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salem-s · 2 days ago

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FINAL ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, flufffffffff, angst if you squint, smmmmmuuuutt (unprotected...everything so don't take after them please). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 13k. legit do not say anything. this was originally 4k words but i obviously couldn't let that happen for the last chapter. so. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. please see the note at the end of the chapter!! ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER the only exception by paramore

Rafe swears he hears pounding on his door.

He takes an ear bud out, trying to discern if the noise was real or a part of the song he’s currently listening to. After a moment’s silence, he moves to put the bud back in but one, two beats later, the knocks sound again, confirming someone is at his door so late into the night.

Irritation bubbles in his chest.

Rafe’s been at these stupid memorization cards for what feels like hours, getting nowhere close to being ready for his eight a.m. exam. His mind has – obviously – been elsewhere for the betterment of a week, and he'd be lying if he said the attempt in drowning himself in work has properly distracted him from the events of last week.

Spoiler alert: it hasn't, and it's only getting worse.

Especially now, as the handwriting on the paper started giving him a headache hours ago, so he begrudgingly put on his glasses that he refuses to let see the light of day. The specks, unfortunately, do assist in not making the letters blur together, especially when he’s so tired that his gaze falls in and out of focus.

However, he hates them so goddamn much that it only worsens his already sour mood.

But now they aren’t the only annoyance of his night.

The fact that someone is ferociously pounding on his door only augments his headache, his frustration, and his precariously bubbling temper. He glances at the time, nearing two in the morning, angry that someone has the audacity to not only interrupt his studying, but probably everyone’s sleep on his floor, careless to rhyme or reason or simple ethics.

He wastes no time standing so quick his chair nearly falls over, stomping over, a long list of curses and horrific things to say are on the tip of his tongue, ready to viscerally berate this person until next Tuesday.

Rafe whips the door open. “The fuck is the–”

His words die in his throat when he sees you.

The air is momentarily knocked from his lungs.

Your hair and makeup are done, as if you've just come from somewhere, adorned in one of his favorite tank tops on you and jeans that hug you too tight to be anything holy. You peer up at him with wide eyes at his harsh words, hugging your basically bare frame in a feeble attempt to warm yourself from wherever you just came from.

God, you look beautiful.

He knows he’s supposed to be mad at you and giving you space and all that, but all of that fades in an instant when he notices your arms coated in goosebumps and your teeth slightly chattering.

Something ugly brews in his chest, discomforted by the thought of you bracing the cold all by yourself. Where is your jacket?

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” he grumbles, ushering you into his room without a second thought.

In an attempt to regain his cool, he frowns to keep up with his indifferent demeanor since he's supposed to be cordial and all, even though the mere thought of attempting small talk with you settles a kettlebell in the pit of his stomach. His heart aches looking at you, because you're simply a walking reminder of how he fucked it all up, said the wrong things and came on too strong with poor timing, a reminder of what he could've had if he was a little more patient, more calculated, less stupid in his endeavors.

Because the past week has been absolute torture for him.

He learned very quickly that almost everything around him reminds him of you: books with an aged spine and annotations adorning the wrinkled pages, simple parts of nature that resemble the color of your eyes, strangers hugging, the mere smell of eucalyptus, everything all at once. The day he got back, he went to the liquor store with Elliot in an attempt to distract himself, but it proved fruitless when he found himself wandering idly in the wine aisle, frozen in place when he found the same bottle that you snagged two of after that grueling dinner with your family.

From that point on, Rafe really only stayed in his room unless it was absolutely necessary to leave.

But it seems as though even the confinements of his room don't provide the solace he's been desperately seeking, as the knowledge of how your room shares a wall with his has been plaguing his conscience. There have been countless times where he's debated saying fuck it, knocking on your door, and begging on his knees to have you in his life again, but he knows he can't do that.

He needs to let you come to him, to not bombard you as he has before. That was what scared you off, his forwardness, so he's vowed to keep cool, keep a distance, and keep quiet as much as he can to give you the space you need.

So, he knows he needs to remain stoic, indifferent, guarded.

Reminding himself of this, Rafe hands you a hoodie off the back of his chair. “Did you lose your key again?”

The sound of his voice is so nice to hear, so refreshing, and you nearly sigh as you hug the hoodie close to your body before pulling it over your head, relishing in the way it smells like him, in its warmth as if he was just wearing it moments ago. Pathetically, you nearly sigh at how it feels adorning your body.

“I left my purse at Elliot’s,” you whisper, hugging your body. “Since when have you had glasses?”

Rafe freezes, forgetting he had them on.

Ignoring his pink cheeks and ignoring your question, he moves on, putting his guard back up.

Quickly.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, so he reels it in. “Uh, it’s late. I have an exam.”

You frown at the considerable distance he’s put between you, but part of you really can't blame him since you were the one who orchestrated the falling out.

“I won’t…I won’t take too long. I just need to know if…” You trail off.

How on earth are you going to go about this? Especially when his stare is so piercing, as if he's looking right through your body and into your soul, brows pinched in what you assume is irritation at your stammering.

“Know what?” he drawls out.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, gaping to try and find the words. You shiver as you recover from the chilly walk, but also at his stare that you can’t quite make out the meaning behind. Is he mad? Irritated? Relieved to see you? You hate how you can’t tell.

But you take a deep breath.

You know how he feels about you, you know all of it, despite this front he’s wearing right now. If Elliot can confirm it, it must be true.

And as if you needed the extra push, your gaze drifts slightly beyond him, fixated on his desk and noticing the sprawl of papers, his computer open to an online textbook, and notecards that have almost perfect handwriting etched onto them. What gets you, though, are the five almost professional looking photo prints laid out side by side across the top of his desk.

All of you.

You in the distance teetering your balance on a particularly precarious rock in your private cove. You walking up the dirt path to your nonna's cottage with the mountains behind you. You holding a hand up in an attempt to block the lens as your body adorns a hideous dress you only showed him for shits and giggles. You leaning forward to do your mascara in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall, wearing the perfect beaded dress. And, finally, you sitting alone in the garden chair in your nonna's yard, the moonlight hue behind you as you read your book, unknowing to his presence from the kitchen.

Just above his desk, just hovering over the photos, is his ceramic fish hanging on the wall, one of his only pieces of decor in his entire room.

Rafe follows your gaze with confusion, and his posture stiffens when he realizes what you're looking at, what you discovered. Instantly, he frowns as he side steps just enough to block your view of the photos, of the fish. But the damage has already been done, and your breath hitches as you immediately get the confirmation you need to open your heart up.

All of a sudden, you're blurting it out.

“Elliot told me what you said to him.” The lack of clarification has Rafe raising a brow, to which you add, “About what happened with Yara.”

Rafe’s breath hitches.

“Is it true?” Your voice is so small that it doesn’t sound like you.

“Which part?”

“All of it.” You take a cautious step closer, the tequila running through your bloodstream giving you the confidence.

Rafe doesn’t answer, instead he cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes trail down your body in calculation, gears working overtime in his head as he soaks in your words, the sliver of desperation coating your tone, the way you're playing with the hem of his hoodie, your brows etched in slight worry as you anticipate his response.

Then, it clicks with him, eyes slightly widening at the realization. The reasoning behind your acute coldness towards him wasn’t out of unrequited feelings, but rather the latter.

You cared too much, felt too much.

The thought gives him whiplash. You must've seen him and Yara in that godforsaken closet and gotten the complete wrong impression on the matter. His heart fucking lurches at your wordless confession, and no wonder you were so apprehensive about his words, about his intentions, and pushed him away at every single opportunity that presented itself because of a stupid miscommunication, because of her stupid actions.

“Is that why you were upset?” He takes it further and steps closer. “At your nonna’s, you said you were upset about something that made you tell your mom about us. You saw us? In the closet?”

Suddenly, he’s standing right in front of you.

“Is that why?”

You can’t speak, not while he’s practically caging you in, standing so broad and tall in front of you that it renders you speechless. He faintly smells of shampoo, an intoxicating scent, and you can almost see yourself in the reflection of his thinly wired glasses, only shielding his bright blue eyes through shiny glass. His hoodie swallows you whole, and you're grateful for the extra layer that feels like it’s warding off the vulnerability you're reeking of.

All you can manage is a small nod.

Rafe clenches his jaw, and a part of you fears you've said the wrong thing.

But then his eyes immediately soften as he brings a hand up to hover over your jaw, almost in muscle memory, as if he's been paining him to not do so, to not touch you.

For fuck's sake, he almost looks relieved.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You nearly snort at the simplicity. For a number of reasons, really, but the biggest one comes first.

“I was embarrassed. I thought you didn’t mean what you said in the ballroom.”

Your voice is so quiet that you almost think he doesn’t hear it, especially when he gives no reaction for a few seconds.

Then his palm is pressing harder, fully allowing himself to touch you. And, god, you can't help but lean into the embrace with a long sigh through your nose, not breaking eye contact with him as his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip, over the wound that’s practically all healed with little to no remnants of the disaster that occurred in that bathroom all that time ago.

A flicker of pain etches over his face at the reminder of the cut, of what your own mother did, but then his eyes trail back up to meet yours, now glossing with certainty.

“Nothing happened with Yara,” he reassures firmly.

You nod, sure of yourself now. “I know.”

“All I could think about was you.”

You can’t breathe.

Cautiously, Rafe leans down to test the waters, and once you make no move to pull away from his touch, he indulges in his endeavors to brush his lips against your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss there.

“About your pretty smile.” He pulls back to move to your other cheek. “Your pretty laugh.” To your forehead. “About how being with someone else made me sick.”

The air escapes your lungs.

“I meant what I said.” Rafe pulls back so he can meet your eye, a flicker of worry glossing over his pretty eyes, but nonetheless filled with determination. “Every word.”

You can’t help your second nature and let a sliver of panic let up.

“I thought you didn’t want to date in college.”

The excuse is meek, you know that, he knows that. It’s a last ditch effort for him to truly understand what he’s getting himself into.

But he's serious. Not a fraction of uncertainty glosses over his pretty features, or give you any shroud of doubt that he didn't mean what he said on that ballroom floor. With the firmness of his palm against your burning skin, the narrowed yet softness gaze in his blue eyes, and the way his other fingers on his other hand twitch in your direction tell you all that you need to know: that he's fucking missed you as much as you've missed him.

And – normally – that thought would scare you and send you running for the hills with a heartbeat too erratic and a mind too gone, but now it only solidifies you, grounds you, keeps you tethered to the boy standing in front of you. He's handing you a proverbial knife and hoping you don't stab him with it, and you have once before, but now you don't dream of letting it happen again.

“I didn’t,” he confirms cautiously. “Not until you showed me what it could be like.”

If it’s possible, you lean further into his touch, frowning in your overwhelming blossom of emotions. The thought of being wanted by someone settles a foreign feeling in your gut, wavering between pride and uncertainty.

“I want you, too,” you whisper, nearly sighing at how he visibly relaxes at your words, but your voice remains shy. “But I’m scared.”

Rafe pinches his brows in the slightest at your tone. “Of what, baby?”

The words die in your throat.

The list is endless, really, piling with a million excuses that only grow by the second. Where can you begin? How the idea of someone wanting more than just your body is evidently unheard of? How the concept of more implies putting up with the ugly parts of life, the parts you push deep down and never let see the light of day?

Your hands find his unoccupied one, holding onto your lifeline as if it'll fucking kill you if you let go.

“I don’t know how to be more than just…a body.”

That makes him frown. Immediately.

Despite it, you continue.

"All my life, I've just been..." You try and find the right words, avoiding his eyes and looking down at your connected hands instead at the weight of your upcoming words. "I've never been wanted, or yearned for, or anyone's first choice. It's really hard for me to believe that someone...that you...would want me..."

Rafe reels.

Have you really thought this entire time that he’s only here for the sex? That that’s all you're good for? All you're worthy of being loved for?

How can you not see how much more you are? How much you mean to him? Don't you know that you occupy his mind at every waking moment? That you're the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up in the morning to the last thing he sees at night, and how he shuts his eyes when he’s alone and pretends you're right there beside him, holding his hand or scratching his back or playing with his hair.

Don't you know how much he loves you?

“Sweet girl,” Rafe murmurs gently before leaning forward, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug that makes you oof against his chest, getting pulled taut against him. “How can you say that? How can you even think–? When I can’t even–” He grips you tighter. “Fuck.”

Your confusion is through the roof at his desperation. “Rafe, are you–”

“Do you even know how much you mean to me?”

That silences you.

“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” he says in a wrangled breath. “Ever. I don’t know how to trust people. I don’t like to and I don’t know how. But with you, it’s never felt easier.”

A large hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and your heart lurches when you can feel a slight tremble.

Especially when he murmurs your name so quietly, so ardently, that you can't help but just listen.

“You’re so much more than a body.” Rafe’s voice is quiet yet firm and it makes you fumble at the sincerity. “You’re smart. You remember things better than anyone I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t admit it, but you’re actually sweet. You take care of things and people you deeply appreciate. I’ve never seen someone so delicately handle a ceramic fish before.”

You shakily chuckle against his chest.

“And the thought of not being around you anymore really scared me. And even if you...didn't feel the same," he says low, "I wouldn't have minded, as long as I could be in the same room or exist in the same friend group, it wouldn't...matter. As long as I could still see you.”

Rafe finally relents on his grip, pulling back a fraction and taking his hand to gently grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him and face the ferocity of his words, as if they didn't just fucking crush you in a way you've never felt before.

“I liked being with you.” His stare is piercing. “Existing together. Doing all of it.”

You hum. On instinct, you reach up to brush some hair out of his eyes.

Rafe’s heart pounds. “Tell me,” he says, voice dripping in desperation. “Tell me it was real to you.”

You nod instantly. “It was real. All of it.”

He sucks in a breath at the verity, and goes to say something else but you don't let him, instead pulling him down to kiss him.

And, god, it’s exhilarating.

All of your fears, all of your doubts, all of your uncertainties that plagues yours and his heart, mind, soul all fly out of the window. You can finally lean into one another without the steel weights cursing your shoulders or the cage locking in your hearts. The kiss is a wordless promise, an oath, a safety net.

His hands are everywhere instantly: arms, waist, face. Not an inch goes unnoticed as he finally, finally can touch you again, feel you again, hear you again. Your hands trail up to the nape of his neck, holding yourself here in his arms as if to remind yourself this is real and happening. He’s here, right here, and he’s not going anywhere, nor is he letting you go anywhere.

As much as it scares you, the tension in your shoulders slowly release.

You slowly back him up until his knees hit his desk chair, Rafe taking the hint and sitting down and wasting no time to pull you into his lap. It's muscle memory at this point, molding yourself onto his body. You both sigh at the sensation of the familiarity.

Straddling him, you place your hands on his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles in his t-shirt as his hands trail up and down your side, settling under your – his – hoodie and skimpy tank top to feel the ridges of your ribcage, a connection he's been yearning to make ever since his hands left your body last. His palms are hot against your icy skin, sending a plethora of goosebumps up your spine.

Rafe simply stares at you, watching you admire the planes and grooves of his shoulder muscles, his biceps, anything you can get your hands on to make up for lost time spent pining in silence.

When you finally meet his eye, you shyly smile when you notice him already shamelessly looking right back at you.

One of your hands cradles his jaw, fingers gently skimming over the lenses of his glasses. “I like these.”

Rafe groans, rolling his eyes and darting his gaze away. “I hate them.”

“Why?” You nudge his cheek to force him to look at you. “I think they make you look handsome.”

“They make me look stupid.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. They're glasses."

"Still stupid."

"You should wear them more often,” you demand lightly.

Rafe frowns. “No.”

“Well, don’t they help you see?”

“Obviously, but–”

You smile, and he’s having trouble focusing. “Then case closed.”

His lips twitch. “Sweet girl,” Rafe warns.

There’s no backbone to it.

“Don’t sweet girl me,” you warn right back at him. Then, quieter, “Why didn’t you bring them?”

Instead he cocks his head to the side with a teasing smile.

“Are you really that interested in my optical choices or is this your sweet little way of getting in my pants?”

You snort. “We both know I don’t have to be sweet to get into your pants.”

Rafe laughs boyishly and you love the sound. But he’s still avoiding your question.

“Answer.”

“Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Okay,” he huffs playfully, “I didn't really have to bring them. I only need them when I’m reading or writing a lot. My eyes get tired.”

You pout endearingly. “That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard–”

“Fuck off.”

“No.” You lean forward and press a slow chaste kiss on his lips.

Of course, he can’t even fathom pulling away and mmrphs low into your mouth, leaning up to chase your lips again for another kiss when you lean back. You hum at his neediness, but giving in anyway and slightly parting your lips to give him all the access he wants.

Rafe wastes no time in doing so, a hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck to guide your movements as he lazily makes out with you as if he has all the time in the world to do so. The warmth of his mouth, his body, his palm nearly make you melt in your very spot, a wave of relief washing over you.

You decide that you love this spot right here on his lap. Your favorite seat. Your throne.

When you happily hum again, Rafe kisses you harder, squeezes a little harder.

“God,” he mumbles against your lips, “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

The possessiveness makes your stomach pool with pride. All his. All yours. No one else's but each other's.

You can’t help but tease him. “I don’t remember you asking me officially.”

“You’re still mine.”

And Rafe kisses you again. Harder. A mark of his words.

“Say it,” he demands quietly against your lips.

And you just fucking beam. “I’m yours.” Your fingers splay through his hair. “All yours, Rafey.”

Scoffing, he turns his head away as you chuckle at his reddening cheeks, peppering kisses on his cheek, jaw, lips, anywhere available for you to coat in markings of you, you, you.

“Stop calling me that,” Rafe murmurs, but loses all the edge in his tone because the feeling of you pressing your lips all over him sends his mind for a loop.

You simply hum. “No. You have so many names for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you like those.”

“Who says I do?”

“Be so fucking for real.”

The laugh that escapes your mouth is loud and boisterous, probably waking up someone on your floor. But Rafe can care less because the sound is music to his ears, despite you jesting at his expense. Shit, you can make fun of him all you want if this is how you're gonna react, smiling and sitting pretty in his lap whilst drowning in his clothes, kissing him like he hung the stars himself.

You playfully slap his shoulder. “Whatever. But I’m still going to call you–”

“No.”

“Yes. When you’re least expecting it.”

Rafe hums low, a warning.

Shrugging, you suppress a smile. “What? I gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

“Shut up.” Then, softer. “C’mere.”

You laugh incredulously. “I’m already here.”

You nearly have the gall to laugh again when he ever-so-slightly pouts, but it all dies in your throat when he’s tugging you impossibly closer, resting your face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and broad on your back. It takes you one, two seconds to register his actions, and you find yourself melting at the notion of Rafe Cameron hugging you.

It feels so achingly familiar that you can’t help but sigh in contentment, letting your eyes shut for a few moments as you feel his chest heave in and out with his low syncopated breaths.

Your heart lurches at the action, pressing yourself impossibly tight against him in fear he's going to disappear if you inch back even in the slightest. He takes a particularly deep breath, one of relief almost, your chests brushing together even closer than before. It makes you hum, pressing another kiss to the soft skin on his neck.

You speak before you register it. "Thank you."

His hands gently rub up and down your back. "For what, baby?"

"For..." You swallow the lump in your throat. "For not running."

Your words make him frown, and he eases you back so he can look you in the eye, confusion glosses over his features as one of his hands reaches up to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him when you turn your head away in embarrassment.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly. "Gonna take a cavalry to get rid of me."

A smile twitches at the end of your lips.

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, letting it linger there for a moment before moving back up to meet your eyes, but before he can do anything else, you're already leaning in and severing the distance.

Rafe's large hand holds you in place, reciprocating your kiss with more fervor than before that makes his breath hitch. Your hips barely – just barely – move in tandem with his that has his hand gripping your waist, stopping your moments immediately.

You lean back at his sudden apprehension, almost shy. "What?"

"Don't- Don't do that," he answers meekly.

Of course, you've never been one to listen.

You roll your hips again.

His other hand leaves your face to grab your waist, both of his palms and all of his fingers digging deep into your flesh to cease your movements. His face is uncharacteristically scrunched in pain at the reluctancy of initiating what he's been dreaming about since the last time you had him.

You notice immediately. "What's wrong?"

Rafe's eyes dart between yours, sucking in a breath as he looks at you. "I don't want to hurt you again."

The words confuse you. Tilting your head to the side, you try and rack your brain on where this sudden approach is coming from, where the sudden apprehension stems from. The expression on his face tells you that he's holding back, he's pained, haunted by something you can't conjecture.

"You haven't hurt me," you tell him earnestly, a little confused, but one-hundred percent honest.

He furrows his brows. "...The day of the wedding?"

What?

You only look at him in befuddlement, mind trailing off when you replay the course of events of the day in your head. The only thing that would pertain to his words was when he fucked you deep and rough that morning because you asked him to. It had felt good. Too good. It was when you realized you were in too deep and it scared the shit out of you.

"Rafe," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He looks pained even repeating it. "You cried. After we..." He shakes the thought away. "There were teardrops on your pillow."

The confession makes your heart skip.

That's why he was so weird with you for the entire day? Why he kept himself at an arm's length and could barely look you in the eye when you lounged together on the beach? Because he thought he'd hurt you? Made you cry? When you were upset for the complete opposite reason?

You frown at his anecdote, hurt that he's had to carry this miscommunicated guilt with him for a week, unknowing to the real reason, and under the complete wrong impression of your feelings.

Before you know it, your hands are reaching up to cradle each side of his face tenderly.

"That wasn't because of you," you whisper ardently, almost pained that he's been thinking that the whole time. "Not at all."

But Rafe doesn't seem to believe that. "I was too hard."

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head to emphasize your point. "No, you were too gentle."

That makes him furrow his brows.

At his silence, you continue with a deep breath.

"I thought that if I asked for it rough, it would let me get over my feelings for you, to remind me that it had to just be sex." Your voice is impossibly quiet yet firm. "But you didn't treat me like another fuck, you made sure I had what I needed, said all of these beautiful things, treated me impossibly gentle afterward."

The pad of your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.

"I cried because I was scared," you admit gently. "Not of you. Never of you. But of my feelings. You didn't make it easy for me to try and stop liking you."

A smile twitches at the end of his lips.

"So," he says quietly after a moment, "I didn't hurt you?"

You shake your head earnestly to confirm. "No. I'm sorry that I let you believe that you did."

His eyes blink, soaking in the weight of your words with a slow nod, the gears in his head turning as he gradually lets himself understand that it wasn't his hands that orchestrated your tears. He didn't hurt you. You are fine.

"You're okay," Rafe drawls out cautiously. "Right?"

Your nod is immediate. "Yes. Always with you."

That seems to make the tension in his shoulders release bit by bit, relaxing under your touch and allowing himself to believe you, believe that it wasn't what he thought it was, believe that he didn't hurt you.

"Okay?" You ask gently, confirming that he understands what you're saying.

Now he does, nodding against your touch and letting his hands experimentally skim your waist, easing up on his grip, and letting them venture over the smoothness of your skin. He waits a beat for you to pull back, to tell him to stop, but you don't.

Instead, you press yourself down onto him, making his breath catch.

It's out of clarity, certainty, especially when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss on his lips, a confirmation of your truth. He leans up to chase your mouth, and he's successful when you close the distance, allowing his tongue access to your mouth as teeth clashes against teeth, a wave of passion emerging like a tidal wave at the notion that he didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you.

"Fuck," Rafe mutters against your lips when you roll your hips once more. "You're going to fucking kill me. I swear."

Experimentally, he grips your waist and moves you back and forth against his already hardening dick, and when you don't pull back or voice your discomfort, he allows himself a deep exhale, allows himself to soak into the moment, allows himself to enjoy the feel of you, you, you.

"I missed you," you nearly whisper before you can stop it, the vulnerability feeling foreign on your tongue. "Missed this."

Rafe groans against your lips. "Me too, baby." He kisses you again as you moan quietly into his mouth as he continues guiding your movements against him. "Let me show you, mhm?"

Anticipation pools in your stomach, blossoming in your gut and sending warmth down to where your body touches his.

You're barely nodding before his hands venture down to your ass, holding you taut against him as he stands, your grip tightening around his neck like a koala and wrapping your legs around his middle. In seconds, your back hits the mattress, his knee is slotting between your thighs, and his lips are on yours again.

It's so familiar, so achingly familiar that you cannot believe you went so long without it, without him.

You arch into his chest, bodies molding together as puzzle pieces connect. A hand flies to his hair, tugging the strands gently that makes him omit a low groan into your mouth, one hand shamelessly groping one of your breasts under his hoodie and the other bracing himself over your body, barely hovering.

Rafe pulls back just slightly, a flicker of irritation coating his pretty face as he leans up to take his glasses off, ones that have slid down the bridge of his nose just enough to annoy him.

But you react before you realize it.

"Wait," you say, leaning up a tad for emphasis, a hand coming up to cradle his face and gingerly skim the metal as he freezes. "Keep them on."

A teasing smile twitches at his lips. "Seriously?"

You sheepishly nod, biting your lip.

Rafe stares at you for a moment, amused gaze darting between your eyes at the request.

"Please?" You add sweetly.

The scoff that leaves his mouth makes you suppress a grin, knowing how that one word makes him feel and using it to your advantage. He shakes his head in disbelief at you, but his faux irritation proves to be fruitless as a smirk can't help but grow on his lips.

"Can't say no to that, hm, sweet girl?" He murmurs, half in playfulness and the other half in adoration.

You shake your head slowly at him, your grin fading into something shy, as if asking for what you want proved to be difficult.

But he wouldn't dream of denying you that. Ever. Especially when you asked so nicely, so sweetly, just for him. Who is he to say no? Hell, you could've asked him for a car in that same tone and he wouldn't hesitate to ask what color, make, and model.

So Rafe indulges your request, pushing the glasses up further on the bridge of his nose and leaning down to connect your lips for the umpteenth time, nearly grinning when you let out a satisfied mmrph at him letting you get what you want. His hands are everywhere they can reach, groping and mapping out the curves of your body and nearly moaning at the softness of your skin.

"Can't believe you're mine," he murmurs against your lips, sending a shockwave down your spine as his thumb brushes over your nipple. "All mine."

"Yours," you whisper sultry, needy, desperately, nearly bucking up into him.

Rafe's eyes roll back at the sound of it, pushing the hem of your – his – hoodie to reveal your chest, and you sit up to aide him in taking it off. The act is deliberately thorough, as his calloused palms smooth over your skin, gingerly pushing it up over your head. Your tank top is next. Then, your bra. Then your jeans. Before you know it, you're almost completely nude, simply left in your light blue underwear and exposed in the cool air of his room.

All he can do is stare at your bareness, letting out an appreciative hum as one hand grabs a breast, his cool ring ghosting over your nipple that causes you to sigh deeply, eyes raking from your stomach, to your chest, and eventually back up to your face, where you peer up at him in anticipation. His hand gropes you meaningfully, as if he's studying the feel of the swell in his palm, relishing in your warmth.

"You're so beautiful," Rafe admires gently, almost to himself, before leaning down and taking the other breast in his mouth.

The words make your heart skip a beat, but you shove down the feeling as you arch into his mouth that licks and bites and sucks against the soft skin, a hand in his hair to keep yourself grounded, keep yourself tethered to him. No inch of your chest goes unnoticed, untouched, ignored.

Rafe is thorough in his appreciation, and as lovely as it is, you're growing impatient with need as you writhe underneath him.

"Want you," you whine under your breath, not like he can hear you anyway as it comes out as an incoherent babble, but figuring it's better than saying his name over and over like a mantra, but it proves fruitless when he albeit hums. "Rafe?"

"Yes, baby?" He asks lazily in between kisses as if he has all the time in the world.

"I want... I..."

He etches lower and lower on your body until his mouth is ghosting over your clothed cunt, a low hum emitted from his mouth as he presses a kiss against the wet patch on your underwear, greedily inhaling and exhaling hot breath that makes you squirm. By the looks of it, he's pleased at the sight of you eager for him, ready for him, squirming for him.

Instead of responding, he licks and sucks against the cotton of your panties, against the spot he knows makes you crumble all the same. You moan raggedly, almost embarrassed at the volume given the fact that you've just started, given that he's doing this over your clothes.

"Words," Rafe mumbles teasingly, the baritone of his voice vibrating your core with such fervor that it makes your back arch and your fingers grip a little harder in his hair. "What d'ya want, hm?"

"You," you manage to say, breathless and writhing. "Need you."

His nimble fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down achingly slow until they're fully off, discarded somewhere carelessly as he resumes his position between your legs, taking in the sight of you: so pretty looking down at him, cunt glistening with need, face flush with anticipation.

One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as his mouth ghosts over your core.

"You have me," is all he says before closing the distance.

You moan at the contact, as his tongue plunges deep where you need him and his nose brushes against your clit. The taste of you has him groaning into your heat, the rumble causing your eyes to roll back at the sensation. The sound is obscene, especially when he eats like a starved man, like he's been depraved of his favorite meal, like he's ravenous.

"Taste so good, princess," he practically moans into your heat.

It's almost unbearable. You've been so worked up this past week at the thought of him, the thought of never being able to make things right, the thought of losing something you can't help but love. The wave of relief that washes over you only augments your pleasure, because your worries dissipate and you allow yourself to enjoy this, enjoy him, enjoy what he can give you.

One of his hands venture up your body to grab a breast, as if he can't allow his hands to be unoccupied, to not feel and dote on you with every fiber of his being. The added pleasure makes your eyes roll back involuntarily.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you whisper so quietly that it's barely audible.

Your other hand covers his, gripping the back of his hand and squeezing tight to wordlessly reciprocate your want, your need, your appreciation.

His other hand comes to aide his mouth, maneuvering his body so he can both use his fingers as they glide in with ease, and his tongue that can't bear to separate just yet. It makes you whine so beautifully that his hips stutter forward against the mattress, groaning low into your cunt at the sudden sensation.

As Rafe sucks and laps and fingers you so brazenly, you let out a ragged breath at the plethora of pleasantries, suddenly hit with how nice everything feels, how the combination of his mouth, plunging fingers, and the hand fondling your breast start the familiar coil bubbling in your core.

"Fuck," you curse at the intensity, and how quickly it builds. "Please, I-I-"

Your hips writhe under his touch as you let out a particularly broken whine, chest heaving as you get closer and closer to your release.

"I know, baby," he murmurs low, almost strained.

Gasping, you momentarily lose breath at the speed of it, gripping his hand that's on your breast tighter, affirming how quickly you're approaching your high with your body language, one that he seems to understand quite well, something he's come to know better than a lot of other things in life. He's well versed in your tendencies, a pride he wears with his chest.

"Rafe," you whine as your orgasm comes closer, and closer, and closer. "I'm-"

You don't finish the sentence, and you don't even hear if he responds, because your orgasm hits you so quickly, so blindly, that your back arches off the mattress, a tidal wave of ecstasy flooding your veins and searing hot in your core. Your heartbeat is up to your ears, and he could be saying the secrets to the universe and you'd simply have no idea. It's pulsating, inebriating, because you don't hide behind a curtain of shame of how much you need him, not anymore, and that makes the release tenfold.

Despite your writhing hips, Rafe is able to lap up every drop, groaning deep into your cunt at the taste of you, of how nice you feel against his fingers, against his tongue, how pretty you sound as you let him hear you louder than ever.

Lazily, he licks and sucks you through the aftershock, nearly grinning at how your thighs tremble against his head and your ragged breaths ease from the intensity. Your thumb rubs absentminded circles on his hand, a gesture so fucking sweet that he reciprocates by placing a chaste kiss against your cunt, eyeing it for a moment as a brief goodbye before he sighs a hot breath against it.

"You did so well, sweet girl," he praises, trailing kisses up your body while turning his palm in your hand to gingerly lace his fingers through yours, squeezing once, twice, three times until his mouth is against your neck, sucking that sweet spot that makes you shiver.

You practically shake underneath him, still attempting to return to planet earth.

Rafe's nose nudges your jaw. "You okay?"

You exhale a noise that you think is affirmation, but frankly you're still trying to screw your head on straight after hearing your heartbeat in your ears, shuddering under his grounding touch that sends electricity through your already amplified veins.

"Yes," you start breathlessly, "I-I've just been– my brain– I couldn't... I need to..."

Rafe's face is suddenly inches from yours, practically beaming down at your incoherent babbling with a knowing glance, one that affirms just how nice he fucks you (your words, not his, as you've so graciously told him once). It's proving true now, as he takes in the sight of your gazed expression and bleary eyes, chest swelling with pride.

Watching you attempt to figure out your words all breathless and pouty, he can't help but let his gloating simmer into something more affectionate, something softer that he seems to only reserve for you. It's fascinating to see you like this, completely unguarded and fucked out and beautiful, nonetheless.

"Couldn't what?" He eggs on, heart blooming at the state of you.

"It doesn't matter," you mutter absentmindedly as you slip your hand out of his to paw at his chest, still recovering from the dizziness of your brain, movements sluggish as you reach down for the tent in his sweatpants while your eyesight slowly returns to normal. "C'mere, I–"

"Easy," he drawls out amusingly, taking the trembling hand that reaches for his dick and lacing his fingers through yours instead. "You're shaking."

You blink through your frustration, your vision returning (almost). "I'm not– I– You're being withholding."

His grin is impossibly wide. "I'm sorry, sweet girl." He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "I'll give you another, just catch your breath, yeah?"

Your struggle is obvious, and your desperation even more, because you've missed him so fucking bad and all you want to do is feel him irrevocably, completely, ardently. The realization is pathetic, you know, but you figure that you're past the point of being shy, especially with him, who has seen you at your all.

You frown, spluttering, utterly flustered at his nonchalance, especially when his unoccupied hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, running the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth. "Wh– No, I don't want another, I want–"

"You don't want another?"

Groaning, you flush under his piercing stare. "No, I– Ugh, Rafe. I want you."

"Me?" Rafe repeats in faux surprise, brows raised playfully. "Could've just asked."

You roll your eyes so hard it only makes you a little more dizzy, trying really hard to appear angry but it goes nowhere when a hint of a smile ghosts your lips. And it only grows when he leans in, placing a long, chaste kiss on you, and you melt into it when you taste yourself, lungs wound tight. You figure you can breathe later.

He notices immediately, pulling back with a boyish chuckle that makes your chest feel funny. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

"Do it again," you mumble shyly, eyelids heavy with desire. "Please."

And he does. Immediately.

You albeit whine into his mouth as he reciprocates the noise at the sound of it, squeezing your hand once more and the gesture nearly kills you as you practically pout into his mouth at the sweetness of it. With your mind airy and lungs breathless, all you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, how he kisses you, how he touches you, how his voice sounds reverberated against your body.

It's incriminatingly intoxicating to be surrounded by him in all of your senses: his hand laced in your own, his breathy whimpers against your lips when your hand trails to the hem of his shirt to brush against his bare abdomen, teasing the waistline of his sweats. You're caught in a whirlwind of him, drowning in his scent and caged in by his arms.

You realize quickly, as you've noted before, that Rafe Cameron should come with a warning.

He pulls back, and you're about to protest until you see he's moving to take his shirt off in one swift motion, sick of the cotton barrier between your chests. As he begins to take his sweats and boxers off, you sit up, idly waiting for him as you tuck your legs underneath you. The sight of his cock hard and aching, dripping pre-cum off the tip, has you shamelessly staring, as you let out a small breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Rafe notices your change in position, patiently waiting all pretty and breathless and brazenly looking at his dick, and he can't help but tilt his head and stare at you with an amused gleam in his eye.

When he makes no effort to move, your eyes travel back up to meet his to see that they're already staring at you, a piercing gaze that has you biting your lip at the notion of being caught.

"What?" He asks teasingly, searching your face for any indicator of what you want.

But you're apparently good with your words now, or at least better than before.

"Wanna ride you."

The sentence makes Rafe scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head at you as he runs a hand through his hair, practically in awe of you, of your words, of how good you're being for him tonight, how you're starting to ask for things. It makes his chest swell with pride, proud that you feel comfortable enough around him to start voicing your needs, your wants, things that he'll give to you in less than a heartbeat.

Nonetheless, once he's learned how to use his brain again, he leans forward, turning his body so he's sitting up against the headboard and extending an arm for you almost immediately.

Which you graciously take, gripping his forearm as you crawl onto his lap, sucking in a breath when his dick is the only thing in between your two stomachs. You can't help but stare down at it, bringing a hand to grip his length like you've been dreaming about for days, letting out a deep sigh that makes your hot breath fan over his tip.

Rafe lets out a low moan, gripping your hips impossibly tight as he watches you spread the pre-cum off his tip with your thumb, spreading it down his length and jerking him off at a painfully slow pace that nearly has his hips bucking at the sensation of it. The sight of your hand wrapped around him nearly makes his brain shut off, dumbifying him to the point where all he can do is pathetically whine as you hold his dignity in the palm of your hand.

A particular tight squeeze makes him tense underneath you, eyes screwing shut for a moment to compose himself as one of his hands leaves your hips to wrap around your wrist, stopping your movements altogether.

Your head whips up, pouting. "What?"

Rafe just shakes his head, almost pained as he can't even get the words out.

But you understand him, and you pout. "But I want to."

"Sweet girl."

You hum, looking back down as you feel his hand push your wrist down, down, down until, with some adjusting, his cock is sliding in between your folds.

The sensation makes you both moan shamelessly, your lashes fluttering as your eyes roll shut. Your stomach pools in warmth for the anticipation, especially when your hips rock back and forth against him to coat his cock with the remnants of your previous orgasm, mixing it with the pre-cum that you graciously spread on him. The feeling, almost on command, makes him practically shudder underneath you.

Rafe whines out a curse, and if you weren't so light-headed you'd think he's begging. "Feel so nice already, making me go crazy."

Frankly, the stubborn part of you wants to elongate this as much as possible, but as you feel your prior orgasm practically dripping onto his length, it's clear that you're in no position to withhold him from experiencing the same euphoria. All you want to do is give back what he did for you, how he made you feel, to wordlessly tell him how much you appreciate him, yearn for him, want him to be taken care of.

With shaky hands, you guide his cock to your entrance, not wasting another second before you're slowly sinking down onto his length.

"Shit," he murmurs shakily against your lips, his grip iron tight on your hips – borderline, your ass – as he feels you lower inch by inch. "Oh my fucking god, holy fuck. Taking me so goddamn well."

It isn't until you feel him fully bottom out when you're letting out a ragged breath, one that you were unaware you were holding at the intensity of the feeling, of the stretch, of how much more you can feel him in this position, his cock hitting places unknown as you still on his lap, soaking in the moment of simply being full of him, relishing in the notion of how nice it is to be in your favorite spot.

Your arms sling around his neck, draped over his shoulders to impossibly taut yourself to his chest as you place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he can't even reciprocate because he's still sharply breathing, still not over how well you're taking him and how perfect you feel around him. It's, understandably, making his brain all fuzzy, and all he can try and concentrate on is not coming in this given moment.

So, no, he doesn't kiss you back. He can't.

Instead, he shakily exhales against your lips, gently shaking his head when you cheshire-cat grin at him, attempting to roll your hips in retaliation but his grip on your hips is iron. Part of you relishes in the marks you're going to wake up to, imprinted by him, and greedily want to and move again to get him to dig deeper, to be able to feel the reminders of him in the morning.

You try. He holds you still even harder.

"Just- Fuck," Rafe groans. "Gimme a minute, wanna feel you."

You pout, ignoring the way your heart thumps at the simplicity of his words, yet find yourself obeying. Leaning back a fraction, you take a moment to take a selfish peek at him: blue eyes blown black with lust, hair falling onto his forehead in messy waves that you brush back gingerly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose that you fix silently, lips parted and swollen from all the activity he's been engaging in with them.

He looks unequivocally fucked out. You assume you look equally as such.

Without thinking, your arms retract from their position around his neck, slithering up the sides of his neck and letting your hands cradle each side of his jaw, holding his face in place as your thumbs absentmindedly trace circles, squares, triangles on the soft skin. You simply stare at him, admire him, wait for him to give you the green light to continue moving.

And Rafe doesn't think he's ever been held like this before.

It does something irreversible in his chest, a pang of an unknown emotion jolting through his skin like electricity as he simply sits under your touch, teetering between wanting to explode with admiration and shutting down altogether to sulk in the feeling. He's sure you have no idea what you're doing to him, and whether you mean to or not, he's sure there's nothing better on the planet than this, than the feel of you wrapped around him, holding him, grounding him.

His hands move up and down your spine, tracing vertebrae bone by bone in a delicacy he never knew he possessed. As his heart pounds in his chest, his mind morphs to mush, and the only thing he can conjecture is that he is, irrevocably, yours for the rest of his life. There's frankly no doubt about it, and the thought makes his lashes flutter shut to truly soak in the physicality of it all.

He feels you place a feather-light kiss on his lips, and before you can pull back to continue to give him the moment to gather himself, he's chasing the kiss and closing the distance again.

This time, Rafe's the one moaning into your mouth, especially as you accidentally shift your hips when kissing him back. At the slight movement, his impatience is suddenly through the roof as his hands venture down to your ass, slowly starting to guide your motions up and down, back and forth, taking him in ways that has his eyes rolling back.

Your thighs aide his movements for about a minute, but soon begin to tremble as your bounces get needier, kisses become breathless, sighs turn into whimpers. Calloused palms roam the entirety of your body, groping and rolling the flesh of your ass in tandem with your movements, slithering up your ribcage to squeeze and suck on your bouncing tits, down to where your bodies connect to press a firm thumb on your clit.

That right there makes you whine so gutturally deep where his hips unexpectedly jerk into you, his cock – somehow – burying deeper inside you to a spot unreached before.

Rafe moans your name like a mantra, like it's the only word he knows.

It makes your brain fuzzy, as your neediness takes over and your conscience is on autopilot. You say something, but it comes out like an incoherent babble, something insignificant and probably pertaining to how good he feels, as you continue to shift your hips up and down to take his full length, lift up to where his tip barely pokes out, only to sink back down onto him again. Over, and over, and over.

Your arms sling back over his shoulders, lazily linking behind his neck as one of his hands snakes around your back to pull you impossibly closer while the other works your clit, thumb pressing on it so firmly that you momentarily see stars at the ferocity of it all. Nails scratching the smooth skin of his back, you almost break skin at the attempt to pull him closer, as the need for more, more, more stems from the coil beginning to rumble in your stomach.

"Rafe," you gasp, sucking in a breath as you feel the familiar sensation bubbling. "Feel so full, feels so good."

"You feel like a dream," he mumbles shakily against your lips, hips jerking up into you as you recognize that he must be close. "Never gonna– fuck. Can't believe you were– and I was– oh my god, oh m– You feel so fucking nice– I'm gonna–"

Your chest is light, core on fire. "Something's– I feel– I–"

For a second, your eyes roll back as a searing hot sensation floods your lower half, and you momentarily only see white as you feel your body practically give out and lean forward onto his, gasping into the crevice of his neck as his hips slam into you from underneath. Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulder blades as firmly as you can muster with your little-to-no strength in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Your whines are loud and straight pornographic at the branding fire feeling in your cunt.

Did you just come?

Given the heat overwhelming your core and the bundle of nerves shooting electricity through your veins, you think you just did. With your heartbeat in your ears, the sound of Rafe's shameless moans feel like they're underwater as you're practically putty in his grasp, both of his arms bear-wrapped around you as he thruuuuusts up into you with such intensity, such fervor, that you think he just came, too.

Spots blur your vision as you moan into the hot skin of his neck as he fucks you through your orgasm, only now feeling the hot spurts of his cum gushing into you with every upwards thrust of his, and you can't deny how fucking good it feels to be full of him – to be really full of him – as the sensation is burning hot and tempestuous and everything you've needed.

Your chest heaves at the intensity, clawing at his upper back for some sort of leverage that you're not sure will do anything to aide your limp body. His hips grind up into your core, and once you gain some sort of semblance back from practically passing out from the orgasm he just gave you, you realize he's been speaking the entire time.

You happen to catch the tail end of his words.

"–ve you, I fucking– I– fuck-" Rafe whines, and the sound vibrates your lips that are pressed against his vocal cord. "It's like you're made for me, feel so fucking nice, so pretty on top of me, I– fuck. How could I– When you–? With the–? Oh my god, oh my fucking god."

All you can respond with is a low moan, overstimulated as you come down from your earth-shattering orgasm as he fucks himself using you through his, his cum leaking out of you and spilling down your thighs and onto his lower stomach. The sight of it makes your breath hitch, breathless at how much you both came at the same time.

His bucking gradually ceases, becoming less and less grandiose and eventually settling in stillness as his chest heaves against yours. You register his hands trailing up and down your back soothingly, lips pressed to your hairline and placing chaste kisses with sweet nothings riddled between them. Your eyes flutter shut, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck that makes goosebumps adorn his arms.

The two of you sit like this for a minute, mentally coming down from the daze your simultaneous orgasms put you through. Once your vision returns to normal (i.e. you're no longer seeing stars every time you open your eyes to try and look at him), you gently press the palm of your hands to his shoulders, pushing yourself up off his chest to sit up and find some semblance of independence.

Your brain is foggy, no doubt, as you hazardously sway as you blink at him, heart racing as you discover he's already looking at you.

"Holy shit," you murmur, dazed and fighting exhaustion.

He exhales shakily. "I know."

You manage a wry smile. "That was-"

"I know," he repeats bashfully, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to push his glasses further up his nose, letting your fingers dwell on the metal sides before bringing it down to cup his jaw. It's as if you're a ghost in your own body, feeling airy and light yet wrecked all the same, shaking as if you've been left in the freezing cold with no amenities, shaking as if he just gave you the best orgasm you've ever had.

Noticing your frailness, you laugh in a self deprecating way. "I think I passed out."

Rafe exhales a shaky chuckle, one of disbelief, as a hand travels up to the side of your neck, keeping your head in place from all the swaying. Though a flicker of concern coats over his eyes at the hazy smile you're flashing him, eyes blinking ferociously as if they're regaining sight.

It makes him frown. "Did you? Are you okay?"

You nod, lazy yet immediate. "Uhm, did you hear me? I think our neighbors are gonna kill us."

A boyish laugh escapes his lips, and he lets himself ease into the fact that you're fine, you're smiling, you're gazing at him like he hung the goddamn stars himself.

His thumb brushes a tear from the corner of your eye, one that you didn't know you had, humming low and sure as his eyes rake over the features of your pretty face. Now, you're left in the stilled silence of your own doing, basking in the aftermath of your actions, of the words that led you to this point. Your heart skips a beat at the vulnerability, knowing it's more than sex, knowing that what you're feeling right now – the gravitational pull towards him – is reciprocated, especially as his gaze softens. It's replaced by something deeper, more raw, cut open for you to do what you please.

The intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch, and, despite literally what just occurred, a wave of shyness overcomes you, averting your gaze down to his chest.

But in your bottom peripheral, you catch a glimpse of the fucking mess.

Your eyes widen, looking down to where your bodies connect. "Oh my god."

His gaze follows lazily, glancing at the sight with nonchalance for his soaked bedsheets, suppressing a shit eating grin as he continues to see small amounts of cum still dripping out of you, as if there's an endless supply of it inside you, continuously adding to the plethora of a mess on his (freshly washed, by the way) bedsheets.

You blink stupidly, attempting to fathom the sheer amount of mere sex all over your lower bodies, all over the sheets, some of it even grazing his abdomen. How did that even get there? How could the two of you produce that much? And – oh, god – is it ever going to come out of his sheets? Fuck, is it leaking through?

But he has no qualm with the matter, and instead beams at the fact.

"That was all you, sweet girl," he teases with a hand skimming the faint bruises starting to form on your hip. "You came so hard. You squir-"

Your hand comes up to cover his mouth.

Your face scrunches up in embarrassment at the word, because you fucking hate the term, and frankly assumed it was a myth for the longest time since you've never done it before, nor have any of your friends. Yet your heart thumps at the possibility that – most of – this mess is from you.

No, it couldn't be. It can't be.

Because if it is, he is never, ever going to let you live it down, and you can count on that for a fact.

Eyeing him quickly and feeling your face flush as he stares right at you, eyes twinkling with amusement, you remove your hand from his mouth and ring your fingers together, looking back down to the sheets with a dismissive scoff.

"I did not," you argue meekly because, frankly, you have no idea if you did or not. You don't even know what that was. "This is all yours."

Rafe's grin is blinding, teasing, fucking proud. "You totally did. Went everywhere, baby."

Face flushing, you groan and throw your hands up to cover your face, hating how hot your skin feels at his laugh and complete nonchalance over the matter.

"Fuck," you murmur as you take in the sight of it. "Are you serious? But I didn't– I don't even– How could I–?"

Instead of answering, he whistles low. "Holy shit, you really did pass out, didn't you?"

You refuse to answer, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth as guilt riddles your chest for ruining his sheets. Expensive ones, at that. You're assuming it has a crazy thread-count imported from god-knows-where, as he's the person to get the best of the best of material things as long as he has the means to obtain them. You've always liked sleeping in his room on the random occurrence it would happen, partly because his bed is always so damn comfortable, the sheets definitely having something to do with it.

"I'll wash them" you offer quietly, slight panic settling in now that you're – somewhat – back to normal and coherent enough to register that this is a problem. "I'll buy you new ones-"

But, of course, Rafe simply shakes his head, pressing his palms against your spine to lure you closer, letting the words die in your throat as he tugs you against his lips. He kisses you slow yet meaningful, a wordless promise that he's not mad about something like this, he's not even concerned, barely letting his beaming smile falter at the thought of having to clean it up. He's only thinking about you, you, you.

"No need," he murmurs against your mouth, still fucking grinning. "I'm framing and putting this shit on my wall."

You groan at his words, cheeks unabashedly hot.

"Gonna time-stamp it and everything," he adds just to be a prick. "Wave it around like a flag, and shit."

You want the ground to swallow you whole. "Stop."

"Wear it like armor."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're hot. I mean it, baby. I'm gonna get you to do that every time."

"Rafe."

"What?" He says incredulously as if it isn't the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. "You can't expect me not to go crazy over that, hm?"

You only shake your head at him, but you suppose if the roles were reversed, you'd definitely feel an inclination to drawl out the teasing to a T. After all, riling him up is one of your favorite past-times, as riling you up actually might be his number one.

Eventually, you secede. Especially when he threatens you with another orgasm.

After he cleans you up and delicately dresses you in his own clothes, with wobbly legs you attempt to help him strip the sheets (even though all he told you to do is sit at his desk and look pretty, which you wholeheartedly refused to do) and replace them with his spare set. In an effort to get your shit together, you use the communal restroom to wash up, taking one of his spare toothbrushes – because of course he has one – and using it. He goes into the restroom across the hall, stating he was bored of being alone, to freshen himself up.

When you return to his room with him hot on your tail, you slither back onto the clean sheets and settle under them as if you were made to lay there.

Getting comfortable, you quietly watch him resume his tasks of the night: organizing his notes, taking off his glasses and leaving them askew – to your utter dismay – as his shirt and sweatpants follow, leaving him in boxers, and finally turning off his desk lamp as he navigates through the dark and and climbs into bed beside you.

It’s muscle memory the way you puzzle-piece your way into each other’s arms. Rafe tugs you impossibly close, placing a chaste kiss on your hairline as your hands splay across his bare chest, nearly sighing in relief at the familiarity. It's unfathomably inviting, it's cloud nine, it's home.

When he starts to lightly rub up and down your back, you sigh again.

“Tired?” Rafe murmurs gently.

All you do is nod against his neck, placing a ginger kiss on his vocal cord.

He hums at your sweet gesture, nearly melting at the implication. “Okay, sweet girl. Go to sleep. I'll be up early tomorrow but you can sleep in, m'kay?”

Tomorrow. Early morning. Notes. Glasses.

Fuck. Exam.

Your eyes flutter open as you remember his night before you arrived, all the papers scattered on his desk, the reason he was wearing those godforsaken glasses in the first place, the open textbook on his computer, the entire reason he was up so late in the first place.

A kettlebell settles in your gut.

“Wait.” Rafe hums lazily in response. “What about your exam?”

With a chuckle, he nuzzles into your hair, unbothered.

“Baby, if I don’t know it by now, there’s no use.”

Part of you feels guilty. Guilty about plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a week and – no doubt – pulling his focus from his studies and all of the important shit going on in his life. Guilty about arriving at his door in the middle of the night and – again – pulling his concentration from what he needs to pay attention to in order to get the marks he needs to pass.

Guilty about everything you've put him through, him, Rafe, your Rafe, who's been so patient with you in your journey of self discovery or whatever bullshit.

“I can help,” you offer weakly, as he rubs soothing up and down your back. “I’m a good teacher.”

Rafe chuckles quietly and you nearly frown, unsure of his nonchalance.

“Best teacher I know,” he murmurs. His voice is deep and baritone and it practically lulls you to sleep.

Your eyes are already closed. “Let me help. Please.”

“Very sweet of you. Go to sleep.”

“‘M really smart. You said so.”

“I did.”

You yawn. “What’s the class?”

Rafe doesn’t answer for a minute, and you soon believe he falls asleep. But then, quietly, “Art history.”

Your heart flutters. “I know about that.”

A warm hand rubs up and down your back. “I’m sure you do, baby.” Then, it cradles the back of your head in brazen laziness. “Sleep.”

His voice emulates a lullaby, low and alluring and smooth. Impossibly, you nuzzle closer to him with a stupid smile on your face. Grinning against his neck, you press the lightest kiss you can muster as your hands gently skim over the hills and divots of his chest, grounding yourself, a reminder that this is real. He’s here, right here, holding you, reciprocating your love, your want, your need.

“Stop smiling,” he says above you, but his tone is far from authoritative. Instead it’s softer, as if he’s suppressing a smile as well. “I can feel it.”

You squirm when he pinches your side, reciprocating the act and attempting to tickle him, but he doesn’t budge in the slightest.

Suddenly, Rafe grabs your wrists lightning fast and pins them high over your head, the motion forcing you on your back as he hovers over you. Despite the darkness, you can feel his face inches from yours, breath fanning over your lips.

“I thought you wanted me to go to sleep,” you challenge.

Rafe snorts. “You’re being a brat.”

Ah, that word. That sort of behavior has gotten you in trouble before, and the thought of annoying him makes you grin even harder.

“Rafey, that’s hardly nice.”

The guttural groan he lets out makes you laugh quite unattractively, letting out an oof when he collapses against your body and therefore crushing you. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, he shakes his head and mumbles something incoherent against your soft skin that feels like a million pin pricks to each nerve.

His hand leaves your wrists and slowly drags down your arm, settling on the top of your ribcage just under the swell of your breast, lazily rubbing his thumb over the grooves and curves of the bone with little to no shame whatsoever.

The act gives you goosebumps. “What? Nothing to say?”

“Go to bed.”

You hum, kneading your fingers through his hair and smiling when he lets out a content sigh. “Okay, fine.”

Rafe practically clings to you, breathing in your scent and unabashedly nestling into your embrace. Your fingers through his hair feel so achingly familiar, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until now. He feels your lips gently press on the crown of his head, his heart skipping a beat as he involuntarily lets out another sigh, a wordless thank you for trusting him, believing in him, and – most importantly – letting yourself have this. Trusting him. Trusting yourself.

Exhaustion seeps through his pores, eyelids heavily shutting as his body seems to sink deeper into the mattress, deeper against your body. Your nails lightly scraping his scalp and back quickly lure him to sleep, so gentle and adorning that he’s so close to–

"Hey."

"Sweet girl, I said go to bed."

You pause for a moment, elongated the silence in the darkness as he can practically hear you thinking. After a second, he frowns as he just now analyzed your tone, which was far from teasing.

He's about to prompt you to continue when you shift slightly above him, and his heart fucking melts when he feels your lips press a kiss against his hairline.

"Those photographs are beautiful."

Despite the complete darkness, and despite the fact that even if the light was on, you wouldn't be able to see his face anyway given his position, his face flushes hot.

Because you weren't really supposed to see those. They'd been the final prints he submitted for his photography class, tasked to photograph the pleasantries of life that may emulate beauty in everyday life. And, to him, he wanted you as his everyday muse since you already occupy almost every waking thought of his.

Rafe sat on the prompt for the entire semester, never once finding a muse meaningful enough to him to make him feel like he could complete the assignment. However, once Lorenza had given him the camera, the task seemed like the easiest thing he's ever done. Plus, you made it pretty simple. You emulated effortless beauty. All day. Everyday.

"I had a pretty model," is all he responds with.

And your thanks is translated enough when you press another kiss to his forehead, ticking his soft skin with your gentle breaths, and all he can think is sweet, sweet, sweet girl. It's concerning, really, how he really only thinks of you. He thinks of you when he wakes up, when he sees something funny, when he's scribbling down notes, when he goes to sleep.

So. Yeah. You are his everyday beauty. By a longshot.

He continues to think of your pretty, of how warm you feel pressed against him, how sweet you smell. He remembers how you looked in the moonlight, the candlelight, under the Sicilian sun with a glisten he could swoon over. It lulls him to sleep. Simply the image of you, you, y–

“Rafe?”

Rafe’s pulled from his slumber, barely lifting a finger and humming in response. He can’t even open his eyes, bloodshot and tired from all the studying.

“Do you want me to come home with you for Christmas?”

Out of all the things he expected you to say, that has to be the last topic on the list.

All exhaustion comes to a halt as his eyes blearily blink open, unsure if he’s heard you right, as the question is so out of left field that he doubts you actually said what he thinks you said. Despite his head feeling like a million pounds, he manages to lift it so he’s looking at you in the darkness.

Rafe can just make out the outline of your face. “What?”

He hates how small his voice is.

But your fingers continue to massage his scalp and he feels you shrug underneath him.

“I dunno, I was thinking I could do for you what you did for me." Your voice is impossibly shy, almost as if you didn't mean to bring it up but now there's no going back. "Provide some moral support, I don’t know. Just a thought.”

Yes, he wants to scream. Of course he wants you to.

It would make life incredibly easier, not to mention he’d get to spend more time with your undivided attention and shower you in a ridiculous amount of appreciation now that you're officially his. He can show you off to his friends and family and flaunt you around, shamelessly hold you and kiss you and not have to feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

He'd tell you to bring that beaded dress he bought you, take you out to dinner on the mainland and fuck you for the whole island to hear. There's no doubt he's going to buy you anything under the sun that you express interest in, shower you with the kind of love you've been aching for for so long. He'd have to be assertive, though, because you're exactly the girl his sisters will immediately love, and there's no way he's going to be able to share you.

Rafe needs to relax.

Instead of saying all of that, he takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to Lorenza’s?”

“No,” you respond quietly. “I was supposed to go home so she’s already going on a trip with her girlfriends. But now I'm just...” You take a breath. "No, I'm not."

He frowns at the idea of you spending winter break alone, because there’s absolutely no way you're going to go home and face your family again, and the long haul across the Atlantic feels like a chore after just recovering from doing so.

“You can say no,” you murmur playfully. “I have a sublet lined up for December, and I’ll come back to the dorm when they open on the new year.”

That makes Rafe scoff. “You’re not doing that.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he commands. “You’ll spend it with me.”

Suddenly you clear your throat, almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to, like, invite myself. You seriously can say no–”

Rafe is sitting up before he knows it, leaning on an elbow and finding your jaw with his other hand to navigate through the darkness, and kissing you firmly enough to let it do all the talking for him.

You mmrph in surprise into his mouth, effectively shutting you up and assumingely shutting down any doubts you have about the entire idea. Rafe kisses you certainly yet deliberately slow, as if to reassure you of his answer, that you don't have to stress about being too much, especially around him. In fact, he wants you to be too much, yourself, unapologetically you. He craves it, utterly deprived every second you're acting shy as if he wouldn't give you anything you asked for.

Pulling away, Rafe resumes his previous position and lowers onto your body, his original position. His lips find the soft skin of your neck and place a kiss there, sucking ever so slightly to emphasize his point, to stake his claim, to wash away your doubts.

“I want you to stay with me,” he murmurs quietly. “Okay?”

You hum shyly. “Okay.”

Rafe runs his hands over your ribcage. “I need you to know something, though."

"Yeah?"

Your tone is so fucking sweet that it makes his upcoming words difficult, understanding you can completely hold your own against a family full of narcissists yet wanting to shield you from it all anyway. He wants to hide you away from it all, but he knows you're tough, you're strong, you're too kind for your own good.

"My dad probably won’t be the friendliest.” Rafe figures that's the nicer term for Ward. "He'll be charming and inviting when you first meet him, but behind closed doors..."

He trails off, not necessarily wanting to get into the specifics of his father's tendencies right now with you, laying pretty beside him and body exhausted with earlier passion. To subject you to this all over again, it makes his chest pull, knowing that his father will probably say or do something to remind you of the obscenities of your own family, to remind you of the darkness that shrouded you a week ago.

Before he can continue, you gently massage his scalp. "I understand. I'll be alright."

It makes him nearly swoon. "You're too sweet for your own good, hm? You can be mean to him if you want."

You laugh and he swears he's never heard a prettier sound.

"I'm not doing that."

"If I asked you nicely?"

Chuckling again, your nails rake down to the nape of his neck and back up to his scalp, making him sigh low into the confinements of your hold. But it's much more than physicality, it's almost a promise, reaffirming your stance and wordlessly convincing him that you have his back. Now and always.

"Still no," you murmur, and by the tone of it he swears you're smiling. "You're the one who said I'm incapable of being evil."

Rafe snorts. "I did."

You hum happily, content with 'winning' the conversation as you continue to massage absentmindedly. "Besides, I’m great with parents.”

This conversation feels all too familiar, full circle, echoing his words that he spoke to you all the time ago when your mother stormed into your dorm room, the catalyst for all of this, the start of the spiral to where you lay now with limbs entangled and hearts out in the open.

Shaking his head slightly and allowing himself to shut his eyes, Rafe murmurs in agreement, almost tauntingly.

“I’m sure you are, sweet girl.” Then, quieter, “Sleep.”

The words are like a command, and despite every effort to not do so, you find yourself babbling something incoherently, words soon dying in your throat as you fall asleep, but not without being lulled by the sound of his syncopated breaths, and that, somehow, his hand has found yours in the darkness, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gentle enough for it to be a long lasting reminder: he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

You let yourself succumb to that. You let yourself deserve it.

notes holy shit???????? i have a few (more like a hundred) things to say. legit where do I begin.

thank you for 900 followers FIRST OF ALL i only started posting laaaaaate march (practically april) so this is absolutely incredible, thank you for all the support it's been so overwhelming in the best way. half of the comments genuinely make me lol and the other half make me legit spiral bc huh???? you like my stuff??? anyway.

for those who have sent me inbox messages: I SEE YOU!!! I APPRECIATE YOU!! I HAVE NOT IGNORED YOU!!! i'm gonna try to get around to answering them but trust i see y'all!!!!

on the topic of inbox messages, a few of you have been asking about if i'm open to blurbs, and i 100% am. i cannot guarantee i will be able to answer all of them (i started a full-time job??? crazy) but i would love to try and provide that.

okay i think that's it from me. again. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT i'm legit sad this is ending but, again, im open to blurbs about them so TRUST this def won't be the last time we read about them. GODSPEED!

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oddlylovingaddiction · 3 days ago

Text

; Coming Full Circle

Part 1: Here , Part 2: Here , Part 3: You’re here!

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don't have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family. Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest.

TW: Past abuse in the form of emotional neglect/abuse, pregnancy, panic attacks and angst

After passing out from the emotions of the shopping trip you woke up to your warm bed. It seems someone (other than Damian, he was too small to carry an adult.) had placed you on your bed, removed your shoes and removed anything that would snag or choke you in your slumber as well, it seems they also left your shopping bags at the foot of your bed. You were starting to wonder if that shopping tripped really ending up helping you because now it’s 12:32 at night and you’re texting your husband you were supposedly not talking to and you felt unbelievably drained from all that crying you did. Usually you’d cry in his arms while he comforts you so perhaps that’s why your reaching out to him.

You:

I’m fine. And I’m safe just need some space

Him:

I want to give that to you but I’m just nervous not knowing where you are.

You can feel a headache coming on, perhaps from the crying, the fact you were still in your day clothes and from the fact he was so insistent on your location, fair enough, you disappeared with almost nothing on you and also, in his eyes, randomly one day with no signs that you would be away from him for so long. You choose to turn off your phone and just lay there. Honestly it’s all too much. These hectic phew days seeing your family again has been overwhelming. You can’t lie and say you aren’t enjoying the attention but at the same time you feel this gnawing feeling in your chest. The lingering in the back of your mind being ‘Is this all real? Was the years of neglect real or did I imagine it all? Has everyone always cared I didn’t notice?’ and arguably the most significant reason to you ‘what was the reason for it all?’

You can feel your mind start spiralling and you begin to feel sick. You hate it all. Hate being aware of everything all at once. Hate the almost never ending unanswered questions.

You quickly get up shaking your head gently refusing to let it completely overwhelm you, grabbing some PJs you change into as you do. They smell like your him, you both use the same detergent so it always reminds you of each other. You then slide on your slippers as you walk to the kitchen to get a late night snack. You’ve been have some pregnancy cravings but nothing super weird surprisingly, like pickles and peanut butter.

In the kitchen you search for some of your favourite snacks to eat lately, unfortunately there’s none left so you settle for some fruit you like, not as tasty like the ones you have at home but decent enough. The moonlight comes through the kitchen window making you think once again as you bite into the succulent fruit while you lean against the marble kitchen counters. The night is quiet, perfect for unwelcomed overthinking.

‘I wonder what would’ve happened if I stayed here?’

‘What would’ve happened if I never had gotten pregnant?’

The worst thought of all though was; ‘is this sudden affection from everyone in this manor only because of the baby?’

You love your baby you do but you’d hate for all this affection to be just for the child. You are your family’s child first and all you want is for them to love you as you and not for the child you carry.

You feel a slight buzz in your pyjama pocket. You’ll have to deal with your true family before your second, and right now part of your true family is worried about you.

Him:

Please talk to me, my love.

You pause sighing, perhaps if you were raised in a healthy family you could’ve grown up to handle conflict better. Maybe you would still be there with him in your shared home. No point in lamenting about it though.

You:

I’m here sorry I needed to take a break, I was getting overwhelmed.

Him:

Thats okay I’m sorry… I’m just scared

Your husband has always been kind and patient with you even when you found even yourself difficult. Of course he makes mistakes, but he never hurts you and he would never emotionally abandon you like this cursed family did and yet here you were abandoning him, thinking about that makes you wince slightly.

You:

That’s fair… I’m sorry.

Ever since our last argument I’ve been struggling a bit. I know it seems minor but the fact we disagreed on something so small but important around our child is scary. Because what happens next?

All your thoughts spill out as you type, like an overflowing fountain, speaking of fountains you can feel your eyes fill up with tears as you type.

Will we continue to argue about every small thing, like on how to parent our child? Will you get tired if we just continuously disagree and fight? What happens when the baby comes, if I’m like this now will I really be a good parent? Can I even love when I was raised without it?

Your sweet husband knows everything about your childhood and you know everything about his. He never once judged or blamed you for the trauma you endured, he was always on your side.

Him:

I know you’re scared, my love. but one disagreement doesn’t mean our marriage will fall apart, raising a life can be scary but that’s why we are doing it as a team and not as individuals.

I’ll never get tired of you, I intend to stay true to our marriage vows and love you in sickness and in health. I’ll never be tired of you and I won’t be tired of the baby because I love you both. Also you will be a good parent, I know it. Just because you may have been raised without love and care doesn’t mean you can’t love and care anymore, you’re married to me and you love me just fine.

Don’t doubt yourself so much. Thinking so big about everything all at once is bound to get you overwhelmed.

You can almost hear his naggy voice lecturing you towards the end making you giggle softly.

You:

Youer right I’m sorry. I love you so much ♡

God I feel like a fool right now.

Him:

My fool ♡

Now go to sleep I can tell you’re about to pass out because you spelt you’re wrong

Also I bet the reason you stayed away from me for so long is you were too embarrassed

Shit! He caught you. You should’ve known better but he can practically see through you sometimes so you don’t know why you’re surprised. You laugh softly and hang your head slightly at the fact you can still feel the connection when you’re both apart. It’s a testament that you both are truly blessed with one another.

You:

Will do, love you again. Also your bet was right, I’ll text you my location tomorrow so you can pick me up.

Him:

Looking forward to it ♡

You yawn after he sends his last text for tonight, he was right all anxiety has left you with a giant puddle of sleepiness. You eat the last slice of your fruit, wash your hands in the kitchen sink, then finally you walk back to bed.

You’ve never walked around so late it’s almost eerie how quiet it all is, when you were younger you were afraid monsters would get you as sometimes you heard weird noises when you did try to venture outside your room.

Perhaps you should’ve looked around at night more because then you wouldn’t be lost, wandering around a large manor in a sleepy haze, desperate to get back to bed. “Office…?” You mumble looking into rooms for the staircase so you could get to your room to no avail.

Somehow you end up in Bruce’s study, that he once expressed you weren’t supposed to go into at any point, normally you’d listen, it was just an office after all but the sleep made you bold as you step in.

The room in your sleepy vision was normal.

Minus the bookcase behind the desk which was moved to the side to reveal a staircase going down. The shock of the weird bookcase and stairs going down sobered you up from your sleepy haze.

“Wait.. we had a basement?”

You crept down the dark stairwell, the only way you knew where you were going is because of the small lights that lined the walls as you descended. The stairs and the walls weren’t old and rickety for a secret passage, they were what looked to be sold black iron all around minus the matching black carpet going down the middle of the stairs.

“This isn’t weird at all…” you mumble sarcastically to yourself.

You can’t decide what would be worse a creepy old staircase that looks like it lead to a dungeon or a staircase that looks like it would lead you to something like a room for experiments. Either way it felt like you were about to witness something you shouldn’t have seen.

If only you knew how right you were.

Finally you reached the end of the stairs, if you were even still a tiny bit sleepy that terribly long walk down got rid of it. You walk a wide corridor, what looks to be different entrances to rooms line the walls. You want to open one and check but your body pushes you to continually walk forward.

Once you reach the end you see two see-through automatic doors, when you step past one you panic as you’re sprayed down with what you can only assume are chemicals. One you step through the other, you’re greeted with a very large cave.

A cave full of shit you’d never find in a cave, like cars and, sitting in the middle of the very big cave, what looks to be a giant computer.

Alarm bells ring in your head, this definitely wasn’t for you to see. But those alarm bells and everything else in your head quickly dies when you see Bruce, Dick and Alfred walking towards you talking amongst themselves.

You wouldn’t feel this sudden horrifying pit in your stomach if that was it.

No. If that was it you’d be fine. But instead Dick and Bruce were in costumes.

Not just any costumes but Batman and Nightwing costumes.

‘No.’

‘There’s just no way.’

‘This is a joke.’

But you knew it wasn’t when Alfred looked ahead and met your eyes, his face paling at the realization of you standing there and that’s all you needed to turn and run.

You run back to the see-through doors, down the black hallway and up the black stairs. You are pretty sure you can hear yelling but you can’t hear it over the sound of your own breathing as you hyperventilate.

Everything you knew about your family has come crashing down. What was real? Who else knew? No, they all must’ve known. It makes sense that everyone in this family knew but you. Which other superhero was secretly your family member?

Your vision blurs from tears. They were superheros. Saving EVERYONE. EVERYDAY. But they could forget your birthdays, they could forget your existence. Watching your brothers and sisters celebrate their birthdays all together as a happy family and Bruce, your DAD, YOUR BIOLOGICAL DAD couldn’t find time to get you a different gift each year.

Everywhere feels unsafe, all you could do was run to the living room before you could feel the air in your throat get stuck from how quick you were breathing. The tears blurring your vision.

You quickly pull out your phone and quickly open your messages, your hand shaking as you click on your husband’s contact before sending him your location along with a single line saying ‘help’. You need to leave here fast no where feels safe. Everything feels fake.

As this is all happening you hear people call your name, through your tears you could make out Bruce and Dick.

“Hey hey hey let’s just calm down… it’s not a big deal! And what you saw wasn’t what it looked like.” Dick starts his own voice sounding unsure.

“N-not a- A BIG DEAL?” You manage to choke out and scream.

“Don’t be this way.” Bruce coldly glares at your reaction.

“DON’T BE THIS WAY?” You yell again, you’re pretty sure the entire manor is awake now from your cries. “You… you don’t get to tell me that.” You hiss through tears.

“Tell me, Bruce Thomas Wayne. Who else knows.” You ask slowly and carefully, voice full of spit.

There’s a silence before Bruce speaks up, “the… entire family knows.”

You go to laugh but before you can he adds on, “Because they’re all vigilantes too, we never told you because we wanted you to live a normal life...”

His voice fades away as the world around you shatters, a seemingly innocent illusion of a neglectful family has cracked and revealed a family who purposefully isolated you from themselves because they decided to choose for you that you’ll live a life full of wondering what you did so wrong to deserve this.

Your own father decided to tell the kids that aren’t even related to him to become heroes with him but here you were his biological child and yet he decided you weren’t worth it all.

You gently crumpled onto the floor.

Right before your husband decides to make a flashy entrance by shattering the living room window.

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that-queen-nobody-knows · 1 day ago

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Unfortunately you cannot order other human beings online to stop writing a specific thing, if rape triggers you DONT interact, talk, read, or be in spaces that talk about it that's your responsibility if they have properly tagged the content with warnings that's there responsibility. Some of these people are survivors themselves (including me, no I don't write or read them) and shaming them for writing fiction to get the feelings out in the way that's best for them isn't going to help anyone including YOU. It IS your responsibility to yourself to block, ignore, and stay away from these triggers NOT the online community, I am triggered by many things people write but if I see anything possibly related to those I just avoid it completely and move on. But I don't shame other survivors for doing it or reading it or I dont demanding everyone to stop doing it because yeah that's not going to happen, its completely unreasonable and harmful because you yourself are shaming and taking away other survivors choice which is what abusers themselves do. So just STOP and IGNORE and BLOCK things that trigger you end of story.

you know what.

I am so fucking tired of rape fics. I am a sexual assault survivor and you sexulise rape. why. why do I work so hard to get better and it all get ruined by some horny asshole just like last time. THESE CHARATERS DONT WANT TO RAPE YOU. rape is horrible, its NOT sexy. its traumatizing. why do you keep talking about it and writing about it. STOP MINIMIZING MY PAIN WITH YOUR DERANGED FANTASIES.

Simon Riley isnt a rapist

Leon Kennedy isnt a rapist

and belive it or not Jonathan Crane ISNT A FUCKING RAPIST

dont tell me not to kink shame

do not tell me to skip it

you cannot tell me that my trauma doesn't matter

STOP WRITING RAPE FICS

#rape/noncon #resident evil x reader #r@pe tw #r@pe kink #call of duty #cod x reader #any fandom #ever #literally #like come on #i get it but also #stop #you can't order the whole online community to stop #its your responsibility to avoid triggers #smut

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p1psqueaks · 1 day ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — “YOU CAME?” “YOU CALLED.”

ZAYNE

The city hums like a living thing outside the window, its lights too bright, too indifferent. Rain claws down the glass in erratic streaks, turning the night into a blur of neon smears and muted sirens.

You don’t look at the door. You just sit on the edge of the hotel bed, fingers twisting into the hem of your coat like they’re trying to tear through fabric, skin, bone.

And then—you hear it. The knock.

One.

Two.

Three.

Measured. Controlled. So Zayne.

You shouldn’t have called. You knew he’d come.

But knowing something doesn’t make it hurt less.

You cross the room slowly, like the ground itself might open if you move too fast. Your hand lingers on the doorknob. You inhale like it might steady you. It doesn’t.

When the door opens, it’s like a punch to the chest. He’s soaked. Dark hair plastered to his face, jacket clinging to him like second skin. He doesn't speak. His eyes just search you like he's memorizing the lines of someone he's trying not to forget.

"You came?" you whisper. It’s barely a question. It’s a wound.

He exhales, jaw tight. “You called.”

There’s something dangerous in his voice. Not anger. Something heavier. Quieter.

You step aside and he walks in like a shadow—silent, consuming.

The door clicks shut behind him and the space between you becomes suffocating.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say, but your voice is shaking, like you don’t mean it. Like you never did.

"I know." His eyes don’t leave yours. "But you said you needed me."

"I didn’t think you’d still come."

He doesn’t answer that. Just shrugs off his wet jacket and tosses it on the chair like it doesn't still carry the scent of his cologne—sharp, electric, him.

You hate that it makes your throat burn.

"You left," you say. It spills out, broken glass from a shattered bottle. "You disappeared without a word, and now you’re just—"

"You called." His voice cuts through yours like frost. “You needed me.”

"And if I hadn’t?" you ask, eyes wet now, voice cracking. “Would you have stayed gone?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence is everything he can't say.

You turn away before he can see the tears fall. Or maybe you just don’t want to see the way his face would twist when they do.

He moves closer. Close enough that you feel the heat of him, even through the cold.

"I never stopped watching," he says quietly. "Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when it hurt."

"Then why—"

"Because I loved you." His voice is raw now, stripped down. "Love you."

You spin, eyes wide. “Then why did you leave?”

He looks at you like you already know. Like he doesn't want to admit the truth out loud.

“Because everything I touch ends up broken,” he whispers. “And I couldn’t bear to see that happen to you.”

You're quiet for a moment. Just breathing in the pieces of each other, jagged and unfinished.

"You don’t get to decide what breaks me," you say finally. “You don’t get to run and then pretend it was for my sake.”

He flinches like the words hit him physically. And maybe they do.

But he steps closer again. And this time, when he cups your face, his hand is shaking.

"I came because you called," he says. "But I stayed because I never stopped wanting to."

You don't kiss him.

You just let your forehead fall against his chest and listen to his heartbeat echo all the things neither of you are brave enough to say.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

If he doesn’t run again.

If you don’t.

XAVIER

The air in the abandoned warehouse is still, like it’s holding its breath. Like it knows what’s coming.

It smells like dust and old memories. The place hasn’t changed. You have.

You shouldn’t be here. But something about the silence felt safer than your apartment. Than your bed. Than being alone with the echo of a voice you told yourself you were done missing.

You didn’t expect him to actually come.

But then again, he always does the impossible.

The door creaks open behind you, soft but sure.

You don’t turn.

“You came?” Your voice cracks on the second word.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You called.”

You laugh. Bitter. Small. “That’s not an answer.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

You finally turn, and there he is—Xavier, in that same black coat, like night has wrapped itself around him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes give him away. They always do. They burn like a star that forgot how to die.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you say, swallowing the ache.

“I know.” He takes a step closer. “But I couldn’t not.”

"That’s a bad habit of yours."

"So is needing someone who disappears the moment it gets hard."

You flinch. Fair shot.

Neither of you speak for a moment. There's just that heavy stillness. The kind that settles in right before something breaks.

You look at him—really look. He looks tired. More than usual. Like the universe took something from him and didn’t bother saying sorry.

"You left without telling me why," you say, voice low. "I thought I meant something to you."

"You did." A beat. "You do."

"Then why the hell did you run?"

He hesitates. That alone says everything.

“I didn’t run,” he says slowly. “I withdrew. There’s a difference.”

Your laugh this time is sharp, bitter. “Yeah, the difference is whether or not I get a goddamn explanation.”

“I was trying to protect you.” He says it like it should make everything better.

"It didn’t work."

"I know."

You walk past him, pacing, running a hand through your hair, furious at how much you still care. "I waited, Xavier. I waited every damn night, thinking maybe you’d explain, maybe you’d just say something. And you never did."

“I thought staying away would make it easier.”

"For who?" you snap. “You?”

He doesn't deny it. Of course he doesn't.

He looks out the tall window, to the stars you used to point out together. The ones he taught you to read like a language only the two of you knew.

“I didn’t want to pull you into the dark with me,” he murmurs. “You shine too bright.”

You almost laugh again, but it’s too cruel. Too hollow.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you say, voice quieter now. “You don’t get to disappear and act like it was noble.”

He finally looks at you again. “Then why call me tonight?”

You pause.

"Because I didn’t know who else would understand the kind of lonely that feels like being lost in orbit."

He moves toward you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

“I’m still me,” he says, “even if I’m... not the version of me you deserve.”

You close the distance between you, until you’re standing chest-to-chest, eyes searching his like they might find the truth he never says out loud.

“I never asked you to be perfect,” you whisper. “I just wanted you to stay.”

“I’m here now.”

You shake your head, tears clinging to your lashes. “But for how long, Xavier? Until you get scared again?”

He doesn’t promise anything. He just reaches up, hesitant fingers brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he admits.

You press your hand over his.

“Then don’t be good,” you say. “Just be here.”

RAFAYEL

The door slides open with that soft mechanical sigh — too smooth, too easy for something that feels this heavy.

You step into his studio, unsure if you’re intruding or answering a summons. Maybe both.

Rafayel doesn’t look up immediately. He’s lounging in his chair like he’s been expecting you for hours, like your arrival is only mildly more interesting than the orbit decay he's monitoring. One leg crossed over the other, arm draped lazily across the back of the seat. Completely unfazed.

But you know him. You see the tension in the way his fingers twitch once before stilling. The quiet inhale he doesn’t think you’ll notice.

He finally glances over his shoulder.

“You came?” he drawls, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How uncharacteristically obedient of you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You called.”

He hums, spinning lazily to face you. “I did. It’s nice to know I still have that kind of pull.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Not yet.

Instead, you cross your arms, leaning against the wall like you’re not unraveling just from being in the same room again. “Was there a reason, or were you just bored and craving emotional devastation?”

He grins at that. “Tempting. But no, I had a moment of weakness. I thought, ‘What if I said something sincere and emotionally available for once?’ Then I panicked and called you.”

You stare at him. “That explains the abrupt message with no context.”

“Ah. So you did miss me.”

You laugh. Sharp. Bitter. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s a beat. The banter falters — just for a breath. You see it then: the exhaustion under the charm, the way his shoulders drop just slightly. Something is off tonight. Even for him.

“You look like hell,” you say, softer now.

He shrugs. “Sleep is for the emotionally stable.”

You take a few steps forward, slow. “Rafayel… why did you call me?”

He looks at you for a long moment. The smirk fades, bit by bit, until all that’s left is the truth he’s too proud to say out loud.

“Because the silence was louder than I expected,” he says finally. “And apparently, I hate the sound of my own thoughts.”

You exhale. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I know. Terrifying, isn’t it?”

You reach him. He’s still in his chair, but now he’s watching you like you’re something he can’t bear to touch, but can’t look away from either.

“I was angry,” you say. “When you left. When you shut down. I didn’t know where I stood.”

“I thought I was doing you a favor,” he says, voice quieter now. “Sparing you from the mess. From me.”

“Well, it didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like abandonment.”

He winces like the word physically lands. “Ouch. You’ve been practicing.”

You don’t blink. “Just telling the truth. You do that too, sometimes. Usually when it hurts.”

His lips twitch. “Fair.”

You kneel a little, meeting his eye level. “If you didn’t want me to come, you shouldn’t have called.”

“If I didn’t want you here, I would’ve locked the door.”

“Would’ve stopped me?”

“No. But I would’ve felt better about it.”

A beat of silence.

Then, quietly:

“I missed you.” He says it like it’s dangerous. Like it’s a confession he’s not used to giving, and hates that he means.

“I know,” you whisper. “So did I.”

He exhales. His hand lifts, tentative, hovering for a second before brushing your arm like he’s asking permission with his fingertips.

You let him.

Just this once.

“You’re really here,” he murmurs.

You nod. “For now.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with something unreadable. “Is this the part where we pretend to fix things? Or the part where we ruin them more beautifully?”

You manage a tired smile. “I don’t know yet.”

He leans in, eyes gleaming.

“Good,” he whispers. “I love a little uncertainty.”

And for once, you both sit with the ambiguity — no promises, no apologies. Just space. Shared, uneasy, electric.

Because sometimes, you came is all the answer there is.

SYLUS

The rooftop is quiet this time of night.

Above you, the sky hangs heavy with stars you’ve never really learned to name. Below, the city breathes in artificial light and distant hums — busy, blind, uncaring.

You shift on the cold ledge, arms tucked into your coat, trying to feel something other than the tight ache in your chest.

You shouldn’t have called him.

You barely know him — not really. Not enough to ask for this. For company. For anything that feels like comfort.

But you called anyway.

And now... he’s here.

The door creaks behind you.

You don't look back. Not right away.

His footsteps are soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to startle you.

“You came?” Your voice is low. Fragile, despite your best efforts.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just moves closer, the warmth of his presence cutting through the rooftop chill like something solid. Real.

“You called,” Sylus says, voice quiet. No judgment. Just fact.

You turn, finally meeting his eyes — that impossible shade of red, too vivid in the dark.

He’s still wearing his usual layers — all black, as if the world’s weight might be easier to carry if he looks like he’s already braced for it. But his expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. Guarded, but open in a way you didn’t expect.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” you say, already retreating.

“You didn’t.” He steps closer. “Well. You interrupted sleep. But I wasn’t really doing that anyway.”

You offer a tired half-smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He says it like he means it. “I’d rather be here.”

That quiets you.

You look away, out at the city. “I wasn’t even sure you’d come.”

“I was already halfway here before I realized I hadn’t even asked why you wanted me to.”

“And now that you’re here?”

He shrugs lightly. “Still don’t need a reason.”

Your breath catches. There’s too much in that answer. Too much for someone you’ve only known for a few weeks. Someone who still deflects most questions and hides behind smirks like they’re bulletproof.

But he’s here.

“Rough day?” he asks gently.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t push. Just waits. You’re starting to realize that’s who he is. He gives you silence, not as avoidance — but as space. Like he knows you’ll talk if you need to. Or not.

And right now, you need to.

“I thought I was okay,” you admit. “But then everything just... started to close in. Like I couldn’t breathe. And I didn’t know who to call.”

His brow furrows slightly. “So you called me.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Why me?”

The question isn’t accusatory. He sounds curious. Maybe even surprised.

You meet his gaze, forcing the words out past the knot in your throat.

“Because you’re the only one who looks like they’d understand what it feels like to want to disappear sometimes.”

The silence that follows is heavier. Realer.

And then, softly:

“I do,” Sylus says. “Understand, I mean.”

You nod. “I thought you might.”

He exhales slowly, something easing in his posture. He sits beside you — not too close, but close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

“I don’t usually do this kind of thing,” he murmurs.

“What? Comforting people?”

“No. Letting people see the part of me that needs comfort.”

You glance at him. “Is that what this is?”

“Maybe.” He hesitates. “Or maybe I just didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

You smile, small and real. “That’s kind of the same thing.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe I’m worse at this than I thought.”

“You’re not,” you say. “You’re just honest. It’s rare.”

He nods like that’s something he doesn’t hear often.

After a moment, you shift slightly toward him.

“You can go, if you want.”

He doesn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sylus says quietly. “Not if you still want me here.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the silence settle over the two of you — warm now, not empty. You can feel him next to you, steady and real.

And for the first time in hours, the world doesn’t feel like it’s closing in.

Not when he’s here.

CALEB

You should’ve let the message sit unanswered.

The city outside Caleb’s apartment still glows the way it always does — neon gold and soft blue, glittering like it's trying to convince you everything is beautiful and under control.

It’s not.

Not in here.

The air still feels bruised from the fight earlier. Words that shouldn’t have been said, thrown like sharp glass between the two of you. There’s a bitter silence now, the kind that doesn’t just linger — it punishes.

You don’t know why you came back.

Well — you do.

Because he called.

The lock disengages before you can knock again. The door opens just slightly, and there he is — Caleb. Towering, broad-shouldered, and suddenly so very… small in the way he looks at you. Like he expected you not to come.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Until, finally:

“You came?” His voice is hoarse, low. Like he’s trying not to hope.

You answer without thinking. “You called.”

He looks away for a second, like your answer hurt more than he expected it to.

You cross the threshold, slowly, cautiously — like the apartment itself might bite. Everything’s just as you left it earlier: the couch cushions slightly skewed from when you stormed off, one of the mugs from your argument still on the table, untouched.

The air smells like ozone and tension.

“I wasn’t sure you’d answer,” Caleb says quietly, shutting the door behind you.

You still can’t meet his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

He swallows hard. “And yet... here you are.”

You shrug, feeling like your voice could crack at any moment. “Guess that makes both of us idiots.”

A soft, humorless laugh escapes him. “Speak for yourself, pipsqueak. I’ve always been an idiot. Took you longer to join the club.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, the pain in your chest softens — just a bit.

But it’s not enough.

“What are we doing, Caleb?” you ask, turning to face him fully. “Because I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine between us when it isn’t.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re avoiding. There’s a difference.”

He moves past you, pacing to the window, hands on his hips like he’s trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, voice taut. “At… relationships. Talking. Not making everything worse.”

You follow slowly. “Then why push me away whenever I try to talk?”

“Because the more I care about you, the more it scares the hell out of me,” he snaps — and then stops, breathing hard.

It hangs there, naked and jagged.

You take a slow step toward him. “You don’t get to use love as a reason to hurt me.”

His head bows, shoulders tense. “I know.”

“I don’t want perfection, Caleb. I want honesty. Even if it’s messy.”

He turns back toward you. There’s something in his eyes now — something cracked and real.

“I called you,” he says quietly, “because I didn’t know how to sit in this apartment and not be able to take it back.”

You step closer.

“I came,” you whisper, “because I didn’t want to go to sleep angry. Not with you.”

For a moment, you’re both silent. Then:

“I’m sorry,” he says. And it sounds like it costs him.

You nod. “Me too.”

He lifts a hand, hesitant, fingers brushing yours — tentative, unsure, but desperate to anchor.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Caleb says. “But I don’t want to lose you trying to figure it out.”

You take his hand. Grip it like it’s the only steady thing in the world.

“Then don’t let go.”

378 notes · View notes

theyluvlyss · 3 days ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 "𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬" 𝐟𝐢𝐜/𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞...

no offense, but it's the same five songs (a.k.a. same plots/reader types) over and over again. like guys - WHERE'S THE CREATIVITY ?! THE FANTASY ?! THE IMAGINATION ?!

like hellooo, there's literally vampires, magic/hoodoo, and a million themes both hidden and not-so-hidden to work with. not to say i'm not loving what i'm seeing right now, don't get it twisted - I am, and y'all are good,,, but I just think we can do more and better😌🙏🏽.

hence why, I present...

a list of some wip's I got goin' for the future, along with my takes on why/how I came up with them😻 !!

but before I begin...

fair warning #1 - you're welcome to be inspired, but plz don't steal, i'm putting so much effort into these, my notes app hasn't been closed not once😭🙏🏽.

fair warning #2 - ikik, most of these are remmick, plz don't come for me✋🏽🥲✋🏽. I was trying to get them all out of my head before I forgot them, I love working with vampire characters, and finally, yes ofc I will be conjuring up some more for bo chow, plenty for stack and smoke, and some for sammie :). I am a multifandom account, after all, I be working on helllllaaaa other things and trying not to forget them all, so cut some slack <3.

fair warning #3 - I mentioned this in my last post, but all of my readers are black/black-coded. obnoxiously so. because, and stay mad about it, but this is for the niggas, strictly for the niggas, like I don't give a FUCK, okay? y'all can request whatever y'all want (within reason, because if I see something weird in my inbox, you're blockt), but when it comes down to prompts like these - where they're made up by me, original thoughts, not asked for, this is my blog and I can post what I want type shit - it always gave black!reader, like it's the norm over here, I shouldn't even have to say it lol.

anyways, onto my wip's /ᐠ^˕^マ !!...

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

okayokayokay, I know what I said earlier - "iT's tHe sAmE fIvE sOnGs🙉!!" - but listen... I have yet to see a vamp!reader fic where the reader being turned doesn't happen at the end, and it's vague, and doesn't explore that narrative further.

also, it's always intentional, which I get, yk, but I wanna switch it up, give y'all a taste of it being a complete accident and then further delve into the feelings, effects, experience of reader being turned. ofc, with remmick being there for assistance and emotional support in a rather "morbid-amused-lowkey unwanted by the reader, but they don't got much of a choice rn" sorta way lmfao.

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

shoutout to the niggas workin' with brail rn, who's personal documents say "legally blind", who's prescription glasses are THICKKK asf...

I see you😌✊🏽.

was that outta pocket?

my fault, anyways...

my thought process behind this was very adhd, so before you attack me, hear me out lol.

vampires are so cool because one of their abilities is having their senses heightened to an almost unnatural degree - I want a reader who has that same ability, but I don't want them to be a vampire, just super skilled with their senses - how would a reader who's not a vampire have heightened senses? idk,,, what type of humans have heightened senses? - ...blind ppl (💀) have heightened senses cuz they can't see, so they have to rely on the other five to get by (because I believe in sixth senses lol)... crazy connetion, but it's true💀 - LOL imagine remmick and reader going sense for sense fr tho.

mr. I-live-for-the-hunt meets ms. i'm-not-the-one.

shit becomes a "don't breathe" remake rq (without the freaky-deaky stuff towards the end, unless y'all are into that, idk💀✋🏽-).

idk, I see a vibe here, it's getting written fs.

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

I think it'd just be really funny to write about bo putting up with this silly, dramatic, type of reader. maybe a charlotte "lottie" la bouff type. spoiled but not rotten, definitely a character fr, and he entertains it because he loves it (won't admit it) and reader (admits and shows it).

reader is all pretty and pink and expressive and all her own, and honestly ?? she doesn't really have to go to visit his shop every single day, but she does because this little girl type crush just won't settle (won't admit it, but definitely shows it).

plus, HELLO, black wealth and excellence, idc if it's not fully accurate for the time, it's called fanfiction for a reason. get with it or get lost, let the girlies be drowned in privilege and in bo chow's love, attention, and care😻✨️🩷.

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

vampires exist in this world.

you really think i'm not gonna entertain the possibility of other mythical creatures existing as well?

BOOOO LAME‼️

furthermore,,, you really think i'm not bold enough to apply that possibility to some sinners fanfic? did I not JUST talk about creativity??

oh, you not fuckin' with it???

BOOOOO LAAAAMMMEEE TOMATO TOMATO, I'M THROWING TOMATOES‼️🍊‼️🍊‼️.

anyways, I have nothing to explain this/myself more with other than this little sliver of dialogue, for fear of spoiling the fic idea I have in mind/am working on...

. . .

"Oh, honey..." You trailed, barely strangling back a laugh bubbling deep from within your chest, your voice lined with a sense of pity.

Knowingness.

Hardly any question when you asked, "...D'you really think you were the only monster lurkin' through these woods...?"

. . .

THAT'S IT, that's enough, that's all you're getting, teehee🤭🫵🏽.

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

i'm a slut for whimsy (and size kinks), what can I say🤷🏽‍♀️?

also, I think I should HEAVILY lean into the "mischievous" aspects of how pixies/fairies are said to be - LOL just some lil' sparkly-winged, elf-eared, three-apples-tall ass creature/reader wreaking havoc on the kkk and others who do wrong, dirty, and evil, reader doing her best to uplift those who don't have her wings, who can't just fly away from the struggles happening all around, reader providing some fun and magic into little boy's and girl's lives, and-

oh, what's this?

reader spotting remmick absolutely devouring some poor soul who crossed his path and, well, they can't help but be interested and curious. maybe even mess with him a little bit.

cue remmick having to put up with reader's mystical magical nonsense, hating every second, but heaven forbid if something happens to the reader😌🥴✋🏽...

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

(my picture limit ruined my aesthetic, y'all😔💔)

remmick x jaded!reader

lmfao ik that sounds wild, but lemme cook✋🏽🥴✋🏽...

reader who - doesn't not care - but it takes a lot to actually phase them/gain a physical reaction. and I mean a LOT.

also, like, they're a freak!! god forbid reader sees something they like, like🙀🙄... (throw back another shot after every like).

idk how i'm gonna pull this off, but I just think it'd be amusingly jarring for remmick to come across a reader who has no fears about his ass being a vampire, nor gives any fucks about his threats on turning them. they've seen and been under much worse circumstances...

"ain't no need for that, the last thing I wanna do is be stuck on this earth for another day😒✋🏽..."

"...I...wha-...y-"

"-if you play nice, though, i'll clean ya' up. you gettin' blood all over my laundry and I don't have time to redo the load."

cue unlikely friendship😻?

remmick is the semi-unruly puppy, and reader is the reluctant owner type beat, because you already know he's coming back, no way he's not😹.

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

remmick x fiftiesera!reader

i'm feeling nice, so i'll go ahead and leak the title i'm gonna use😌...

. . .

" 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧' 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐀 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐡 "

. . .

to sum up what i've got in the oven...

religious themes/god complex/kink(?) - vampire turning ofc😌 - smut (have I mentioned that some of these prompts do include smut?? well, they do lmao) - do you have issues with your parents? reallllyy don't like them?? this fic will potentially heal some of that for you idk lol - the second out of two of my readers who are gonna be a little... naive... but it's fine, most of my readers so far have been pretty, "i'm not with that bullshit" types. we need ✨️balance✨️.

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

remmick x heavyflow!reader

I won't lie, I saw a tumblr post on here that fully inspired what I have in mind...

so thanks to them, everybody thank this user lol. all I plan on doing is fleshing out this prompt into a full blown imagine, like deadass.

remmick at your door every time he can smell the start of your cycle...

yes bruh, I used my last pic for a meme, god forbid I put humor over visual pleasure, like🙄✋🏽...

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

remmick x 2025era!/modern!reader

no idea what i'm gonna do with this, ngl, I just figured that if i'ma do a reader from the 50's, y'all would start screaming at me to do a modern reader, so🥴💀.

i'll take ideas/requests, tho :D !!

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

that's a wrap (for now) !!

again, i'm very aware (and not proud) of the fact it's mostly remmick, but like I said, there's plans for sammie, smoke, stack, and bo, so don't get on my case, I just need time to keep brainstorming before I explode lmfao💀😭.

anyways, stay tuned y'all, because these fics are all currently in the works and I will be honest, the more ppl confirm they're rocking with these prompts and looking forward to them, the more likely/confident i'll be with actually getting them done and done well :).

byeeee, i'll be back in another millenia😻‼️✨️.

346 notes · View notes

sangunary · 8 hours ago

Text

Yandere Batfamily × other dimension Reader.

SYPNOSIS: Your other family are willing to kill to have you... So is your orginal family.

>Part 1< >Part 2<

The world you have left was turned into ruins in a matter of months. Barely any crime in the street of Gotham since the so called hero's were taking that job trying to find you.

The night became more dangerous than ever since they were willing to ruin their prestige reputation to bring back their lost bird.

"Tell me where the fuck they are before I blow your brain into pieces!"

Jason threatens the poor boy with guns against his head ready to pull the trigger if not satisfied.

Amongst the family Jason was taking it the hardest, he was already violent as he was but your sudden disappearance was taking a toll on him...

"I- I don't know anything! I swear... Please just don't kill me please!"

The boy beg as wet tears stream down his cheeks.

Nobody was safe now, their hero's have turned against them.

Even the Justice League were trying to reason with Bruce but he wasn't very willing to hear them screech about what justice was.

He wasn't batman at the moment, he was a father searching for their young one that have gone astray... He wasn't going to loose his precious bird because some freaks in costume tell him to forget.

A father that could not die at peace knowing he practically left his own child to rotting from the inside.

"... Kid you really are getting on my nerves."

Jason threatens as he push the cold end of the gun into his forehead, fingers dangerously close to the trigger.

"I don't know... I promise you... I don't know anything about her... Please..."

The kid's wept harder, their face contorting into one of sorrow and desperate in one frame... Their hands trembling badly as they hold onto Jasons hands as he was holding them by the back of his shirt leaving him off the floor. If the boy weren't to be holding onto the savage man he would he chocking.

"Kids... I have no problem shooting that clown in the head for joking around too much... What makes you think I would treat you any differently?"

Jason voice was loud and clear as the boy just couldn't stop sobbing.

Yes, it is true that the Joker was killed. More than one hand were tainted with blood. The rage of a bird is intense and brutal...

Suddenly the comma began to ring, prompting Jason to drop the kid flat on their ass. As he listened to the signal carefully.

"I have a trace... Everyone at the batcave, fast"

Barbara words were demanding and seem slightly anxious which was never a good sign. Ever since your sudden disappear she could barely get herself to get out of her operation room.

You used to stroll her around all the time and she wouldn't even notice you during those days. She would rather talk to herself than to you and personally asked you to not speak so she won't get agitated. Now she missed you badly.

She have been going through thousand of files, looking through files of anyone who have a criminal records, they don't have to he a major criminal... People who are arrested for playing loud music are also under her watch..

For month's she would send them out to meet specific rodents in hope of finding whoever was responsible for your disappearance. She doesn't always sit behind large tecnology she would also go out and beat some rodents in your name.

Jason was ready to leave but not before he turns back and look at the kid who was sweating profusely... Couldn't even look at his shadow due to fear.

With a bang the kids clenched onto his left leg which was bleeding profusely after Jason shot at it...

"I marked you down so don't ever think of doing anything I won't like. Cause next time your head would be display infront of your family..."

With that said he jump off the building going towards the batcave.

Jason was being extremely out of character even he could see that. He was protective of kid's especially one that reminded of him... Excluding you.

Whenever he saw your face he just can't help but be irritated. You remind him of himself as a kid, your big guilty eyes... How excited you were and all the others... You were just like him.

He shouldn't have taken his anger out on you for being a better version of himself.

He would avoid you like the plague, make your day worse than it had to be and how he made sure you'll never get the mantle.

He hated Tim for replacing him and he despite you for being happy.

He planned for weeks on how to make sure you never get that mantle... which was also a twisted way of getting revenge on Bruce.

He had broken your leg which was on accident. He was aiming for your spine but you moved and he shot at your knees instead.

Although he realised even if he didn't shoot you, you wouldn't inheret the mantle cause you were deemed too 'odd' by your father.

Bruce was originally going to re-home you since you were not fitting for the family, but after Jason shot you Bruce realised he had to take responsibility as his son shot you.

If it were to he anyone outside the family that were to shoot you he would still have re-homed you as soon as possible. So your presence could be swept under the rug faster and alot more efficient.

Inside the cave was gloomy as usual, the lingering smell of iron was strong and the air purifier were working extra hard.

"There's a problem in the multiverse..."

Barbara started.

"Again?"

Dick asked, he was wearing his usual black and blue uniform no red stain yet the strong sense of iron was coming off of him.

"It is unlikely but there is another way..."

They all listen to her patiently, concern about your well being and what kind of dimension you are currently on.

On the flip side, you were just having the best time.

Everybody cherished you, loved you. And you definitely took advantage of that.

Your scare were slowly healing just by being with the right people.

"Aha! Caught ya' birdie!" Before you could even process some words Dick pick you up. You forgot how strong they were since you never interact with your other family.

"This is humiliating get me down!" You struggle but not enough force, he was picking you up like how the monkey from lion king did to Simba.

"Do not fling her across the room! I demand you let her down this instead Richard!" Damian spoke as there he was holding pillows from Tims room.

Duke who just entered the room just look around and sigh, stealing the pillow that Stephanie was resting her head on.

"...Oh so you want war huh? Bring it on yellow ranger" Stephanie with a smirk stood up as she instead reach for the towel which was beside her.

"That's illegal... You have a machine gun and I have a knife? What kind of war is this?"

Before Stephanie could continue somebody throw a pillow with all their strength combined towards her. She stumble and plop down on the couch as she looked at the person.

"That's... what you get for taking my coffee, you witch"

Tim stood confidently near the entrance, his arm crossed as he glare at Stephanie who smiled without any guilt knowing damn well what she did was an unwritten crime in the family. Which nobody follows.

Before Stephanie could throw the remote at him someone else throw a literal a book at him which... unfortunately land at him hard.

"I've always wanted to do that..." Jason spoke as there were more books in his hands. The book's were for children under 4... a nursery book which was given to him by Tim each birthday of his...

Unfortunately the books were thin so it wouldn't hurt him much.

"Hey! that's illegal! Ganging up and using hard material is against the law we made!"

You watched as Stephanie throw a pillow at him, headshot. You couldn't help but feel the warmth crept up your heart and throughout your body.

"I-" "Æ!".

Dick thrown you onto the couch without warning as he was getting ready for war.

"What the fuck, Richard?"

You asked as you rub your back, for being young your back do hurt like it's about to retire already.

"Don't worry little wing... This bird won't hurt you..."

Dick assured you as he picked up a pillow that was laying on the ground.

"You dare to protect me from my blood... You've chosen the wrong blood to messed with..."

Damian dramatically spoke as you couldn't help but be abit entertain. It was like watching a theater kid's role-playing free style during break hour.

"This is like claiming a vulture is related to a Robin... Eitherway birdie you won't live to see that glorious light of victory. Cause I, the gre-"

Before Dick could continue Damian throw an award worthy throw at him, he stood tall and prideful as he look down on the older brother.

"They are worthy of sharing my blood, they woll be recognised as such"

"G-"

Before Tim could finish Damian throw a devastating hurl at him which made Tim to kiss the floor again.

"You should learn to shut that mouth of yours, Timmy"

Jason suddenly decide to give Tim some word of advice but after that he just dropped all the kid's book ontop of Tim.

Stephanie too ended up throwing a blanket which she pulled out of thin air at Tim who was hugging the floor.

Beneath the perly mansion lays a secret, underneath the Wayne manor the batcave was there... Bruce, Alfred, Cass and Barbara all together.

"Cass you will be by their side at all time... We do not know when or whom will come here to take her."

Bruce spoke, his eyes still on the large computer that was set infront of him. The screen show a picture of you, dna, background and alot of personal records.

"Yes, Will protect her. At all cost"

Cass replied, she was still in her usual indoor clothing but it still made her look badass. Barbara who was sitting on her wheelchair gave Cass a quick smile to reassure her that you were going to stay.

"Those alternative version of us clearly made it clear that they won't stop at any cause to have them... They won't be so spoiled here.

Barbara continue as he gave Bruce some files... which documented every single detail of how the glitching worked and your actual family problems.

"How about the rest? We can't just not tell them"

Barbara added another thing on her curiosity list.

"They're well aware, they'll stay her one way or another... And get rid of those ungrateful heros..."

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adrianastrix · 12 hours ago

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I would like to add that you can know an artist by their work, but not surface-level things like "is attracted to x" or "likes y" or "thinks acting like it is fine" just because one or two characters happen to share those traits. Things that come from the author usually become patterns throughout their whole fiction, and the pattern might seem "likes x, dislikes y", but if you read an author's biography, it might immediately become "oh, it's the author's abusive parent here" or "oh, it's the author's pleasant memories about their childhood or college", or "hey author's spiritual beliefs/existential conflicts, haven't seen you in a whole 20 seconds, would you believe it!".

I can say with confidence that any character I spend long enough developing end up with traits from me (and not just traits I like in me), but it's not a conscious, planned process, so it's hard to gauge the "me/not me" ratio in any of them without a lot of introspection. Even for me, the one who created them and supposedly know myself better than anyone.

In Ryoko's case (though it might be a hell of a projection), I felt a kindred soul in the "scientific fascination" club. Science and scientific interest is always regarded as something cold and calculated, that disregards basic empathy and decency, but it's the same as saying that love is cold and calculating because you only see TV psychopaths exhibiting it. The main difference between scientific interest and love is that, when you love something, you are attracted to it and want it closer to you. With scientific interest, you don't need to love the thing. You might even start by hating it. But you need to understand it, and, if you are honest in your scientific ethics, you will want to present your object of study was accurately as possible and will force yourself to not disregard its virtues because of your bias. Because bias weaken arguments and open yourself to attack by rival scientists.

And that, I think, is one of the reasons Delicious in Dungeon can be so appealing to people even if Ryoko herself don't care much for most foods or by certain body types. She was presenting her world as a scientist sees nature: fascinating by what it is, by it's variety and mystery. It's not disgusting or scary because you don't like or understand it, that's exactly what intrigues you.

I'm pretty sure that, despite her neighbour being off-putting to her with his habit of taking out the trash semi-naked, in the face of something she doesn't like or understand, the scientist in her didn't went "ew, he must be dangerous or disgusting", but "why would someone (that I have other evidence towards being 'normal') act in that way I don't like or understand?". And that's why Senshi isn't a walking gag screaming "BEING SEMI-NAKED IS FUNNY BECAUSE IT'S DISGUSTING AND NO ONE NORMAL WOULD DO THAT", but a person that might be a bit eccentric, but is otherwise normal and functional. Like her neighbour. And, like her neighbour, some people also find him funny and a bit off-putting and some people are thirsty for him.

Saw this on Twitter and I obligatory need to share it

#literature #literary analysis #delicious in dungeon #manga #science #I will die on the hill that a bigoted society is a symptom of 'curiosity killed the cat' killing scientific inquiry #I know all to well how horrific scientist can be as human beings and the horrible things they can enable in their pursuits #but chucking it to 'people should be less curious about things' is like saying that feeling hungry is bad because bad people feel hungry #or saying that being hungry is bad because bad people said that they did bad things because of hunger #being hungry in natural and leads us to seeking nutrition so we are healthy #curiosity is the hunger of the brain and constantly neglecting it is as disastrous #just like indulging it too much

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theyluvivi · 2 days ago

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IN THE DARK. C.S. ⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻

You and Chris aren't dating.

Quite frankly, you don't know what you are. It's blur between friends and dating and a secret third thing.

You like him. You're good together, but every single time you link, it's always.. messy, toxic even.

But, both of you go back every time. You can't get enough of each other, both ending back in each other's arms after whatever fling you guys had for the week.

This time, when you go back, it's different, Chris has never treated you like this before. But like.. in a good way.

Flowers on your doorstep every morning, hickeys on your neck that he just won't let fade, pet names being the only that he calls you. And it was good, the weeks that this went on for were good.

Until one day, you and Chris were stumbling drunk back to your place, sloppy hands all over each other. Kissing wherever skin was available.

"Feels good?" Chris rasps, and you nod. The stretch of him always leaving you waiting more. "Doing, so so good f'me— feels so good around me—"

You're so close, sweat gathering on your forehead, legs trembling, "Fuuck— Maddy—"

Your stomach churns. "What?" You can see the panic in Chris's eyes no matter how much he tries to hide it, "Huh?"

You quickly sit up, pushing off his hands that now feel like the dirtiest thing ever to you. "What did you just say?"

"I—" You don't let him finish, tears already threatening to escape your eyes. "Get the fuck out."

You've never felt so vulnerable in your life. Hopping in the shower as he gathered his things and aggressively scrubbing your skin clean.

Now you're here, drunk off your ass at a party because you don't know what else to do with yourself. Your friends haven't heard from you in weeks. You turned off your location a long time ago.

You'd actually rather die than have them see you all miserable over a guy.

You don't know anyone here, and that's a good thing. You can do whatever this hell you want and not have to deal with the consequences. And you're having a good time, a genuine good time until you see

Chris.

You bite your lip, attempting to wobble away from him. "Hey— c'mon—"

"I don't wanna talk to you," You hiccup, "Go be with Maddy." Chris's jaw clenches, "Please, just hear me out, okay?—"

"No! You made me feel disgusting, Chris— I've never felt so dirty in my entire life. Go be with the girl you want so bad."

He swallows hard, "I don't want her, I want you."

His words soothe the ache that's been on your soul for weeks. You can feel the nasty look that's on your face soften. And as much as you'd love to get back to the routine you and Chris have, it's impossible to let this go.

"Leave me alone. Seriously." You slur, pushing away from him. "M' not gonna compete with her for your love." He follows up, "Baby, I want you— I promise—"

"D-don't call me that," You stiffle a sob, "You looked at me like I was someone else, Chris." Your mascara begins to run, "Please, just leave me alone, I-I don't wanna see you ever again—"

you should be with him, I can't compete. you looked at me like I was someone else. joji, slow dancing in the dark, 1:03.

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moon-fics · 5 hours ago

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Run Hot

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: The heating in the tower has broken in the middle of winter. This leaves everyone trying to find warmth any way possible.

A/n: I can't write angst anymore. I love comfort fics with Bob. He doesn't deserve pain.

This had to be a punishment or some sort of payback from Valentina. There's no way a fully operational and multimillion-dollar tower suddenly lost heating in the middle of winter. It's freezing, and the number of windows that cover half the building isn't helping.

You walk into the main room, where a fireplace is displayed on one of the screens. Almost no one is there due to how cold it is. The only people around are Alexei and Bob, who are sitting on opposite sides of the room.

Alexei is using alcohol to fight the cold. He's sitting on one of the couches with a bottle of vodka next to him. You don't try to disturb him as he watches his phone screen and laughs to himself.

That leaves you with Bob, who is reading a book near one of the windows. He's created some sort of nook in the corner to relax. There's a large bean bag that he hoards along with blankets and a pile of books. Ever since he settled into the tower, he's been reading wellness books.

"Anything interesting?" You ask while crouching next to him. You don't encroach on his space. "I haven't read a wellness book in years." You admit.

He looks up from his book with a subtle smile. He doesn't close it, but he leaves his thumb in the middle of the crease. You don't understand how he can sit this close to the window and not be shivering. He actually looks rather warm.

"It's mostly on how to create positively," He explains with a shrug. You won't ask further because that sounds like someone only he'd be interested in. "Hey, where did everyone go?" He asks while glancing around. You're astounded by how oblivious and unaware he is.

"It's like 5 degrees in here. Everyone is in their rooms under the covers," You say with amusement. "Did you not notice?"

"No, not really. I mean, I'm pretty comfortable with the temperature. It's actually nice." He scratches his neck. You can't stop yourself from glaring at him and feeling a bit jealous. Of course, the guy with god-like powers doesn't get cold either. "I usually run hot, so not having to prevent myself from sweating is pleasant."

"I hate you." You grumble while moving to sit on the floor. Your legs are aching from crouching, and you don't want to end the conversation here. "I hope the heat turns back on and you sweat through all your clothes." You tease.

"You can just sit closer to me," He suggests while patting the bean bag. There's enough room for both of you, so you don't hesitate to climb on. The moment you do, you can feel his warmth. He's practically radiating it.

It's not enough to keep you from shivering, but it's better than nothing. You glance down at his book and read a short passage. He's too far into it for you to understand what is being told, but you continue to read anyway.

"I could read it to you," He places the book on his knee for you to get a better look. You honestly doubt you'd be able to absorb the words he'd be saying. "If not, you could pick a book from my pile and read with me." His offer is sweet. He wants to include you in his activity and space. The only other person he's offered that to is Yelena, and she usually doesn't take up on reading.

"I don't mind just looking out the window," You say. You glance out the window to see the snow falling over the city. From this high up, you can see the rooftops that are blanketed in snow. The people below are leaving trails on the sidewalk.

After a few minutes, you can sense yourself growing tired. Even as you force yourself to follow snowflakes as they fall, you can sense it. You can't stop your head from lulling a few times, nearly hitting Bob's shoulder.

After the fifth time, he shuts his book and places it down on the floor. "You can use me as a pillow. I'm not going to... You know." He gestures to his head, and it makes you smile. Out of everyone on the team, you fear Bob the least. "I've got it under control for the most part." He says in a quieter voice.

"Yeah, but you're busy reading. I don't want to disturb that." You say. You rub your face to stay awake. The feeling of your cold hand against your cheeks gives you a tiny boost of energy.

"Just use me as a pillow!" He says a bit louder. Bob is never one to shy away from physical touch. If it's gentle, he'll happily accept it. So, you let out a groan and do something you'll probably regret later. You swing your legs over his and position yourself against his chest.

There's a moment of silence where you debate standing up and rushing to your room. Before you can suck up your dignity his arms wrap around you. His body is like a furnace that prevents you from running.

You go to look up at him, but he quickly places his head on yours. You force your eyes to roll up as high as they can. You can barely see his face, but there's no mistaking the redness of his cheeks. You also notice his hand reaching for his book again. He opens it but fidgets with the page instead of reading it.

"All good?" You ask. He clears his throat and nods his head as best he can without hitting yours.

"A- all good," He confirms. He can't hide the rasp in his voice or how his words escape him. It's like seeing him in the vault all over again, meek and nervous. "Just, uhm, just trying to read." He lifts his book slightly to show proof.

With his confirmation, you shut your eyes. Except you don't sleep. You're listening to his heartbeat and how fast it is when his hand begins playing with a strand of your hair. It's light, and he avoids pulling on it.

"Bob?" You whisper. He lets out a hum in response as his eyes scan the page. "Do you want a better strand?" You ask in a joking tone. His fingers let go of your hair, and you're disappointed. You enjoyed the feeling of his hand twirling the small strand.

"N-no, sorry. I didn't realize..." He mumbles. "I'll leave it alone."

"You don't have to. I wasn't complaining." You assure him. You take his free hand and lift it back to your hair. You're about to let go when his grip tightens around yours. His rough palms slide against yours, and when you don't pull away, he lowers them.

"Then is, uhm, this ok?" He asks with hope in his voice. Although you're feeding off his warmth, you can now feel your body producing its own. Your face burns, and you're so glad he can't see it right now.

"Perfectly fine." You say while trying to hide any signs of being flustered.

You stay like that for a while, and eventually you do fall asleep. Unbeknownst to you, so does he. This gives Ava and Walker a great opportunity to snap a photo for later. Just to save in their 'We Knew It' album.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #void x reader #the void x reader #sentry x y/n #sentry x you #sentry x reader #the thunderbolts*#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #marvel x you #marvel x reader #marvel

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yanadolls · 3 days ago

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FORGET IT. ᯓ

||| FEATURING: NAGI SEISHIRO X READER (IMPLIED RELATIONSHIP)

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 302.

||| THEME: ANGST & FLUFF

||| SUMMARY: nagi returns to his normal life after being disqualified from bluelock, and while he tells himself it's all fine and that he should forget it..he can't suppress his feelings forever. after seeing some students playing soccer, he cracks.

"why didn't i try harder?"

"i should've just chased after them."

"i want to go back."

"i want to come back to that me.. but i can't."

for the first time in nagi's life, he was overwhelmed by his emotions. he wasn't used to feeling so sad. if you told his past self that he would be in the back of the classroom, crying about being kicked out of bluelock and not getting to play anymore, he would laugh at you.

but now..this was his reality.

he had never tried so hard at something, let alone felt so good about it. memories at bluelock were flooding through his mind, refusing to leave no matter how much he had tried to bury them. tears rolled down his cheeks as he sniffled, a despairing and unfamiliar look on his face. he refused to bring his head up. nagi didn't try to push away his feelings anymore, because he knew it wasn't okay and that he couldn't ever forget what he felt there. he enjoyed the hassle of soccer, he enjoyed scoring goals and putting in the effort. why didn't he try harder at the end..? was his talent really withered?

"seishiro..?"

a sudden voice pulled him out of his thoughts, his wounded heart dropping to his stomach. just what he needed right now- you walking in on him being emotional for the first time. nagi mentally berated himself for not holding back his tears till he got home.

"..y/n."

he spoke in a small voice, so unlike his normal one. nagi's head did not raise to meet your gaze. he remained still at the desk, not bothering to try to cover the fact he was crying. it was too exhausting. a knot formed in your tummy as you heard him sniffle a couple times, silently sobbing at the back of the empty classroom. it was rough seeing your boyfriend like this, and you knew what had caused it.

"seishiro, do you want a hug?"

you tried to ignore the way your own heart sunk at the sight as you slowly shut the classroom door, making your way over to where nagi was. you pushed a chair over beside his, before sitting down beside him. nagi didn't answer your question, rather, he slowly brought his head up to look at you, nodding a bit.

and when you saw your face, it was hard not to cry with him.

you have never seen nagi look so miserable, many liquids leaking from his face as he stared at you, bottom lip quivering. the former nonchalant boy was no where to be seen.

"oh, sei.."

a small whimper left his mouth as you tugged him into a gentle hug. he didn't wrap his arms around you at first, just letting you hold him. he did bury his face into your shoulder, however.

"i.. i should've tried harder."

his quiet voice cracked a bit as he took in air, trying not to completely break down. albeit, it was becoming impossible as his heart raced faster and faster, breathing quaking. neither of you expected him to vent his feelings out.

"i want to go back to bluelock, i want to go back to how i was in there.. b-but i can't. i don't want to feel this feeling.."

your one hand rubbed circles into his broad back, other hand moving to run through his hair. tears formed in your own eyes as you struggled to hold back a little choked sob.

"y-you don't know that, seishiro. maybe they'll-"

"no, y/n. it's over."

his voice cut you off quickly, not allowing you to put false hope into his mind. nagi knew ego wasn't that generous, especially after everything the man said about him. his time at bluelock had expired.

"please." he muttered, arms finally snaking around you, "just...don't leave me alone."

it broke your heart.

"sei, i-i would never!"

there was so much you wanted to tell him; you wanted to assure him that maybe, just maybe there would be some way back to bluelock, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear right now. he didn't want to hope for something that may not ever come, as it would crush him more. all nagi wanted right now..was you.

and so you stayed with him, letting him crumble in your embrace as he finally stopped fighting it. you shed a few tears of your own- how could you not? seeing nagi like this was utterly sickening. you didn't try to give him logical answers, instead, you just physically comforted him. it was quite a while before nagi's tears stopped coming out, leaving him with a headache and pure exhaustion.

"can we just go home?"

he muttered against your shoulder, breathing slowly stabilizing. you couldn't give less a fuck about the last period of school. your focus was your mentally tired boyfriend.

"of course, sei."

pushing the door to his small dormitory open, you were greeted with a dark room. nagi lazily trotted over, not even bothering to greet his cactus choki as he fell onto his bed, groaning into his pillow. you closed the door and crawled onto the bed with him, to which he immediately rolled onto his back and pulled you into his strong arms.

"m'sorry." he mumbled as he stared up at the ceiling, "shouldn't have acted like that in front of you. was totally lame."

you shook you head softly, stroking his hair soothingly before pressing a kiss to his forehead. a part of you was happy that he had.

"no, don't say sorry. i'm actually glad you were open with your feelings. it's..different than before. it's more healthy."

"what's healthy about ugly crying on you?"

there was a small pout on his face as his droopy eyes looked down at you. you couldn't help but let out a huff, a tiny smile coming to your lips.

"you're not even an ugly crier, baby. it's healthy that you're finally showing more emotions than, you know, boredom. you're changing a lot, becoming more emotional. it's good."

nagi was quiet for a moment, before groaning one more time. he turned on his side and buried his face in your hair.

"sounds like a pain. changing feels bad.. don't like feeling sad."

he paused for a second.

"but at least i still have you. can't take that away from me."

a bigger smile made its way onto your face. it was obvious that nagi was still very bummed about bluelock, and that wasn't going to change for a while. however, the fact that you were here was comforting his destroyed soul bit by bit. nagi wonders what he would be feeling if you weren't here.

"how about i order us some food and we watch a show for the rest of the night? i can sleep over."

by the way nagi's dull eyes finally lit up a bit, it seemed like he enjoyed that idea. his chapped lips pressed to your head.

"i'd like that. thank you."

you tilt your head up, giving him a small peck on the lips.

"of course, lovely."

there were a lot of things nagi would have to work through for the next couple weeks, but with you by his side, everything felt a bit less shittier. nagi had a small, rare smile on his face as he cuddled you for the night, letting his troubles and worries float away. your support made him feel like maybe..it wasn't the end of the world. maybe there were solutions.

maybe his soccer career wasn't over.

AN: lowkey was SOO sad writing this, the new chapter broke my heart :< i'm praying that they don't just discard nagi's character, as i feel like this depressing arc for him could make him much stronger of a player. crossing my fingers tho !!

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allthetropes · 3 days ago

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This utter breakdown in true literacy is becoming more and more obvious in even the comment section of AO3.

I'll be the first bitch on the block to admit, Dickens requires a degree of focus. I've a funny idea he was paid by the word. Mans goes on (and on, and on, and on). And some of the paragraphs are just WALL OF TEXT. I can see how you would struggle to concentrate on it.

But not understand? I was in uni studying to become an English Teacher in 2015. Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages (cause I live in the Netherlands, though I'm a native speaker of English). We did Great Expectations in Lit1. While I reckon most of my class skipped most of the flowery, descriptive language, everybody who actually read the book understood it just fine. At the same time, native English speakers, raised in English Speaking Countries, couldn't do the same?

How many times have I seen comments on AO3 asking "what happened to x" when it was stated, very clearly in the text, what happened to x? How many times have I seen "I don't understand how we got from A to B" even though the journey from A to B was clearly marked in the text. And if it were just my fics, I'd think i was the problem, but I'm seeing it on some of the driest, most clear-cut fics in the world.

"Where did XYZ character go?" He's on holiday. Do you remember? In paragraph two, characters MNO and PQR were discussing the holiday pictures he sent from Barbados? From that you were supposed to infer XYZ was on holiday in Barbados. Not to mention 2 chapters ago, when the other characters waved him off at the airport, though I'd forgive you if you said you just forgot that bit.

"Wait, at the start of the chapter they were in the city, and then at the end they're in a cabin in the woods! You're a bad writer for your inconsistency and continuity problems!" Well you see, between the start of the chapter and the end of the chapter, the characters travelled from the city to the woods. Did you. Did you miss that? It was like 4 paragraphs about the train being late, and how the scenery changed as they got into the countryside, and the anticipation of the cabin in the woods. From that you were supposed to infer that the characters were travelling from the city to the woods. So that when they arrived in the bloody woods, you wouldn't be surprised. Because we spent time travelling there.

If a sentence reads, "The drive was long, and by the time he stepped out, the driver had time-weary lines across his forehead as he dragged himself towards the front door and put himself down on the pillow," this means nothing to them.

What they expect is, "The man stopped driving. The man was tired. The tired man got out of the car. The tired man went into the house. The tired man lay down on the bed." If they don't get the information laid out like that, their brain either skips over the information, or they can't make sense of it otherwise.

Which is how you can tell at exaaaactly what level books they stopped reading, be it because their parents stopped reading to them/enforcing them, or because they got access to electronics, or for some other reason. I remember going from picture books to short bedtime stories to Enid Blyton - but a lot of kids aren't getting to the Enid Blyton stage anymore. I know when my older brother got a PlayStation 1, the concept of reading (or art, or crafts, or drawing, or writing) went out the window for the rest of eternity, and all the Enid Blyton books he had went dusty on the shelves. Now he can't even sign his name with a pen if he doesn't practice a few times first, and 99.9% of his reading is video games and substack (and he's a huge conspiracy theorist and aspie supremacist but that may only be loosely related).

I know. English teachers are super annoying about it. "you need to read books, you need to read books" I know, you're tired hearing about it. I am begging you - begging you on my knees - to make "reading books" just a normal part of your day. I have peers who can't read anything longer than a stop sign. Do you think people who can't read more than six consecutive words are making wise financial, political, social, and health decisions?

If not for the children's sake, then for the sake of the rapidly diminishing quality of AO3 fics that have to cater to decreasing literacy rates, (...she said, knowing full well that the sanctity of AO3 will get people hauled off their asses to do anything) please keep reading.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

#personal #teaching english #books #literacy

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elysiality · 1 day ago

Text

DÉJÀ VU —

shauna shipman.

"Do you remember this, Shipman?"

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 synopsis — Shauna wakes up to a cold bedroll, no girlfriend beside her and the ramifications of unwelcomed weather, the looming threat of starving through another winter— this time, with her in charge. what a great time to relive the worst moments of her life.

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 cw — Shauna Shipman being Shauna Shipman, yj S3 spoilers, fem reader, graphic descriptions of violence, you're Lottie's most loyal cuckoo acolyte yipee !, tagging this like it's an A03 story, angst w a happy ending, yellowjackets typical antics (requested !)

from the start, something about you drew Shauna to you. she wasn't sure why— as far as you were concerned, you seemed like a perfectly average girl on the outside. normal grades, good at soccer, a perfectly humdrum life, a face that blends into the crowd. if Jackie heard her voice any of that, she'd probably never hear the end of it.

“Uhm— no?” an annoying voice rings out from beside her. Shauna can practically hear the smirk in her voice.

she sighs in exasperation, slamming her diary shut and looking up to see fake Jackie grinning at her like a damn shark.

“I can't say anything, remember? Cuz— y'know-” Jackie tilts her head and suddenly, her face is blue and cold, there's snow in her hair, her eyes are glazed over— Shauna shakes her head hard. It's not real, she tells herself firmly.

when she looks up, Jackie is back to her normal, ghosty, bitchy self, grinning self-assuredly with a confidence Shauna once wished she had.

“Can't believe I'm still haunting you, Shipman.” Jackie snorts. she leans against the flimsy stick walls of the hut, looking down at Shauna with a sneer. “You'd think you would've gotten over me once you found your girl saviour.”

Shauna bites back a snarl— those seem to be escaping her every other day now. she sets her diary down next to her with shaking hands, looking up at Jackie from her seated position.

“One, don't call her that and two, there was nothing to get over. We were just friends, Jackie.” the words sound like a blatant lie to her own ears. she ignores Jackie’s knowing smirk.

“Suuuure.” fake Jackie drawls. “Whatever floats your boat, Shipman.”

“When will you fucking get over yourself?” Shauna snaps at her, standing up abruptly. Jackie stays surprisingly calm. she squints her eyes at Shauna with that scrutinizing gaze— that look she got when she was trying to figure out which dress looked better on her, or if she was trying to lie.

Shauna shifts uncomfortable on the balls of her feet. Jackie finally hums, cupping Shauna’s sharp jaw. “I'll get over myself when you stop thinking of my memory like I was a self-centred bitch.”

she steps back, gesturing to her snow-crusted outfit, the blueness of her face. “I'm dead, remember? Even if I was like this….you took any chance I had of getting redemption. So yeah—”, Jackie’s voice cracks on the last syllable, “thanks a lot, Shauna.”

Shauna deflates like a balloon pricked. she stares at the ground, drawing patterns in the dirt with the toe of her boot. “I'm sorry.” she says quietly after a beat of silence. “I didn't want you to die.”

she hears Jackie sigh deeply. “I know.”

Shauna finally looks up at Jackie. she looks like normal Jackie again. the same Jackie she slept next to, giggled with, picked out pretty little dresses with, the same Jackie she kissed during slumber parties because being drunk was the only excuse she had to do so. the only excuse they both had.

Jackie looks around the cramped hut nonchalantly, her face completely passive though her eyes reflect a certain something that Shauna can't put a name to. “Where is your girl saviour anyway?”

Shauna grits her teeth to stop herself from snapping at Jackie again and telling her to stop using that dumb nickname. instead, she goes, “Why do you even care?”

Jackie looks at her like she just told her that she wanted to take her pet rock for a walk. She scrunches up her face and runs a hand through her frosty hair. Shauna flinches at the crackle. “Well, cuz she brought me back, y'know? To you, I mean. Not- literally, that would be insane.”

now it's Shauna’s turn to pucker up her face like she bit into a lemon. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that she brought me back to you. Don't you remember the first time I came back after the whole….ear thing?”

well yes, Shauna remembers, of course she does. it happened the first night you moved into her hut. you had just started dating, she had just asked you to be her girl.

she asked if you were fine with moving in with her and you gave your approval. she moved you in without further ado (god, she was just the living stereotype of a u-haul lesbian, huh?). it's not like you had many possessions to move anyway.

she couldn't sleep that first night unlike you, who passed out immediately. she just sat and stared down at you next to her. your slow breaths filled the room, you twitched every now and then, letting out the cutest little snores.

she wasn't sure what it was, but there was an unease in her gut. butterflies, perhaps. you were her first girlfriend, after all— her first actual relationship, as a matter of fact. and she liked you. really liked you. even if you were a bit too devoted to the Wilderness and it's trashy opinion.

but she knew it wasn't that, not really. it was fear. everything she had worth living for was taken from her, time and time again.

her life. her early acceptance to Brown. that nationals win, though it was more for Jackie than for herself. Jackie. her baby. hell, she had finally gotten attached to that ramshackled cabin and then it had to go and burn down. even Coach Scott had run off, though she was never all that affectionate towards him.

it only made sense that her shitty luck would continue with you too, right?

just as she was coming to this highly depressing realisation, she heard a familiar, raspy laugh. she froze, her eyes locking in on the gold necklace glinting around your neck. she had given it to you for safekeeping, a spur of the moment thing with no further thoughts.

she didn't have to look up to know who it was, she didn't want to look up. but against her better judgement, she did anyway. because her heart ached to see her again, even if her brain told her that it was the stink fumes from the village making her hallucinate.

Jackie stood just beside your head, her arms crossed tightly like that habit of hers, looking as freezing cold as the day she died, a warm grin on her face.

“Hiya, Shipman.”

and then it had all basically been downhill from there. y'know, as it is when you start seeing the ‘ghost’ of your dead, soccer captain bestfriend who you posthumously cannibalised with the rest of your teammates.

Jackie followed her around everywhere. like a….well, a ghost. and she seemed interested in you. Shauna didn't like that.

Jackie always had to have whatever Shauna wanted. always. she couldn't even give herself to Shauna when she wanted her the most. what a selfish bitch.

she noticed. how Jackie looked at you when you would tell Shauna about your day, the visions you saw. how she grimaced, just like Shauna did, whenever you would excitedly bring up Lottie with that sparkle in your eye.

sometimes, when you said something particularly kooky, Shauna would pull a face when you turned away and look over to see Jackie, with her own expression reflected back at her.

Shauna hated it. but she couldn't say it was far from reality. she was always so like Jackie.

they spent so much time together that sometimes, Shauna would find herself standing in the mirror, desperately trying to change something about herself— a new hair colour, a different set of earrings, a new style, just to distinguish herself from Jackie.

as a way to assure herself that she wasn't just another head attached to Jackie, a less popular, less loved version of her that followed her around like a shadow.

so Shauna keeps her mouth shut. she looks up at Jackie, who's looking down at her expectantly, with that all-knowing look she used to get when she knew exactly what Shauna was thinking. in this case, she does.

Shauna slumps, her shoulders drooping sullenly. “She's with Lottie.”, she mumbles out finally, fidgeting with the strap of her gun.

she hears Jackie scoff at the revelation. just like how she held herself back from reacting when you told her. but it makes sense. after all, this Jackie is just a manifestation of Shauna's inner thoughts.

“And you let her? You let your girlfriend go off with that psycho who thinks god sent her down to share her looney prophecies?” Shauna prickles at the disbelief in her tone but can't deny that it's a valid response. Jackie's just verbalising what she thought after you walked off with Lottie into the woods.

“I wasn't thinking-” Shauna starts off but Jackie cuts through her words. “Oh please! Get it together, Shipman. That's your girl. Grow a pair already.”

Shauna starts, standing up, ready to tear her a new one without fear of sounding like she's completely lost her marbles, yelling at a non-existent ghost when your voice rings in her ears.

she immediately grows alert, her head snapping in your direction like a guard dog. her senses detect your voice coming from beyond the doorway of her hut and sure enough, you're charging towards her at full speed, a massive grin etched on your face.

she does a quick check around the hut— Jackie has disappeared. so she returns your grin as you barrel towards her at full speed, knocking the wind out of her as you fall to the ground.

she matches your verve, caging you in her arms as you giggle on top of her, sounding just a bit too intoxicated for her liking. it's nice to have someone who doesn't show her animosity every second of the day.

she will have to talk to Lottie about this getting high on mushrooms business however. she's not sure if she wants you drugged up and gushing like a middle school girl with a crush all the time. there's only so much a girl can take, really.

“Have a good day?”, she asks, her voice soft— a tone you recognise from before the crash. you nod, rolling over onto your threadbare bed and relieving her chest of your weight.

this is your cue to launch into long winded tangents about your visions and detailed explanations on what you saw with Lottie and what Lottie thought as well as Shauna’s cue to check out of these conversations.

she's found that she likes the cadence of your voice during these rambles a lot more than she actually likes the subject topic.

she likes to stare at your face when you're talking, to see that excited, almost manic gleam in your eyes, how your eyebrows furrow together when you struggle to remember the day's events (given that you were high as a kite for most of them), the scrunch of your nose, the movement of your lips.

she thinks that you know that she's not really listening, that you're just relieved to have someone to unload the information you're brimming with on, like an erudite.

you finally finish your rant with a full description on how you made your way back to Shauna after your long day. you shoot her a goofy grin, and her lips twitch upwards into a smile against her will.

she feels strangely bashful, like she used to feel when Jackie did— basically anything. she hasn't felt anything so juvenile in ages. you're not a filler to replace the Jackie-shaped hole in her heart, but you're healing it anyway.

you snuggle under the bedrolls, pulling up your patchy blanket and making grabby hands at Shauna. she rolls her eyes playfully, but scoots over to your little palette of the hut and curls up against you, soaking in your body heat in the frosty air whipping her hair around loosely.

“I love you, Shauna.” you mumble to her, rubbing your eye with your free hand. you're already drifting, drained from the arduous task of shirking your duties and seeing divine visions with the local shrink instead.

Shauna stiffens under your chilly hands— you run cold at night, and then quickly shakes it off.

she mumbles some gibberish under her breath— it could've been anything from “love you too” or “tie your shoes” and she winces, painfully self aware of how embarrassing that was.

you accept the mumbled nonsense with a wry smile, cuddling closer to her. Shauna feels the murky pit of guilt that lies dormant in her stomach expand but she can't help herself.

she rests her chin on your head cautiously, as though afraid you're gonna explode at her for not returning the sentiment.

admitting that she loves you means admitting that she still has something left to lose.

but it doesn't matter. she has time, a lot of time. she'll keep you safe till she's ready to say it back. it's not like anyone in the village would dare to spit on your name with her as your guard dog/girlfriend.

“g’night, angel.” she whispers into your hair. but you're already snoring quietly, completely tuckered out. slowly but surely, Shauna drifts off into a deep slumber too.

only, the others aren't the problem, it seems, because she jolts awake to Jackie’s voice calling her. her breathing is heavy, she can't even remember what she was dreaming about. she wipes the beads of sweat from her forehead, sighing heavily. the nightmares get more frequent the closer winter comes.

she frowns as her breath mists up in front of her. Jackie whistles to get her attention. her eyes snap back up to her, miffed. only, Jackie nods to the spot next to you, a small, sorrowful smile playing on her blue lips. wait— blue?

dread clouding in her stomach for a reason she can't comprehend, Shauna slowly turns her head to the side— and immediately feels like she's been punched in the gut. the wind is knocked clean out of her. like the weather— the bedroll next to hers is cold.

she kicks off her sheets blindly, struggling to pull on a loose flannel that offers no protection against the cold. getting up on her shaking feet is an arduous task that nearly causes her to collapse.

when her vision clears, she's staring straight into the village— the white, cold expanse of land stretching for miles, coating trees and covering hills she can barely see.

she doesn't realise that she's frozen in her place until a cold, ghostly finger prods her in the side of her stomach.

Jackie stands next to her, in her full posthumous glory, arms crossed and looking far too pissed for someone supposedly reaching out from beyond the grave. “Well? Are you not even gonna try to find her?"

her words kickstart something in Shauna, like a shot of adrenaline administered straight to her pumping heart.

she stumbles out of the hut on two feet that feel like they've been attached to the completely wrong body. two left feet— or differently sized limbs.

“Angel?” she calls out. her voice is small, frail, crackly. Jackie's followed her out on quiet feet, now just looking at her with rue.

“Try being louder.” Jackie reprimands quietly.

Shauna does. she screams your name, loud as her raspy voice box will allow her to go. the single-voiced scream of her throat echoes, cacophonous, waking up nearly everyone in the village.

one by one, they start emerging from different huts. Tai, Van, Robin, Mari— but not hide or hair of you is in sight.

she's shrieking now. calling your name over and over, hoping by whichever deity’s listening’s grace that perhaps you've passed out in someone's hut— or maybe that you're scouting at the edge of the village for any thatches of edible plants that may have survived the snowstorm.

gods above, she'd be pissed if you were lying piss-drunk in Mari’s hut, alcohol-poisoned by berry wine, convalescent— but so relieved.

she's vaguely aware of everyone gathering around her. their questions echo in her ears— she's listening, but she's not.

she cranes her head to her right, looking at Jackie for answers instinctively, as she always has. but Jackie just shrugs at her, mournful, her eyes reflective like a cat’s.

“Do you remember this, Shipman?”

that hits like a kick to the teeth. she nearly staggers backwards. yeah she remembers. of course she does. waking up to snow and a cold bedroll. peering out the window, feeling her stomach shrivel into a little ball, wrenching open the door of the cabin and nearly ripping it off its hinges, digging in the snow for a girl too far gone to save.

“No….” she mumbles, tears blurring her vision. hands are grasping at her, feeble attempts to comfort her, but she shoves them off.

“No!” she lunges forward, scrabbling at the nearest snow-covered lump in the ground, praying to everyone, anyone who will listen, that she won't find your freezing body in the cold, won't lose another love to the wilderness, won't have to be left alone with the weight of unspoken words on her shoulders, words that aren't fit to be said over someone's cold body.

a warm, firm pair of hands grip her shoulders, grounding her against the flood of frigid hostility and judgement around her. she looks up through teary eyes at Tai, who's face is pale but stern. “Shauna. We can't help if we don't know what's happened.”

the support in her voice is a welcome change among the glacial treatment Shauna’s been receiving since she lost her baby. the promise of a friend among people who she knows hate her, chips at the last bits of her armour and Shauna shatters.

she clambers into Tai’s steady arms, sobbing into her shoulder. “She's gone, Tai. She's gone! She- she left in the middle of the night, or- or maybe at dawn— I don't- she's gone!”

she feels Tai stiffen in her arms. the air shifts in tone, the surprised whispers shifting to concerned murmurs. the subtext is practically unspoken. everyone remembers that day crystal clear, far better than they remember anything else that's happened out here.

Tai rubs her back before pushing her a little ways away. she turns back to the group, looking haggard but determined. the group may not care much for Shauna, but you're well-respected among them.

“Get the lanterns. Take the horn and stay together in packs of two or three. Don't get lost. Cover her usual pastime spots. Use our signal if you find her.” her words ring out clear and commanding amongst the chaos, bringing the stability everyone needs.

if she wasn't wrecked mentally, Shauna would find the reaction to Tai’s commands threatening— and just the slightest bit lonely.

the group didn't respond well to her. they never did. she wasn't half the natural leader Jackie was, let alone quarter the person.

she doesn't fit in. she never has. even before the crash, she stuck out like a sore thumb among the team, masked by Jackie's brilliance.

they hated her, despised her for the path she chose to take after her grief. she couldn't exactly say she blamed them. if she was anyone else, she'd loathe her too. she already did.

Tai takes her by the forearm and propels her after her. She's in a group of three, Shauna— her, Tai and Jackie, who's tailing behind them quietly, one hand clutched to the chain around her neck, her eyes seeing far, far away, visible to only Shauna.

the frost cuts her nose with each stinging breath. she's aware of the crunch of trampled branches underneath her heavy boots— Tai had forced warmer clothes on her, despite her insistence that she needed to go look for you now.

Tai's basically acting as her limbs for her, since she feels detached from her own body. like she's watching the entire thing play out from Jackie’s point of view.

they make their way through the woods together, Tai’s hand clasped firmly in hers, a warm press that squeezes and brings her back down to earth when she's too far gone to work her body.

she finds that it's easier to keep her head out of the clouds when she's counting her steps. one, two, three…

she's struggling for air, her breath coming in sharp, jagged gasps through her mouth as her body continuously rejects the life-saving oxygen— already halfway there with you, with her baby, with Jackie.

she turns to Jackie occasionally, silently pleading with the girl to tell her something, anything. Jackie only replies in one sentence, over and over, in that infuriatingly pitiful tone— “You can't save her."

just when she thinks she might actually stop breathing, Shauna runs right into what seems to her to be a hard, cold wall. she's knocked back on her back, struggling to breathe.

she massages the back of her head slowly, looking up to find Tai sliding in and out of vision. she seems to have cut herself on something— a stray branch laying in her path, perhaps, because when she pulls her hand away from her head, it's soaked in blood.

only, as her gaze slides around the area, her sight lands on another stirring figure. a figure she didn't see when everyone had convened to start the search for you. the figure who she knew had been a bad influence on you all along.

it all clicks into place.

“You…!”

Shauna gasps out, jumping to her feet. she lunges at the feeble figure, knocking Lottie Matthews right back on her back.

she lands a solid couple of punches, right on Lottie's austere face before Tai drags her off, yelling imprecations that would make a sailor blush.

“I- should've- known!” Shauna snarls, writhing against Tai’s headlock, hissing and spitting like a scorned cat.

her shrivelled stomach curls in on itself in fury, the little monster that sits inside her at all times bashing itself against her ribs, begging to be set loose on Lottie. to peel the skin off each limb till she's separated from her body, till she can't spout her foul visions anymore.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO HER?” Shauna wails, her fists flailing, hitting Tai’s gloved hands over and over again.

Lottie stands up again slowly, not even wincing at being knocked flat on her ass twice. she pushes her blood-streaked hair away from her face, those deep eyes of hers locking onto Shauna. “I didn't do anything. She was chosen…”

“FUCK THAT!” Shauna howls, cutting through her words. she wants to strangle her, rip her apart, limb from limb…

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY GIRLFRIEND, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO?!” her voice cracks as she screams, her throat sore and raw from yelling but she keeps going.

Lottie holds her hands up placatingly, trying to mollify Shauna, contributing to Tai’s strenuous efforts. “Shauna, please. You have to understand….”

it's Tai who cuts her off this time. her sharp eyes, unamused and commanding, bore into Lottie. “Lot. Where is she?”

Lottie sighs, as if she's doing them some great favour by telling them how to prevent your imminent death.

“She's at the caves—” she starts, but Shauna is already wrenching herself out of Tai’s grips with no further qualms, barrelling towards the caves on pure, animalistic instinct.

Jackie suddenly breaks into a run besides her, flanking her closely. like at regionals, a little voice whispers inside her head. the company makes something flare inside her and she finds herself at the cracks leading into those damn caves in no time.

she doesn't need to go far to find you. you're right there— lying in a heap on the ground, trembling in your springtime attire.

“Angel?” Shauna's voice breaks as she lurches forwards, turning you over. your eyes are closed and your nose is red from the cold. your face is just the slightest tinge of blue, almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye— but she spent months in that shed with dead, frozen Jackie.

your lips are parted, curved upwards just slightly, like you're smiling.

one of your hands is splayed under you, twitching and coated in dried blood from a deep gash that stretches across your palm. the other is clenched around Jackie’s necklace, sitting on your collarbones.

when she prises your frigid hand open, she sees the imprint of the heart on your cold palm and nearly splits open at the seams.

she looks up, blindsided and sees something drawn on the stone altar in front of her. it makes her blood boil. the symbol is drawn near perfectly on the granite, red— clearly your blood.

just as she's about to lose her mind and break down completely, begging you to wake up like she did at 17, Jackie takes a small step forward towards you.

but she's not as corporeal as she usually is. she's almost flickering, wisps of smoke emerging from the edges of her silhouette that could've been passed off as a trick of the lights.

she's coated in snow, blue and pale. she drops to her knees next to you and silently curls up next to you, mirroring your position perfectly.

Shauna watches, a complete basket case, too stunned to speak as Jackie's free hand clutches yours. she can practically see the tremor of the universe as living flesh comes in contact with ghostly flesh.

“Don't.” her voice is meek and small to herself as she begs, pleads with Jackie not to take you with her. because she won't survive without you. she knows she won't.

Jackie looks up, seemingly surprised at her presence. she looks irked suddenly, rolling her eyes as she sits up, glaring at Shauna. “Jeez, Shipman. I'm not the fricking Grim Reaper or something.”

her piercing eyes flicker to you and then soften. she reaches out and brushes a strand of hair away from your closed eyes. “But she doesn't have much left in her. You have to get her out like- now.”

Shauna makes a move to get you, but finds that her body won't move. she starts to cough, suddenly remembering why no one else except for Lottie and her gaggle of acolytes ever came her. Jackie eyes her up in pitiful disgust. “You should get out too.”

‘No shit!’ Shauna wants to snap at her, but she can't even find it in herself to move her eyelids. they flutter shut against her will as Jackie takes your head in her lap. the last thing she hears is Tai calling her name and then the sound of frantic footsteps.

when she comes to, she's in Misty’s hut. her head is reeling from the effects of the fumes— but she didn't have any visions this time— thankfully and concerningly. because if she didn't have any visions, neither did you. you risked your life for nothing.

she looks up, rubbing her red eyes, and sees Jackie. she winks at her, that sly smirk on her lips, before her features morph into a concerned Misty’s.

Shauna jerks upright, nearly avoiding knocking Misty’s jaw clean off. she throws the heap of blankets off herself. “Where- where is she?” she chokes out to the group of girls around her— the designated healers; Misty, Gen, Mari and Melissa.

“Shauna, you need to rest-” Misty starts but Shauna holds up her hand, feeling a rush of unbridled fury and horrified grief shake her body.

Gen points silently across the village, to Shauna’s hut. Shauna ducks under the entrance of the hut on trembling legs, practically sprinting across the village, trudging through the snow.

she nearly sobs in relief when she sees you, huddled up in multiple layers of blankets, sitting isolated in the small silence your hut grants.

she does sob, in fact. she crashes into your arms, completely ignoring that you nearly suffered hypothermia just— well, she's not sure exactly how long ago. but she doesn't care.

her arms loop around you and squeeze, wandering your body as if re-familiarizing herself with you, even if she saw you not too long ago. she takes in every curve, every dip, committing it to memory.

she doesn't want to let you go again, scared that you'll meet the same fate as Jackie, who left her on a cold, dark night like this one.

“I'm sorry.” she weeps into your neck, over and over again. she's not sure what she's apologising for. something, she's sure. she's guilty of so much, she could fill a journal with her wrongdoings.

she pulls away and looks into your eyes, her voice strangled— “I love you. I love you, I love you so much.”

ah. she's finally saying it. her hands are cupping your face, the calloused pads of her thumbs rubbing over your cheeks over and over again. out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jackie giving her a wide grin and two thumbs ups.

you just smile calmly, your eyes sparkling and radiant. your face is serene as you gently grasp her wrists and set them down on her lap, looking at her with utter admiration and devotion, like she hung the stars in the sky. it makes her squirm in her spot.

you kiss her, softly, but it's heady and intoxicating, becoming fervid in intensity quickly. perhaps it's the adrenaline rush boosting her need for you, the overwhelming emotions. it's different from all the other ones you've shared countless times, in this same spot.

she's panting when you pull away. she scans your face, trying to figure out what changed in you after your stint at the au natural asylum.

“It's okay.” you tell her, your voice a soothing mutter that makes all the tension leave her shoulders. you cup her face in your hands, squishing lightly. “You have a much, much bigger part in our community than you could ever know.”

your voice is so convincing, that Shauna has to admit— she almost believes you.

————————————————————

a/n: this is lazy and rushed and I'm so sorry to the anon who requested this but it's like 2 am and I was struck by sudden inspiration to finish this in four hours so here, have this low effort thing !

requests are open for all the Yellowjackets girlies, dead or alive !

taglist : @silkchiffoner

#— airi's works : 𓏲🐚 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #shauna shipman #shauna shipman x reader #yellowjackets spoilers #yj #yj show #wlw #yj s3 #yj season 3 #fanfic #shauna shipman x you #yellowjackets x you

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