the rock forward of your clit sliding against his hard stomach. 

It’s dizzying. You can’t help it. You come with a cry of his name, clutching him to your breast, wrapping your arms around his head as his bite turns reprimanding, “Fucking lightweight, I told you.” Another laugh that turns into a strangled moan when the heat of his come fills you as your muscles clench tightly around him. The gruff sound he makes: masculine, vulnerable again—the way you wish he’d always be—a mix of your name and a whine. Now that, that makes all the rest of it worth it. 

-

You’re supposed to meet Bo and her girlfriend for drinks at a new wine bar at half past eight. A cosy little place tucked into the cobbled streets of downtown you’ve all been desperate to try. She’d mentioned the plan every day for two weeks, giving away her nerves at the prospect of the three of you getting together. Likely afraid of your reaction at what you’re sure will be the announcement that she and Fennec are planning to move in together, news you've been expecting for a while and which you’ll take more than happily. They’re in love and your friend, who had always been known to be light and wandering as a butterfly in love, was ready to settle down and commit herself to someone she truly wanted to be with in a real way. There was never the possibility of your being anything but happy and excited for the two women. After all, you and Bo had been waiting for this for a long time, steadiness, commitment, a forsaking of that fear of forever you’d always found camaraderie in. 

And it only added to that keen sense the past few months had brought along, that the two of you were growing up in a real and immeasurable way. Your lives were changing, moving on, who you were as people was evolving. Leaving behind the last vestiges of your frivolous youth full of too much partying and more fun than anyone should probably rightfully have for something steadier, more reliable. Grown up. As much as you’d miss your friend, your housemate of the past five years, this move spoke well of what was to come for the both of you. 

Din makes the two of you a quick dinner before you have to part ways for the night—a creamy mushroom risotto and a crisp glass of white wine for you. The man likes to get you drunk and slutty. Watching him move around the kitchen, lithe and capable, makes you squirm for more of what he’d given you earlier, the sound of his moans in your ear and the wash of his hot breath against your throat while he throbs inside of you. 

The house is cozy, the warmth of the tree, the toys strewn across the living room floor, the precariously leaning tower of Din’s cookbooks at the edge of the kitchen counter, the overflowing pile of laundry on the sofa waiting to be folded and Grogu’s art pinned by spaceship magnets to the refrigerator door. Something you’d always admired in the way Din had taken on parenting his brother, the way he'd nurtured and preserved Grogu’s childhood, giving him the space and safety to be a little boy for as long as he needed without the pressure of feeling like he had to grow up too fast. Not the way Din had. 

He brings your dinner to you on the sofa, presenting it to you with a flourish of steam and his beautifully proud grin, like, look what I’ve made for you, aren’t I a nice boy? And the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, silverware clinking as you watch each other eat, giggling softly at one another for absolutely no reason other than that it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do together, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours. 

Then, one of the more bizarre aspects of life: how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next. 

“You and Greg should come to dinner at my parents tomorrow night.” You don’t know why you say it, or where it comes from. “My mom would really love to have you, and she makes a great Christmas Eve roast.” Probably because it’s simply the truth. You want him there, quite desperately. Both of them. And your mother had asked. Your dad too, why he wasn’t joining you all, why he didn’t want to. 

You suppose you also want to hear why he doesn’t want to. What excuse he'll give. 

He goes silent, fork halfway to his open mouth, and a stupidly shocked expression on his face you could slap off of him. 

Suddenly, you’re angry enough you could cry. 

“My dad got some really nice wine too, something about a two thousand ten harvest—he said it’s something real special,” you press. “Do you want to come? My mom can make up a room for you guys so you don’t have to drive back, and then on Christmas morning we can—”

“No,” he says abruptly. “We can’t. What are you doing?” He sets his plate down loudly on the coffee table, the rattle of his fork making you jerk. 

Your throat convulses around a swallow, your own plate held shakily in your lap. You should stop, but you feel ruinous. Half-full and ready to self implode. 

It had been such a perfect day, resplendent with that knick of time possibility. That maybe forever tease. But in the end, what is this casual intimacy, and why does it always feel like a wait in line for the execution block? He should want to spend tomorrow with you, let it be another perfect day. 

“Why not? Why can’t you?” 

“We have plans already.”

“What plans? You’re just going to be here. My father wants to meet you.”

“Well I don’t want to meet him. What is it that you’re trying to do here?”

You close your eyes, shaking your head quickly in a nod. Okay. Okay. Open your eyes again. “Okay. Then tell me what your parents were like.”

He jerks back in a flinch. “What?”

“Tell me. You’ve never told me about them before. Not really. I want to know what they were like. All I have to go by is a fucking photograph I had to rifle through your drawers for. Do you have traditions for Christmas they left you with? What were they like? Tell me, Din.” Your tone is perfunctory, cold and biting, too fast and not the tender sort a conversation like this requires. 

And he gives you a sort of look—one that asks, are we really doing this? But you’ve already decided you won’t let him get away with it this time. You’ll ruin it all if you have to. And you know he won’t ever tell anyone else, so he might as well tell you. Right? You, who knows and cares and asks. 

Who else will ask you these sorts of things? You want to say. Who else will help you remember? Who’s going to love you like I do?

Your gaze is persistent, and he nods once, swallowing acceptance, finally understanding what it is you’re doing—ruining it all. 

“What is any parent that’s gone like? Perfect in your memory. I don’t know… They were real and busy and kind and thoughtless. All the things all parents are. But they’re absent now. That’s all I'm left with, which I hate. They’re dead, and that’s all they’ll ever be and I resent them for it. What else do you want me to say? What would I do at your parent’s house? I don’t know what I…I wouldn’t belong—We wouldn’t—” His jaw is set in anger as he says it, choking on his stumbled words. 

Your chest aches with a repressed sob, and you refuse to blink and miss a single second of this. 

“What were you like as a child?” He looks at you like he can’t understand why you’re doing this to him. 

“Solitary, but not lonely.” I’m equipped for this in reverse, you think. “And then Greg was born, and I was a kid for only a very short time longer. Why are you asking me this? I don’t have anything for you but sorry answers. Is this really the shit you want to talk about?”

You clutch your plate more tightly. “I want to kn-know you. I—”

“You do!” His voice goes from measured to a yell very quickly. “You know me better than anyone else! What more do you fucking want from me? Jesus Christ—” he spits, shoving himself off the couch to pace away from you, running his fingers through his hair, agitated, angry. You’re never satisfied, he says at the wall. 

It’s true. You’re not. 

It’s helpless. You feel big and greedy. You’re never going to be able to stop wanting more. And you’d always told yourself, tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow, it will—he will—be different. Something will change because it has to, because everything always changes. 

But you realize in this moment that maybe the only change here has ever needed to come from you. 

You realize that you’ve been eating your own illusions for too long, selling yourself snake oil. 

“I don’t want to be alone in this anymore,” you tell him. “I want more.”

“But what? What more is there? You’re not alone, and I don’t—” he makes some choked noise of frustration, “This is all I have to give. Can’t you see that? I don’t know—” The look he gives you, palms out and pleading, like some infinitely lost boy—half abandoned child, half apology. 

“I don’t know either,” you cut him off, setting your plate down next to his with a surprisingly steady hand. 

It’s a lost battle, no more starry eyed sleight of hand, all the cards are on the table. 

When you look back at him you can see the emotion choked behind his eyes. That you’ve pushed him beyond the line of his own reasoning and into hurt. But his comfort had to become secondary to yours eventually. You couldn’t tend to it forever with as much care as you’d always done without hurting yourself. 

And everything has a breaking point. 

“Maybe I wanted you to think of someone other than yourself for once.” You see the blow land. The snapping bone, wrong-thing-said reaction. It’s a lie, after all, you know it. A terrible lie, a terrible thing to say to someone who has so obviously given up everything and their whole life, their youth, for the sake of another, and done so gladly. 

Perhaps a wiser person would take this as reasoning enough for Din’s behavior. For his lack of ability to give more of himself to a relationship. Perhaps for someone more mature or with more experience, with a greater sense of self, it would be obvious, the fact that a person who’d lost so much of themselves so young found it hard to love, to give themselves over to partnership and the sort of commitment needed for a fully functioning adult relationship. But you can’t, or choose not to see it anymore. Perhaps you’re tired of fighting, of working so hard for it. Perhaps you’re tired of waiting. 

His face turns away like you’ve struck him, and for a long moment he doesn't turn back, but when he does there’s anger almost like hate, and his eyes are wet with tears. You wish you could be cruel, laugh in his face, but your own drip from your chin as well. And anyways, it’s so shocking there isn’t any room for cruelty. 

You go gasping fish silent, until he says, “I do. It’s just not you.” The salt lie drips from his long lashes and he moves, turning away from you towards the Christmas tree you’d picked out and decorated together, the gifts for his brother you’d chosen and wrapped with him. 

“What did you want here? From this?” Maybe he means the fight now, but what does it matter compared to the whole mess and lie of this entire fraught ordeal. 

“Well…” you stand, moving for your purse on the kitchen table. There is, in everyone, a limit to the amount of pain you’ll put up with for love. You can’t ever know the limit beforehand, but once you’re there, you know, and then it’s impossible to move the line. “I figured you’d love me.”

The word out loud is shocking, never before been said. 

You hear his stuttered breath, the way your words might make him angry. Throwing this lacking of his in his face—his inability to love the person who loves him. You think you should tell him that you’ll hate him now, but you’ve never been a talented liar. You think you should ask him if it’s such a bad thing, to want his love. But you know he won’t have an answer. You know he doesn’t believe he has it in himself. 

You move towards the door, pausing at the mouth of the hall to their bedrooms. The lopsided ‘Greg’ sign tacked to the kid’s door. The ‘E’ had been haphazardly turned into an ‘O’, a ‘U’ scribbled on at the end, the slip of the shaky marker bleeding out messily onto the wood of the door at the tail end of the letter. Like the child had been hasty in his vandalism and slipped, afraid he’d be caught by his older brother. 

It makes you smile dimly. 

And below that, in a green meld of water colors and marker and crayon, depicted in a manner so lovely it could only come from the imagination of a child, a drawing of the three of you together, stick-figured and holding hands. 

Like a family. 

“We’re eating each other alive,” you whisper at the imagination family. He moves forward, his socked footsteps towards your turned back.

You’re truly crying now, unable to hold back the sob of grief, of too much time wasted and a loss of yourself you’ve yet to fathom the depth of. He’s looking at your face again, finally, and you think, let this be the last time. Let this be the end of it now so that I’ll never have to feel like this again. 

He’s crying too, and you want to be angry at him, at the lie you have to take it for. He cannot cry and not love you back. It’s not possible. 

“Is that it?” All you can manage is a half nod that dislodges the cold tears clinging to your chin. “We had a good run,” he says like an almost question, and looks at you very sadly—tiny flame of struggling hope about to die. A held breath: should I go with grace? sort of look-back. But the gleam in his eyes, like he really might care, like this hurts, like he might feel anything—there are no notions of valor left. 

No benevolence to be found in this moment. You’re very tired. “Did we?” Head cocked to the side gracelessly. If ever you could hurt him the way you’ve been hurt here, now would be the time. The last chance. 

“Maybe not.”

We were so close. We almost had it. You’re so, so tired. You could sleep for an age. 

You take your hurt and go after that, not entirely understanding what it is that’s happened here between the two of you, why you’ve wrought it so suddenly. Also, relieved. That finally, everything’s been ruined for good. That there might be rest now. 

Christmas comes, neither one of you calls, there’s nothing else left to say. 

2. LOVE.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[crsssie]

Thinking of childhood friend!Leon after wolfie's fic

childhood friend!Leon who grew up making dirt cakes in your backyard, muddied face matching yours when his aunt gasps in horror, wiping the mud on your faces with a frown as you both giggle

childhood friend!Leon who sticks around you in elementary school, punching a bully in the face in middle school, and sticking mostly to himself in high school outside of your immediate circle

childhood friend!Leon who has a copy of your housekey from your parents, coming over unannounced sometimes

childhood friend!Leon who does college apps with you, applying to all the colleges that you do to try and go with you — your mom says it's better for you to have someone you know in uni

childhood friend!Leon who almost marries one of his heartbreaks, well aware of all that's coming, abandoned engagement ring and letter unsurprising. Not to him. Not to you.

childhood friend!Leon who calls you, twenty-one and single, groaning into his phone about how he had fucked up. Too young for this, he cries. should've been honest with you. He mumbles.

childhood friend!Leon who shows up at your window drunk at 3am, deciding he should be honest for once.

"Hey."

"Hey." You open the window, raising a brow at Leon in the tree. "What are you doing here? You still have the housekey."

"Your parents would kill me if I broke in this late in the night." He mumbles.

"What brings you here?" You rest your chin on the palm of your hand, squishing your cheeks upwards as Leon mumbles.

"I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"I." He pauses. "It's fine. I just. I missed you. Couldn't wait until tomorrow."

"Is that all?"

"Let's go out." He dangles his car keys in front of you, tempting you as you raise a brow.

"In my sleepwear?"

"I have a jacket in the car." He whispers. "Please?"

"And where would we go?"

"The park." He mumbles.

"My parents will hear your car."

"You're a legal adult."

"Their rules under their roof."

"Then we can walk."

"Not scared of getting mugged?"

"In the suburbs? With my gun?"

"Forgot about that."

"So?"

"Sure."

Leon helps you down the tree, catching you and handing his jacket to you, the two of you racing down the street in a fit of giggles as the nostalgia fills him. It's incredible, he finds. The two of you are seven again in summer, summer breeze pinching your cheeks as you both make it to the park. Leon's home with you again. Leon's home again.

You land in the grass, wet from the cold, and Leon stands over you, crouching as you raise a brow.

"What's wrong?"

"I missed this."

"I did too." You smile. "What did you want to say?"

"I'm not allowed to just call you out at 3am?"

"No. I know you knocked for a reason."

"And you answered."

"If not to you, then to who?"

Leon looks down at you, rolling into the grass next to you, sighing with his whole chest as he stares up at the stars.

"I really just missed you."

"It's about the break up, isn't it?"

Leon stares up at the sky, closing his eyes as he wonders how he should say it. He's already the asshole in two stories, he can't really do anything worse.

"You're not going to like hearing it."

You sit up, glancing down at him.

"I think I know what it is."

"I like you."

"I know."

"I was stupid."

"I know."

"I..." Leon goes quiet, closing his eyes as he groans. "I don't know why I did this." He's met with silence, opening his eyes to stare at you, heart breaking in his chest. "I'm so awful."

"You are." You offer him a pitiful smile. "You were awful for putting her through that."

He closes his eyes again. "She's not mad, though."

"The anger has long simmered down." You stare at the streetlight. "She knew. I knew. We all did."

"And no one said anything."

"What could you say?" You close your eyes. "You like me. We all knew that. What were we supposed to tell you?"

"I'm awful."

"And drunk." You finally notice the alcohol coming from him. "You have your shift at Raccoon tomorrow, no?"

"Just let me." He pauses, exhaling. "I need to start clean. You'll always be the love of my life, but I... I know you won't want me after all of that."

"I know." Your feelings don't matter. Leon needs to let go.

And in the morning, Leon leaves your place without another word, house key left on your desk, window open and car missing. You don't miss him anymore, occasionally meeting back with him when he visits his aunt, catching up over coffee, but history long in the past.

And somewhere in the past, had he been just a little quicker, you would have told him you liked him too.

[cameronsbabydoll]

i want to take a second to address something i see often in the tags and comments about sugar-coated chains specifically the “why doesn’t she just leave rafe?” and “she has no self-respect” takes. and i get it. from the outside looking in, it feels obvious. you see a man like rafe who’s controlling, manipulative, emotionally distant and you want the woman in the story to pack her bags, take her kids, and walk away. but the reality is… that’s not how these kinds of relationships work. it’s never that easy. not in fiction, and especially not in real life.

i’ve been in a relationship like this before. and it took me a long time to even realize i was in one. when someone builds your world around them, when they control the money, your routine, your friendships, and even how you see yourself—it’s like being in a room with no doors. and when you finally find one, you’ve been made so scared, tired, or unsure that you can’t bring yourself to walk through it. people forget that abuse doesn’t always look loud or obvious. sometimes it’s sugar-coated. sometimes it looks like love, protection, or stability. sometimes it’s wrapped up in a white dress, a big house, and a husband who calls you “his world” while quietly isolating you from everything else.

reader doesn’t leave rafe because this series is meant to be realistic. and the truth is: a lot of women don’t leave. not because they’re weak or stupid or lack self-respect but because they’ve been taught to believe that this is just what love is supposed to look like. because they have children. because they have no money of their own. because their sense of self has been chipped away so slowly that they don’t even recognize the girl they used to be. and even when they do realize it, the idea of starting over feels more terrifying than staying.

reader is not going to leave rafe. not now, maybe not ever. and that’s the heartbreak of it. sugar-coated chains isn’t about empowerment or freedom it’s about the quiet tragedy of being stuck in something you never truly consented to. it’s about the pretty cage. and while that might frustrate some readers, it’s a reality for many women and that’s why i’m telling it this way.

[meinkatzchen]

And some more q/a! I'll take a break for arts and requests ♥ I will answer the rest as soon as possible, forgive me (っ- ‸ - ς)

It's interesting to think about, really! But I honestly can't imagine it being something dramatic and heartbreaking, it would rather be an AU in the genre of light romance and dark humor, probably. I just don't believe that people with such intertwined destinies could just replace each other and throw each other to the side of the road, it would devalue a lot in their path. In a long-term relationship, it works a little differently. The replacement would work if she or Fox wanted to change something, they would like to get what they lack. And so, in my head, the fox and the cat live very harmoniously, they have a lot in common, in a relationship they both feel natural and express their feelings openly + the idea that Mist could cooperate with Fox, sending him new people from the Cult as slaves for auction, doesn't leave my head. You could say they even have a family crime business, lol

But since this is AU, I imagine it as their possible, most likely stupid, quarrel, where both will be wrong, after which they will proudly and stubbornly go their separate ways, not wanting to see each other. And Fox will stay at his place, and Mist will go to the forest base of his cult. And I think that each of them is so unaccustomed to loneliness that they will very quickly find a "pet" for themselves, who would be similar either in character, or habits, or appearance, a "cheap substitute" for their previous partner, and this would happen involuntarily (…and hilarious, as for me, especially imagining how Mist would constantly force poor guy to wear an anal plug with a fox tail, and Fox would sometimes force a girl to wear a white shaggy wig, this cheap for cosplay xD ) But these two would still have a connection and a contract for the export of new followers of the cult, so I think that willy-nilly, the fox-beastkin would still meet with the cat-beastkin at business meetings, fly in a helicopter to her base or she would come to him, etc. At first, these would be dry business meetings and they again would not want to see each other because of their pride and anger. Then all this would gradually develop into rare memories of some moments from their common past, and with them comes longing and nostalgia. Then casual sex. Then sex for old friendship is no longer casual (yes, they are still in a quarrel). Then Mist will go into heat and Fox will lose his mind.

BUT WE HAVE A LINE WITH "PETS" NOW, to whom I personally would shift the focus.

Therefore, while their owners are having fun and pretending that they don't care, their two slaves gradually begin to get to know each other better and begin to feel sympathy for each other, because they really found something in common in each other, found soulmates in each other. And their love will gradually become an impetus to bring the master and mistress to more frequent meetings, because the more often Fox and Mist see each other, the more often these slaves will see each other, finding solace in each other. And it would be something like Ren and MC during Strade's life, version 2.0. History is cyclical, after all.

In short…not really. I have this inner conviction about the characters that there are key crises that cannot be avoided, as if they are carved under their skin, like fate itself. And if someone is destined to die or to fill a certain empty niche in the world and in life, then it will happen, regardless of whether some of the input data is changed.

In my story, her fatal mistake was to fly to Canada for a couple of weeks during the university holidays to look after her relatives' house while they went on holiday. Sonia's father decided, purely out of good intentions, that it would be a good idea for her to see a new country, although due to her timidity, she did not want to and was still going to spend all her days at her aunt and uncle's house. If she had managed to insist on her own, to stay home, she would have simply continued studying at the University of Law, and, eventually, would have gone on a career as a lawyer, working hard and having an excellent natural instinct of her father on how to win cases. True, her rose-colored glasses would have quickly shattered right in her eyes, because she would have started to defend not only the innocent, but also different clients, from thieves to murderers and rapists, which could have hit her hard mentally.

But one day, under the pressure of emotions in the car, she would have had an accident, with a fatal outcome, after which her resurrection trigger would have worked. This would have become her crisis, from which everything would have started to change. Even Mist's personality would gradually change, she would gradually become more confident, cunning, brazen and more cynical, so that after decades she could become a rather popular lawyer in criminal circles, and her "immortality" would help her overcome the fear of persecution and assassination attempts, but it would also create many new problems for her.

Complete isolation from the outside world. Complete isolation from other people. Destruction of everything that was connected to her, every little thing, everything that could leave her contribution to history. She must not be spoken to. Her face must not be seen. Gradually, they will begin to forget that she existed, and when the last person who remembered her dies, she will simply disappear. All this can happen soon, or it can drag on for years, but, ultimately, her life will end.

Thanks a lot!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡♡♡

[luveline]

Would you write a fic with either Eddie or spencer about reader being ghosted by someone they genuinely thought was into them (not speaking from personal recent experience or anything😅🥲) but they’re in love with reader and comforts them?

“I thought we had a nice connection,” you mumble dejectedly. 

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “A connection? With him? He was five foot three.” 

“Eddie, that’s not nice. I don’t care how tall he was.” Your voice disappears into the cushion you’ve decided to lay face down on, your back a shuddering slope he wants to reach out and touch. “I don’t care about that. Much. What’s important was that he–” You lift your flushed head, eyes rimmed with teary wetness. “He was so nice to me, and he didn’t pressure me into anything, and he brought me flowers without me having to ask. He was nice.” 

“Your standards are so, so low,” Eddie says. 

You grumble and force your face back into the pillow. Eddie should be nicer. He wants you to feel better, and he hates seeing you upset, but if you’re sure that guy was your soulmate Eddie’s selfish enough to wish he’d stay gone. “Hey,” he says, finally putting his hand on your back, though the touch is for you rather than him. He loves you as your friend just as much as he wants to be more than that, and he doesn’t have any intent now but to get you smiling as he bends down to talk near your ear. “It’s okay. You didn’t need that guy, just like you don’t need any guy. You have me. I love you to pieces.” 

“I know, Eddie,” you say softly. “Just sometimes I want more, you know? I love you too, but I want a partner, I want a lot of things… I really liked him.” 

Eddie can picture the heartbreak quite clearly. “You want the picket fence, right?” 

“What?” 

You again raise your head. Eddie meets your eyes with a hesitant smile. “You want the white picket fence. The little two story house with a wrap around porch, or a backyard big enough for the kids to play in, the kids to play in it.” He licks his lips. “Or not. You don’t have to have kids, right? Anything would be enough if it was just you and…” 

You frown unhappily, and Eddie thinks shit, I’m making it worse, but you say, “I always thought you’d wanna live in an RV, travelling the country. You want a picket fence?”

Eddie shrugs self consciously. “Sure. I also want a games room and a five thousand dollar loan.” 

You look at him long and hard. “You've always said that stuff is dumb.” 

“It is dumb. Seeing you all torn up over some jagoff who probably can’t tell his hand from his dick is stupid.” You laugh and turn your head to lay back down again, cheek pressed to soft velvet. “That’s stupid, babe. Let’s give up on stupid things and– and stop crying over boys who don’t deserve you.” He can’t stop himself, says it too hotly, “He didn’t deserve you.” 

You're hard to read, still as a statue with your hands pressed under your heart, but at least you aren’t crying anymore. You nod against the pillow. “Okay,” you say hoarsely. 

He flushes white hot. “Okay. Good… That was exhausting.” 

You roll your eyes at his complaining and he pats himself on the back, sure he’s gotten away with it again. He completely misses the strange looks you give him from the corner of your eye, too focused on giving you the world's best, totally not too friendliest back rub. 

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Over Mountains Cold

Kili Durin x Reader

Words: 4931

Summary: On a quest for your family, you and your traveling companion get caught in a winter storm in the Grey Mountains. Your true feelings for your best friend come to light when you struggle to make it through the chilling night. 

Notes: The heater in my room is broken and the image of cuddling with Kili to get warm is just really nice to me, okay? I will use Aidan Turner to dissociate before I contact ever maintenance. (also, why can’t I just write fluff? Why does there have to be the angsty backstory of losing siblings? The world may never know)

Warnings: Kind of a chaotic plot. An ungodly amount of sexual tension. I don’t make the rules. 

-

Fili gave a final wave as he disappeared over the ridge, taking the ponies with him. His brother tried to calm the pit in his stomach. Not only was Fili off to retrieve more supplies alone, but the cold was setting in. If he didn’t make it to the next village by the time the snow started, he would get stuck out here. 

Just like you were. 

“We should go,” You sighed. “We’ll want to set up camp before it gets dark and I want to search the foothills to the east before the sun goes down.”

Kili looked up at the sky. “It’s going to be a cold night.” Already, his breath came out in puffs from his lips. “Maybe we should stay here until morning. It’s lower, so it’ll be warmer and the snow hasn’t reached us yet.” 

You stiffened and turned determined eyes towards him. “I won’t waste any time. If there’s a chance of finding my sisters out here, I’m taking it.” 

You waited for him to argue or tell you how foolish you were. Winter was on the horizon and these mountains would be impassable in the coming weeks. But your friend merely gave you a small smile and put a hand on your shoulder. 

“Then lead the way.” 

You wanted to kiss him. Well, you often wanted to kiss him, but in that moment, with his eyes full of trust and belief in you, no words could express your gratitude. But, coward that you were, you settled for a pat on the arm and an awkward nod. 

“Right. Follow me.” You hurried away from him before you could do something stupid. 

You’d known the dwarven princes for most of your life. Having grown up near the Blue Mountains, you spent a lot of time with Durin’s folk, listening to their stories, celebrating their festivals, and causing a little chaos with your two closest friends. You couldn’t count the times Kili and Fili had gotten you into some kind of trouble, but surely they would say the same thing about you. 

The younger prince walked beside you, telling you legends of ridiculous creatures living in these hills, trying to make you smile. It worked, of course. Between his grin and a bit of theatricality, he never failed to lighten your moods. 

Kili was your best friend. He was there for every prank, every adventure, and every heartbreak. When your village was attacked by raiders three years ago, he spent weeks tending to your injuries and trying to hunt down the people who’d hurt you. 

That’s when they were taken. Your two older sisters, Maryina and Baeriel. Sometime during the battle, those foul men came to your home and stole them away. You were nearly killed trying to defend them. Everyone told you they were dead. Even your parents didn’t have the heart to keep looking after so long, but you wouldn’t give up. You knew they were alive. Kili was the only one who believed you.

“Do you remember what you told me?” You asked suddenly. 

Kili turned his head, hazel-brown eyes bright in the afternoon sun. His brows furrowed with curiosity. 

You elaborated. “When I said I was going to find them. I said I’d search the whole of Middle Earth if I had to. What did you say?” 

Kili beamed. “I said ‘Well, you’re not doing it without me,’” he remembered. “‘You’d get lost.’” 

“Exactly,” you laughed. “And, I do believe that you lead us down more a stray path than I, dear friend.” 

“But we always found our way in the end, didn’t we?” Kili grinned. 

“That we did.” 

The two of you fell back into a comfortable silence with something heavier hanging between you. 

Grass swayed with dying breaths, green turned to dry white. Ahead, towering peaks capped with snow loomed like a massive, foreboding gate. You watched them with growing unrest. Kili’s shoulder brushed against yours as you walked as if just to remind you he was there. 

The afternoon stretched and yawned. The sun began to hover. With every passing hour, the more the light sank, so did your hopes. Your search in the foothills yielded nothing. Not even the remnants of a possible settlement. 

“They aren’t here,” you said. You ran a hand down your tired face, eyes scanning the vast landscape, the mountains at your back. You turned to Kili. “What if…”

You’d come here on a rumor that the raiders who took your sisters had a base in the Grey Mountains. But that’s all you had to go off of- rumors. 

“It’s the first day.” He gave you a reassuring smile. “We’ll keep looking.” Kili scanned the dense woods at the base of the mountains, hoping for some signal of smoke or any other sign of life. There was nothing. But he wasn’t going to give up hope and he certainly wasn’t going to let you. “Come, let’s set up somewhere to sleep. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled. “But if you’re saying you need to rest, then I suppose we can pitch the tent.” 

He rolled his eyes playfully. 

“Last one to the trees gathers firewood,” he challenged. The mischievous dwarf took off before you had the chance to process what he said. 

“Hey!” You called after him and ran as fast as your legs could carry. 

-

Usually, the three of you always camped out under the stars, but knowing how cold it would be, you brought a tent to provide a little shelter. But laying there, so close to him, the fabric barrier between you and the night sky seemed suffocating. 

It wasn’t the closest you’d ever been, of course. There had even been some nights where you found yourself asleep on his shoulder after a long day or he would doze off with his head in your lap. There was just something about this- something about the two of you enclosed together, alone- that felt different. 

You laid completely still, screwing your eyes shut, but your mind refused to rest. The form beside you shifted back and forth, twisting and turning. Kili grunted in frustration and turned onto his back. 

“Y/N?” He whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Unfortunately.” 

He blew out a breath. “We should sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. We’ll have to find some food in case Fili gets holed up somewhere.” 

You hummed and nodded. 

Both of you stared up at the slanted ceiling of the tent, not moving and not speaking. The tension alone chilled you to the bone, making you shudder. 

“Are you cold?” Kili asked. 

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure, because I have an extra fur-”

“Kili, go to sleep.” You huffed, shifting to your side away from him so he couldn’t see the painful want in your eyes. 

Kili was more than just your best friend to you. He was your first love, the only person you’d ever loved, really. You’d had suitors in the past ask for your hand, but you declined them all. Your heart was no longer yours to give away. But you could never bring yourself to tell him. He was a prince, after all, and what were you? A nobody. 

You blinked away tears and curled up as close to the tent’s wall as possible. 

So close together and yet you couldn't feel more distant. 

-

The next day yielded even less results. The further you got into the mountains, the less hope you had that you were going in the right direction. The Eastern Pass took you higher in elevation and further away from Fili with the supplies. 

“Wait.” Kili stopped suddenly, putting a hand out in front of you. “Listen.”

You halted, the frostbitten ground shifting beneath your boots. At first, the slight breeze was all you could detect, but as the forest stilled, the subtle yet clear sound of hooves carried on the wind. 

And they were getting closer. 

“Get down.” You grabbed the collar of his coat and pulled. The two of you tumbled into a bush, losing your balance in your haste. Kili hit the ground. You fell onto his chest, knocking the breath out of both of you. 

Kili grimaced. 

“Sorry,” you whispered. Your faces turned a similar shade of pink, both trying to hide it from the other.

The familiar thudding against the forest floor increased in speed and volume. From your position, you could just see through the foliage that kept you hidden.  Kili craned his neck, blindly trying to get a glance. 

“Can you see them?” He asked. 

“Shh.” 

You kept your head low as you stared out. Watching. Waiting. As the horses neared, you decided there couldn’t be more than three. 

“We could take them,” you whispered, looking down. But the sight of Kili lying beneath you, hazel-brown eyes staring up into yours with his hair a mess below him was too much. It sent a burning, twisting feeling through your stomach. You looked back up at the road. “There aren’t many. We could fight and force them to tell us where they took my sisters.”

“Are you mad?” Kili hissed, shifting underneath you. His hips rocked up into yours by accident. He sucked in a breath. “It could be innocent travelers going through the mountains. Or worse, there could be a dozen fighters and we’d be dead in seconds.”

“Since when are you the cautious one?” You scoffed, ignoring his movements and prepping yourself to pounce. 

Kili locked his arms around your middle and rolled. He had you on your back before you could stop him, pinning you to the forest floor with his hands on either side of your head. 

“Since I’m trying to keep you from getting yourself killed,” he growled. 

Relieved that your hips were no longer pressed against his, Kili had put himself in another predicament hovering over your body, his lips mere inches from yours. 

It shamed him to think of how many times he’d imagined you like this.

He waited until the riders were past, counting three, just as you said, but they seemed only to be a father and his two children, both under the age of 16. Kili doubted that these were the raiders who had destroyed your home. One of them mentioned something about getting over the pass before the storm, which made him uneasy. 

Despite the heat of your bodies, the air was indeed growing colder. Clouds were gathering and a crisp, cool scent hung in the air. 

Kili stood and held out a hand to help you up. 

You didn’t take it. 

“We need to keep moving.” 

He swallowed. “We should head back to lower grounds. If we get caught in the pass, who knows how we’ll get out.” 

You didn’t look at him. Instead, you continued up the path. “I wasn’t asking.”

-

Kili walked behind you, neither saying a word. He saw the tension in your back shifting like you were already in battle. He only wished he could relieve at least some of the weight that bore down on your shoulders. Witnessing you in such pain hurt him more than he knew how to express. That, unfortunately, wasn’t the only thing he struggled to put into words. 

It had taken Kili long enough to finally admit his feelings for you to himself, but it was taking even longer for him to admit them to you. Fear wasn’t something that usually stopped him- he’d faced trolls and orc packs a dozen times over- but the idea of jeopardizing his friendship with you frightened him to no end. 

Still, lying there, pressed against you, had drummed all of those feelings up to the front of his mind. They distracted him from the real issue at hand and he tried to remind himself that you need him focused. You needed a warrior, not a love-sick errand boy. 

“If we keep at this pace, we can make it through the pass by morning,” you said grimly. 

Kili exhaled, his voice deep with concern. “Y/N, you need to rest.” 

“I need to find my sisters.” 

You kept walking. 

Kili kept his arguments to himself. Starting a fight now would only make you angrier and he didn’t want to risk you going off alone. 

He let out a low sigh. Being the responsible one was exhausting. 

Kili watched the sun with a concerned eye and discomfort growing in his stomach. His breath appeared in a cloud from his lips. But worse, flecks of white sent panic up his spine. The snow speckled the branches of the pines around them and added to the already thick blanket of frost that coated the ground. The further up, the deeper the snow banks. 

“These flurries won’t be flurries for long,” he warned. 

“We’ll make it.” 

You refused to turn back to look at him. If you did, you knew that one look at his face would make you forget your persistence. You would turn around and head back down the mountain and have to start all over again in the morning. So you kept your eyes ahead, despite the growing shiver down your spine. 

Besides, it was only a little snow. You and the brothers had faced worse on numerous occasions. 

Kili quickened his pace to take his place beside you again. 

“This way,” he said. “I’ve heard a shortcut through this pass.”

You raised a brow. “You’ve heard of one?”

“We’re here based on a rumor, aren’t we?” He retorted. 

You shrugged as if to say ‘fair enough.’ 

Kili took the lead as the air thickened with white flakes. The shortcut, while it existed as far as he knew, was not the true purpose of his change in direction. He’d read journals telling tales of adventures through these mountains and he remembered a checkpoint for many. A cave where they could take shelter from winter storms. He only hoped it was real. 

You began to regret your stubbornness as the cold seeped through your coat, the snow falling thicker and thicker, decreasing your visibility until you could see but a mere few feet in front of you. 

In a blink, the blizzard set in. 

You trudged on. Eyes blinded by white, you walk straight into the mass in front of you. Your companion’s warmth drew you in and you couldn’t help but press yourself against his back. His arm wrapped around, searching for yours. 

“Take my hand!” Kili called back to you. 

You did so without hesitation, wincing at the chilled state of his skin. 

“We’re nearly there!” He shouted over the wind. 

“That’s impossible! We haven’t even made it through the pass!”

“You’ll see.” 

Trust was the only thing you had left, your senses overtaken by the storm. And then suddenly, it stopped. Kili pulled you forward and the choking white curtained the opening of the cave behind you. Wind howled, but no longer deafened. 

“You knew this was here?” You gasped through chattering teeth. 

Kili gulped. “I hoped.” 

“You hoped?” 

“You kept going!” He held out his hands, fingers stretched and shaking with his words. “I didn’t know what else to do!” 

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” You ran a hand down your face, wincing at the freezing surface of your own skin, as well as the exhaustion overtaking your features. You paced back toward the blinding white outside. “We’ll stay here until the storm blows over and then we’ll keep going.” 

Standing at the opening of the cave, the wind still chilled you to the bone. Still, you watched, as if your sisters would magically appear and welcome you into their warm arms. 

As the image passed through your mind, you were gently pulled away from the wind by a hand as cold as yours, and yet it sparked the warmth that you needed. Kili placed a hand on your cheek, turning your face to his. 

“You’re exhausted,” he said. “We cannot afford to be careless. Not out here. We’ll go out again in the morning. You need to rest.” Before you could argue, he added, “We both do.” 

With the fog of determination outweighed by fatigue and frost, you sighed in defeat, hanging your head. 

“Alright,” you conceded. 

Kili put a finger under your chin and lifted your eyes. He gave you a small smile to which you couldn’t help but reciprocate. 

“Come on. We should set up the tent. It might not be much, but it can’t hurt.” 

Your chattering teeth gave no argument. There was no wood for a fire, the smoke would fill the small space anyway, so the thin cloth was your only added defense against the cold. 

Once inside, you both felt the same pull towards each other, your bodies craving the heat of another. But you stayed on the far side, as far as you could get, mind clouded by icy, frozen fear. Kili didn’t say anything, trying to ignore the ache in his chest as he tried to sleep. 

Your eyes couldn’t have been shut for more than a moment when you heard them. 

“Y/N!” 

“Y/N! Where are you?” 

You blinked to clear the tiredness from your eyes and listened. 

“It can’t be,” you whispered. 

“Y/N! Y/N!” 

Maryina and Baeriel. 

You listened again. 

“We’re here! Help us!”

Your sisters. They were out there. They were trapped in the storm. They needed you. 

You sat up, tossing aside the coat you’d been using for a blanket and ignored the bitter air seeping through your tunic. You didn’t feel it. You didn’t see your companion sleeping across from you. You didn’t hear the wind as you stepped out of the tent. You only heard your sisters’ cries…

And stepped out into the blizzard. 

-

Kili twisted and turned. As hard as he tried, sleep never stayed. He dozed off only to drift back, trying not to shiver. 

“I can’t sleep again,” he sighed. Kili flipped onto his other side. Rubbing his tired eyes, he opened them. The bundle of furs beside him took an odd shape. 

Empty. 

“Y/N?” 

He sat up and reached across the tent, feeling nothing but frigid air. Kili lifted his head, panic banishing any exhaustion left in his limbs. 

The untied opening of the tent flapped in the wind. 

“Y/N!” He called out. 

The storm screamed in response. 

He scrambled out of his bedroll and sprinted into the night. Fat, white flakes stuck to his face and eyelashes no matter how much he blinked them away. 

“Y/N!” He shouted again. 

Kili walked, trying to keep the cave in sight. The blizzard raged around him, concealing even the silhouette of the trees. He cried out your name again and again. With every passing second of silence, his chest grew tighter. 

Why would you have gone off alone? 

What if something had taken you?

There was no way for Fili to reach the cave until the storm settled, which meant he was completely and utterly alone. 

“Y/N!” 

It felt like hours before the wind let up and even then, snow continued to fall and the air turned even colder, creeping down Kili’s neck like a thousand icy-legged spiders. 

There, in the distance, he could just make out a shape, wandering and covered in a thick, frozen blanket. 

Kili ran as fast as his aching legs would allow, his boots sliding on the ice-coated ground. No matter how loud he shouted, it was as if you couldn’t hear him. You trudged on, the snow almost reaching your knees. You didn’t even have your coat. If he didn’t get you out of this cold, you would surely be lost to the white nothingness that surrounded you. 

“Y/N, what are you-” Kili moved to grab your arm and found that your eyes were closed. Ice stuck to your face where tears had fallen and your blue lips muttered the same two things over and over again.

“Maryina…. Baeriel….” 

Kili’s heart shattered like an icicle falling to the earth. 

“Y/N, love, wake up,” he pleaded, gently taking hold of your shoulders. He had to stop himself from recoiling. Even through your tunic, you were like a statue, freezing to the touch. “We need to get back to the cave. I need to get you to a fire. I need to get you warm.” 

Already, you looked like a walking corpse. 

But your eyes were starting to open.

“K-Kili?” You muttered through chattering teeth. “What’s going on? I’m so…” You stepped forward, falling against him. “I’m so cold.” 

Kili didn’t hesitate. He scooped you up into his arms, holding you tight against his chest. He followed his own footprints as they were slowly being covered again by the falling snow. By some miracle, he made it back to the cave. He hurried into the tent, wishing he had the material for a fire. For now, all he had was hope. 

“I heard them,” you said, still dazed. “I heard their voices calling to me in the storm.” 

“And you followed it?” He gasped, quickly undoing the fastens of his coat. “Are you mad? Even if they were out there, you’re no good to them frozen to death.” 

Kili shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around your shoulders. 

“No, Kili.” You tried to push him away, but he was stronger, fueled by panic and determination. “Kili, you’ll freeze.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said harriedly. He tied the entrance of the tent to keep out the frigid wind and laid down, gently pulling you along with him. Kili rubbed his hands up and down your arms, careful to keep the heap of furs wrapped tightly around you. He held you against his chest, his tunic slightly undone so you could feel the heat of his skin against your cheek. 

As his warmth broke through the icy surface that suffocated your entire body, your mind started to clear. It started to wake up.

And when it did all you could see was his wide, golden-brown eyes searching yours with a fire you’d seen a few times before. Once when you’d been separated from him and his brother for a week on a particularly stressful journey and the other when your village was attacked and your sisters were taken. Each time, he looked as though he was looking at the sun for the first time. 

At the time, you didn’t understand, or perhaps you didn’t let yourself understand. You understood now what that fire meant. 

He was, and would always be, your shelter. 

Like magnets, you somehow were drawn together still, despite already being impossibly close. The air between you was hot with your breathing. Everything seemed to stand still, from the raging winds outside to the racing heart inside your chest. 

Neither of you said a word, an entire conversation held simply in the lock of your gazes. 

Kili’s hand cradled the back of your head, laying it against his chest. You felt the soft, sweet warmth of his lips on your forehead. 

Despite the hauntings of your mind, your heart gave you leave to rest in the strength and comfort of Kili’s embrace, allowing both of you to slip back into the persistent reach of slumber. 

-

The storm blocked the pass by morning and, without any equipment, there was no way to get over. It had all been for nothing. 

Fili found you halfway back down the mountain, the pony’s back covered with more supplies. 

“What happened to you two?” He asked.

“We couldn’t find them,” you snapped, hurrying ahead of both of them. 

Fili turned to his brother. 

Kili shook his head. 

Your party of three traveled until you found the nearest tavern and the boys made you stop for the night, watching exhaustion seep into your every step. 

Dinner was had in silence with an air hanging so thick that Fili felt he would choke on it. He could never imagine the two of you fighting- he knew that his brother would never forgive himself if he ever hurt you. But he also knew Kili’s true feelings towards his best friend and Fili couldn’t help but wonder if something had been revealed while he was gone. 

“We’ll start up toward the northern villages in a few days,” Kili said. “It’ll give us some time to rest, regroup, and plan.” 

You stared at your plate. “What’s the point?” 

Both turned to you. 

Kili’s eyes softened. “Y/N, you don’t mean that.”

“They’re gone, Kili.” You blinked back tears. “We could search until the end of time and we still wouldn’t find them.”

“Then to the end of time we will look because I am not giving up,” he insisted. His dark eyes took on that glimmer from last night, igniting something within you. 

Your nightmare wasn’t the only thing that frightened you. 

“I’m going to my room,” you said, pushing away from the table. Your form disappeared up the stairs with the gaze of both princes trailing after you. 

Kili sighed, running his fingers through his long, dark hair. 

“You just going to let her go?” Fili scoffed. 

“What would you have me do?” 

Fili shook his head and took a drink of his ale. 

Kili narrowed his eyes. “What?”

His brother raised a brow. “Y/N is the most stubborn, persistent, devoted woman I’ve ever met. She isn’t giving up on looking for her sisters. She’s worried about continuing the search with us.” 

“What?” Kili exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

“Kili, brother,” Fili sighed. “I’m saying maybe my absence was exactly the two of you needed and you’re both still avoiding what I’ve seen for as long as we’ve known Y/N.” He finished off his ale and snatched Kili’s away before he could protest. “Now go talk to her.” 

Kili swallowed, staring at the steps. It took one final shove from his brother to actually get him to stand up and move. 

As he ascended the stairs, Kili thought about everything Fili had said. What did he mean, his absence was what you two needed? What did he know that Kili didn’t? 

Of course, the younger prince knew exactly what his brother meant. He’d always known, even when he didn’t know how to admit it. But waking up in that tent, the panicked thoughts of you out in the storm, alone, the terror of losing you to the ice and snow, and holding you in his arms to keep you warm all revealed exactly what had been in his heart all these years. 

He loved you. 

Perhaps Fili was right. 

Maybe it was time to finally tell you. 

Kili found your room and stood before it for a good long while. He tried raising his hand to knock, but he was just… frozen in place. 

What if this was a mistake? 

What if decades of friendship fell apart in this moment?

What if-

The door opened and his heart stopped. 

You startled back at the sight of his big brown eyes. The eyes you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. The ones you wanted to get lost in and never be found. And he was there, waiting for you. 

You both opened your mouths to speak and stopped, waiting for the other person, leaving you both in a tense silence. The same tension from the tent. The one that drew you together, closer and closer. 

“Kili, I-”

His lips caught yours, silencing the words you still weren’t sure how to say. You let your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, closer still if that was even possible. Every moment, every breath from the last few days had been leading to this. And all either of you could think was one word. 

Finally. 

And as Fili watched you pull Kili into your room, kicking the door closed behind him, he was thinking the same thing. 

“Finally,” he muttered, shaking his head as he went to his room, glad to have it to himself for a change. 

-

Kili’s lips brushed against your forehead, the rest of your body completely tangled with his. Your arms wrapped around his bare chest, your legs wound between his, and your head was tucked under his chin. Your naked skin burned against each other but you never wanted it to stop. 

And between every sigh, every pleasured cry or whispered word came one phrase. I love you. 

He said it again, now. “I love you.” 

You turned to look up at him. Into those eyes. The gaze that captured you more and more every time. 

“And I you,” you said, kissing his collarbone, then his jaw, then finally his lips. “I have loved you ever since you taught me to shoot an arrow through the apples on our tree.” 

Kili grinned, deepening the kiss and moving so his face hovered over yours. 

“I’m still not giving up, you know,” he whispered. “We will find your sisters. And we will do it together.”

You wrapped a brown curl around your finger and nodded. 

“I know. Before, I was just… scared.” You turned your head away. “That storm took me to a place I don’t want to go again.”

Kili laid a hand on your cheek, bringing your eyes back to his. “I’ll keep you safe.” He kissed your forehead again. “I promise.” 

After letting the seriousness of your words settle for a moment, you grinned mischievously and rolled so that you straddled him. 

“We should have tried this sooner,” you smirked. 

Kili laughed and rolled again, putting him back above you. “It’s certainly a good way to stay warm.”