#because that whole wall gets damp | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itneverendshere · 4 months

Text

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE - rafe cameron (+18)

request: "a rafe enemies to lovers 🫣 the reader is jjs sister the whole drama before but then she gets left behind on the ship and rafe ends up comforting her and then yea that’s all I got you can do whatever else the rest 😛" + "def some little smut during the enemies part and a long story"

WARNINGS: maybank!reader; kidnapping; smut!; violence!; rafe is a red flag; guns and blood; p in v;

word count: 8k

part ii; part iii; part iv; part v; part vi; part vii (finale)

The sun dipped low, painting the Outer Banks marshes in shades of fiery orange. Tensions between Kooks and Pogues had hit a fever pitch, and in the middle of it all? Rafe Cameron, the last person you'd want to encounter. Ever.

Every run-in with him left a bitter taste in your mouth. It was like he had a knack for getting under your skin. Arrogant, volatile, downright psychotic — Rafe was a walking disaster. Each interaction with him sucked the life out of you. You were convinced that nothing good could ever come from being around him. And yet, there you were, another Maybank, caught in the chaos of the island's most influential family feud.

You knew the risks, but loyalty drove you forward. And now? Well, now you were in deep shit.

Your plan had been reckless, driven by the desperate need to save Sarah from her deranged family and retrieve Pope's stolen cross. Everything had gone smoothly until chaos erupted, and you found yourself abruptly yanked away from the corridor by a strong grip on your arm, before you could even call out for your brother and Kie.

Another hand clamped over your mouth, stifling any attempts to scream. In a blur, you were dragged into a dimly lit cabin, the men's hold on you unyielding. Struggling was futile and stupid against his iron grip. He tossed you inside, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him.

The gravity of your situation hit hard immediately – you were alone, at the mercy of the Cameron's. Ward Cameron, the man who'd silenced anyone who dared oppose him, even going as far as faking his own death, kidnapping his own daughter, and manipulating his son into committing murder. Because in his sick twisted world, family trumped everything. Even murder.

Great.

Your mind raced as you took in your surroundings. The cabin was small and sparsely furnished: a bunk, a tiny porthole high on the wall, and a single chair bolted to the floor. There was a faint hum of the ship's engines, a reminder that you were far from land and any chance of immediate rescue. You quickly checked your options but there weren't many. The door was solid, and you didn't have anything strong enough to force it open. Fuck, fuck fuck.

You took a deep breath, trying not to lose your shit. Panic wouldn't help; you needed a plan. But then, like a nightmare come to life, the devil himself stepped into the room, his eyes piercing as they landed on you. The man who had captured you stood behind him, a smug grin on his face.

Rafe was visibly surprised to see you, but he quickly concealed it behind a calculating expression. His forehead glistened with sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his temples. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through from the scorching heat, and beads of perspiration trickled down his face. He wiped his brow with a weary hand and his gun gleamed ominously in the dim light.

"Well shit,” Rafe's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Look what we have here. Didn't expect to see ya again so soon pretty Maybank.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your mind was racing with questions. Where were your friends? Were they safe? Was your brother even alive? Before you could ask, Rafe continued, his tone mocking.

"Your brother really did a number on you, huh? Left you behind without a second thought. Typical Maybank shit. Always knew you were unreliable."

Son of a bitch.

You clenched your fists, fighting to keep your composure. "You're lying," you countered, "He wouldn't leave me."

Not unless he was forced to.

Rafe chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. "Believe what you want. They left. Now, you're my problem. Lucky me."

“You’re lying.”

His eyes gleamed with a dangerous glint as he walked towards you.

You took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. The cold, metal wall pressed against your back, mirroring the chill that settled in your bones. It felt like you were being hunted.

"Now, what am I going to do with you?" he mused, tilting his head as if genuinely contemplating your fate. The gun in his hand swung lazily at his side, but you knew better than to think it wasn't ready to be used at any given moment.

You swallowed hard, your mind frantically searching for a way out of this hellhole. He was unpredictable and volatile; years of snorting cocaine and family trauma did that to some people.

But maybe, just maybe, you could reason with him. You were always a litte too good for your own good.

“Rafe, listen. You don't have to do this. Let me go and we can both walk away from this. No one has to get hurt."

Again.

His laugh was bitter, like you were trying to humor him,"You think I'm going to let you go just because you asked nicely?" He stepped closer, his breath hot against your face. "Nah. You're going to stay right here until I decide what to do with you.“

You tried to keep your breathing steady, but all you felt was fear.

The odds were against you, as they had always been your entire life.

"What do you want, Rafe? The cross? We can make a deal."

His eyes narrowed, the amusement fading.

"You think this is about money? About that fucking cross? This is about power. Control. And right now...huh, shit, I control you." He leaned in, his voice a deadly whisper. "The cross is mine now. How do you feel about the Bahamas?”

Your top lip curled in disgust, “I’d rather drown.”

His smile twisted into something even darker. “I think you’re worth more alive, at least for now.”

You refused to show him any more fear. “To you? Or Ward? Do you only get this cocky when daddy’s not around to rein you in?”

Rafe’s expression hardened, and for a moment, you thought you’d pushed him too far. He leaned in close, his eyes cold and unforgiving.

“Watch your fucking mouth, Maybank. You don’t know anything about my family.”

You laughed bitterly, unable to stop yourself. “Yeah, no. You're right. Just that you're dad’s little lapdog, doing his dirty work while he pretends to be some upstanding citizen. And where’s your mom in all this? Oh! She left.”

The punch came so fast, you didn’t see it coming.

Pain exploded across your jaw, and you tasted blood. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You don’t fucking talk about her, dirty pogue. Ever.”

Anger took over you like wildfire, hotter than the pain. Your jaw throbbed, but the rage was stronger. You wanted to hit him back, to wipe that smug look off his face, to make him feel the hurt he had inflicted on you. Your fists clenched at your sides, every muscle in your body burning with desire for retribution. The fury in your eyes matched the darkness in his.

You spat blood at his face, glaring up at him defiantly. “You’re just a puppet. Your sister hates you, your dad uses you, and deep down, you know it. You’ll never be more than his bitch.”

His grip tightened painfully, rough fingers digging into your flesh, lips twitching into a snarl, but you didn’t flinch. If you were going down, you’d go down fighting.

His eyes flickered with something you’d never seen in him, before he released you, stepping back. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? So tough.”

“Smarter than you,” you shot back. “At least I know who I am. What are you, Rafe?“

He stared at you, tongue pressed against his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. Then he laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent chills down your spine. His hand reached out, and your breath stilled throat tightening as he fiddled with a lock of your hair. He’d let out another laugh, entirely dismissive of the way you’d felt.

“You’ve got guts, Maybank. It's gonna get you killed.“

You wiped the blood from your mouth, “I’ve survived worse than you.”

And you had.

If anything prepared you for violence, drugs, and pain, was living with Luke Maybank your entire life. And maybe, if you didn’t hate Rafe with every fiber of your being, after everything he’d done, you’d feel sorry for him. But you didn’t, and he sure as hell didn't feel sorry for you.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the low hum of the ship’s engines. Then Rafe turned on his heel, motioning to the man by the door. “Watch her. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Do I look like fucking Michael Phelps? Where the fuck would I go? We’re on a ship you crazy bastar—Hey! Rafe! Open the fucking door!”

The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the small, dimly lit cabin. You listened to his footsteps fade away, feeling a sense of dread settle in your chest. What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? They could kill you, dispose your body in the ocean and no would care. No one would think you’d gone missing, because you were a Maybank and that’s what your kind of people did, apparently.

Your brother would probably assume you were dead, he’d try to get justice and fail in the end, because the rich always won.

The musty air of the cabin felt oppressive as you turned away from the small porthole, where the bright sun and endless expanse of blue ocean mocked you from beyond.

The days melded into one another, marked only by the delivery of meals and the sporadic presence of Rafe. You had hoped for some clarity, some hint of what your future looked like, but his visits offered nothing but insults or complete silence.

You paced the small room, your mind racing with the possibilities of what they had planned for you. The guard remained a silent sentinel, a constant reminder that escape was not an option. But then, the cabin door creaked open again, and you tensed as Ward Cameron stepped in, his presence commanding immediate attention.

He gave a nod to the guard, who stepped out, leaving you alone with the man who held your fate in his hands. A fucking lunatic with enough means to play for all the dramatics he enjoyed. Great.

"Get comfortable," Ward announced, "We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"The Bahamas," he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "A little slice of paradise, if you will."

"And what happens then?" you pressed, needing to know more.

Ward studied you for a moment, “Keep out of sight, stay quiet. Rafe and I have some business to attend to, and we can't afford any distractions."

"And if I refuse?" you challenged, though you knew the answer.

Ward's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. You knew he enjoyed watching people squirm around like worthless worms.

"Let's not be stupid, sweetheart. You're here because you know too much. Refusing isn't an option. Cooperation, however…”

A chill ran down your spine at his words. The answer was very clear, and you realized that your only chance was to play along, at least until you could figure out a way to escape this nightmare.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Eventually, you felt the ship slow, the engines quieting as you approached your destination. When the door opened again, Rafe was there, that stupid frown always attached to his face.

"Time to go," he said simply, motioning for you to follow, "Move."

You stepped out onto the deck, the warm, salty breeze hitting your face as you looked around. The sight of the lush, tropical landscape did little to ease your anxiety. You were led to a smaller boat, and soon you were speeding towards a secluded island, the main landmass of the Bahamas visible in the distance. You were a world away from the familiar streets and faces of The Cut. It was straight out of a postcard. Something you and JJ would fantasize about while high of your asses and writing bucklists.

God, JJ. You only hoped he made it. You’d never gone a day without each other before you were dragged into this mess last summer. It wasn’t fair. You only wanted enough money to get by, an easy fix to get everything sorted, finish college, ship your dad somewhere far away from you two. But Ward’s greedy ass had to ruin everything for you.

As the boat neared the shore, you couldn't ignore the feeling of impending doom. Were you going to die there? In between pristine beaches and swaying palm trees?

Rafe’s hand gripped your arm, his grasp tight as he led you onto the sandy beach. Ward followed close behind, as he surveyed the scene before him.

"This way," he said, his voice cutting through the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

You followed obediently, your mind racing with possibilities. Escape seemed unlikely, but you there was still a slim hope that you could find a way out of this mess. Eventually.

The path led deeper into the heart of the island, the dense foliage casting long shadows as the sun began to set. You could feel the weight of Ward and Rafe's gazes on you, watching their prey.

Finally, you reached a clearing, and your heart sank as you saw what awaited you. A small house. In the middle of nowhere. Oh god, you were a dead woman.

“This will be your home for the time being" Ward said it like he was offering you a vacation rental and not kidnapping you. A lunatic.

You wanted to protest, to demand answers, but you knew it was futile and there was little fight left in you from how tired you'd been feeling.

“Rafe will be keeping you company."

The way Rafe’s head snapped in his father’s direction told you more than what you needed to know. Once again, daddy dearest was calling the shots without taking his opinion into consideration.

Ward’s casual cruelty was suffocating, a reminder of the power he had over everyone. As he turned to leave, leaving no space of negotiations or pleadings, Rafe’s eyes bored into yours. No questions asked, only blind devotion to his father.

The door slammed shut, leaving you alone with Rafe once more. He looked at you, resentment playing across his face, like this was your fault and not theirs.

“I’m not going to make this easy for you," You hissed, “I’m not dying here. Not with you.”

Rafe chuckled, greasy bangs moving as he shook his head, “You really think you have a choice here?” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space, “You think you’re special? Nah, Maybank. He’ll get rid of you eventually, don’t worry.”

“Exactly. He will, not you. You don’t have any control either and I think you hate being here as much as I do. That shit makes us both prisoners.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off guard, “Stay out my fucking way or I’ll kill you myself.”

You were sure he wouldn't, only if Ward asked him to.

He’d fucked up enough before, when he accidentally shot Sarah and didn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. You knew he wouldn’t do it again, not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulder and his trust fund. Ward Cameron hated slips ups, hated even more the monster he raised, but he sure came in handy when he needed him.

"Empty threats," you shot back, squaring your shoulders. "I've dealt with bigger monsters than you, Rafe."

He only started at you, eyes bloodshot red, perhaps from the lack of sleep or maybe because he was high off his mind, you didn’t care to ask. But just as quickly, his usual sneer returned. "Enjoy your stay, Maybank.”

With that, he turned and left the room. Him and the stupid slamming of doors. You were alone again.

You had to get out. You knew it wouldn't be easy, but you were a Maybank—survival was in your blood. You took stock of your surroundings once more, this time with a sharper eye. The walls were thin, the windows barred, but there had to be some weakness, some way to exploit the situation.

You ran your fingers along the seams of the walls, looking for anything that might give. Your mind raced through every piece of advice JJ had ever given you about breaking and entering. You’d done a lot of that over the years, and while most people thought you pogues were simply criminals, they never cared enough to ask why you and your brother spent so much time in and out of the sheriff’s department.

So, what if two dirty, no-good kids were barely hanging on for dear life? No one gave a shit.

Weeks blurred into each other, each one marked by the same routine.

Rafe's visits, Ward's passive aggressive threats, and the endless search for an opportunity to escape. You watched Rafe carefully, noting his every move, his every interaction with Ward.

You noticed the way Ward belittled him, treating him more like a tool than a son. It was a toxic dynamic, one that made you wonder if Rafe was as much a victim as you were. You’d seen bits and pieces before, but Sarah had described Ward as some sort of saint up until recently.

Rafe on the other hand? Their dynamic was so different from what you were used to. You and JJ were like two peas in a pod, you’d die for him and you know he would do the same, no questions asked. If there was one good thing in your life, it was your brother.

You couldn't help but feel a little pity for Rafe, despite everything he'd done. He was a product of his environment, molded by a father who saw him as nothing more than a means to an end. It was easy to spot the cracks in his armor if you spent enough time in the same room, the secretive moments of doubt and vulnerability. The way his hands would shake every time Ward raised his voice, the way he would bite his nails to hide the embarrassment booming in his cheeks. How he never walked into his father’s space or any other room without announcing his presence.

It gave you whiplash.

You began to argue less with him, your animosity giving way to a grudging understanding. You hated feeling so…forgiving. This boy had done unspeakable things to you and your friends, to your family…and there you were. Feeling sorry for him like you didn’t know better.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the small house, Rafe brought you dinner. He placed the plate on the table, his movements tense, his expression unusually subdued. Strangely so, you’d memorized that expression. You didn’t even have to ask to understand what had gotten under his skin.

"Why do you let him treat you like that?" you asked, your voice softer than usual. You didn’t understand why you did it. You regretted the words the moment they came out of your lips, but there was something inside itching you to ask.

His eyes snapped to yours, rage and something else—pain—flashing in them. "What the hell do you know about it?" he snapped, but there was less bite in his words. At this point he just sounded tired.

"I understand,” you replied, thinking of your own father. "I know what it's like to want to prove yourself, to be more than what they think you are."

Rafe's jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to the floor. For a moment, he looked lost, like a boy searching for something he could never find.

"You don't know shit," he muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice.

"I know enough," you said quietly. "You don't have to keep doing this. You don't have to be his puppet."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "You think it's that simple?"

"Maybe not. But you can choose to be better than him. You can choose to stop this.”

Rafe looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time. It was borderline unnerving. The weight of his stare. The way your stomach flip-flops under his attention.

“Shut the fuck up and eat, Maybank."

But beneath it all, there was something else. Something you’d seen before, when you looked at yourself in the mirror after you took the biggest beating of your life and Luke finally got thrown into jail: hope.

He didn't say anything, just turned and walked out, leaving you alone.

Again.

The days continued to pass, but something changed. Rafe was less hostile, more contemplative. He didn't treat you as roughly, didn't hurl as many insults. It was a small change, but it was there. And you began to see a way out, not just for yourself, but for him too.

You knew what he did, knew what he was capable of, but no one deserved to rot in hell with someone like Ward. You needed to bide your time, to wait for the right moment. And when that moment came, you had to be ready to act.

Another day began with the same oppressive humid heat. The sun had just started to rise, casting golden hue over the island. You were in the small kitchen of the house, preparing a meager breakfast from the limited supplies you had that day. The routine had become almost mechanical, a way to keep your mind occupied and stave off the panic.

Rafe entered the kitchen, eyes barely open as he wiped the sleep away. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass breaking the silence. Very healthy.

He stood with his back to you, staring out the window.

“What’s Luke like?”

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion. It was an unexpected question, one that made you want to hurl on the spot even though you hadn’t had anything to eat yet.

“Why do you want to know?" you asked cautiously, wondering if it was some kind of trick question.

Rafe shrugged, still not turning to face you. "Just curious. You Maybanks are a tight bunch, right? So what's he like?"

Tight bunch…that was one way to put it.

You took a deep breath, trying to decide how much to reveal. "He’s a drunk, a thief. But he's still my dad."

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes narrowing. "So why do you stick around? Why not just leave him?"

You knew what he was trying to do, giving you a taste of your own medicine. You couldn’t blame him.

"Because he's family. And sometimes, family is all you have. Even when they’re terrible, even when they hurt you, sometimes you can’t just walk away."

"Family's supposed to be everything, right?" His voice carried a bitter edge, hinting at his unresolved inner conflicts.

"That's what they say," you replied quietly.

He took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. "Must be tough, having a dad like that."

Tough? It was heartbreaking. Knowing that the one person who was supposed to love you, cherish you and protect you for life never gave a single fuck about his kids? Yeah, sure it’s “tough”.

"Guess we have that in common.”

Rafe looked away, his jaw tightening. "Yeah, we do." He set his glass down with a heavy thud, the sound resonating in the small kitchen.

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, but then he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"I get it," he said quietly. "More than you know."

You watched him, the way his fingers ran along the rim of the glass. "Then why do you keep doing this? You don’t have to."

“It's not that simple," he snapped. "You think I have a choice? I killed someone. For him.”

It was the first time he had said those words out loud. And it made him sick to his stomach. That he’d been scared and high enough to do something so reckless, just so they wouldn’t take away his dad.

"We always have a choice," you countered, "Maybe not the best ones, but we can always choose to be better."

He shook his head, turning away. "You don't know anything," he muttered, but there was less conviction in his words than before.

"I know enough," you said softly, watching his retreating back. "And so do you."

He paused at the doorway, his hand gripping the frame tightly.

Without turning around, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "I'll see you later."

As he left, the kitchen felt colder, but you knew you had reached him, even if just a little. And that gave you hope.

After that, Rafe’s visits were less frequent, and when he did come by, there was an uneasy tension between you both. You couldn't tell if it was because of your last conversation or the sheer exhaustion of being trapped in this toxic cycle.

Still, every interaction seemed to chip away at the walls he'd built around himself, revealing little glimpses of the person he might have been, had his life taken a different path.

Tonight, the air is still, the only sound is the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. You have been biding your time, watching for the perfect moment to make your escape. The house is quiet, Ward is gone and you haven’t seen Rafe in two days. By now, you know how the guards outside fell asleep before 2am like clockwork.

You can it.

This is your chance, and you can’t afford to waste it.

You move silently, slipping out of the small bedroom and into the hallway. Every creak of the wooden floorboards seems to echo in the stillness, and you hold your breath, praying you won’t get caught.

Your heart races as you slowly turn the handle of the front door, wincing at the faint click that accompanies the action. Once outside, you glance around, ensuring the coast is clear, then make your way towards the small boat moored at the edge of the beach.

The plan is simple: get to the boat, start the engine, and head for the main island where you could find help.

You keep low, moving quickly but cautiously, like a cat. The boat is within reach when a noise behind you makes your blood run cold.

The crunch of gravel underfoot is unmistakable.

You turn sharply, and in the dim moonlight, the silhouette of one of the guards emerges from the shadows. The asshole who got you here in the first place. He’s closer than you had anticipated.

Your heart pounds, adrenaline moving through your veins as you break into a sprint, abandoning stealth for speed.

"Stop!" the guard shouts, his voice carrying across the trees. You don’t dare to look back, your eyes locked on the boat. A sharp crack split the night—a gunshot. You feel a searing pain in your arm, but you can’t stop. You push through the pain, your goal now just a few yards away.

Another gunshot rings out, but you are too focused to notice where it lands. You reach the boat, hands trembling as you fumble with the ropes. The pain in your arm intensifies, but you force yourself to keep moving, when suddenly, a heavy hand grabs your shoulder, spinning you around.

You struggle, kicking and thrashing, but he’s stronger. He pulls you to the ground, pinning you down as he radioes for backup. It feels all to familiar. You hate very second of it.

"Got her," he says into the radio, his terrible breath hot against your ear. You try to wriggle free, but his grip only tightens. Moments later, two more guards arrive, hauling you to your feet and dragging you back towards the house. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The sting in your arm is painful reminder of your failed attempt as they pull you inside, your brief taste of freedom slipping away. You were so fucking close.

Moments feel like hours as you sit in the chair, the pain in your arm throbbing with each heartbeat. They didn't even try to stop the bleeding.

The quiet murmurs of the guards outside are interrupted by the heavy, hurried footsteps of someone approaching. The door flies open, and there stands Rafe, disheveled and wild-eyed, a gun clutched tightly in his hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” he barks. His gaze scans the room, landing on you.

The sight of the blood staining your arm makes his expression shift from bewilderment to fury.

He storms towards you, his eyes blazing. “What happened?” he all but demands.

Before you could answer, he whirls around to face the guards who re-enters the room. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Rafe shouts, waving his gun erratically. “She’s bleeding! I try to sleep in peace and this is what I come back to?”

The guards exchange nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably under Rafe’s glare. “She was trying to escape, Mr. Cameron,” one of them stammers out. “We had to stop her.”

His expression twists with rage. “So you fucking shot her?” His voice drips with incredulity and disdain. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? My father wants her in once piece.”

The guard who caught you tries to explain, but Rafe cuts him off.

“Shut up. Just... shut up.” He turns back to you, his eyes softening slightly as he takes in the sight of your injured arm. Or maybe the pain is making you delirious.

“We need to get that cleaned up,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Without another word, he holsters his gun and gently takes your uninjured arm, pulling you to your feet. The guards look on, unsure of what to do or say.

Rafe shoots them a deadly look. “Get out,” he snaps. “Before I shoot you bitches myself.”

Once Ward’s men leave, Rafe's demeanor changes. His concern, which had briefly softened his striking features, making younguer, hardens back into anger. He runs a hand through his long hair, pacing the small room before finally stopping in front of you.

He looks pissed.

He sneers at you, his voice dripping with exasperation, "I thought you had some brains in that pretty little head of yours," he spats out, practically screaming in your face, "What were you even thinking? Do you realize how close you came to getting yourself killed?"

You try to speak, to defend yourself, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His words come fast, "You could've died out there! A bullet barely missed you—do you even understand how lucky you are?"

The monologue doesn't stop there.

His fists clench at his sides, "I just don't get it. Do you think you're invincible? Because you're not. You're just..." He stops himself, taking a deep breath as if trying to control his temper while he paces around th room, unable to stay put, "You're just reckless," he continues, his voice quieter but still seething, "You didn’t think about the consequences, about what it would do to..."

What?

"Don't act like you give a shit about me," you call after him, your voice trembling. You don't know if it's the pain or the weird pull in your stomach making you feel all weird and fuzzy inside.

He stops in his tracks, his back stiffening for a moment before slowly turning to face you,"I don't," he retorts, "But my ass is on the line too. You think Ward won't come down on me if something happens to you?"

You take a step towards him, despite the throbbing pain in your arm, not buying his bullshit speech.

"So this is all about you, then? Your precious ass and how it looks to Ward? Typical Cameron bullshit, only caring about themselves."

Rafe's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. "You don't know what you're talking about," his voice is dangerously low. "You think this is easy for me? Keeping you safe, dealing with all this? It's not just about me. It's about keeping everything under control."

You scoff through your nose.

“Here we go again. Control? You think dragging me back here, shooting at me, is control? It's chaos, Rafe. You're just as trapped as I am, and you can't stand it."

His face twists showcasing his wrath, and he takes a step towards you, closing the distance.

"Shut up!” he growls. "You don’t understand the pressure I'm under. The expectations, the demands. I didn’t ask for any of this."

"And neither did I," you shoot back, a strict finger aimed at his face in warning, “So shut the fuck up.”

He takes another step, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. You think this is just about me? It's about keeping everything from falling apart. It's about—"

Before he can finish, you grab the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer, your faces almost touching.

“I don’t care about your excuses, Rafe. I don’t care about your pressures or your fucking control. All I know is I’m not staying here.”

The look he gives you was filled with enough ire to have a hint of satisfaction sparking in your chest, the hollow beneath his dark brows deepening as his pretty features contorted. His breath comes in short, sharp bursts. His hands come up, gripping your waist, not gently but not roughly either, as if he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"You're impossible," he hisses, like the snake he is.

"And you’re a coward.”

The next moment happens without much thinking. Without any thinking, really.

Rafe’s grip tightens, fingers didding into your skin and before you can process what is happening, his lips crash into yours with a ferocity that you never saw coming. His mouth is demanding, almost punishing, and you, like an idiot, kiss him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you want to push him away.

The kiss is all rough and desperate, there's only room for anger and frustration, a collision of two souls too damaged to recognize the depths of their own pain. You should know better.

And yet, beneath the layers of animosity and resentment, there is a stupid spark—as if you are both too messed up to understand how much you need each other. Each fingertip of his leaves an imprint wherever he touches, a silent declaration of the strength he’s restraining. And some sick twisted part of you finds that attractive.

It’s like he’s fighting to contain this fury within him, to keep it from overwhelming you both. But you want it.

If someone told you you’d be kissing Rafe fucking Cameron of all people just a month ago, you’d think they were crazy. And yet…

All you want are his hands on your body, his warm skin against your own.

Oh his hands.

They roam slowly over your lower back, over your waist again. You breathe out a sigh of relief, taking the collar of his shirt in both your hands as you pull him closer, relishing in his warmth. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes. And while you grew up hating that particular combination, it worked on him.

He pulls away slowly, your lips the last to part, and blinks down at you. You watch him lick his bottom lip, swollen, wet with both of your spits, taking in the sight of you.

“’You’re bleeding—“

“Shut the fuck up.”

His blue eyes flare with renewed anger, turning almost black—something darker, more primal. Your words are like a match to gasoline. He doesn’t answer verbally; instead, he takes a half step back before swooping you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly.

With a swift motion, Rafe carries you to the dining table, and you barely have time to register the cool wood against your back before he’s on you again, his body pressing down on yours with a desperation that matches your own. There’s no tenderness there, only raw need.

He pries your lips apart again, his tongue sweeping in as he kisses you deeply, his mouth moving invasively over yours. His fingers grip your jaw with a vice-like hold. A strange sensation flutters beneath your skin, and you wrap your legs around his hips, closing the distance between your bodies as he presses flush against your center.

His hands move with such intent, slipping under your shirt, his fingers tracing every curve with a delicious blend of roughness and urgency. Your hands tangle in his hair, urging him closer as your kiss deepens. Everything around you fades into background noise as the room spins, his body so close making you breathless, his taste lingering on your lips.

You tug at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons because you just can’t wait. He lets out a deep, sexy growl that makes a shiver run down your spine. His hands are all over you, touching your skin and leaving fiery trails wherever they go. It feels like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, wanting to claim you in a way he hadn't before.

"You're impossible," he mutters against your lips, the words barely audible over the sound of your heavy breathing. He leans down closer to your collarbone, to catch the scent on your skin, and he can’t tell if you are amused or annoyed from the way your cheeks round.

"And you’re an asshole,” your voice comes out breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours slightly "Drive me fucking crazy.”

"Good," you reply, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him down again. You can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding back on you, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

But you don’t want control. You want to lose yourself in this moment, to forget everything you've been through and just feel. Live a little and forget about your problems.

Rafe seems to sense it, his hands becoming more insistent, his touch more possessive. He lifts you slightly, positioning you better on the table, his body slotting perfectly between your legs. The friction is exquisite, a delicious tease that leaves you wanting even more.

"Rafe," you breathe, and he almost falls to his knees at the soft whimper that leaves your lips, unable to stop the jerk of his hips forward.

He responds instantly, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer as he kisses you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. The table creakes under your combined weight, but neither of you care. Your hand grab his forearm, over the veins strained from his grip on you, your nails sinking into the skin exposed.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your eyes locking with his. There’s a wildness there, and for the first time in your life, you like it.

You reach up, tracing his jaw with your fingers, feeling the grown out stubble beneath your touch as his mouth, hot and demanding, leaves a trail of fire in its wake on your neck. A noise of pleasure slips from your mouth as he palms at your breast, thumb grazing across your nipple as his teeth graze your collarbone, kissing down, littering your skin bite marks.

"I hate you," you pants, pouring as much venom into your words as possible. Your thighs tighten around his hips, feeling every inch of him against you.

“Your body doesn’t,” He replies coldly, each syllable slowly drawn from his throat.

“Fucking asshole.”

“Fucking brat.”

You open your mouth to hiss something at him, to fight back, show him that you are the one in charge, but the intention dies the moment Rafe cups you through your shorts.

A pathetic excuse of shorts due to the heat.

Heat blooms in your stomach, melting into a torrent want that floods your skin and leaves you breathless. His determined blue eyes pierce into yours, watching as he presses the heel of his palm against the apex of your thighs, his middle finger tracing your pussy and applying light pressure to the sensitive dip between your legs.

“Cat got your tongue, pretty?” He asks, lips brushing over your mouth, loose bangs brushing against your brow “Thought you had more fire in you.”

He moves your shorts and underwear out of the way and your lips part on a sharp inhale as you feel him touch you for the first time. You can't think properly while he's doing this. Your brain feels to mushy to form a proper sentence.

“Yeah, thought so.”

All that matters is the man in front of you, his relentless grip on your senses, his control over your body.

"God, I hate you," you whisper again, the words almost a prayer, a futile attempt to cling to the anger that has fueled you for so long.

But even as you say it, you know it’s was a lie. Partly.

You hate how much you need him right now, how much you crave his touch, his dominance. Perhaps you’ve been locked away from society for too long. That’s the only plausible reason for you to let Rafe Cameron touch you.

Rafe smirks, a dark, satisfied gleam in his eyes.

"No, you don’t.”

You do. At least you used to, everything is confusing now.

He teases you, his touch light and teasing, drawing out your frustration, your need. "Tell me what you want," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a seductive growl that makes your heart race.

You bite back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. But the need is so overwhelming, you nearly give in.

“Fuck you," you spit out, your defiance crumbling under the weight of your desire.

He chuckles darkly, his fingers finally slipping inside you, curling and stroking in a way that makes your hips buck against his hand. Oh, he was going to ruin you.

"That's right," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Let me hear you."

A broken moan escapes your lips, and you arch into his touch, your body writhing with need. His fingers move expertly, finding all the right spots, driving you near the edge with a skill that makes you breathless. Every touch, every stroke is designed to push you closer to the brink, to break you down until you are nothing but a trembling, pleading mess. You hate that he's so good.

"Rafe, please," you finally gasp, the words ripped from your throat by the overwhelming pleasure. "P-Please, I need you."

You'd be embarrassed later.

His smirk widens, and he pulls his fingers away, making you whimper in frustration. He doesn’t make you wait long, though. With swift, practiced movements, he frees himself from his pants, the sight of him hard and ready making your mouth water.

Without a word, he positions himself between your legs, the head of his pretty cock teasing your entrance.

"You ready for me?"

You nod, your eyes locking with his, "Please.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement. With a single, powerful thrust, he buries himself inside you. The sensation overwhelming, a perfect blend of pain and pleasure that makes you cry out. Your back arches involuntarily, your lips parting as he enters you, filling you completely in a way you have never imagined.

He rolls his hips firmly against yours, and your head tips back as his cock rubs perfectly against you. You never felt so full. He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath, giving you another firm roll of his hips, testing you out, figuring out his rhythm.

His movements are hard and relentless, pounding into you, knocking the breath from your lungs with each forceful thrust, barely giving you time to adjust. Not that you want slow.

You cling to him, your nails digging into his muscular back, your body moving in perfect rhythm with his. The table creaks and groans beneath you, but you don’t care.

All that matters is the man above you, his relentless drive, his unwavering hips. His hands grips your hips, pulling you closer, deeper, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. You can feel him losing control, his need matching your own.

Your eyes squeeze shut, blocking him out so you can pretend you aren’t stupid enough to let the man that ruined your life fuck the living hell out of you.

"Eyes on me,” he growls, his voice all rough and commanding. "Let me see you.”

Even though you really want to shut him out, you just can’t fight the crazy pull he has over you. His voice is like a force of nature. You open your eyes against your better judgment.

Seeing him above you, his face twisting with raw need and determination sends chills down your spine. His eyes are locked onto yours, filled with this unyielding intensity you never seen before and that leaves you breathless. No one had ever looked at you like that during sex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with approval. It makes you want to run for the hills, "Fucki—Oh, fuck. Y-You're sucking me in so nicely, huh?"

With each thrust, he drives you closer to your orgasm, your body responding to him in ways you can’t hold back. The pleasure is overwhelming, it leaves you gasping, moaning, begging for more. You don't even know what you're doing anymore. His name slips from your lips in a broken, desperate plea, and he answers with a renewed vigor, his movements becoming more frenzied.

"Fuck," he growls, his voice rough and strained. "You're so tight... feels so fucking good."

You can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Your entire world has narrowed to this moment, to the feel of him inside you, to the overwhelming pleasure that consumes you.

"Rafe," you whimper, the sound barely more than a breath. "I'm—I can't..."

He understands.

His pace quickens even more, his thrusts becoming almost brutal in their intensity. "Come for me," he commands his voice a whisper against your earlobe that sends shivers down your spine. "Let go."

His words push you over the edge, and you come with a scream, your body convulsing around him. The intensity of your release is like nothing you ever felt before, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that makes you lose it. So this was what great sex felt like?

Rafe follows you over the edge, his own release crashing through him with a force that leaves him shaking on top of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he rides out his orgasm, groaning as his movements slow down, until he finally stills, still buried deep inside you.

For a moment, everything is still, the only sound the ragged breaths but then he lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, there is something almost tender about him.

“Y-You—“ He sighs, pausing, “Don’t pull that shit again. I’ll get you out, okay?

“Rafe...“

Before you can process his words, before you can question or argue, his lips are on yours again. Differently this time. Gentle.

Devastating almost.

“You’re still bleeding Maybank.”

Right. He'd fucked you good enough to forget about the pain. The moment of vulnerability between you evaporates, leaving you with the realization of your situation.

You just fucked Rafe Cameron. On a table. After being shot.

You push at his chest, forcing him to back off slightly, and hiss through clenched teeth, “Then do something about it."

He just stands there, staring at you as if he has never seen you before. As if he’s truly seeing you for the first time despite having known you since you were seven, despite all the moments marked by violence and terror. And you hate every second of it because your heart is practically leaping out of your chest.

No one has ever looked at you like that before.

And then he simply shakes his head, coming closer again, resting his forehead against yours, hands back on your thighs, fingers pressing as if he needs to ensure that you are real, that everything’s real.

“We’re getting out.”

You want to believe in him more than anything. In that moment, it’s the only thing that matters. Even if it sounds stupid. You need it, at least for now.

“Yeah?"

“Yeah, pretty Maybank. You and me."

“Okay.”

#rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x maybank!reader #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe x female!mc #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #rafe smut #rafe fic #request

1K notes · View notes

literaila · 7 months

Text

slip-up

gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: megumi says something he's not supposed to

warnings: bit of sad megumi (same babe), gojo is a terrible comforter, reader doesn't get a lot of screen time but she's always there, a good lack of conflict resolution

a/n: the one-shot that started this series. i figured it was time to give it up

last part | next part

year four.

megumi doesn't notice the slip-up right when he says it. he's not even really paying attention to the conversation.

instead, he's thinking about the homework assignment he was supposed to turn in today--the one that gojo refused (couldn't) help him with.

"my mom usually drops us off," he's telling his teacher, trying to be polite like you taught him and not start whining (like gojo taught him). "but she's out of town right now, so gojo dropped us off instead and he gets the times confused..."

in all honesty, megumi could blame this whole thing on gojo. because it was his fault.

usually, you woke him and tsumiki up, pulling on his hair when he whined into the pillows, packing their lunches while they both sat at the table, eating cereal or tamagoyaki. usually, you reminded megumi to tuck in his shirt and helped the two of them get their books together, taking an occasional moment to shout at megumi's budget dad to get up before he was late. usually, you walked them to the door, kissing them both goodbye and watching both of them until they closed the door.

later on, you'd be there again, welcoming them home with another smile, asking about their days. forcing them into a thorough recap.

but today megumi woke up with a sore neck and gojo smiling at him, asking if he was planning on being buried in his bed.

because even though megumi heard you tell gojo that he needed to help out, step up, the mornings while you were gone, all of you should've known better.

megumi hasn't even ever seen gojo out of bed before nine-thirty.

so here he was, with his shirt untucked, his homework missing, and a bag of lollipops that gojo packed for lunch.

here he was, three hours late for school, trying to explain to his teacher that it wasn't his fault.

and here he was, accidentally calling you mom.

but megumi doesn't even realize that until his teacher smiles a little bit, telling him that she understands, asking him when his mom gets back.

megumi freezes.

the word repeats in his mind, and he finally realizes his slip-up.

sure, he's heard tsumiki call you it before--because for all intents and purposes, that's what you were. after four years of your unconditional love, the two of them knew, truly, that they could depend on you.

but megumi has never had a mom, and he doesn't now.

so it's still gojo's fault when the first tear rolls down his cheek. which megumi promptly wipes away. he's not going to cry--he's not the sort of kid that cries. he prides himself on it, actually. not needing the same sort of attention that he's seen his classmates get, never feeling things that deeply.

but he's crying now, and his neck still hurts as he turns away from his teacher, going to sit down at his desk.

and megumi isn't the type of kid that cries, but when he puts his head down, his cheeks feel a little damp.

megumi's got a headache now--another reason why he doesn't cry--and he sort of wants to curl up in bed until tsumiki gets home, and then convince her to run away with him.

but he doesn't.

when gojo unlocks the door, megumi goes through it without stopping to look around. he drags his backpack to his room--gojo watching the whole time, of course--and closes the door before the man can say anything stupid.

he can't deal with him right now. or ever, actually.

megumi sets his backpack up against the wall with a brief thought about homework and the class he's going to miss because of this, but he doesn't care enough to dwell on it.

everything about him feels stiff, like glue got between the seems of his very core.

he's ten years old. he shouldn't have to worry about anything.

he takes off his blazer, sets it on his desk with sweaty palms, and feels quite naked--even with the layers of clothes and lack of eyes. and his head hurts. megumi wants to get up and restart his day just so he can tell some version of his former self not to be so stupid.

but he knows that's just the guilt talking, so he ignores that too.

and it's only ten minutes into his glooming that there's a knock on the door, and gojo doesn't knock, so megumi knows immediately that something's wrong.

he's lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, but he leans up on his elbow when you peek your head into the room.

for a brief moment, megumi is so relieved to see you that he almost jumps up and clings to you--like some child would.

he wants to hold onto you and beg you not to leave again, because everything seems to go wrong when you’re not there. he wants to tell you that he’s scared, and that he’s not sure what to do.

but he refrains, and blinks idly, confused about why you're here, and why his heart hurts just from looking at you.

“hey, you okay?” you whisper, taking a step into the dark room. you don't look banged up, and megumi wonders what gojo said to get you to come home. he probably told you that megumi was dying, or something.

you sit on the edge of his bed, and your hand is on his forehead before megumi can blink. “you feel sick?”

megumi nods, but his eyes don’t meet yours. it's a small enough lie.

“i’m sorry. did satoru give you any medicine?”

“did you have to come home for me?”

you smile, slightly. “no, buddy, don’t worry. it was easier than they said, just a grade one. plus i kinda rushed it cause i missed you guys.” you push his hair out of his eyes, “now, medicine?”

“i don’t want any.”

“if you don’t feel good—“

“actually,” he interrupts. “can—i, um, i don’t really want to talk.”

you pause, eyes roaming over his face. “oh. okay. that’s fine.”

you remove your hands from him immediately, walls of metaphorical space flying up between the two of you. “i’ll leave you alone. just ask if you need anything, okay? i’m going to go unpack.”

he nods and you give him a little grin.

and right as you're at the door, he falters. he doesn’t really want you to go. he wants you to crawl into bed with him, treat him like he's actually sick, and let him lay with his head in your lap. he wants to ask you the same question that's been in his head since he said it, but he can't.

“y/n?” he whispers, instead, your name feeling wrong in his mouth.

“yeah?"

“will... will you get gojo?" he asks, even though it's not what he wants to say at all. "i want to talk to him.”

“gojo?” you frown, looking at him. “yeah. of course, yeah. i’ll go get him. one sec.”

and when you close the door, megumi feels like he’s said something wrong. slipped up again.

he sits there and waits, feeling incorrect in his body. he wants you to come back and tell him that it'll all be fine, but he knows that you won't. if there's one thing you're good at, it's respecting boundaries.

and megumi has a lot of them.

gojo doesn’t knock when he comes into the room, and megumi is so lost in thought that he jumps as soon as the door clicks open.

megumi’s neck flies as he looks at him, wide eyes. he's already sat up, preparing himself for an influx of anger.

“is this about your lunch?” gojo asks, immediately, words fast and smooth. “because that wasn’t my fault. i thought your school did that.”

“you bought us our lunchboxes,” megumi argues, “you made me get the weird one with the dragon.”

“do not insult dracomon like that.”

megumi rolls his eyes. “whatever.”

“so, you wanna talk to me, huh?" gojo sits on megumi’s desk chair, legs hanging off the sides. “i think this is the first real conversation we’ve ever had.”

megumi rolls his eyes again.

gojo waves a hand. "alright. what is it?"

megumi pauses. he can't ask gojo. even if he had an answer, it would be the least trustworthy version of one.

he scratches his neck, not sure how to lie about this. knowing that he's not supposed to lie in the first place.

he's doing everything wrong today.

gojo shakes his head, white hair the victim of many fashion crimes. “spit it out, kid. i just did you a huge favor, and i don’t have time for the attitude.”

“you didn’t do anything,” megumi frowns, crossing his arms.

gojo snorts. “you think they just say ‘come get your child’ when you’re crying at your desk?” he asks, rhetorically, and megumi’s face goes still. “no, they disrupted my nap, saying that you needed to be picked up and handed me a card for a child psychologist.”

“they told you?”

he nods. “and i didn’t tell y/n,” he grins, self-satisfied. “so you’re welcome.”

“why not?”

“because she would’ve freaked out, and i don’t need that, and i’m pretty sure you don’t want that…”

megumi nods immediately.

“it can stay our secret if you tell me what’s going on. i’ll edit the report when y/n asks,” then he turns, looking at the door. “even though she’s already listening in.”

“really?” megumi bites the inside of his cheek, checking the crack under the door for feet.

satoru kicks him. “no. she’s in her room. now, talk. i don’t know how long she’ll take.”

megumi swallows. he doesn’t really want to ask—not his only real question—but he’s already gotten this far.

at least it doesn't matter what he says, because no one will believe anything gojo makes up anyway.

“megumi…” gojo prods.

“do you know where my mom is?”

there’s a pause. a very long pause where megumi feels like he’s being scrutinized.

he can tell that gojo is looking at him very closely, a microscope to megumi’s cell, even though he can’t see his eyes.

“i—“ gojo pulls a strand of hair by his ear. clearing his throat. “i, um, im not sure. why?”

“no reason.”

there’s a very weird wince on the man’s face. “do you want to… talk about them? your… parents?”

“no,” megumi says immediately.

gojo sighs. “look, i’ll tell you if you really want to know—“

“i don’t care. i just… i don’t care.”

“…okay.”

“okay.”

the two of them are both lying. they have the same neck-scratching, and looking away tells. if you were in the room, you would be monitoring both of them very harshly. probably scolding them for the look on both of their faces.

gojo’s expression is so much weirder than megumi’s ever seen it. “are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“i just wanted to know if you knew,” megumi says, crossing his arms, then doing it again. “i don’t care about them. they don’t care about me.”

“well, i don’t know that—“

“no. you and y/n took us in and they didn’t care. so why should i?”

“right.” gojo nods. “right we… took you in.”

megumi nods, as a finality, and then deflates a little bit.

he doesn’t care about his mom—whoever she is, wherever she might be. he doesn’t. he just… also doesn’t want to replace her.

it feels wrong to think about. she doesn’t care about his life, so why should he care about hers?

it's a stupid sort of guilt. if tsumiki said anything like it, megumi wouldn't talk to her for a week.

but it's the sort of guilt over you, and a woman he knows nothing about. someone he doesn't really want to know about.

maybe that makes it worse.

“did someone say something at school?”

megumi frowns. “no. why would they?”

gojo shrugs. “kids are jerks,” he answers, simply, and then mutters “i would know…” under his breath, making megumi want to punch him again.

“no one said anything.”

“then why were you crying this morning?”

“i wasn’t crying.”

“hey,” gojo frowns. “crying is fine. it’s good.”

“i know,” megumi crosses his arms.

“okay, then.”

megumi doesn’t even know why he wanted to talk to gojo in the first place.

“look,” gojo sighs, his fingers tapping along the body of the chair. he whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “y/n is so much better at this,” and then meets megumi’s eyes—metaphorically, of course. everyone knows that gojo doesn’t have any eyes. “if you want to talk about your parents, we can talk about them. tsumiki asks questions every once in a while. and…” he breaks away, shaking his head. “if there’s something i don’t know, then i'll—we’ll figure it out. i’ve got eyes everywhere.”

gojo is grinning at his little joke, but megumi’s frown deepens.

"i don't care about them," he says, again, as a reassurance to them both.

"they are your parents, you know?" he holds his hands up in defense, probably from the glare megumi is giving him. "i'm just saying. curiosity is normal."

"how would you know?"

gojo sighs, tilting his head back. he looks almost hurt. "i'm wise. i've got years of experience on you."

"no, you don't."

he shakes his head. "now i'm going to start crying."

megumi stares at him. if he could trade gojo for literally anyone else in the world, he would.

and yet, he doesn't want to talk to you about this. he doesn't want to talk at all. and he does.

at least he knows that gojo won’t take any of this too seriously. that he won’t get to the bottom of the problem, like neither of them wants.

"do you think..." megumi starts, whispering. "do you ever regret taking us in?"

gojo swallows. he looks almost hesitant to answer, but megumi knows that must be wrong. gojo has never hesitated a moment in his life.

"well, you guys are pretty mean to me. but no, we don't regret it. why would we?" he asks, teasing, like always. "children are for chores."

megumi shakes his head.

"you should--" gojo scrunches his nose. "i can get y/n. she's got better answers, anyway."

"no!" megumi holds his hand out when the man begins to move from the chair, heart racing. "i don't want to talk to her."

"did something happen with you guys? you think someone might mention it to me..."

"no, nothing happened. i just... want to talk to you."

gojo snorts, but he sits back down. "whatever you did, i'm sure it's not that bad. remember that time i set tsumiki's hair on fire when she was gone? that was bad."

"i didn’t do anything. i'm not like you," megumi scowls, looking away.

"would you like a reward?" gojo asks, dryly. "most people wouldn't openly admit that. i admire your confidence."

both of them are silent, megumi considering the consequences of just saying the words out loud, nonetheless to gojo--who definitely won't know what to do with them.

after a minute, gojo clears his throat. "okay, megumi. my turn. do you regret coming here with me? instead of going with your family? you'd be clan head someday, you know."

"that place with the freaky shed of weapons you showed me?"

"yup."

"no," megumi doesn't have to think about that. "tsumiki's with me here. and i--"

i like it here, he almost slips. i love you guys.

megumi sighs. he doesn't want to say that to gojo.

but the older man looks like he already knew what he meant, a dumb smile on his face. "good. okay. well, i don't know what's wrong with you," he gives megumi a pointed look, saying that he actually does. "but i'm sure it'll all work out. you've got me here, so there's nothing to worry about. and y/n would kill me if anything happened to you, so. don't worry about your parents, kid."

megumi blinks at him. because his problems can be summed up with a quick "yeah, that's cool."

he rolls his eyes.

gojo's hand nudges his knee. "you can still ask if you want. anytime. we love you, you know? y/n more than me, but still..."

megumi shakes his head. "well i love her more than you."

"good. tsumiki's my favorite anyway."

"good. she's the only one who can deal with you."

"good," gojo retorts, like a child.

he leans in, ruffling megumi's hair as he does it. "even if you are pretty annoying, i'll still do some research for you. see about your mom."

"you don't have to--"

"i can't pick you up every time you're crying in class," gojo shrugs, so simply. definitely a joke in the words, but no teasing. "and i won't tell y/n. but you should talk to her. she worries."

"i know."

gojo smiles. "okay. as long as you know."

the two of them sit there for a while more, gojo making an awful comment every couple of lapses in silence, megumi answering with an equally sarcastic retort, and the two of them not minding at all.

and megumi still can't get the question out--are you his mom?--but there's the undeinable feeling that no one else can answer it for him anyway.

and gojo seems to know that, so he doesn't say anything about it. just lingers there, like an illness, waiting until megumi is okay, or maybe waiting for him to ask something else.

even though megumi doesn’t want to give the man any credit, he knows that gojo understands a lot more than he lets on. and, just from the weird little prideful looks he gives him every time he says something, megumi knows that he probably gets what this is about.

but if gojo isn’t going to say anything, then neither is he.

still, it’s nice to have him here.

there’s no comforting glances, or squeezing of hands with gojo. no acute words and adept gestures.

megumi has never expected gojo to overcome his tendency towards immaturity, or to become something that he’s simply not.

but there is just this. just the man who’s been there for long enough for megumi to notice. to understand that he’s not going away so easily.

and it’s nice to have you both. (megumi won’t admit that the gratitude he has for his makeshift parents is much stronger, more vehement than any worry about biology, or being left behind).

eventually, megumi's eyes begin to droop, and even though his headache is less stress-induced, it's still there, a gentle pounding at his skull.

like a reminder that things are going to change, even if he doesn't want them to. that he's growing up, and he can't protect everyone from his emotions forever.

but megumi doesn't have enough energy to think about it. so he lays down against his pillows, eyelids fluttering open and closed.

and he can just see it when gojo sneaks out of the room, whistling softly as he leaves, purposefully leaving the door open.

megumi should've gone to live with that clan.

"hey," you stand from your chair, looking not at satoru, but behind him, like the essence of their conversation is going to follow him through the door. "what'd he want? is he okay?"

you dance on your feet awkwardly, looking like you were waiting that whole time (you were).

satoru smiles, leaning on the counter to stare at you, at your nervous little lip bite. "he's fine."

"is he feeling really sick? he told me he didn't want any medicine, but if he's got a headache or something, then i could give him a pain reliever. did he seem bad? should we take him to the doctor? i can probably schedule an appointment--"

you're cut off by satoru as he nears you, crushing you against his chest in a hug so tight that it knocks the air from your lungs.

seriously, jujutsu sorcerers and their sheer amount of muscle training are ridiculous.

"satoru--" you squeeze out, but he holds you even tighter.

"it's all good," he says like it's an answer, and he sounds like he knows something that you don't. probably because he does.

but after a moment you relax into him. even if you have to bribe him with cuddles, someone's going to tell you what's going on...

next part | series masterlist

898 notes · View notes

lizthewriter · 3 months

Text

now i'm all about you / theodore nott

PAIRING best friend!theo nott x reader

SUMMARY theo pushes you to realize how toxic your boyfriend is and how you deserve much better. theo being much better. (tw: reader's boyfriend calls her explicit names)

QUOTE "clung to the nearest lips, / long story short it was the wrong guy, / now i'm all about you," - long story short by taylor swift

WORD COUNT 1.8K

WRITTEN 7.13.2024

theo glared at the wall with an unbridled fury as he rubbed your back, your sobs filling the room. he was going to kill him.

who was him, exactly? oh just your good-for-nothing boyfriend. now theodore loved with his whole heart. he truly did. but he couldn't for the life of him understand why you were going out with an absolute wanker like him.

you were so paticular about who you allowed in your life - but this arse somehow slipped his way through the cracks. this boy somehow always found a way to make you crawl into theo's arms with tears in your eyes, a broken heart, and wounded pride. and damn it, he's been holding himself back from knocking sense into ypu because he was afraid that kind of talk was coming from the fact that he'd been bloody in love with you since the day he first laid eyes on you. but he knew it was beyond that now. all he wanted was for you to be happy - and you very obviously weren't.

"hey, do you think you can look at me for a second?" theo asked in a gentle tone, shifting away from you slightly to get you to pop up out of your shell. you raised your head away from his chest (where his sweater was now damp with your tears) - he practically felt his heart break at your apperance. cheeks shiny with tears, eyes red and puffy from crying, hair frizzy and messy.

"i am telling you this as your best friend and someone who cares about you," theo started slowly, taking your hand and placing it in his. "you're an amazing person. and you don't deserve to be treated like this. you deserve to be treated like - like a queen! all right? this shitty guy shouldn't get a single sickle of your time."

"but - but what if this is the best i can get?" you asked with a sniffle, the waterfall of tears returning as your chest heaved. another pang of his heart, another surge of his rage. "what if i break up with him and then i'm alone forever cause no one else wants me?"

"i promise you, that's not true," theodore told you reassuringly. "i'm not complimenting you to be nice, i'm being honest, you're genuinely one of the best people I've ever met and i'm grateful i have you in my life . . . anyone else who's fortunate enough to be friends with you will see and recognize that as well. please. for your sake. break up with him. he only ever makes you upset. and you deserve to be happy."

the responsive silence weighed more heavily on theo than it probably did on you.

"maybe you're right," you sniffled in response. you wiped away your tears with the edge of your sleeve before theo offered you a tissue. "i deserve to be happy."

he smiled softly. "that's right."

"yeah . . . why do i get to be treated like this when i'm nothing but a great girlfriend?" you exclaimed angrily. "i mean, does he go sobbing to his friends about this stuff or is he just going about his life like- like he's not ruining mine?"

you stood up suddenly. "thank you, theo. you made me realize something today. i'll be right back."

"wait, i didn't mean break up with him no-" he wasn't even able to finish his sentence before you slammed the door to his dorm behind you as you rushed out of the room. he sighed, then chuckled. "well, that was anticlimactic," he said sarcastically to himself.

you laughed gaudily, your nose buried in a bouquet of flowers. your arm wrapped around him. your eyes admiring him. your body leaning against him.

what a prick, theo thought.

your "boyfriend" was manipulating you and you couldn't even see it. or at least, you didn't want to see it. see, you had confronted him. made a whole scene in front of his friends. landed a stark slap across his face. but he just as easily won you back in your moment of post-relationship weakness. by bringing you flowers and chocolate a promising to be better.

and here you were in hogsmeade, where you had invited him on a double date. you hooked him up with one of your friends, who was obviously very into theo and very dissappointed to see theo not granting her even a moment of his attention. she sat grumpily beside him, sipping on her butterbeer while grumbling under her breath.

"i'm going to grab us some more drinks," you said with a wide grin, getting up out of your chair. turning around, you bumped into another student trying to carry an obscene amount of butterbeer which accidentally slipped down your entire front. soaking your shirt, causing the thin fabric to cling to your chest.

"watch where you're going!" your boyfriend shouted at the kid, who mumbled apologies under his breath as he began to clean the mess he had made. he grabbed a handful of napkins from the center of the table, beginning to wipe at your chest, but you gently pushed his hands away as you wrapped your eyes around your body to protect from the wandering eyes of neighboring tables. "and you, couldn't you wear something a little less . . . showy?" he asked you under his breath, all though theo could hear him well enough. "i don't need other guys looking down your shirt."

"there's- there's nothing wrong with my shirt," you mumbled, receding further within yourself.

"you look like a cheap whore walking around like that."

you shut your eyes tight, almost as if you were afraid of standing up for yourself. "you said i looked pretty earlier."

"don't you dare call her that. and stop trying to police what she's wearing," theo said suddenly, getting up from the table and wrapping a protective arm around you. your boyfriend narrowed his eyes at theo. "when you should be helping her instead."

he took what was supposed to be an intimidating step towards theo. "take your hands off of my girlfriend."

theo chuckled bitterly. "your girlfriend? you certainly don't treat her like one."

"i'm warning you."

"just stop," you said quietly, placing a hand on your boyfriend's chest. "i was right. this . . . this wasn't a good idea. thank you for the flowers and the drinks but we're done."

you didn't even look him in the eyes as your hand slipped away from him and theo turned around, leading you out of the three broomstick.

"you're a little bitch you know that?" he called after you, causing the whole bar to go deathly silent. "probably cheating on me with theodore 'i miss my mommy' nott. date a pathetic loser like that and see-"

the crowd let out a collective gasp as he was suddenly shut up by theodore's fist meeting his mouth. red rinsed theo's knuckles - he couldn't tell if the blood was his own or your boyfriend (well, ex-boyfriend he now supposed) but to be honest, he didn't care. "you keep your filthy mouth shut," theodore spat.

"that's it! you two, out of my pub!" madam rosmerta exclaimed, shooing you and theodore away with a rag. as you left, you glanced behind you to see her giving your ex a good verbal beating. "oh and the headmaster will be hearing about this! students fighting, in my pub! not in so many years have i seen such disrespect to a public establishment!"

"here," theo said, placing his rather large coat around your shoulders as the two of you exited the three broomsticks. "are you okay? he said some pretty shitty things to you back there."

"i'll be fine," you responded with a weak smile. "i'm really sorry, you shouldn't have had to-"

"i wanted to. punch him in the face, i mean. he deserved it." the two of you soaked in the silence wrought on by your awkwardness. "he's wrong. you're not a - you know, what he called you. and i don't think anyone in that pub would assume that of you either."

"that means a lot to me, theo . . ." you paused, reflecting on your past relationship. "you want to know something?"

"hm?"

"i knew he was bad for me. of course, deep down, i knew. i guess i just hoped that he would be the person i thought he could be, the best version of himself. but . . . he didn't turn out that way." you buried your face in your hands and sighed. "merlin i feel so stupid."

"you're not stupid," theo reassured you, stopping in the middle of the road to place both his hands on your shoulder. "you're optimistic and you always believe the best in those around you. and that's one of the things that i- i love about you. it's not your fault that not everyone deserves your kindness."

the corner of your lips curled upwards and for a moment, you felt your heart pang in your chest. the way theo was looking at you, well, you didn't want to delude yourself, but there was so much love in his gaze. so much kindness and compassion. and looking back on your friendship, you can't remember him having done all the things he's done for you for anyone else. and you can't think of a single moment, at a drop of a quill, that he wasn't there for you when you needed him.

"you're too kind to me, theo," you mumbled in embarrassment, your cheeks growing red at his praise.

"i'm not kind, only honest, you know this."

"i- i can't help but think there's a reason you're so nice to me," you suggested subtly. it seemed so obvious to you now - it made so much sense. "theo, you have been there for me whenever i needed you. and you've helped me through so much. it's hard to think you'd do all that for someone you just consider . . . a friend."

theo paused and his silence made you nervous. maybe you were looking too much into it, reading too much into it?

"if my care for you were coming from a different place . . . hypothetically, how would you respond?" he asked, nervously shifting the weight of his body from one foot to the other.

"hypothetically, i'd say i would need some time to properly move on but i wouldn't mind going on a hypothetical date," you responded, pretending to consider the prospect. "that is, of course, if you can fit one into your hypothetical schedule."

theo smiled, a grin so wide you were sure his face would split in half. "i think i'd hypothetically be able to work something out."

#— [ glizzy posts ☆ ]#theodore nott x reader #theo nott x y/n #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x y/n #my writing #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my fic #writing #fanfic #harry potter #slytherin boys

566 notes · View notes

fangswbenefits · 11 months

Text

The Arrangement (3) - Inconvenience

Chapter summary: It is poetic irony that sharing a prison cell with Astarion is what eventually gets the two of you attempting to have a much needed conversation...

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Poison sucking. Blood. Angst.

Word count: 3.5k

Previous chapter . Series Masterlist . Ao3

"You're bleeding."

"I know."

"It's distracting."

"Then look away."

He scoffed. "I can smell it."

It really wasn't a desirable occurrence to end up in one of Baldur's Gate's prisons. The last time you had the displeasure of descending into one was to liberate Gortash's victims from the Iron Throne Prison.

You had rarely been on the side that needed rescuing.

But fate worked in strange ways and had you thrown into a cold and rusty cell, trying to figure out how you ended up in this situation to begin with.

The torches scattered along the pillars of stone outside the cell provided little to no sufficient light, and it only added to the looming sense of dread.

Ripping a scrap of cloth from your clothing, you wrapped it firmly around the bleeding slash across your wrist.

Astarion sat across from you, eyeing your every move with a faint smile on his lips.

"You could have just run away, you know," you began, bringing your knees up to your chin with a sigh. "You are immune to Sleep spells."

He scoffed again with an eye-roll. "Please. I allowed myself to get caught. Gods know you could use the help."

The throb in your head intensified and you winced as discomfort tore through your body, as his words hit you.

"What help? We're both trapped inside," you ground out in annoyance.

He lifted a finger. "That, my dear, is merely an inconvenience. I am quite sure I'd be able to lockpick our way out of this."

The damp-scented mattress underneath you squeaked as you leaned against the ragged wall. "Using what? Your fangs?"

Astarion clicked his tongue. "Creative, but no. I just need to find anything to help me get through that lock." He rose to his feet and moved to inspect the sturdy door with attentive eyes.

As promising as it sounded, you knew deep down that it wouldn't be an easy feat. The guards had stripped both of you down to only your shirts and trousers, and removed anything deemed too creative.

Besides, this whole ordeal had to be a misunderstanding of sorts. It would be wise to, at least, get some enlightenment.

"Maybe we should just wait for Wyll."

He turned to you, a touch of disbelief crossing his face. "His guards put us here, in case you need a reminder."

"We did nothing wrong," you said, clutching on to reason. "We are not criminals. It's all a misunderstanding, I'm sure."

Whether it was a case of you trying to believe your own words, or because there was truth to them, remained to be seen.

As a sorcerer, it would be rather easy to blast through the cell door and be done with it, but you would only entertain that option as a last resort.

"Well, I suppose it could be worse," he said in resignation, curious fingers still prodding the lock. "At least, they didn't shove us in a cell with windows."

The lack of any opening to the outside had made it hard for you to keep track of time, but given the silence and snores from the inhabitants in the adjacent cells, you reckoned the sun had yet to rise.

Astarion would be safe from its scorching rays, for the time being.

You felt something trickling down your wrist, and upon closer inspection, you realised the cloth around it was soaked with your blood.

Odd.

Astarion was still very much entertained with the hinges and structure of the cell door to take notice of your finding.

You quickly brought another rag torn from your cloak and wrapped even tighter over the existing one, applying as much pressure as you could withstand through the pain.

Very odd.

He was now squatting down, taking a closer look at the lock, fingers tugging and rattling the device.

A true rogue at heart.

"Or, I could be sharing this cell with someone far less entertaining – like Gale," he continued. "I'd just beg the guards for a stake to rid myself of my misery."

He finished off with a dramatic laugh, but you found yourself scowling deeply.

"Can you give Gale some credit where it's due? He's helping you out."

His narrowed crimson eyes met yours. "By 'helping' you mean what, exactly? Cooking abhorrent meals and reading books that would put a screeching babe to sleep? Hardly helpful, darling."

You decided to fully ignore his taunt as patience slipped from your tired mind.

"He's going to Waterdeep in a fortnight to speak with someone willing to help out with the Wish spell," you informed as calmly as possible. "I was on my way to tell you that a couple of hours ago before… well, this happened."

His features eased and he rose to his full height, his undivided attention on you.

"Truly? That sounds promising, I suppose," he said, folding his arms. "And here I thought you were simply longing for my company. My apologies, darling."

He wasn't entirely wrong, but you would never let him know.

Suddenly, the sound of metal shrieking echoed throughout the room, and a jab of pain drummed steadily in your head.

"Wake up, you loiter-sacks!" One of the guards yelled.

Pandemonium ensued.

A wave of groggy protests were heard all around. The insults and taunts came immediately after, and your eyes widened at the vulgarity of all of it, while Astarion held the most amused smile you had ever seen on him in a long while.

He truly thrived in all things chaotic.

Another voice was heard. "Shut it, will ya?! Or no food!"

It effectively subsided most of the protests, though an occasional whispered 'fucker!' slipped through the mouths of some prisoners.

Squeaking wheels of a cart came to a halt just outside your cell, and you bolted out of the mattresses, gripping the vertical metal bars.

"Can you please call for Wyll. We need to talk to him."

The grumpy man frowned. "Am just delivering food, sweetheart. Now, have yours and get back."

He shoved a bowl of what looked like powdered wood shavings. The smell was positively nauseating , and your stomach twist and turn in revulsion.

You placed your meal on the floor, not daring to take a single bite.

A laugh burst from him before he attempted doing the same to Astarion, who visibly shuddered as he dodged the man's hand.

"Ugh. I'll pass."

He snorted, grinning maliciously. "Food strikes ain't going to get you out o' here, pretty boy."

Astarion's face twisted into an outraged look, but before he could voice out a snarky remark, the same man as before was heard.

"That one's the vampire spawn."

The guard came into view, and the atmosphere in the prison cell shifted considerably. Silence took over, only broken by some vague whispers.

"Give him pig's blood."

A few gasps erupted.

"I prefer fresh blood, thank you very much," Astarion scoffed, visibly offended. "I am not feeding on scraps."

"Astarion…" you warned him lowly, not wanting things to spiral out of control.

The delivery man shrugged to the guard and pushed the food cart out of the way so he could attend to the other prisoners.

Another guard joined in, removing his helmet to take a closer look.

"Then you'll have nothing. You are in no position to make demands, spawn."

Astarion tensed by your side but merely pressed his lips as a reply.

"Thought so," the guard chuckled.

You gripped the bars tighter, earning their attention. "Tell us what we are charged with, then."

They both exchanged looks and the first one bared his teeth. "Playing dumb, are we?"

"We didn't do anything that would warrant an arrest!" You nearly yelled in frustration. "Call for Wyll, please!"

The older man leaned in with a snarl. "The Grand Duke is absent. He might return later today."

Your heart dropped.

"Might?"

He nodded in indifference. "His duties don't bend to the will of his friends."

"We didn't do anything wrong," you said in a shaky retort, pressing your forehead against the bars. "We didn't…"

"Look, not to sound ungrateful given our luxurious abode," Astarion interjected light-heartedly, gripping your shoulders to have you take a few steps away from them. "But you do know who we are, don't you?"

"We do, and you are not above the law."

"And which law did we break, if you don't mind clarifying, of course."

The older guard was clearly running out of patience. "Killing a civilian."

Your eyes shot up immediately, and your mouth dropped in shock.

Astarion spoke before you could, his voice bearing confusion. "What? We didn't kill anyone."

"We found the body in the alleyway."

You gripped the bars again. "No! I used a Sleep spell – and he wasn't a civilian! He attacked me!"

He was now dangerously close to your face. "Listen here, princess. You are both in a sticky situation, and I advise you to watch your words."

Astarion pushed you back with his arm once again. "Lay a finger on her, and you might just turn into a vampire meal."

Tension increased tenfold all of a sudden, and you could only glare at Astarion who remained unmoved and determined to hold his menacing gaze.

"Maybe you'd prefer an overground cell, hm?" The guard spat in amusement. "Having the sun to keep you company. I'm certain we'd be sweeping your ashes from the floor before midday."

An intense wave of anger burst through you, and you reached through the bars, nearly gripping one of them. "Fuck you!"

They both laughed hysterically at your failed attempt.

One of them reached for a pouch and threw a vial at you. "A healing potion. Drink it, princess. You're bleeding out."

"Unless you are to be his vampire meal."

The other guard cleared his throat. "Oh, and be on your best behaviour, and don't even think of escaping. This place is riddled with traps."

"And we have our own mages," the other glared at you.

They laughed obnoxiously loud again before turning on their feet and walking out.

You glanced at the vial in your hand, its crimson content undulating faintly.

Blood kept on seeping through the makeshift bandages around your wrist. The blood flow hadn't decreased, and a couple of droplets were dripping on the floor.

"Drink it," Astarion urged you, pulling his eyes away from the sanguine mess.

You could tell he was extremely tense all of a sudden, slowly pacing away from where you stood.

The compulsion to drink blood could be blinding at times, and you couldn't blame him for wanting to keep a distance given the current circumstances.

You quickly popped the lid off the container and downed the sweetened liquid, immediately feeling a rush of warmth coursing through your body with each pump of your heart.

Unwrapping the soaked pieces of cloth, you noticed the slash had barely healed at all, and that the blood kept pouring out.

Astarion had definitely noticed your confusion, gripping your forearm.

"Poison," he finally said upon inspecting the wound.

You stared at him wide-eyed, as the realisation hit you hard.

They had poisoned you?

"No wonder the flow didn't decrease with the potion."

Panic spread quickly. "Why would they poison me?"

"It was most likely unintentional," he concluded, smearing his thumb across the layer of blood near your wound. "They must have coated their weapons with it and slashed you by mistake."

"We need to call them for an antidote."

He shook his head. "I doubt they have one at hand – one that actually works. These idiots aren't well-versed in poisons to begin with."

Unlike him.

"What now?"

His eyes met yours. "Do you trust me?"

You stiffened, alarm bells going off in your head. He would never ask this unless… "You're about to do something questionable, aren't you?"

"Questionable, but potentially life-saving. How do you fancy your odds?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "What do you have in mind?"

"I will suck the poison out."

Instinctively, you tried to yank your arm from his grip. "No."

He simply glared at you. "This is your best option, darling."

You eased slightly, knowing fully well he was far more experienced in poisons than you were, and between 'bleeding out to death' and 'trusting your vampire friend who also happens to know a lot about this subject', you were far more inclined to pick the latter.

But then…

"What about you? It can be dangerous."

He chuckled in amusement. "I'm undead. Besides, I won't swallow this blood. I am vehemently against wasting yours, but exceptions must be made."

"Just… be careful."

He nodded, and you watched in awe as he brought your wrist to his lips, enclosing them around the wound. As he started off with gentle suckles, you saw the first droplets of blood dribble down from the corner of his mouth.

His touch was cold as ice, and you felt his fangs lightly press against your skin, but not hard enough to break the barrier. After all, your open wound – even if not that deep or wide – was enough to draw blood.

Somewhere along the line, his eyes fluttered shut as he held you in place, and your heart skipped a few beats.

Oddly intimate.

He parted from you not long after, all bloodied, and spitting the remainder of the warm liquid on the floor.

"What a terrible way to taint your blood," he said with a wince. "It tasted… rotten."

He then grabbed a hold of your cloak – or what was left of it – and wiped his lips and chin clean.

"Just horrid."

Under different circumstances, you would have reprimanded him for it, but it was a fair exchange.

The flow of blood had already begun to waver, and you heaved a sigh of relief.

"Are you well?"

He nodded dismissively with a shudder. "The things I do for you, honestly."

Surprisingly, that did bring a faint smile to your lips.

Even if only for a fleeting moment, you were reminded of the many perils you had faced alongside each other.

He had your back, and you had his.

No matter what.

However, It still felt grim that it took an erroneous arrest and being shoved into a prison cell to catch a glimpse of the trusting bond you once shared.

One that wasn't built on a mere transaction.

He silently eyed you for a moment, with an expression that was hard to decipher.

Then, he cleared his throat and walked over to his own mattress, placing his cloak along the length of it as a way to keep the damp at bay, before taking a seat.

Classic Astarion.

"Do you reckon I can now blame Gale for us ending up in this situation?"

You arched an eyebrow, wrapping yet another piece of cloth over your closing wound. "If anything, I should be blaming you, no? We're all doing this for you."

He shrugged with a side-smile. "Fair enough."

"I didn't kill that man… I don't get it…"

"I know you didn't, but it's not me you need to convince."

You sat down in defeat, rubbing your temple. "None of this makes sense…"

"No point in dwelling on it now," he said with a click of his tongue, inspecting his nails. "Get some rest."

You blinked. "I cannot rest in a place like this."

His eyes lifted briefly. "Darling, we've had worse."

"... and better." You mumbled.

"I'll give you the 'better' once we get out of here, then. Happy now?"

You winced at his words.

"Why do you do this?" You asked, unable to contain yourself.

He dropped his hand to the side, brows furrowed. "Do what?"

"This! This constant push and pull," you said, feeling the impulsiveness take control. "I try to have a proper conversation with you, and you just… push me away."

Astarion scoffed dramatically. "This is hardly the time or the place to be having this conversation."

"I tried to have you come stay with us… even when you're feeling more… vulnerable… you never let me in," you said in exasperation, words stinging in your throat. "You just…"

The words died in your mouth at the look he gave you.

It wasn't a look of anger or annoyance or outrage.

Just… nothing.

Like he wasn't even listening to you.

"Astarion?"

As if you had just snapped him out of his thoughts, he shook his head briefly, but didn't look in your direction.

"Go get some rest."

Had you pushed too far? He didn't sound upset, but then again, he was a master in deception whenever the situation called for it.

"Astarion…"

He was gazing out of the cell door, as if something far more interesting was worthy of his attention.

"I wasn't the one who pushed you away."

You sat up straighter, heart hammering fast against your ribcag. "Then who?"

"You did."

"What?"

He turned his head to you this time. "Don't pin this on me. You had all of me, and you chose to walk away."

A growing feeling of discomfort began to rise within you, competing with the confusion that had taken root.

And then…

Moonrise Towers.

That night.

"You didn't need a lover."

He sneered. "What about what I wanted?"

"Astarion, you–"

He immediately cut you off. "Don't. I wanted to be with you. I yearned for you like I never did for anyone else, and you chose the easy way out."

You were at a loss for words.

The conversation with Gale the day before immediately came to mind.

"Easy way out? You actually think I didn't have feelings for you back then?"

"Gods, then you should have fought for me – with me!"

He was being unreasonable. The pain of rejection had certainly seeped deeply into him, and it was now resurfacing brutally.

"And I did that! By giving you time and space. Besides, we had more pressing matters back then that required our undivided attention."

He looked back at you coolly. "How many nights did we spend thinking it would be our last?"

That caught you off guard.

"How many nights did you cry yourself to sleep, not knowing if we'd live to see another day?"

You fell silent, unsure of what to say.

"Yet you preferred having that emptiness and despair for company instead of being with me," he went on, his words were as knives that cut through you ruthlessly. "So do not lecture me about pushing others away, when you so clearly excel at that."

It took you a moment to find your voice again amidst the concoction of emotions that swirled in your head.

His accusations were unfounded. You knew this. But realising that that was how he really felt about the entire situation made you feel sadness beyond comparison.

That he mistook your altruism for selfishness.

"I did what was best for you… and for us."

You wouldn't cry.

You couldn't cry.

"And was that what you wanted?"

"What you needed mattered more than what I wanted. That's how much I cared for you," you said, voice wavering. "And I still do. Even through all your deception and lies and manipulation… you still came first."

That seemed to have taken him by surprise, and his face softened.

"You constantly mistake what you want with what you need, not even caring about the possible consequences," you went on with newfound vigour.

He scowled yet again. "I constantly cast aside what I want in favour of others."

You scoffed in disbelief. "You're not the epitome of selflessness you think you are, Astarion."

"What I want still matters!"

"If you'd done what you wanted, you would have sacrificed the souls of seven thousand spawn!" You exploded in a fit of rage.

You were met with silence.

Deafening silence.

"You would have become the Vampire Ascendant and lost yourself in the process."

After glaring at you for a while, he then had the nerve to laugh. "Maybe that would have been the better option."

A sudden wave of nausea settled in the pit of your stomach. "You don't mean that."

"Stop speaking for me," he said through gritted teeth, words dripping with poison. "I had enough of it for two hundred years under his command – stop it!"

Your mouth had dropped open, and you were left speechless.

"Oi! Lovebirds, quit the chit-chat." One of the nearby guards rattled on the metal bars with a mace. "I'm afraid marriage counselling is postponed until further notice."

The other prisoners laughed and whistled teasingly as he walked away.

Decided you were done with this conversation, you leaned back and rolled down to your side, facing the wall and fighting back the tears that had begun to roll down your cheeks.

You just couldn't stand looking at him.

Or even being near him.

You could only hope that Wyll would come back sooner rather than later, so you could finally get away from Astarion.

For good.

Disclaimer: sucking the poison from one's wound (in case of a snake bite, for example) has been discredited many decades ago. It's not really effective, and can do more harm than good, especially to the person doing the sucking. But for the purposes of this story, it works because fiction and magic and all that! Let's suspend our disbelief for a moment 😌

I don't keep taglists, so please consider adding this story to your alerts on Ao3 🩷

Next chapter: Solution

Series Masterlist . Masterlist

#astarion x female tav #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion angst #astarion bg3 #astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion x mc

2K notes · View notes

thehmn · 2 years

Text

The oldest inn in Denmark sounds like something that was taken straight out of a horror story bordering on being too cliche or weird to be believable.

I present to you Bromølle Kro

We don’t know how old it is because it was first mentioned in a text from 1198 when it had already been open for years. I could go into detail about how it also used to function as a mill and store but that’s boring.

The first strange part is that the current building isn’t the original. You see, it was build on a bog and slowly each incarnation of the inn would get more and more damp, the floor would become soggy, mould would spread and the walls would bend as the whole thing sank into the ground. Eventually the owners would tear the whole thing down and build a new inn on the rubble. They did this over and over again, leaving everyone to wonder why they didn’t rebuild it somewhere else.

Then in the 1700’s guests started to disappear. It took a while for people to notice because most guests were travellers who were expected to be gone by morning anyway, but eventually so many people disappeared it couldn’t be ignored.

The couple who owned the inn were accused of getting rich patrons senselessly drunk, dragging them to their room and beating them to death with a club hidden under the bed. They then threw the victims out the window into the river that ran behind the inn.

For years people weren’t sure how true the story was. Did they really kill that many people? How would that even be possible without anyone seeing or hearing it?

Then in the 1950’s people wanted to straighten the river out for convenience and after they temporarily dried it up they started digging and found a skeleton. And another. And another. And another.

In all they dug up 28 skeletons from one small stretch of the river very close to the inn. And those were just the ones they found.

And despite all this the inn stayed in business. It wasn’t closed despite repeatedly sinking into the ground. It didn’t close when the owners were hanged for being serial killers. And it didn’t bother anyone that they had been sleeping and dining next to murder victims for years.

Today the ground has dried up and you can even enjoy the view of the river while you have lunch. They keep two of the skulls in the reception and named one of them Frede (a name that means peace/rest) for your viewing pleasure.

And somehow Bromølle Kro just keeps going and going…

#Bromølle Kro #creepy story #history #serial killer #it is of course said to be very haunted by wet ghosts

8K notes · View notes

mistywaves98 · 4 months

Note

I read your rules but I hope that I am not passing any boundaries! Can I request for gamer! Scara who's getting sucked off/fingering reader while playing his game? It's totally okay if you don't want!

Quick-ish little thing because I'm in the mood to write

✧･ﾟ:* ->Gamer! Scaramouche x Fem! Reader

✧･ﾟ:* ->¡Warnings!: NSFW, Blowjob (in the beginning), Oral(m.receiving), Scara is rough, Cockwarming, Implications of Breeding, Pet names (doll), Slight degradation (slut), Exhibitionism?(he makes you wear his headphones unmuted while you sit on his dick)!

You wished you weren't so eager to suck your boyfriend off while played video games. Scaramouche's gaming capabilities weren't to be underestimated, with it nearing the third hour since he got on call to play cod with his friends. And three hours since you were put on your knees with his cock in your mouth.

Your jaw was sore and your knees hurt after digging into the coarse carpet beneath you for so long. You weren't even allowed to move or do anything whilst his dick was in your mouth. Any attempts to pull yourself off of him was met with a hand sharply pushing your head back down, making the tip hit the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex as your eyes watered. Your only purpose was to sit there and cockwarm him till he was done. Maybe it helps him focus more?

Suddenly, you hear him curse and bang his fist on the desk, he must've died. You already know what this means as his hand reaches down and grabs your hair in a painful grip, making your scalp burn. Your body tenses as he begins to move you back and forth, fucking your throat as a way to relieve his irritation and stress of losing. He leans back in his chair to look down at you, lips twitching upward as he sees how you're struggling to take his aggressive behavior.

"Aww, what's the matter? Had enough of my dick in your mouth? Want a break?" He lets go for a moment, giving you some time to respond. You nod your head early, looking up at him with teary eyes, voice hoarse and strained,"Y-yes... Please, let me have a break..." Scaramouche reaches down and pulls you up to sit on his lap. His cock pressed against your clothed entrance beneath your skirt, and his eyes narrow as he feels the dampness accumulated there.

"What's this? For someone who's begging for me to stop, you're utterly soaked. Just begging to be fucked dumb on my cock, aren't you, doll?" He coos at you in a mocking voice, a hand coming up to trace a path along your jawline to the ring of your lips before prying them apart to admire your now sore throat. Then he grabs your hips and begins moving them in slow circles, making you grind on his dick as jolts of pleasure go up and down your spine.

Your hands come up to grasp his shoulders, holding tightly as your teeth dig into your lower lip. You're all too aware of the limited proximity between you and his microphone. Scaramouche sees how you're trying to hold back your noises in fear of them being broadcasted to the whole server and he grins devilishly as he takes the headphones off and slips them onto your head, the mic right by your mouth,"Oh doll, you have no idea how cute you look wearing my headphones... Even more so when you try not to moan."

In one swift motion, his fingers nudge your panties to the side, allowing his cock to be buried deep within your walls with a wet squelch. The sudden intrusion makes a whine escape your lips, back arching and shoulders tensing as you hide your face in his chest. He chuckles at your reaction, rubbing soothing circles on your ass before picking up his controller,"Fucking hell, you're so tight— Can already feel that sweet cunt clenching around me... Now be doll and sit prettily f'me while I play another round." Scaramouche says in a falsely assuring tone, making sure to unmute his microphone as he starts another match.

You're forced to cockwarm his dick to his heart's content, focused on trying not to move so that you don't make noise, the threat of his unmuted mic hanging over your head. At one point you attempt to remove it, but a sudden sharp jerk of his hips effectively halts your movements. The action elicits a choked moan from you, making you smack a hand over your mouth in horror, face burning with embarrassment. The voices of his friends fill your ears, questions directed at your boyfriend asking what the fuck that noise was.

He simply dismisses them, giving brief responses that leave them suspicious as to what their companion could be up to. After what feels like forever, Scaramouche finally tells his friends that he was logging off for the day. Relief fills your mind as he puts down the controller and turns off the computer, but it's short lived as he grabs your chin to make you look at him. His eyes rove over your flustered and pouty expression, pussy aching and needy for some attention after being stretched out by his cock for so long.

"Well look at you, been keeping my dick warm for barely an hour and you're already looking like a desperate slut..." Scaramouche snides as he grabs your hips and begins to move you up and down his length with unnatural strength. Whimpers and moans of pleasure fall from your agape mouth as he uses you as a fleshlight, the feeling of his tip nudging your sweet spot making your eyes roll back. Your boyfriend absolutely adores the sight, the fact you're still wearing his headphones making it look ten times hotter.

"Shit, I could cum just from the sight of you alone, doll.. Lookin' so fucking hot as I bounce you on my dick like a toy... You bet your ass I'm gonna fill you up till there's no way you aren't gonna get knocked up."

#genshin smut #smut #x reader smut #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader smut #genshin impact #scaramouche smut #scara smut #scara x reader smut #yandere scaramouche x reader smut

770 notes · View notes

darlingwriter · 5 months

Note

💫🎀 with Ghost? Like he gets all tipsy and lovey. I honestly see this man as a lovesick puppy once you give him a lil bit of attention

Also if you’re keeping track of anons can I be 🧃anon?

a/n: okay first of all you're absolutely correct and you should say it. secondly, i've never had to track anons before and i'm actually so honoured! you can totally be 🧃 anon! 💗

fic: gn!reader x simon "ghost" riley tags: fluff warnings: none wordcount: under 1k

Strictly speaking, you and Simon really aren’t supposed to be sharing quarters. You’re definitely violating at least a dozen regulations by spending almost every night in his bed. Then again, not many people are willing to argue with a six-foot-three man in a skull mask, so strictly speaking has never really been an issue.

No, the only issue is that it’s almost ten and he’s not back from drinks with Soap and Gaz yet and you’re deeply regretting not going with him because, as it turns out, hanging out in this apartment all by yourself is, big surprise, actually pretty fucking boring.

It feels like a millennium passes by in the confines of the white walls before you at last hear a familiar knock at the door.

Setting down your book, you unfold yourself from the nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, already mourning the loss of warmth as you shuffle across a cold hardwood floor to let the lieutenant in, one quilt still wrapped loosely around your shoulders, trailing behind you as you reach for the latch.

Simon’s pulling you into a hug almost the second you open the door, burying a fabric-covered face against your hair.

“You’re late,” you mumble into his chest, in an unsuccessful attempt to sound scolding.

“I know, ‘m sorry, lovely, cab took fuckin’ forever.” He shoves the door shut behind him. Leans back against it. “Ended up standin’ in the rain for ‘bout an hour.” He strips off a damp jacket. Pulls off his mask, revealing stubble and scars and a smile. “Missed you th’ whole time.”

“Sappy bastard.”

“Mmph.” The scent of bourbon whiskey still lingers on his skin, warm and a little smokey. He wraps the blanket — which has been slowly slipping off over the course of the exchange — back around you. “You like it.” You scoff and roll your eyes, and he cups your face with his hands and grins. “You’re cute.”

“You’re drunk,” you protest through squished cheeks.

“M’right, though.” He chuckles. Pulls you close again. Sinks down onto the couch, and you’re pulled down with him, his thick arms wrapped around you protectively as he rests his chin atop your head.

“Simon.”

“Lovely.”

“Breathing.”

“Not important,” he murmurs.

You sigh in defeat. Melt into the embrace. “You’re warm.” The words are muffled against his neck. Simon hums in acknowledgement. Presses a soft kiss against your temple.

“You too, lovely.”

883 notes · View notes

ghoulphile · 5 months

Note

I'm gonna call out my daddy issues here when I say this but you think coop refers to the age gap you would undoubtedly have? Like he would have you cornered and have his hands up your shirt whispering about how "you shouldn't let a dirty old man touch you like this." like HELLO 😍

me thinks the man doth protest too much 😉

(oops my daddy issues reared their head, my bad sksksk)

i think he'd be super hesitant but once you gave him the green light, he'd go full steam ahead - though he'd be whispering the whole time how wrong this is, how he shouldn't be doing this - fuck what is he thinking - why are you letting him do this? don't you care that he's old enough to be your father? why are you allowing him to touch and kiss and fuck you?

surely it can't feel that good when his hands slide up your shirt, cup your tits and roll his thumbs over your nipples. pinch and pluck and play as he kisses his way up the side of your neck.

nips on your earlobe. slide the other hand between your thighs to feel how soaked your panties are, brushing rough fingertips over damp cotton to rub firm circles against your aching clit.

to tug them aside so he can slip his fingers in, only to groan about how tight and warm and soft you are when you cry out at how wide they spread you open. how this has to be a dream, there's no way you're seriously getting off on this.

right?

the talented flick of his wrist as he strokes along the front wall of your pussy, tapping at the rough patch of ridges that make up your g-spot with the pads of his fingers. grinding in and holding until your thighs are shaking, knees soft and doughy.

how you pant into his mouth, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip as your hands sink into his hair, tugging as you rock into his touch. how you shiver, full-bodied, as he punches desperate little moans out of your mouth.

you should not be doing this, it's so so wrong. what if you get caught? there'll be no living it down. and yet he's never been harder in his life, his cock filling out the front of his pants, zipper digging painfully into the leaking head.

you feel, taste, and sound so good.

and while he shouldn't, he wants to get you under him, fuck his way between those thighs. make you cry and gasp and clutch at his shoulders when you cum around his cock, nails digging lines down his back.

he can't - he can't.

but oh, does he want to.

wants to stretch that pretty pussy out and show you how all the guys your age don't compare to the experience he's got. wants to prove how fast he can make you cum for him.

have you ever actually cum sweetheart? have any of those boys you've fooled around with really cared long enough to truly pleasure you, drag you to the edge by your fingernails? do they even know where the clit is?

from the way you buck and claw, kisses harsh and tongue desperate, he'd hazard that's a no. but it's okay because while this is wrong (on so many different levels), while he really really shouldn't (but really really wants to), he can show you what it's like. an educational experience, as it were.

it's okay, it'll be your little secret. after all, a pretty young thing like you deserves to be used well. and though everything in him rebels against the idea, he's mighty flattered you choose him.

#asks #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x you #the ghoul x reader

451 notes · View notes

pedantic-poison · 1 year

Note

Charles jealous and possessive please, as much as you can imagine 🔥

belong to you | CL16

warnings: smut, 18+ MINORS DNI, language, choking, spanking, edging, unprotected p in v (mentioned)

word count: .6k

You really hadn't meant anything by it.

Well, you sort of had. But Singapore was only Carlos' second win, and Charles had seemed fine going out with the rest of the team to celebrate him.

And yeah, you'd been laying it on a little thick with Carlos, but you'd really just congratulated him a few times. More than a few times, to be honest. And you might've squeezed his biceps a few of those times, or leaned in close to speak into his ear. Maybe danced near him, just a bit.

And suddenly, Charles' large hands were on your waist, yanking you away from the crowd, from Carlos, and dragging you into a dark corner of the club.

"You really think you can spend the whole night teasing me like that and get away with it?" he growled into your ear as your back hit the wall.

One hand landed on your throat, squeezing lightly, as the other held you in place for him to grind against. The bulge in his pants drew a whimper out of you, which had him grinning against your skin as he trailed harsh kisses along your neck.

He slotted a thigh in between yours, pushing it up against you as you ground down onto it immediately, whimpering louder.

"Already needy for me, ma cherie?"

Before you could get out a snarky response, he bit down onto the sensitive skin of your neck, causing you to gasp harshly as he applied more pressure to your throat.

"Just for me. Only for me. All mine." His lips found yours, tongue invading your mouth quickly, dominating your own, and then he was nipping harshly at your bottom lip and pulling away.

His hands were sliding up your dress, finding the hem of your panties, tracing your slit through the fabric, growling when he found them already damp.

"This had better be for me, cherie."

The darkness in his eyes should've made you let up, but it only made you want to taunt him harder.

"And if it's not?"

The hand on your throat tightened to an almost painful degree, "Then when we get home, I'm going to remind you exactly who you belong to."

* * *

You whined out of frustration as Charles denied you an orgasm for the fifth time that night, pulling his fingers out of you. "No, no, Charles, please, please, please let me come, ple-"

A harsh smack on your bare ass silenced you, bottom lip quivering as tears streamed down your face, from frustration, from desperation, from overstimulation, you weren't really sure anymore. You could barely hold yourself up, straddling Charles' lap so he could reach your ass to punish you if you got too demanding, facing him so he could watch you cry and fall apart in his arms.

"If you wanted to finish, then you should've thought about that before you tried to tease me, mon amour. Since you decided to act like a little slut, I need to make sure you remember who you belong to."

"Y-you! Belong to you, Charles, please," you whimpered out, voice weak from how needy he'd made you.

"Please what, hm?"

"Please fuck me, please, I need you."

Charles hummed, pretending to consider it, "You need me?"

You nodded eagerly, desperately.

"Strange. Earlier tonight, it seemed like you wanted Carlos to fuck you. After all, he's the one you were throwing yourself at."

You shook your head vehemently, "No, Charles, just want you, only ever want you."

"And why do you only ever want me, cherie?"

"B-because I belong to you," you sobbed out, body wracked with exhaustion and yet still completely on edge for him.

He nodded sternly, "That's right, mon amour." His strong hands skimmed across the red skin of your ass, firmly gripping it to lift you up and over his cock.

"Gonna fill you up so you can never forget that you're mine."

1K notes · View notes

jobean12-blog · 4 months

Note

Hello friend! I'm here on a Pedro Scout Asknado mission. 🫡😘

What's your dream date with your dream Pedro character?

Getaway

Pairing: Joel Miller (no!outbreak Joel)

Word Count: 564

Summary: You and Joel enjoy every minute of your vacation.

Author's Note: Thank you so much my sweet friend! What a fun ask! I took this as more of a getaway than a date because one date just wouldn't be enough and the beach really is my favorite (a dream!) and I think I read somewhere Pedro loves it too- so we'll just pretend Joel does as well haha! It was hard to leave Javi behind but Joel is my #1. Thank you again and I hope it's cool I wrote a little blurb for it! Just had me thinking how nice it would be to have this time with him! Have a lovely weekend! Hugs and love! ❤️❤️❤️Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: Soft, sweet and fun fluff, little spicy bits too! :)

“Are you almost rea…?”

You walk out of the bedroom just as his words trail off and dissolve into a low rumble.

“Darlin’.”

“What?” you ask. “I’m ready! Let’s go! The beach awaits!”

He groans and grinds his teeth. “Let’s skip the beach.”

With two long strides he meets you in the hallway and wraps you in his arms. He steps back until he has you pinned along the wall, his lips hovering above yours and his body pressed close.

“No way!” you say. “You’ve been waiting for the beach all year.”

“Are you gonna be wearing these the whole vacation?” he whispers against your lips as his finger slips under the flimsy strap of your sundress.

“I have a few with me…”

His eyes close with a pained expression and his hand slides down your arm to grab your waist. The press of his hips to yours shows you exactly what he’s thinking and you nibble his bottom lip before soothing it with a kiss.

You take his hand and slip from his grasp. “Come on!”

He follows you with a pout, his curls falling in front of his face and framing his soft brown eyes.

“Joel?” you ask when you feel him staring.

“Hm?” he says, clearly distracted and staring at your ass.

You tsk lightly and continue setting down the blanket.

“I could use some help you know.”

“I’m enjoying the view,” he murmurs.

“The ocean is beautiful,” you counter.

He chuckles and leans forward, grabbing you around the waist and pulling you down into his lap.

“What’s beautiful is your ass in that bathing suit darlin’.”

“I thought it was the sundresses that drive you crazy,” you tease.

He gathers you closer and slides his hand over your ass, his gaze growing more heated.

“It’s you. You drive me crazy darlin’.”

“You’re not holding back are you, Mr. Miller?” you whisper, staring greedily at his mouth.

“If you don’t stop looking at me like that Mrs. Miller, I’m going to have to drag you back to the beach house.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

You flatten your palms on his chest and stand.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he calls.

“For a swim!”

You wade out into the warm water and turn, watching your husband approach. He dives under the water before you can get your fill but when he breaks the surface again and droplets glisten along his tan skin, your breath catches.

He reaches you and takes you in his arms.

“You’re stunning,” he whispers letting his eyes follow the trail of a drop of water as it travels down your neck and into your cleavage.

“I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

You kiss his neck, his skin warm and salty and then run your hands through his wet and slicked back hair.

“I’m not sure I can take much more of this,” he murmurs, catching your lips as they pass his. “I think it’s time for a beach break.”

“Like I’ll ever say no to you.”

Tenderness sweeps through his intense expression and your fingers continue to smooth over his damp skin, the droplets of water on his shoulders tickling your fingertips.

“I’m one lucky son of bitch, aren’t I, darlin’?”

“We both are,” you answer and curl your fingers into his dark hair to pull him in for a kiss.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal x reader

379 notes · View notes

itneverendshere · 25 days

Note

Could you maybe do a one shot of insecure reader x rafe? Reader doesn't believe Rafe finds her actually sexually attractive and her insecurities/bad self esteem are putting a strain on their relationship. And there is that whole ''her having a problem with him liking her, because she does not like herself so she is uncomfortable and pushes him away'' type of deal. Maybe he shots himself in the foot when she asks if he finds her attractive, and because he knows her self esteem is so low, he is trying to comfort her by answering ''Looks aren't important in life '' and she feels heartbroken. She from then is short in texts, doesn't answer his calls etc.

get to the bottom of you - r.c (+18)

pairing: insecure!reader x lover boy!rafe warnings: angst; mentions of low self-esteem; smut

His room should have been a place of comfort—a place where you felt safe—it wasn’t tonight.

You could hear him moving around in the bathroom, the sound of the faucet running, the clinking of his toothbrush against the sink. You should have been inside with him, brushing your teeth side by side, playfully jostling him with your elbow like you usually did. His laughter had echoed through the door just a few minutes ago as he’d told some joke you didn’t catch.

Normally, you’d laugh too, even if you didn’t understand the punchline, but tonight you barely mustered a smile. You couldn’t help it. You’d been feeling off for days now.

You loved him. That wasn’t in question. But the doubts mocking you—the insecurity, the voice in your head that whispered, why would he want someone like you?—were getting louder. It had been there since the start, this ever-present thought that you were out of place. That a guy like Rafe couldn’t possibly be interested in someone like you.

You loved him with everything you had, but how could you let him love you back when you couldn’t even like yourself?

He had been nothing but patient with you since the beginning, but no matter how many times he reassured you, the voice in your head—the one that whispered that you weren’t good enough, that you weren’t what he wanted—never seemed to quiet down. You couldn’t see yourself the way Rafe did. The compliments he gave you always felt empty, like he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear.

Earlier tonight, he'd had been busy texting on his phone, and the longer you sat there, the more the voices in your head snapped at you. He hadn’t looked at you in what felt like hours, hadn’t even noticed the way you’d been shifting awkwardly in your seat.

He was the guy who turned heads when he walked into a room. Confident, self-assured, with a sharp smile and piercing blue eyes that could make anyone feel like the center of the universe.

You weren’t like the girls you’d seen him with before. They were stunning, all sharp cheekbones, and perfect hair, the kind of women that could stop someone in their tracks. You, on the other hand, had always been self-conscious—your appearance, your body, the way you looked in clothes. It wasn’t that you hated yourself exactly; you just… never felt enough. Not enough for someone like him.

That’s what kept you up at night.

The door opened, and Rafe stepped out, smiling at you, toothbrush still in hand. His blue sparkled as he walked over to you, leaning against the wall casually. His hair was damp from washing his face, and he had that easy, relaxed look on his face that usually made your heart flutter.

“You good?” he asked, his voice warm and teasing, as always.

You nodded quickly, forcing a smile,“Yeah, just tired,” you murmured, pushing your phone aside and getting up from the bed. You crossed the room to the window, feeling the cool breeze against your skin.

You hated this—hated that you couldn’t just let things be, hated that your mind was always spinning in circles, convincing you that something was wrong. But it was hard to shake the feeling that you didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve him.

He, always so perceptive, frowned slightly and walked over to you. He placed his hands on your waist and gently pulled you back against him. His warmth should’ve been reassuring, but instead, it only made you feel more fragile. “You sure?” he pressed, leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you lied again, this time a little more firmly, hoping he wouldn’t push.

But of course, he did.

“You’ve been quiet all night.” His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer. Normally, you’d melt into him, but tonight, it felt different. Heavy.

You stared out at the darkened horizon, biting your lip. Maybe this was your moment to ask the question that had been eating at you for the past weeks, but every time you shoved it back down, afraid of the answer.

You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip as you tried to find the right words. You didn’t want to sound ridiculous, didn’t want to admit how insecure you felt. “Rafe..”

“Yeah?” he whispered, his breath tickling your neck.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of your shirt, his shirt, and you turned around in his arms, meeting his focused gaze. “Do you… do you find me attractive?”

His brows furrowed at your question. It was such a simple question, but to you, it felt like everything. Like the entire foundation of your relationship was resting on his answer. Your heart was pounding now, and you could feel the burn of tears threatening to surface.

“What?” he asked softly, “Why would you even ask that?”

You felt a lump in your throat, and you swallowed hard. “I just… I need to know.”

Rafe’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin. He opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. You watched his eyes flicker with uncertainty, and that hesitation made your heart sink.

“Looks aren’t everything, y'know,” he said quietly, his tone careful, as if he was walking on eggshells.

You froze.

His words echoed again in your head, and your worst fear—the one that had been brewing inside you for so long—solidified in front of you.

Looks aren’t everything.

He wasn’t saying yes. He wasn’t reassuring you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he wanted you, how much you meant to him. Instead, he was saying that it didn’t matter. That it was irrelevant. Your chest tightened, and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the heartbreak that was building in your veins.

You pushed him away gently, stepping back out of his embrace.

“Right,” you whispered, your voice breaking. You couldn’t look at him now, not with your vision swimming and your throat closing up.

“Wait, that’s not—” Rafe began, stepping forward, his hand reaching for you. “That’s not what I meant. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“C-Can you please let me go?”

He didn’t want you, not in the way you needed him to.

He must have seen the change in your expression, because his eyes widened, and he immediately backpedaled. “No, no, you know hat’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, his voice tinged with panic. “I didn’t mean—”

You pulled your hand away from his, shaking your head as the tears welled up in your eyes. “It’s fine,” you whispered, even though it wasn’t. Your voice cracked, and you hated that you couldn’t keep it together.

Rafe reached for you again, but you stood up before he could grab your hand. “Hey, wait,” he said, standing up as well, his voice pleading now. “That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant.”

But you couldn’t listen to him, not when every insecurity you had about yourself had just been confirmed. You didn’t want to hear him explain, didn’t want to hear whatever excuse he was going to give you. You needed space.

Without another word, you turned and walked to the door, your hands trembling as you reached for the handle.

"Please don’t go," Rafe's voice was quiet, a vulnerability in it that you weren’t used to hearing. He sounded scared, and that hurt even more because you knew this wasn’t his fault. Not really. It was you—your insecurities, your doubts, your inability to believe that someone like him could truly want someone like you.

"I just need a minute.”

The hallway felt cold compared to the warmth of his room. You pressed your back against the wall, sinking to the floor, your knees pulled to your chest. You could still hear him moving around inside, pacing maybe, and it made your stomach twist in knots.

How had things gone so wrong so quickly?

You buried your face in your hands, trying to calm yourself but it was no use. The tears came, hot and fast, burning your cheeks as you sobbed quietly. You hated this. You hated feeling so unsure of yourself, so small, so unworthy. And you hated that Rafe, the one person who made you feel safe, had unknowingly thrown all of that into question.

Looks aren’t everything.

It wasn't about whether you thought he was shallow—Rafe had never been that type of guy—but the way he hesitated, the way he tiptoed around your question.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you pulled it out, your vision still blurry from the tears. It was a group chat notification from the friends you had been out with earlier that week. A picture had been sent, one of the group photos taken during the event. You scanned through it, your attention landing on a figure that made your heart sink further—her.

Rafe’s ex, standing tall and confident beside him, her radiant smile lighting up the frame. Her beauty was undeniable—perfectly coiffed hair, a jawline that could cut glass, and an air of effortless poise that seemed to draw everyone in. Adriana Lima, but real.

And next to her? You.

The contrast between you two felt overwhelming. How could you, with your insecurities and imperfections, ever hope to measure up to someone like her? The thought that Rafe had once been with someone like that, someone who seemed flawless in every way... it killed you.

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t even hers. It was you.

You needed to leave. You needed space. Without another glance back, you pushed yourself off the floor and slipped out his house, the hallway eerily quiet as you hurried toward the stairs, wiping at your tear-streaked face.

As the door slid shut, you could hear the faint sound of his footsteps, but by then it was too late. You got in your car speeding off before he could open the door.

After that night, things only got worse. You’d pulled back, distancing yourself from him in every way possible. You didn’t answer his texts for hours, and when you did, they were short, clipped replies. You stopped calling him back, ignored the missed calls that filled your phone—everything. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to him; you just couldn’t. Not yet.

You hated it. You hated yourself for pushing him away, but more than that, you hated the way you couldn’t stop spiraling.

You avoided places where you might run into him. No coffee shops, no mutual friends’ gatherings. You threw yourself into work, into anything that could distract you from thinking about him, about the look on his face when you’d left him there.

You missed him—missed his laugh, missed the way he’d pull you close just because, missed the way he’d make you feel like you were the only person in the world when he looked at you.

On the third night, you were lying in bed, staring blankly at your phone screen. Rafe had sent a text earlier, and though you’d ignored it, you couldn’t bring yourself to delete it like the others.

Rafe: i miss you. please talk to me. just want to know you’re okay.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching the phone tighter in your hand. You wanted to answer. You wanted to tell him that you missed him too, that you were okay—but the truth was, you weren’t. You hadn’t been okay for a long time, and you didn’t know how to explain that to him. Every little insecurity, every time you’d felt like you weren’t enough.

Your chest tightened again, you wished you could be different, stronger, more secure in yourself. You wished you could believe him, that you could trust his words. Your phone buzzed again, and this time you hesitated before picking it up. It was another text from him.

Rafe: i get that you need space, but please don’t shut me out. i don’t know what else to say except i love you. i just wanna talk.

I love you.

You stared at the words on the screen. He loved you. Maybe that should have been enough. Maybe it was enough, but somehow, you still felt hollow, still felt like you were standing on the outside of your own life. You locked your phone without responding, tossing it onto the bed next to you as you buried your face in your hands.

You were terrified that if you let him in now if you finally told him how you felt, it might break something between you two. But hadn’t something already broken?

The next two weeks seemed never-ending, the hours blurring together as you went through the motions at your internship, half-heartedly responding to emails, nodding through conversations, and generally just existing.

By the time you returned home, you felt like you’d been run over by a truck. As you kicked off your shoes, there was a soft knock on your door.

Your heart sank.

You knew it was him before you even opened it. Rafe stood there, his hands in his pockets. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Can we talk?” His voice was quiet, almost pleading, searching your face for any sign that you might push him away again.

You stepped back, letting him in, and closed the door softly behind him. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you gestured for him to sit, though neither of you moved right away. Rafe stayed standing, studying your face, and you could tell that he was trying to figure out how to begin.

“I—" he started, but then stopped, running a hand through his hair, like he’d been rehearsing those words over and over in his head. “I don’t know what to say, honestly. I’ve been trying to figure out what I did wrong, what I said wrong. But I don’t think it’s just about what I said that night, is it?”

He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t frustrated—he was just… sad. Sad that you hadn’t let him in. Sad that you had been carrying all of this on your own.

You felt a lump form in your throat, and your chest tightened again, but this time it was from knowing you’d done this to him. It was from knowing that you’d pushed him away.

You couldn’t run from this anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “It’s not you. It’s me. I know that’s such a cliché, but—I don’t know how to fix this.”

Rafe took a cautious step closer, his hands still in his pockets, like he didn’t want to crowd you but couldn’t stay away either.

“I don’t need you to fix anything. Just need you to talk to me, okay? To tell me what’s going on in your pretty head, even if it’s hard.”

“I don’t understand why you’d want to be with someone like me.”

His brows knitted together in concern. “Someone like you?” he repeated, like the concept was absurd. He stepped closer again, reaching for your hand, but this time you didn’t pull away, “You mean the love of my life?”

The love of his life.

It sounded so easy when he said it. So genuine. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d never even considered anyone else. But how could he be so sure when you weren’t?

“What if you get tired of me?” your voice was so meek it nearly killed him, the fear in your voice so so vulnerable. “What if one day, you wake up and realize you could be with someone better? Someone like—”

“Stop,” he interrupted his voice firm. “There is no someone else, baby. There is no one better. M' here because I want to be here. With you. I chose you. I’ll keep choosing you. Even when you’re doubting yourself, even when you think you don’t deserve it. I’ll still be here, because I love you. And I need you to believe that, okay?”

You swallowed hard, your chest still aching from the emotion bubbling up inside you.

“But what if I can’t stop doubting?”

Rafe stepped closer, his hand moving to cup your cheek as he tilted your face up to meet his gaze, “Then we’ll work through it together,” he said softly. “M' not going anywhere. Doubt all you want. Question it if you have to. But don’t ever shut me out again, you hear me? I can’t lose you.”

Your breath hitched as his thumb brushed softly across your cheek, his attention unwavering, filled with a tenderness that nearly broke you. There he was, standing in front of you, patient, willing to wait, to love you through every insecurity you tried to hide.

“Okay,” you muttered.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he brushed a tear away with his thumb. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice hopeful, as if he was waiting for a sign that maybe you were ready to let him in again.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice not to break. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to be held by him.

“Lemme prove it to you, please.”

His eyes flickered to your lips, and then his hand was on the back of your neck, tugging you to him. Your lips met his in a hungry kiss, moving together and tongues running along one another.

He grips your waist and moved you like you weigh nothing. You could feel his warmth seeping into your skin, and for the first time in days, your insecurities started to lift. His lips never left yours, deepening the kiss as he pressed you against the door, his body flush against yours, grounding you.

His hands touched your body with a gentle urgency, pulling you closer, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, blunt fingernails digging into your skin.

He broke the kiss for a moment, breathless, his lips shiny with your spit, “You don’t see it, do you?” he murmured softly, his fingers tracing your lips with a reverence that made your heart burst, “You don’t know how badly I want you. How perfect you are to me.”

His hands moved lower, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist, his touch firm but gentle as if reassuring you that he meant every word.

“Let me show you,” he repeated, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth before trailing down to your jaw, then lower to your neck, where he placed soft, heated sloppy kisses that made you shiver. “Every inch of you, fuck—I love everything.”

His big hands moved to your ass, squeezing the flesh so hard, you were sure it would bruise. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he groaned against your lips, his hands now sliding under your sleeping shorts, feeling every inch of bare skin. “Your skin—so soft. I can’t get enough of you.”

A fervent moan slipped past your lips when his hard cock pressed against your thighs. You could feel his breath against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there, making you gasp.

“I need you,” he whispered against your ear, his voice rough with want. "I need you to believe me."

And for a moment, you did. You let yourself sink into him, his warmth, his strength, his words—all of it. You let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could love you the way you needed him to.

His fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, pulling it up as his lips trailed lower, over your collarbone, to the top of your chest. His hands squeeze the flesh of your ass, a sharp slap echoing through the room as you whimpered, and he chuckled before taking a nipple into his mouth and working it with his tongue.

His hands were everywhere—gripping, squeezing, exploring—as though he was trying to memorize every inch of you, to show you exactly what he meant.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging softly before your nails pressed into his neck, eliciting a groan against your nipple. He then shifted to the other side, his tongue flickering rapidly against the hardening peak. The feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his hands moved over you with such care, made your head spin.

You gasped as his mouth worked its magic, alternating between teasing bites and soft licks that.

"Rafe..." you breathed, your voice shaky as his lips trailed back up, capturing yours again in a heated kiss. You could feel him everywhere, pressing into you. It was overwhelming, the way he moved, the way he held you like you were the only thing that mattered.

His fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts, teasing the sensitive skin of your hips before he tugged them down in one swift motion. You kicked them off, your breath quickening as he pressed himself against you, his hard cock straining against the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Do you believe me now?” he groaned against your lips, his voice hoarse from how long he’d been kissing every part of you.

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to hear you say it. His hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

"Tell me," he demanded.

"I believe you.”

His hands roamed over your body, tracing every curve, every dip, like he was worshipping you. He lifted you easily, carrying you over to the couch and laying you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours. You watched as he stood, pulling off his shirt and boxers in one fluid motion before climbing over you, his body hovering just above yours.

His skin was warm, his muscles tense as he held himself back, waiting for your permission. You reached up, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, his chest, his abs, before pulling him down to you. He settled between your legs, his cock pressing against your heat, and you moaned softly, your body arching into his.

“God, I need you,” he groaned, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, torturous rhythm, his head nudging your clit, "Tell me you need me too."

“I do,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders as you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I need you, Rafe.”

That was all he needed to hear.

With one swift motion, he lined himself up and pushed inside you, filling you completely. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as he stretched you, the feeling of him inside you so intense it made your head spin. He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged as he gave you a second to adjust.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “So perfect for me.”

His breathing was already ragged, soft moans filling your ears as moved with him.

“Fuckin’—You were made for me, weren’t you?” He murmured against your ear, nipping at your earlobe as he gripped your hips.

His words made your head spin, and you felt your breath stutter as you clamped down around him. He grinned against your ear, using the grip on your hair to tug your head back and look into your eyes.

You nodded, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes, f-fuck—”

His smile widened and he thrusted into you faster, the slap of skin on skin growing louder, “Atta girl. That’s my baby.”

"Rafe," you gasped, his name falling from your lips in a breathy moan as he hit a spot deep inside you that sent a wave of pleasure rolling through your body. He growled low in his throat at the sound, his hips rolling faster, driving deeper, his breath hot against your skin.

"Say it again," he urged, his voice a low rasp against your ear as his teeth grazed your neck. "Say my name."

You complied, your fingers digging into his back as you whispered his name again and again, each time more broken, more desperate. He groaned in response, his movements becoming rougher, more frantic as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“I love you,” he breathed out, the sincerity of his words almost lost in the haze of pleasure that surrounded you both. But you heard it—you felt it—and it was enough to push you closer to the edge.

His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, deliberate circles that made you cry out, your back arching off the couch as the pleasure built, spiraling higher and higher until you could barely breathe.

"I-I love you," he said again, the words spilling out between ragged breaths as his thumb pressed harder against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. "God, I love you so much. You're everything to me."

Your body trembled beneath him, teetering on the edge of release. The way he was holding you, like you were the most precious thing in the world—it was all too much, too perfect. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down so that your lips met again, your need for him matching his in every way.

"Rafe," you gasped against his lips, your body arching into his as the tension coiled tighter inside you, ready to snap.

“I got you,” he murmured, his voice soothing yet rough, his forehead pressing against yours as his fingers worked you closer to the brink. “Come for me, baby. I need t’feel you.”

And you did—your body tensing, pleasure crashing over you in waves as you cried out his name. Rafe groaned as you clenched around him, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release, his grip on your waist almost bruising as he buried himself deep inside you one last time, moaning your name as he came.

He stayed there, hovering above you, his face buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft kisses against your damp skin as you both came down from the high.

You didn’t speak right away, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, but when he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes were soft, full of that same tenderness you’d seen earlier. His thumb brushed your cheek as he gazed down at you with a look that made your heart swell.

He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face as he traced your cheek.

“You okay?”

You nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you met his gaze. “I think I am.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it. You weren’t perfect, and maybe you never would be. But right now, in this moment, wrapped in his arms, you felt like you were enough.

And that was more than enough for him.

671 notes · View notes