#do those count as answers to those questions

[livebeforeyoulearn]

All of Me Is for All of You

Warnings: angst?? smut, 18+

Word count: 3.7k

Request (tweaked it slightly hope you don’t mind!)

-

Alexia and you are the perfect pair. Sure, there are arguments now and then, what couple doesn’t have those? But deep down, it feels like fate brought you together, like you were always meant to be. You met through mutual friends and clicked instantly, the kind of connection people dream about. Now, years later, your lives are so intertwined that it feels like you’ve become part of each other’s world in every possible way. You wouldn’t call it codependency, but sometimes it feels that way. When she’s away for games, the days stretch unbearably long. But when she’s home, when she’s in your arms, just there, everything feels right with the world. A glance, a touch, a shared silence is enough. You are hers as much as she is yours, and that kind of belonging is rare.

But there’s one shadow on your happiness; her ex, Jenni. It’s not the fact that they dated, that’s ancient history, water under the bridge. What gnaws at you is what Jenni did to Alexia. When Alexia finally told you the whole story of why they broke up, you couldn’t hold back your anger. You don’t just dislike Jenni – you want absolutely nothing to do with her, to keep her at arm’s length for eternity. Alexia, always the diplomat, tries to downplay it, brushing it off with a casual shrug. But you know better. You can see the flicker of pain in her eyes when she talks about it.

Even now, Alexia and Jenni are close. Too close, maybe. You remind yourself it’s not about jealousy. You trust Alexia, and you know they’ve been through so much together, things most people wouldn’t understand. Still, when you watched them during the World Cup, practically joined at the hip, something in your chest tightened. But Alexia explained it all to you. The federation’s mess fucked with them all, and they needed to come together, to be there for each other to survive it. You wanted to believe her, and for the most part, you did. After all, Alexia is your person, and you’re hers.

–

Your pinky links with Alexia’s as you walk through the restaurant doors. The noise of clinking glasses and overlapping conversations fills the air as she guides you through the crowded tables, weaving effortlessly until she spots her friends gathered at a large table near the back. Smiles and greetings are exchanged, hugs shared, and soon you’re settling into seats near the end of the table, side by side.

The evening starts off perfectly. The food is delicious, and the conversation flows effortlessly. You’ve always enjoyed being with Alexia’s friends, they feel like family, a circle you’re grateful to be part of. Laughter bounces around the table, stories are shared, and everything feels light and easy.

Then Patri, seated directly across from Alexia, changes the tone with a single question. “Alexia, did you hear from Jenni? Is she coming?”

“Yeah, she said she could make it,” Alexia replies with a small smile, taking a sip from her glass.

The words catch you off guard. Your mouth parts slightly as your eyes dart between the two women. “Coming to what?” you ask.

Alexia doesn’t look at you. Her expression remains carefully neutral, her eyes fixed on the table as she avoids your gaze. You glance at Patri, silently hoping for clarification. Unaware of the feelings building inside you, she answers, “The vacation! Jenni’s joining us for the trip.”

The revelation hits hard. You sit up straighter, pulling away from the relaxed posture you’d had moments ago. Alexia already knows she’s in trouble – you can see it in the expression on her face. And then it clicks; she’s known this for a while.

It isn’t Jenni’s presence that angers you most – you could have tolerated her, ignored her, and still managed to enjoy yourself. What hurts is that Alexia knew and chose not to tell you. She didn’t give you a chance to talk about it, to process it together. You could have reasoned with her, but she robbed you of that chance.

Alexia leans back in her chair, her fingers nervously toying with the rim of her glass as she waits for your reaction. When it doesn’t come right away, she slumps further, clearly anxious. She thought she could let this slide, brush it off as “not a big deal” and deal with it later. She was wrong.

Patri senses the mood changing. Though she doesn’t directly address the tension, she changes the subject and starts talking more in-depth with Alexia about Jenni’s travel plans. At first, you try to tune out the conversation, not wanting to let your irritation show in front of everyone. But Patri presses on, unknowingly unravelling the truth.

“When did Jenni confirm? I thought she wasn’t sure about her schedule,” Patri asks, leaning forwards.

Alexia hesitates, her response slower than usual. “She told me a while ago. She just wasn’t certain at first.”

A while ago. She’s known for weeks, maybe even months. Your mind starts to spiral. If she didn’t tell you about this, what else has she been keeping from you? Was she afraid of your reaction? Or worse, does she not trust you enough to have an honest conversation?

By the end of dinner, you’re barely holding it together. You mumble quick goodbyes, eager to escape the suffocating weight of your thoughts. Alexia follows you out of the restaurant, her steps hesitant, her silence heavy.

The walk to the car feels longer than it is. When you climb inside, you buckle your seatbelt, cross your arms, and stare out the window, avoiding her entirely. Alexia slides into the driver’s seat, closing the door softly. She buckles herself in but doesn’t start the car right away.

“Please, don’t be like that,” she says finally, her voice almost pleading as she rubs her temples.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, shaking your head as she starts the car and backs out of the parking space.

“I wasn’t hiding it. I was going to tell you,” she says firmly, though her tone is careful, her eyes flicking towards you nervously.

“Oh, sure. When? When we’re boarding the plane? Or maybe when she’s already sitting next to you on the beach?”

“You’re being so dramatic. It’s not a big deal. We’re just friends,” she says, her voice rising slightly.

“Dramatic?” you snap, turning to face her. “You deliberately didn’t tell me something you knew would upset me!”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” she counters, her frustration evident as she glances at you.

“Because it is a big deal! But, of course, my feelings don’t matter, right? As long as you and Jenni are happy,” you reply bitterly. You clench your jaw, your gaze returning to the window.

“That’s not fair,” she says sharply, her tone demanding as though her words alone should convince you to drop it.

“What’s not fair is you keeping things from me!” you fire back. “You knew how I’d feel, and you still didn’t say a thing. Not one word!”

“Because I knew you’d overreact like this!” she snaps, her grip tightening on the steering wheel.

You scoff, choosing to ignore whatever else she has to say. The fact that she chose to hide this from you is a betrayal you can’t quite shake. You’re partners, communication should be the cornerstone of your relationship, the one thing you could always count on. You thought she trusted you enough to talk about things like this, to be open and honest no matter the circumstances. The anger that first surged through you has ebbed now, leaving behind a more painful ache. It’s not just the omission that hurts; it’s the way it feels like she didn’t think you could handle the truth. 

When you arrive home, you unbuckle yourself quickly and, in a petty flourish, slam the car door shut. You know how much it annoys Alexia, that’s precisely why you do it. After the night you’ve had, she deserves to feel a sliver of the irritation that’s inside you.

“Don’t slam my door,” she calls after you, her voice clipped. You ignore her, heading straight for the elevator. The doors nearly close on her, but she slides her hand between them just in time, glaring as she steps in beside you. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath.

“What’s ridiculous is me finding out about your secret vacation plans. At dinner. With your friends!” Incredulity laces your voice.

“It wasn’t a secret. I told you–”

“Nothing! You told me nothing, Alexia,” you cut her off. 

“Because I didn’t want to deal with this exact situation!” she counters, her tone rising, her words bouncing off the elevator walls.

The elevator pings open, and you step out, “Well, congrats. Now you’re dealing with it. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Alexia, helplessly trailing behind you, starts rambling, her voice rising with excuses you have no patience for. You ignore her completely, the words flowing out of her like nonsense that you can’t be bothered to absorb. As you dig through your pockets for the keys, you can feel your frustration heightening with each passing second. It's a perfect, almost satisfying moment when you finally find them and stand in front of your door.

Once it swings open, you make a beeline for the kitchen, the need for a glass of wine urgent. Alexia follows you, naturally. As much as you love her and her presence, right now, all you want is some space. But you know her too well. She won’t give you that, not until this is somehow resolved.

You grab the wine bottle and twist it open, holding the glass in your other hand, your fingers lightly cupping its base. As you tilt the bottle, the deep red liquid pours smoothly into the glass, filling it just enough to satisfy your need. The bottle returns to its place, and you bring the glass to your lips, taking a deep breath before you sip.

Behind you, Alexia exhales audibly. You turn, shooting her a glare, your patience already thin. She inches closer, the gears turning in her head as she processes your silence. Her eyes narrow before that damn smirk slowly spreads across her face.

Does she think this is funny?

You lower your glass slightly as she steps closer, but when her hand reaches for it, you pull it out of her grasp and take another sip, just to spite her. Her smirk widens at your defiance, her dark eyes sparkling with something teasing. 

“Are you… jealous?” she asks, her voice lilting with amusement.

“Jealous?” you repeat, incredulous. The idea offends you. How could she think this was jealousy? All you wanted was respect and trust from your girlfriend. “What the fuck? No. Why would I be jealous of Jenni?” 

Her voice raises again, her smirk disappearing, “If you’re not jealous, then why are you so mad about her coming? You blow everything out of proportion. Every single time.”

“Because when you’re around her, it’s like I don’t exist. All you care about is Jenni, Jenni, Jenni, and did you forget what she did to you?” The words come out before you can stop them.

Her hands find your hips, the heat of her touch seeping through your clothes and silencing your words. Your mind stumbles, the argument dimming as your cheeks burn under her gaze.

“You are jealous,” she murmurs, her voice steady as her thumbs brush over your sides, ignoring the question.

“No, I’m not,” you protest, but your voice falters, betraying your doubt. A nervous gulp follows, and she hums, the vibration visible in her throat as she leans closer.

Alexia knows you, maybe even better than you know yourself. What if she’s right? What if this ache in your chest isn’t just hurt or betrayal but jealousy you’ve been too stubborn to acknowledge?

“I’m yours. You’re mine. That’s all I want in life,” she says softly, her voice breaking through your spiralling thoughts. One hand reaches for the glass, and this time, you let her take it, watching as she places it on the counter behind you. Her gaze locks with yours again. “There’s no need to be jealous. She’s nothing compared to you.”

Your heart beats in your chest like a moth under a dome of glass. The way she looks at you is intoxicating and you can’t find the will to look away.

“So show me,” you whisper, your voice is barely audible. Her face hovers close enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath against your cheek.

She isn’t gentle when she leans in to kiss you; her lips latch onto yours with fervent intensity. She’s hot and she’s messy. Her urgency shows with the way her hands roam over your body with a sense of desperation, as if she’s discovering you for the first time and cherishing you like it’s the last.

Her fingers grope at your chest before sliding over your shoulders and down your back, settling on your ass, where she gives a firm squeeze. Then, without hesitation, she lifts you. You instinctively jump, wrapping your legs tightly around her waist and your arms around her shoulders, one hand cupping the back of her head to keep her impossibly close.

She carries you blindly towards the bedroom, her movements hurried as if every second counts. Your mouths remain fused, the connection deepening as her tongue slips past your lips, licking into your mouth with an eagerness that takes your breath away. You gasp softly in surprise, parting your lips further to make it easier for her.

When you reach the bedroom, she throws you onto the bed roughly, her chest heaving as she steps back to take you in. Her eyes, dark with lust, rake over you while her tongue slides along her bottom lip. She looks at you as if she’s cataloging every possibility, silently deciding how to make you feel everything – loved, wanted, needed, hers.

“Get undressed,” she commands, her tone brooking no argument.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you quickly comply, unsure of what might happen if you didn’t. As the last piece of clothing falls away, you recline on the bed, your eyes never leaving her as she moves to the drawer where you keep your things.

She strips off her remaining clothes, the sight leaving you breathless.  When she steps into the harness, pulling it up over her toned legs and adjusting it around her waist, your mouth goes dry. Each second of her not touching you feels torturous, your craving for her becoming unbearable.

She starts making her way back to you, your eyes drawn to her toned torso and the perfect curve of her breasts.

Instinctively, you press your thighs together, the ache between them becoming too much to ignore. As she crawls onto the bed, you lift your knees slightly, seeking some kind of relief. But she’s quick to act, placing her palms firmly on your knees and forcing them apart. The sudden motion has you gasping, though the sound is swallowed as her lips crash against yours.

The kiss is intense and demanding. It’s all teeth and tongues colliding, lips biting, and breaths mingling in a heated clash for dominance. Your head sinks deeper into the pillow as her hands trail up your thighs, her fingertips gathering the evidence of your desire and spreading it deliberately along the tops of your thighs. Her lips curl into a smirk against yours, her confidence radiating as she revels in how easily she can unravel you.

She pulls back slightly, her teeth catching your bottom lip and releasing it with a snap. Before you can catch your breath, she finds a heartbeat to put her lips to in the crook of your neck. Your head tilts back, granting her access, and a needy whimper escapes your throat. 

A finger slides through your core, teasing your entrance before gliding upwards to begin harsh, tight circles on your clit. You moan, her name escaping your lips like a whispered mantra, repeated again and again in the air.

Your hips start to buck in response, but the sensation isn’t enough, you need more, all of her. “Ale, please,” you gasp. She grunts against your neck, nipping at the bruised, sensitive skin before lifting herself slightly, leaving a sting in her wake. She runs the toy through your slickness, coating it before pressing the tip teasingly against you.

“What do you want?” she asks, a smirk tugging at her lips as her eyes meet yours. The control she wields over you is absolute.

“You,” you breathe.

She bites her lip, tilting her head slightly.

“I need you inside me,” you plead, knowing it’s exactly what she wants to hear. “Please, Alexia.”

Her smirk widens, dripping with pride, before she pushes the tip inside. The stretch is intense, your body adjusting quickly as she didn’t take the time to prep you with her fingers. Her thrusts begin slow but quickly build in rhythm, and before long, the entire length fills you with every movement, driving deeper each time.

Alexia’s hands move to your breasts, squeezing them firmly as her gaze stays locked on your face, watching you arch into her touch. Your head falls back, your eyes shut tight, your body radiating pure bliss.

She grunts with each thrust, her hips snapping against yours in a perfectly timed rhythm. You match her movements, rolling your hips to meet her, the sensation intensifying with each stroke. That familiar tightening in your stomach grows stronger, signalling your impending release.

Just as you’re about to tip over the edge, she stops. You let out a breathless whine, eyes flying open to meet her steady gaze. Slowly, she pulls out and settles beside you. 

“Get on top,” she orders.

“What?” you stammer, momentarily confused, until she takes your arm and helps you up. Your legs tremble as you straddle her hips. Her hands steady you as you position yourself, the toy poised at your entrance, before you lower yourself down.

“Ride me like I’m yours.” 

The words alone almost draw a moan from you. Her hands glide over your thighs, squeezing lightly, before moving up and around to your ass. She grabs hold, helping lift and guide you as you begin to bounce along her length. Your own hands find purchase on her thighs behind you, bracing yourself as your hips set a heady rhythm.

Her expression is intoxicating, a sight you want permanently etched into your memory. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her head tilting slightly as if she’s losing herself in the connection between your bodies. A moan builds in her throat, but she traps it behind her teeth, biting her lip as she tightens her hold on you and urges your movements faster.

“Fuck, Ale, oh my god,” you gasp, leaning forwards and pressing your palms against her abs for balance. Your nails dig into the defined ridges of her muscles as she begins to meet your pace, her hips rolling into you. 

At first, the pace remains controlled, giving you time to adjust to the sensation of being on top. But soon, her hands find your waist, her grip firm enough to promise marks tomorrow. Then she takes over completely, thrusting into you with an intensity that makes you cry out.

Her movements become relentless – harder, faster, deeper than you thought possible. It’s primal, raw, and consuming, her strength evident in every powerful thrust as her legs and core drive her into you.

“Don’t stop,” you manage to moan, your voice catching in your throat. “Please, don’t stop, Ale.” Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as the familiar tension builds in your lower stomach, the knot tightening with every thrust. Your back arches prettily, drawing Alexia’s gaze to your chest. She aches to lean up and take your nipples into her mouth but instead drinks in the sight of you, undone and lost in her touch.

“You close, mi amor?” she rasps, lost in desire.

“Yes, Ale, so close,” you whimper, your moans growing louder, more desperate, a sound that defies words.

“You wanna come?” she asks, her tone teasingly questioning. You hum in reply, nodding weakly. “Go ahead, amor,” she murmurs, her voice softening unexpectedly, catching you off guard.

Your fingers curl, nails digging into her skin and leaving crescent-shaped imprints as you cry out her name, your voice breathless and broken as wave after wave crashes over you. She holds you down firmly, not letting you move as she keeps rolling her hips, guiding you through the peak.

It’s powerful, stealing every coherent thought, leaving you lost in ecstasy for what feels like an eternity before it begins to ebb and you regain awareness of your body.

Her knees provide support against your back, her thumbs tracing soothing patterns on your skin. She sits up, brushing strands of hair away from your face before burying her head in your neck. Her lips trail tender kisses along your skin, your collarbone, shoulder, jawline, and just beneath your ear, before finally returning to your lips.

Your breaths come heavy, but your arms instinctively wrap around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

“I love you, and only you, mi amor. All of me is for all of you,” she whispers against your lips.

You lean in to kiss her again, then she rolls you onto your back, positioning herself once more between your legs. 

[lizziesangel]

RAFE CAMERON - changes

x FEM!reader - MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: based on this request

WORD COUNT: +3.5k

GENRE: angsty

CONTENT WARNING: mentions of alcohol abuse!!

rafe cameron’s transformation hadn’t been instant. it wasn’t like he woke up one day and decided to leave behind the drugs, the fights, and the reputation that shadowed him everywhere he went.

it was gradual—painful, even. he hit rock bottom when his father, had finally given up on him, staring him down with disappointment so heavy that it left rafe feeling like nothing. adding that to the constant whispers on the island, the mounting legal troubles, and his own body screaming for something—anything—to numb it all.

and then he met you.

it wasn’t love at first sight—nothing that neat. you weren’t the kind of person who’d fall for the version of rafe cameron he was back then, and he knew it. still, something about you made him try harder to keep your attention, even if it was just in small, fleeting moments. you didn’t seem afraid of him, but you weren’t charmed by the bad boy act either. that made you different.

you saw through him, though he didn’t realize it at first. the easy smirk he wore, the sharp edges to his personality—you didn’t buy into any of it. and for reasons he couldn’t explain, that only made him want you more.

at first, you were just a distraction from the chaos of his life. Aabright spot in the mess he couldn’t seem to untangle. but the more time he spent with you, the more he realized he wanted to be the version of himself you deserved—the version of himself he’d buried beneath years of anger and regret.

you didn’t push him to change. you didn’t lecture him or try to fix him. instead, you simply existed in his world, your quiet strength and warmth enough to make him question everything.

for a long time, rafe tried to balance it all: keeping you close while still sinking into the same destructive habits. but it became harder and harder to look you in the eye after a night of doing blow or waking up in a jail cell. he could see the worry in your expression, the disappointment you tried to hide. and though you never said the words outright, he could feel the weight of your silent plea: be better. you’re better than this.

the night everything changed was one he would never forget. you had stayed up waiting for him after one of his infamous benders. he came home bruised, reeking of alcohol, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. you didn’t yell or cry. you simply asked, “how much longer do you think you can keep this up before it kills you?”

it wasn’t a threat or an ultimatum—it was a genuine question, asked in the softest voice he’d ever heard. and for the first time, he didn’t have an answer.

he wasn’t proud of how far gone he’d been. the cocaine, the countless nights drowning in whiskey, the explosive temper that dragged him into fights he’d barely remember starting. he’d been pushing away everyone who had ever cared about him, and for what? empty bottles, bleeding knuckles, and a rap sheet that could rival a career criminal’s

that was the moment rafe realized he didn’t want to lose you. and more importantly, he didn’t want to lose himself.

the road to redemption wasn’t easy. he stumbled more times than he cared to admit, but he kept going. for you, at first—but eventually, for himself too.

from that day on, rafe worked to pull himself out of the mess he’d created. it wasn’t easy. the withdrawal was brutal, the temptation constant. the whispers didn’t stop, and the pogues certainly didn’t forgive and forget overnight. but he stayed the course, because for the first time, he could see a future where he wasn’t defined by his worst moments.

what he didn’t see, as he fought to put himself back together, was the way you were starting to come undone.

rafe had been too consumed by his own chaos to notice the way it was spilling over into your life. in those early days, you tried to be there for him, to anchor him, even as he self-destructed. but being close to rafe cameron back then meant standing too close to the fire. he didn’t mean to hurt you—he didn’t even realize he was doing it—but his recklessness burned everything in its path, including you.

there were nights when you’d wait for him, staring at the clock long past midnight, your stomach twisting with dread. was he passed out somewhere? in a fight? in jail? the worry gnawed at you, clawing deeper with every unanswered text and phone call.

and when he did come home, he wasn’t the person you knew he could be. he was drunk, high, and distant, his words slurred, his temper sharp. you tried to reach him, to remind him of the person he used to be, but it was like trying to hold water in your hands—it all slipped through your fingers.

the worst part wasn’t the yelling or the silences. it was the absence.

slowly, without realizing it, rafe had left you alone in a relationship that was supposed to be a partnership. you stopped counting the days between when he’d actually look at you, really see you. you were there, holding him up.

but no one was holding you.

at first, you told yourself it didn’t matter. you were strong; you could handle it. but cracks began to form, little fissures that grew wider with every broken promise and sleepless night. and in those moments, when the loneliness became unbearable, you turned to the only thing that seemed to quiet the ache: alcohol.

it started small—a glass of wine to help you sleep, a glass of vodka to steady your nerves. but as the nights dragged on and rafe stayed out later and later, one drink became two, then three, until you stopped counting altogether.

though the irony wasn’t lost on you. you were drowning yourself in the very thing that was destroying him. but at least when you were drunk, the pain didn’t feel so sharp, the nights didn’t feel so long, and the loneliness didn’t feel so suffocating.

rafe didn’t notice. how could he? he was too busy stumbling through his own haze of drugs and liquor to see the way you were crumbling. you both lived in the same house, but it felt like you were in different worlds—his world of chaos and yours of quiet despair.

by the time rafe began to claw his way out of his darkness, the damage had already been done. he was so focused on getting clean, on staying out of trouble, that he didn’t notice the way your hands trembled in the mornings or the way you poured your drinks a little too full at dinner.

you told yourself it was fine. he was trying to be better, and you didn’t want to burden him with your own problems. but deep down, you resented him for it—resented the way he seemed to be moving forward while you were still stuck, sinking deeper into a hole you didn’t know how to climb out of.

for him it seemed to work. you were supportive, always cheering him on, always proud. but the more he healed, the more he started to notice things he hadn’t before. things about you.

the way your hands trembled when you reached for your coffee mug. the red-rimmed eyes that never seemed to fade, even after a full night’s rest. the way you poured yourself another glass of wine at dinner before you’d even finished the first.

and the smell. faint, but unmistakable. alcohol lingered on your breath, on your clothes. he knew the scent all too well.

the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. at first, he tried to brush it off, convinced he was overthinking. but the signs were there, clear as day. and tonight, as you reached for yet another glass of wine, he couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“how much have you been drinking?”

the question hung in the air, heavy and unyielding.

you froze, your fingers tightening around the stem of your glass. “what?”

he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his brows furrowed in concern. “i’m serious, y/n. how much?”

you laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “why does it matter?” you asked, taking a sip as if to prove a point.

“because i’m worried about you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “i’m not stupid. the glass is always full, there’s always another bottle. your hands shake in the morning, baby. i know the signs.”

you set the glass down with a sharp clink, your chest tightening. “don’t do this, rafe.”

“do what?” he asked, his tone still soft but laced with desperation. “care about you? ask what the hell’s going on? you think i don’t notice the way you’ve been slipping?”

and just like that, the dam burst. the emotions you’d been bottling up came flooding out in a rush of anger and sadness.

“you don’t get to judge me!” you snapped, your voice shaking. “not after everything. do you know how many nights i spent waiting for you to come home, praying you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere? do you know what it’s like to watch someone you love destroy themselves and not be able to do a damn thing about it?”

rafe’s face crumpled, his guilt visible in every line. “i’m not judging you,” he said quietly. “i know what it’s like. i know how it feels to want to drown it all out, to make it stop.”

“no, you don’t,” you shot back, your voice breaking. “you don’t know how it feels to lose someone before they’re even gone. to... to feel like you’re screaming for help... but no one hears you because they’re too busy pulling themselves out of the mess they made!”

“angel,” rafe said, reaching for your hand, but you pulled back.

“i know i’m a hypocrite,” you continued, tears threatening to stream down your face. “i know i’m doing the same thing you did. and maybe i’m weak. maybe i’m pathetic!” sobs came out of you as you tried to form your words.

“but i needed you, rafe. i needed you, and you weren’t there! you were never there,” your voice cracked.

he flinched like you’d struck him, but he didn’t argue. he didn’t try to defend himself, because deep down, he knew you were right. “i wasn’t there,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “i wasn’t. and i’ll never forgive myself for that. but i’m here now, and i’m begging you—please let me help you.”

you shook your head, anger and heartbreak swirling in your chest. “i don’t need your help, rafe. i don’t need you to fix me.”

he reached for you again, desperation written all over his face. “i’m not trying to fix you. i just—i love you. i can’t watch you go through this alone. please, angel, let me help.”

but you couldn’t. the pain, the anger—it was all too much. you stood abruptly, grabbing your coat.

“where are you going?” he asked, panic flashing in his eyes.

“out,” you said, your voice cold and final.

“please don’—”

“i can’t do this right now,” you cut him off, walking to the door. “i just—i need to breathe.”

rafe stood frozen, his heart pounding as he watched you slip on your shoes and grab your keys.

“baby, don’t go,” he said, his voice breaking.

“please, don’t leave like this.”

you didn’t look back. the door closed with a slam behind you, leaving rafe alone in the silence, his heart splintering into pieces.

but he didn’t try to wait. the moment the door closed behind you, he grabbed his jacket and followed, his heart pounding with equal parts fear and determination.

you were already halfway down the driveway when he caught up, your keys clenched tightly in your hand as you marched toward your car.

“y/n,” he called, his voice desperate, but you didn’t stop.

“just leave me alone, rafe,” you said, your tone sharp, though it cracked at the edges.

“i can’t do that, angel,” he said, quickening his pace until he was just a few steps behind you. “i’m not letting you walk away like this.”

you spun on your heel, your eyes blazing with a mix of anger and pain. “you don’t get to follow me,” you snapped. “you don’t get to tell me what to do, not after everything!”

he stopped in his tracks, holding his hands up like he was surrendering. “okay. fine. but at least let me drive you.”

you scoffed, turning back toward your car. “i don’t need you to drive me, i’m fine.”

“you’re not fine,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern. “you’ve been drinking. i can smell and see it. please, just—don’t do this. if you need to get away, i’ll take you. just let me drive.”

you hesitated, your hand on the car door. deep down, you knew he was right. the alcohol was still humming faintly in your veins, and the last thing you needed was to get pulled over or worse.

“i don’t need a babysitter,” you muttered, but you let the keys dangle loosely in your hand.

“i know you don’t,” he said, stepping closer, his voice gentle. “but i need to do this, okay? just—let me do this for you.”

“i need to know you’re safe.”

you looked at him, his face etched with a raw kind of desperation that made your chest ache. for a moment, you considered pushing him away again, but the exhaustion was too heavy, and the fight was slipping from your grasp.

“okay,” you said reluctantly, tossing him the keys. “but don’t talk to me.”

rafe nodded, catching the keys midair. “yeah, okay,” he said quietly.

you climbed into the passenger seat, crossing your arms and staring out the window as he slid into the driver’s seat. the silence between you was thick, heavy with unsaid words, but he didn’t press. he simply started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

as the streetlights blurred past, you pulled a flask from your coat pocket, unscrewing the lid with shaky hands.

“y/n, don’t,” rafe said softly, glancing over at you.

you ignored him, lifting the flask to your lips.

“please,” he said, his voice breaking. “i’m begging you. just—don’t.”

“it won’t help, it never will.”

your hand hovered midair, the weight of his words pressing down on you. for a moment, you hesitated, but the familiar ache in your chest won out. you tipped the flask back, the burn of the alcohol momentarily numbing the pain.

rafe gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white. he didn’t say anything else, but the hurt in his expression was unmistakable.

as the car sped down the road, the silence between you grew heavier, suffocating. rafe was struggling to keep himself together, but he knew one thing: no matter how far you tried to run, he wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.

the red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror brought rafe’s heart to his throat.

“shit,” he muttered, gripping the wheel tighter as he pulled the car to the side of the road.

you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, clutching the flask. “you were speeding, weren’t you?”

rafe’s jaw tightened. “yeah, i guess i was. just—stay quiet, alright?”

the flashlight beam hit the driver’s side window before either of you could say anything else. when rafe rolled it down, the familiar voice of shoupe made the tension in the car skyrocket.

“well, well, look who we have here,” shoupe said, leaning down to get a better look at rafe. his tone was casual, almost amused, but there was a sharp edge to it. “rafe cameron, speeding down my roads. what’s the rush tonight?”

rafe forced a tight smile, though the discomfort was written all over his face. “sorry, officer. i wasn’t paying attention to my speed. just trying to get my girl to a friends’ house,” he said, nodding toward you.

shoupe’s flashlight swept across the interior of the car, landing squarely on the flask in your lap.

“uh-huh,” shoupe nodded, his tone shifting as he focused on you. “and uh… what’s that? you two drinking and driving tonight?”

your stomach dropped, and you froze, unable to find the words to respond.

rafe jumped in immediately, his voice firm but a little shaky. “it’s mine,” he said quickly. “the flask—it’s mine, shoupe.”

shoupe raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “yours, huh? and yet, it’s sitting in her lap?”

“she just—she was holding it for me,” rafe lied, his voice steady despite the panic brewing in his chest. “i wasn’t thinking, i shouldn’t have had it in the car. that’s on me.”

shoupe straightened, sighing heavily. “c’mon, son. you’ve been doing so good lately. now i’m supposed to believe you’re back to this? open containers in the car? speeding? what’s going on?”

“it’s not what it looks like,” rafe said quickly, desperation seeping into his tone. “just give me a ticket for the speeding, and i’ll take care of it. i’ll dump the flask right now.”

shoupe glanced between you and rafe, his sharp eyes narrowing. the tension stretched, the air in the car thick and suffocating. finally, he sighed and shook his head.

“look,” he said, his voice softer now, “you’re lucky i know you’ve been trying to straighten out, son. but i don’t want to see you slipping, especially with her involved.” he gestured toward you with his flashlight.

rafe nodded quickly. “understood. i’ll get it together. promise.”

shoupe studied him for a moment longer before stepping back. “slow down. and get rid of the flask. i better not catch you with it again.”

“yes, sir,” rafe said, his voice tight.

shoupe gave you both one last look before walking back to his car. as the flashing lights receded into the far distance, rafe leaned back in his seat, letting out a shaky exhale.

you stared at him, your emotions swirling in a chaotic mess. “why the hell did you take the blame?”

rafe turned to you, his eyes weary but determined. “because i’m not letting you deal with this bullshit, y/n. not you. never you.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. instead, you looked out the window, your grip on the flask loosening as rafe started the car again.

the silence between you was heavier than ever, but you could feel his eyes flicking to you now and then, filled with concern and a love you didn’t know how to handle anymore.

the car stayed silent except for the low hum of the engine as rafe drove. his eyes flicked toward you every few moments, filled with worry and guilt.

you sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring out the window, the flask now abandoned in your lap. the weight of everything hung heavily in the air, suffocating and thick.

“y/n,” rafe finally said softly, his voice tentative, testing the waters. “can we just—can we talk about this?”

his words broke something in you. the wall you’d been desperately holding up crumbled, and a choked sob escaped your lips.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears began to stream down your face. “i’m so sorry, rafe.”

rafe immediately pulled the car over to the side of the road, his heart clenching at the sound of your broken voice. “baby, no,” he said, turning to you, his own voice shaking. “don’t do that. don’t apologize. you don’t have to—”

“i was so awful to you,” you cried, covering your face with your hands as your shoulders shook. “you didn’t deserve that. you’re trying so hard to be better, and i—i just lashed out at you.”

rafe reached for your hands, gently pulling them away from your face. his eyes glistened with unshed tears as he looked at you, his expression raw and vulnerable.

“no, angel,” he said, his voice thick. “don’t do that. don’t blame yourself. i’m the one who messed up. i wasn’t there for you when you needed me. i let you down, and now you’re—” his voice cracked, and he turned his head away for a moment, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

you shook your head, tears spilling freely. “i just—i don’t know how to fix this, rafe. i feel like i’m drowning, and i don’t know how to stop.”

his hands tightened around yours, his own tears threatening to fall. “you don’t have to do it alone, angel,” he said softly. “you don’t have to carry this by yourself. let me help you, please. let me be there for you.”

you looked at him, his eyes filled with nothing but love and desperation, and the weight of it all was almost too much to bear.

“turn around,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“what?” rafe asked, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“turn around,” you repeated, a fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks. “let’s just go home, rafe. please. i don’t—i just want to go home.”

rafe exhaled shakily, nodding as he wiped a hand across his face. “okay, baby,” he said, his voice cracking. “we’ll go home. whatever you need.”

he put the car in reverse, pulling back onto the road. as he drove, his hand reached out to rest on your knee, a silent promise that he wasn’t letting go—not this time.

[zepskies]

Against the Wind - Part 2

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday

“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.

“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.

He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.

“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.

You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.

You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.

More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.

Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?

You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.

Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—

“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.

“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.

“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”

You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”

As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.

After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.

“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.

You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.

“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.

“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”

“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”

“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.

“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.

“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.

“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.

“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.

Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.

You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.

Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.

You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.

Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:

House Fire Kills Mother of Two

Lawrence, Kansas.

You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.

November 13, 1983

…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary’s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?

The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.

December 4, 1983

I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.

Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.

John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.

He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.

December 20

…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.

On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.

A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.

You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.

Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.

You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.

WENDIGO

Cree: Evil that devours.

Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.

Perfect hunter.

Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.

The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.

The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.

Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.

“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”

You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.

You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”

“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”

At that, you begin to bristle.

“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart. 

“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.

His jaw locks. “Or something.” 

With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).

“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”

“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.

“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 

Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.

You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.

“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.

You hobble faster.

Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 

The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.

Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear? 

Fucking alphas. I swear.

You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life. 

Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?

You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.

Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.

Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.

Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.

You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.

Oh shit…

You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.

His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.

The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.

Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you. 

Bear spray!

You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest. 

The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.

Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.

In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:

For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.

Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.

Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.

His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.

“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.

You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.

“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.

“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you. 

His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore. 

“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says. 

You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.

“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.

 Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…

“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”

Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.

“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”

“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.

His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”

You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.

“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.

“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.

He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”

You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.

“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”

You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.

“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.

Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”

“I lost him in these woods,” you say.

That quiets the alpha.

You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.

“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”

AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉

Next Time:

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

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[3igbootyl0ver]

who hurt you? [iv]

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: Tara finally finds the courage to open up and seek help.

word count: 4610

warnings: mentions of abuse, violence, angst

a/n: guys I lied this is NOT the last part. I realized how much I have to write lol but the angst is over, the next part should be just fluff and tara's recovery. this is the longest I wrote so far lol so I hope its not too draggy

part [i] | part [ii] | part [iii]

Tara felt her phone buzz multiple times in a minute. It took her a moment to gain the courage and look at her notifications. 5 missed calls and missed texts from Amber herself. She felt a shiver run down her spine, not sure if it was from the chilly breeze or her fear of Amber coming to get her. Her fingers hovered over the screen, debating whether to respond or power off the phone and ignore the reality of her situation.

Amber

Tara, where are you?

I told you to meet me behind the bleachers.

You just can’t listen, can you??? 

(Missed call from Amber)

Answer your damn phone.

Seriously? Was this about that day? I barely touched you, it was a joke. Don’t be so dramatic

You know I only do these things because you push me. If you didn’t act like this, I wouldn’t have to.

Just get here.Now. 

Tara felt her chest tighten after reading the texts, afraid of what could happen to her, her consequences. “You deserved it anyways,” was what Amber would say to her after she got hurt. At first, Tara had fought against those words, clinging to the belief that she was worth more, that she wasn’t the problem. But over time, the constant barrage of blame and cutting remarks chipped away at her resolve. Amber’s voice had become a whisper in her mind, louder than her own, until one day Tara caught herself nodding in agreement. Maybe she did deserve it. Maybe everything that happened was her fault.

Her breathing grew shallow as the weight of the messages and memories bore down on her. Her phone slipped from her trembling hand, landing on the floor with a soft thud, but she barely noticed. Her chest heaved as panic clawed its way through her, each breath feeling harder than the last. Her vision blurred, and the world around her faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the cruel echoes of Amber’s voice in her head. She clutched her knees, trying to ground herself, but her thoughts spiraled uncontrollably. What if she’s right? What if I deserve everything coming my way? The questions suffocated her, and she felt like she was drowning in her own mind, unable to surface.

Her breath hitched when a familiar face entered her blurry field of vision, concern etched deeply in your furrowed brows. You raised a hand slowly, your movements deliberate and gentle, pausing as if asking for silent permission. When she gave a weak, trembling nod, you knelt down and rested your hand over hers, the warmth grounding her in the chaos of her spiraling thoughts. Your voice followed, soft and steady, cutting through the haze as you spoke words of comfort and reassurance.

“Tara, hey. Look at me. I’m here, okay? You’re safe now. Take a deep breath with me. Let’s do it together—breathe in…and out. Nice and slow. Just like that.” Tara listened to your instructions, slowly gaining back her bearings before tearing up again, overwhelmed by her feelings.

“I’m sorry—I’m such a burden—“ “Hey, I want none of that right now, okay? You’re not alone in this. Whatever’s happening, we’ll handle it together. You’re stronger than this—always have been. It will pass, I promise.” 

It took Tara a while to piece together what happened and where she was. She just had a panic attack. You were there. The softness of your bed beneath her and the faint scent of your room finally grounded her. She blinked a few times, her gaze settling on the familiar surroundings, and the realization hit—she was safe.

You sat beside her, your voice calm as you spoke. “I texted Chad and Mindy to come over,” you said gently. “I thought having some company might help. They’re on their way now.”

Tara nodded slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. The thought of familiar faces brought a small flicker of relief amidst the storm swirling inside her.

-

As soon as the doorbell rang, you hurried to open it. Mindy wasted no time, wrapping you in a tight hug before you could say a word. Her embrace was warm and reassuring, a silent way of saying, We’re here for you. The moment she stepped back, Chad pulled you into his own firm hug, his hand patting your back in solidarity. Their presence immediately lightened the air, filling the space with a sense of comfort and support.

“We won, by the way. There was a party after, but it wouldn’t be the same without you.” Mindy commented, slightly smug about how she scored the winning goal. You’ve never doubted her once; you knew she could do it. 

If Tara was being honest, she was afraid to meet the twins—afraid that she would be posed as the bad friend that avoided them, that she was weak and fragile. The thought of their disappointment, the way they might look at her with concern or pity, sent a wave of anxiety through her. It felt easier to stay away, to hide, than to face the questions and the judgments she imagined they’d have.

Tara took a deep breath, steeling herself as Mindy and Chad walked into the room. The moment Mindy stepped forward, she pulled Tara into a tight, almost desperate hug. Tara froze for a second, then allowed herself to melt into the embrace, feeling the warmth and safety that came with it. Mindy’s voice was soft but firm when she pulled away.

“You don’t have to apologize, Tara. We’re here,” she said, her tone full of concern.

Chad, a few steps behind, offered a reassuring smile before pulling her into his own hug, his hand gently patting her back. “You’re not alone in this,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady. Tara nodded, the overwhelming weight of her anxiety not quite lifting, but at least softened by the comfort of their presence.

As they settled around her, Tara felt an unexpected wave of guilt. If she were being honest, she was afraid of meeting them again—afraid that they would see her as the bad friend who had avoided them, that they would view her as weak and fragile. The thought of disappointing them, of facing their concern or pity, made her stomach turn. It felt easier to stay hidden, to avoid the inevitable questions they would ask about where she had been, why she’d pulled away. But now, as she sat between them, she realized that the fear of their judgment was nothing compared to the warmth of their unwavering support.

Tara took a deep breath, her heart pounding as she finally began to speak, her voice trembling with the weight of the words she’d kept locked inside for so long. She glanced at Mindy and Chad, their faces filled with concern and unwavering support, and it made her feel a little less alone. She told everyone in the room how she started dating Amber; and how things went downhill. By the time Tara ended, she was sobbing uncontrollably, your arms wrapped around her to calm her down. She looked at Mindy and Chad, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve come to you sooner.” Tara said tears still streaming down her face, but her voice stronger than before.

Mindy’s expression softened as Tara spoke, her eyes filled with both sadness and empathy. “Tara, you don’t deserve any of that,” Mindy said, her voice gentle but firm.

“None of it was your fault. Amber had no right to treat you that way, no matter what she said,” Mindy said, her words steady and filled with conviction. “You’re not broken, you’re strong. You’re still here, and you’re fighting. That’s what matters.” Mindy reached for her hand, squeezing it gently.

Chad nodded in agreement, his expression serious. “Mindy’s right. You don’t have to face it alone, you have us.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Tara, you should think about reporting this. What happened to you wasn’t just a mistake—it was abuse. And abuse needs to be taken seriously.”

“I know it’s scary, and I know you’re probably thinking about what Amber might do or say, but we’re here for you, every step of the way. Reporting this to the police isn’t just about getting her in trouble—it’s about protecting yourself and making sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else. You’re not alone in this. We’ll be with you, no matter what you decide.” You added, gently rubbing your hand along her arms, making her relaxed.

Tara sat in silence for a moment, her mind racing with the idea of taking that step. She had never imagined herself going to the police, but now, with Mindy, Chad, and you by her side, it didn’t feel quite as impossible. It was terrifying, but maybe it was the first step toward finally finding peace.

-

A few days later, Tara found herself sitting in a quiet room at the local police station, her heart pounding in her chest as she looked down at the paper in front of her. She had made the decision—she was reporting the abuse. The officer sitting across from her was kind, patient, but Tara could still feel the weight of every word she spoke. She told them everything. About Amber’s manipulation, the slaps, the pushing, the hurtful words. She didn’t leave anything out, though every sentence felt like it ripped open a wound she’d tried to bury for so long. She even included photos of her bruises she would take pictures of throughout the relationship. The officer appreciated it, it adds more evidence even when there’s a big yellowish blotch on her face that didn’t need any more explaining.

When the officer assured her that her report would be taken seriously, Tara couldn’t help but feel a tiny flicker of relief, even though fear still lingered in her chest. She had done the right thing. She hoped. But as Tara walked out of the station, the reality of her decision began to settle in. She had taken a step that could never be undone, and she knew Amber would eventually find out.

And it didn’t take long.

It was the following afternoon when Tara received a call from an unknown number. Her stomach dropped, the familiar anxiety creeping back into her veins as she hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Hello?” Tara’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Tara,” came Amber’s voice, cold and filled with venom. “I know what you did.”

Tara’s heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively took a step back, as if she could escape the phone call that had already settled deep into her chest.

“You went to the police, didn’t you? You really think you can get away from me that easily? Blocking my number didn’t do anything, did it?” Amber’s tone was almost mocking, but beneath it was a layer of pure rage. “You’re nothing without me, Tara. Do you really think they’ll believe you? Do you really think I would hurt you? You’re a liar.”

Tara’s grip on the phone tightened, her voice shaking with fear but laced with a newfound resolve. “I’m not lying, Amber. I’m done. You don’t control me anymore.” Amber’s laughter came through the phone, sharp and cruel. “We’ll see about that.” And then the line went dead.

Tara stood there, the cold air biting at her skin, her heart racing in her chest; feeling the fear creep back in, until you called her downstairs for dinner. Ever since you found her during the finals, you managed to convince Tara to stay over at yours for awhile, considering she would’ve been alone at home and you wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

You went up to the guest bedroom Tara was staying in to see her staring at her phone, slightly taken aback. You could sense her breathing getting shallower and sharper, realizing that she was having an asthma attack and quickly took her inhaler that was placed on the drawers.

She gasped again, but her breath wouldn’t come. Panic began to set in, her heart rate quickening, and she coughed uncontrollably, the sound rough and wet in her chest. The tightness in her throat made it harder to exhale, a wheeze escaping as she forced the air out. It felt as though the very act of breathing had turned into a struggle, and the more she tried, the harder it became. Your hand was already passing the inhaler to her trembling fingers. Tara’s breath hitched, struggling to move as her hands shook, but you placed your hand over hers, steadying it.

"Here, just... take a slow breath in. You can do it," you encouraged, your voice steady as you helped her press the inhaler to her lips. Tara obeyed, inhaling shakily, and within moments, she felt the familiar cooling sensation spread through her chest. The tightness loosened just a little, and she gasped for air, the wheezing beginning to subside.

“Good. Just like that,” you whispered, your hand resting on her shoulder, grounding her. Slowly, Tara's breathing steadied, each inhale coming a little easier than the last, the panic beginning to melt away as the medicine took effect. You stayed by her side, never letting go, just silently offering the comfort she desperately needed.

-

You were starting to get used to the sight of Tara struggling with both panic and asthma attacks throughout her stay at your home. It was a constant ebb and flow, moments where she seemed like she was almost back to herself, only for the anxiety or her breathing to hit her again without warning. At first, it was overwhelming—watching her gasping for air, feeling helpless as she trembled and shook—but over time, you learned how to respond.

You kept her inhaler close, always within reach. You knew the signs now, the way her chest would tighten, the shallow breaths, the subtle shift in her expression that meant her panic was escalating. You knew how to talk her down, how to ground her when the anxiety became too much, and how to steady her when she couldn’t catch her breath. The routine of it had become familiar: gently helping her breathe in through the inhaler, guiding her hands to her chest to ground her, reassuring her with calm words that she wasn’t alone.

But each time it happened, it still broke your heart. You could see the fear in her eyes, the fear of not knowing if she would get through it, the lingering dread that she wasn’t safe. You never left her side during those moments. No matter how many times it happened, you were there—watching, waiting, helping her through it until she found her breath again.

And while it was exhausting, both for her and for you, there was a certain quiet comfort in knowing you could help. Tara was stronger than she gave herself credit for, and you were proud of her every time she pushed through, even when it seemed like too much. With each attack, she seemed to hold onto that strength a little longer, even when she didn't see it herself.

-

After a few weeks of rest and recovery, Tara made the decision to go back to school. It wasn’t easy—every step toward the building felt like it weighed a ton, and her heart would race at the thought of seeing people again, of facing the memories that lurked in every hallway. But she couldn’t hide forever, and despite the anxiety swirling in her chest, Tara knew it was time to take that first step. The news spread like wildfire rippling both in Woodsboro and Blackmore. Everyone seemed to have their own version of the story, but the narrative was clear: Tara and Amber’s relationship was no longer just a private matter—it had become public, and with it, a storm of judgment.

Amber wasted no time in twisting the truth, claiming that Tara had fabricated everything. She told anyone who would listen that Tara was just seeking attention, painting herself as the victim of a lie. Amber played the part of the heartbroken, misunderstood girlfriend, while Tara was cast as the unreliable, dramatic ex who couldn’t handle their breakup. The accusations were swift, harsh, and relentless.

But amidst the gossip, there were small moments of clarity. She still had people who believed her—people like Mindy and Chad, who stood by her side without question. And you. You were her anchor. Every time the rumors swirled, you were there, offering her a steady presence, a reminder that her truth mattered, no matter what anyone else said. The world around her might have been filled with noise, but with your support, Tara began to find her voice again. Even if it took time, even if it was hard, she wasn’t going to let Amber’s lies define her.

The night before, she barely slept, tossing and turning in her bed, replaying the worst-case scenarios in her mind. What if Amber showed up? What if people asked questions she wasn’t ready to answer? But when morning came, you were there to reassure her once more, helping her gather her things and offering quiet encouragement.

“Just take it one step at a time,” you told her, giving her a gentle smile. “You don’t have to face everything all at once. We’ll get through it together.”

As Tara walked through the school gates, she felt a mix of nervousness and determination. She had her inhaler in her pocket, just in case, and a deep breath to calm the jittery nerves that clung to her. There was no going back now, but with each step forward, she could feel the weight on her shoulders lifting just a little bit. She wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

“Hey, Tara!” Serena, a classmate called out, her voice piercing through the crowded hallway. At the sound of her voice, you immediately tensed, a protective instinct kicking in. You weren’t sure if Serena was going to confront Tara, maybe join in the whispers and rumors that had been circulating. But as you glanced at Tara, you could see the hesitation in her expression. She was unsure what to expect from Serena now.

Without thinking, you gently pulled Tara closer, positioning yourself as a shield, ready for whatever was about to happen. Tara stiffened at first, but then she relaxed into you, seeking comfort in your presence. She wasn’t ready to face any more hostility or doubt—not from anyone.

Serena approached, her steps slow but determined. The usual confidence she carried was gone. Her face was softer, almost apologetic, and there was a sadness in her eyes that Tara hadn’t expected. She stopped just in front of you both, looking down at the ground before lifting her eyes to meet Tara’s.

“Tara,” she said quietly, avoiding your eyes. “I owe you an apology. I should’ve believed you from the start. Amber—she did the same thing to me.” Tara blinked, surprised. “You were with Amber too?” Serena nodded, her voice trembling.

You could feel Tara’s grip on your arm tighten, the weight of the moment sinking in. It was clear that this wasn’t just an apology—this was Serena reaching out to Tara, extending a hand to show her that she wasn’t alone, that there was someone who understood the pain.

 “She manipulated me, made me feel crazy, like I was the problem. I didn’t see it until I left her. I saw how she treated you and… I didn’t speak up. I’m sorry for that.” Tara stared at her, processing her words. “I didn’t know… I thought it was just me.”

“I know. I should’ve been there for you,” Serena said. “But I believe you, Tara. Amber’s abuse wasn’t your fault.” Tara’s shoulders slumped, relief and confusion mixing in her eyes. “Thank you. I.. I’m glad you’re saying this.”

Serena gave a soft nod. “I’m here for you, anytime. You’re not alone.”

As Serena walked away, Tara exhaled deeply, her grip on you loosening. The weight wasn’t gone, but knowing Serena understood made the burden a little lighter.

-

It’s been a few weeks since Tara had the courage to start attending school again, and while the halls still felt heavy, there was a noticeable shift in her. The whispers had faded to a dull murmur, and the judgmental stares were fewer, replaced with something a bit more tolerable—curiosity, or maybe even a touch of guilt from those who had doubted her.

Tara had slowly begun to rebuild herself, day by day. With Mindy, Chad, and even Serena’s unexpected support, she had started to find the strength to face the world again. But every step forward came with its own challenge. Some days were harder than others, and the scars from Amber’s abuse weren’t so easily erased. Yet, Tara was determined to keep moving forward, and even though she wasn’t sure what the future held, she knew she wasn’t as alone as she once believed.

There were still moments of fear, of panic, but each time she faced them, it was a little easier to breathe. With you by her side, offering quiet support, she was starting to believe that maybe—just maybe—she could reclaim her life.

Tara knew she had to go back to her house to retrieve a few things. Her mind raced with memories of Amber, of the chaos and control, but there were still some items left behind that she needs—it would be a mixture of both closure and necessity. The thought of stepping foot inside her old home made her stomach turn, but she knew she couldn’t leave everything behind forever. Tara had spent too long running, too long living in fear. It was time to take those final steps—gathering her things, locking the door behind her, and finally letting go of the past that still haunted her.

She wasn’t sure if she could face it alone, but she didn’t want to burden anyone. Still, the idea of returning to the house she once called home left her feeling vulnerable and anxious. She looked over at you, a soft vulnerability in her eyes, unsure of how to ask for help without seeming weak. “I... I need to go back to my house, just to get a few things. I don't think I can do it by myself."

You immediately reassured her, “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ll go with you.” Tara let out a quiet breath of relief, her shoulders relaxing. “I didn’t want to ask, but I don’t think I can handle it by myself.”

“I’m here for you, always,” you said, offering a gentle smile. “We’ll go together, take whatever you need, and leave. You don’t have to face it alone.”

Tara gave a small nod, her nerves still present but now softened by your support. “Okay. Let’s go.” And with that, the two of you set out, ready to face the past together, step by step.

Several minutes later, you both arrived at Tara’s old house. The familiar sight of it made her pause, a knot tightening in her stomach. The house that once felt like home now felt like a prison—a place filled with too many memories she wasn’t ready to face. You could sense the vulnerability in Tara’s posture as she stepped into the house, the weight of the moment settling over her. You didn’t want to intrude on something so private, so important to her, but you also wanted to be there if she needed support.

“I’ll stay in the car,” you suggested softly, giving her space. “Take your time. I’m right here if you need me.”

Tara glanced back at you, her eyes filled with gratitude, though the fear was still there. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “I don’t know if I can do this, but... I’ll try.”

You gave her a reassuring nod as she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. You remained in the car, your heart with her, knowing that no matter how long it took, you’d be here when she was ready to leave.

Just as she left the walkway, you saw a sketchy black car across the street. The engine was idle, and a chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. You quickly glanced at the house, knowing Tara was inside. Your protective instinct kicked in. Without thinking, you got out of the car and headed toward the house, your pace quickening.

Inside, Tara was gathering a few of her things when she heard the faint sound of footsteps behind her. She turned, her blood running cold when she saw Amber standing there, leaning against the doorway with that familiar, malicious smirk on her face.

“You didn’t really think you could get away, did you?” Amber’s voice was low and taunting. She stepped into the room, her eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. “I still have a key, remember?” She stepped forward, her fingers tracing the edge of the doorframe where she had forced Tara to give her the spare key long ago

Before she could react, you burst through the door, your body tense with fury. “Get away from her!” you shouted, stepping between them. Amber’s eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly sneered, taking a threatening step forward. But you didn’t give her the chance. In one swift motion, you grabbed her by the wrist, slamming her hard against the wall with a sickening thud. Amber gasped, her eyes wide with shock, but you weren’t done. Your fist shot out, connecting with her jaw in a brutal punch that made her head snap back, her body jerking from the force of it. You stomped on the leg that you injured a few weeks ago, making her groan in agony.

Tara gasped, her eyes wide, but the sight of Amber recoiling, clutching her cheek, was like a weight lifting off her chest. You didn’t wait for Amber to recover; you shoved her roughly back against the wall, your hand still gripping her wrist.

“Stay the hell away from her. I don’t care who you think you are,” you growled, your voice cold and deadly. Amber’s eyes flickered with fury, but she was too stunned to fight back properly. Tara stood frozen, watching, feeling a strange mix of fear and relief. Amber spat, her glare venomous. “This isn’t over,” she hissed, trying to regain her composure, but you tightened your grip and stepped closer, your gaze unflinching.

Amber’s breathing grew heavy, but she knew she was outmatched. With one last look of hatred, she wrenched herself away and stormed out of the house, limping while slamming the door behind her. As the house grew quiet again, Tara exhaled shakily, still trembling from the confrontation. You turned to her, your chest heaving, but you gave her a steady, comforting look. 

“She’s gone. Shit—I’m sorry, I knew I should’ve—“ Before you could complete your sentence, Tara rushed into your arms, wrapping her arms tightly around you. She buried her face into your chest, her body shaking, her breath uneven.

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t apologize. I... I needed that.” Her words were muffled against you, but you could feel the tension leaving her as she clung to you. “I was so scared... but now... I don’t feel so alone.”

You held her tighter, your hands gently rubbing her back as you spoke softly, “You’re not alone, Tara. I’ll always be here. Always.”

Tara nodded, her grip loosening slightly but her face still pressed against you. The world outside felt distant now, the past they’d just confronted fading into the background. What mattered now was the quiet, steady promise that she was safe—here, with you.

-----------

a/n: I'm kind of forcing myself to write longer fics, and I hope this isn't too draggy and boring for u guys. feedback is appreciated :)

[stxrslutrestored]

WAITING FOR YOU

pairing; rafe cameron x reader

summary; rafe has been neglecting you recently, putting his work before all, you haven’t had any attention for yourself. you finally reach a breaking point on the night where you prepare everything, make everything perfect, and he doesn’t even bat an eyelid. 

content; emotional neglect(?), argument

authors note; re upload!

tonight will be perfect, you’re sure of it. ever since rafe had taken on more responsibilities at work you had been pushed to the sidelines a little, but tonight you can’t wait to be his centre of attention. 

you have everything ready, you’ve made a lovely meal and set it out on a candlelit table with his favourite bottle of wine ready to open. 

you’re dressed up too. a cute little dress on, and underneath some even cuter lingerie. your makeup is done nicely, all waterproof of course, if all goes to plan, you expect to be in floods of blissful tears by the end of the night.

you hear rafe come through the front door just as you add your final touches to the dinner table. you immediately stand up and scurry down the hallway to meet him. 

“good evening rafe,” you beam, ready to see him, though your smile falls a bit when you come into contact with him. 

he’s got an armful of paperwork and he looks run down, like has constantly for weeks now. you push past it though, this night is going to be good for him too, he needs the break. 

“hey sweetheart,” he mumbles absently, immediately making it clear that his mind is on other matters, “look, can you give me like half an hour? just got somethin’ I need to sort out real quick.” he doesn't even wait for an answer, he's already making to climb the stairs towards his office.

you stop him of course, placing a hand on his arm. “wait, I made dinner, it'll go cold.” you feel crestfallen, sure you knew he'd want to work, but right in the door? he didn't even take a moment to look at how nicely dressed up you are.

rafe stops and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose he speaks in mild frustration, “yeah, yeah I'll eat with you okay? but then I do really have to work.” 

you nod, leading him towards the kitchen where the table is set. you pull out a chair, urging him to sit and he does, watching you idly as you walk round and take your own place. “I made your favourite,” you beam. in honesty, making his favourite isn't that much of a feat, he's a very basic eater. but it's the thought that counts. 

it's a quiet meal. rafe doesn't pay that much attention, only giving absent and short answers to the questions you ask. his day was fine. work was fine. his plans are to do work stuff. he's feeling fine. the meal is fine. if he could have bothered to ask, you would have told him that you are not fine with any of those answers. it's like he doesn't care that you did this for him. 

the moment he’s finished he rises, scratching the back of his neck he speaks, “I gotta go.. do some admin.. food was good.” 

“rafe wait…” you stop him from where you still sit at the table. you’ve not even finished your food yet and he’s already leaving. “I thought that we could maybe go upstairs.. spend some time together.” you make it so obvious in your tone as to what you’re suggesting. 

he sighs, “maybe later okay? maybe later.” and just like that he’s walking away, just like he has been doing for weeks on end. 

                              *

later, you are laying on your bed, half asleep, waiting for him.

the candle on the bedside table is almost burned out, it’s ugly now. you are undressed, still putting up with the uncomfortable underwear on your body, just so you can look good when he comes in.

it must be nearly eleven o’clock at night when you finally hear his footsteps coming down the hallway. you quickly do your best to wake yourself up and reassume the position you were laying in before. 

when rafe comes through the door he stops, looking a little stunned, “why aren't you asleep?” he asks bluntly. that certainly wasn't what you were expecting. not even a little bit of praise, not a thirsty look, nothing. 

“are you serious?” you sit up, now you’re frustrated. he’s been pushing you aside for so long, and he can’t even acknowledge what you’re doing for him. 

“what do you mean, am I serious? what the fuck is all this?” he gestures to the room, the lowered lights, the candle, you. 

“it’s for you.” you frown, “I thought you’d want- I thought you would like this. I thought you’d be happy.” 

“baby I didn’t ask you to do any of this.” he says crossly, “I have other things to focus on.. I- I’ve got work! I don’t have time for this.” 

this is your breaking point, tears begin to slip down your cheeks, “you never have time for this. that’s the problem.”

his eyes land on you, “problem? you have a problem? I’m a grown man now, I have responsibilities.. I have to make priorities.”

“well they’re wrong! your priorities are wrong!” you snap, sitting up on the bed to lock eyes with him, “I should be a priority. but— but you’ve just been pushing me away all because of work! we haven’t had sex in weeks and.. and you barely talk to me anymore!” you start to rant, “I’ve put so much effort into making tonight perfect and you haven’t even bothered to thank me! I’m tired, and I want to spend time with you. I miss you rafe!” 

It’s silent for a few seconds before he lets out a weary sigh, “that’s what all this is about huh? I’m neglecting you.” 

you sniffle pitifully, “that’s not what I said.” 

he shakes his head and comes to sit down on the bed with you, “what you meant though,” he looks down at his lap for a moment before patting his leg, “c’mere.” 

you reluctantly crawl into his lap, resting your messy cheek on his covered chest. he starts to speak again, “I’m sorry. I.. I will admit that I haven’t been paying enough attention to you.. okay.. I’ll change that. promise.” 

part of you wants to snap again and say ‘see! how easy was that to admit! why did it take you so fucking long!?” 

you don’t snap though, you don’t have the energy. instead you murmur and go closer to him, “m’sorry for gettin’ mad at you rafe.” 

he shakes his head, “just missed me, I know.” he rubs your back, before pulling you to face him. “hey.. think it would be a bit of a shame for you to have got this dressed up for nothin’ huh?”

[azen13]

CW: Yandere Themes, Implied Murder, Captivity, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Undressing, Bathing Together

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You've learned to count how long Moze takes to wash his hands when he returns home.

A minute, and everything is fine. At least as fine as things can be, considering the bizarre circumstances you're living in. Sometimes you pinch yourself at random, believing you must be living in some everlasting nightmare—the man you met only in brief, fleeting moments over the course of months kidnapped you.

It could be worse, you think to yourself as you begin ticking off the seconds. One, two, three, four, five...

When Moze took more than one minute to wash his hands, you began to let your mind sail off into seas of uncertainty. Perhaps he was sent on a mission to dispatch some Disciples of Sanctus Medicus or clear out the remaining Borisin.

Maybe he killed a friend or relative.

When thoughts like those come, you try to clear them from your head like grime from your hand, but the ideas are like blood from a deep, chronic wound. No matter how much you washed and scrubbed, trying to clear your thoughts, you couldn't escape the constant trickling anxiety.

...thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one...

Giving up on quelling your dread, you slide off the bedside you're sitting on and walk over to a small shelf on the opposite side of the room. A row of random books lie on the wooden shelf, ranging from traditional Xianzhou poetry to encyclopedias of espionage. When you had woken up in the bedroom, there had been nothing. It wasn't until a few weeks into your confinement that Moze brought a stack of books home, silently depositing them on a small table in the kitchen.

It would have been a kind gesture, if you hadn't been blubbering the previous day about how terrified you were, and how you felt you were going crazy with nothing to do. So fearful that you were talking to nobody. Or so you thought.

...eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine...

The sound of flowing water suddenly ceases. In a moment, Moze has entered the room, not even making the hardwood floors creak as he steps. "I've brought you dinner. Beef noodle soup." Moze's eyes scan you from head to toe with a surgical precision, one that makes you want to shrink away from him. "Wash your hands, and then we can eat."

You nod, and tentatively step towards the door. Moze makes no movements as you walk past, letting your fingertips accidentally graze against his. He smells of nothing, save for the faint, metallic tang of blood.

As you wash your hands, you can see Moze standing behind you in the bathroom mirror, supervising you as you scrub your already-clean skin with a slow, methodical precision. You've learned to spend at least thirty seconds washing your hands, moving over every finger and knuckle with extreme focus. If you didn't, Moze would walk over, chest pressed against your back, and take your hands in his and wash them for you.

Even when you washed your hands as perfect as could be, sometimes the man still insisted on "helping" you.

Dinner is a silent affair. You pick away at your food, ignoring how Moze's eyes are piercing into your skull. Sometimes, you can't help but wonder what pushed him to do all of this. For a man who you've come to regard as extremely efficient and forward, his decision to take you prisoner is quite contrary to his personality. Not only that, but he refuses to tell you why he's done it. You've tried to decipher any sort of plausible answer to that question, to the point where you've wondered if you accidentally committed some sort of unforgivable crime, and this—the everlasting dread—is your punishment.

After dinner comes bath time. When he had first corralled you to the bathroom and began to run the water, you thought you were finally being put out of your misery. Granted, the thought of death by drowning made you start to tear up with fear, but at least you knew what was happening. Or, at least you thought you knew. Instead, after filling up the tub with water, Moze's hands went to the hem of your shirt. With a single, fluid motion, the assassin lifted the shirt over your head. Despite how you shrieked, Moze simply folded the shirt into a neat square and placed it on a counter.

Tonight follows a similar pattern, though you don't shriek, and your body trembles less as Moze's hands slowly strip you of protection. He gives you a small mercy in how his eyes remain staring into yours, but it doesn't suppress how vulnerable you feel as he lowers you into the warm water.

His hands, calloused with scars, reverently scrub at your skin with a luxurious bodywash, scented a sweet and floral jasmine. Your favorite. Moze says nothing as he continues to wash you. You'd come to understand that he didn't speak to you often unless you spoke to him first.

Part of you wishes he would speak more. Your life feels like it's shrouded in a thick mist, and maybe if Moze would speak a little more, you would have more answers to your questions. But the thought of speaking up makes you nauseous with anxiety. So, you continue to let Moze bathe you in silence.

After deeming you satisfactorily clean, Moze lifts you out of the tub and hands you a fluffy towel. He takes another towel for himself and gets dressed in simple, comfortable sleepwear. Then, he helps you get dressed and leads you through your nighttime hygiene routine. After finishing up getting ready for bed, Moze takes your hand and walks you back to your shared bedroom. Turning the lights off, he settles close to your side. Even with your eyes closed, you can feel his gaze pressing against your head like a sharp blade against tender skin.

After what feels like hours, you feel something soft press against the crown of your head. "Goodnight, my dear." The words are whispered, yet they drown out any thoughts floating in your mind. Quickly, you piece together that the sensation you felt was a kiss.

Moze kissed you.

You spend the rest of the night awake, trying to understand why.

[if-whats-new]

What's New In IF? Issue 33 (2024)

By Aj, Dion, Briar, Jen and Peter

Now Available!

Itch.io - Keep Reading below

If you read the zine, consider liking the post: it helps us see how many people see it! And sharing is caring! <3

~ EDITORIAL ~

The new year is upon us!

To give us more free time during the holidays, the Team decided to merge last and this week’s Issues together.

The same will be done with the next Issue, which will come out on January 4th! This makes this Issue the last Issue of the year.

More feedback?

As the year comes to an end we in the WNIIF team are once again looking for feedback! The goal of this form is to find out our readers' preferences and wishes, so we can make the 2025 edition even better!

Please spare a few minutes to fill it out. None of the questions are required, so you can answer only what you want!

Small Talk with Harris Powell-Smith! @hpowellsmith

Our Interviewers are currently working on a Interview with the awesome Harris Powell-Smith, an award-winning narrative designer and writer of the Crème de la Crème series and Blood Money!

Do you have something you always wanted to ask them? Now is your chance! Send us a message on one of our socials or send us an e-mail. We’ll ask them for you!

We hope you enjoy this new issue!

AJ, DION, BRIAR, JEN AND PETER

~ BE A PART OF THE ZINE ~

THIS ZINE ONLY HAPPENS WITH YOU!

Want to write 1-2 pages about a neat topic, or deep-dive into a game and review it in details? Share personal experiences or get all academic?

WRITE FOR THE COLUMN!

Prefer to be more low-key but still have something to share? Send us a Zine Letter or share a game title for Highlight on…!

WE WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU!

Came across something interesting? Know a release or an update announced? Saw an event happening? Whether it's a game, an article, a podcast… Add any IF-related content to our mini-database!

EVERY LITTLE BIT COUNTS!

Contact us through Tumblr asks, Forum DMs, or even by email! And thank you for your help!!

~ EVENT SPOTLIGHT : Velox Turbo 2 ~

December 13th to 17th 2024

Velox Turbo is a challenge edition of Velox Fabula (or "Quick Story"), which is a ranked jam about making a complete visual novel based on a community-determined theme, hosted by robobarbie and Allie Vera. The Velox Turbo edition gives creators 4 days (instead of the usual 10) to complete their project, encouraging speed, accurate scope setting, and creativity.

The Velox jam series is heavily inspired by Ludum Dare, a global game jam about making a game from scratch based on a certain theme in a short amount of time.

This Jam's theme: The Eye of the Beholder, was revealed at the start of the jam. Voting was held across several rounds in the week leading up to the jam starting.

Other themes in the Velox jam series were:

Unreliable Narrator

Morally Ambiguous Promise

Enemies with Benefits

Flower Symbolism

Doomed by the Narrative

Trapped with Someone

Forbidden Romance

You Shouldn't Be Here

Participants can now vote for their favourites until December 31st. There are six categories: Overall, Theme Incorporation, Narrative, Visuals and Sound. Even tho you can't vote unless you submitted your own work, definitely check out at least one of the 15 entries!

~ ENDED ~

The voting for A Very Hallmark Game Jam is over. Check out the results!

This year’s Yuri Game Jam is in over. There’s an unbelievable number of 109 entries to check out!

Another bitsy jam has ended. You can now check out 8 entries with the theme "better late than never".

~ ONGOING (SUBMITTING) ~

Media depicting healthy examples of polyamory isn’t that common. The PolyJamorous 2024 is trying to break the status-quo!

The Queer Winter Game Jam is in full swing. Those interested can submit their work until January 16th 2025.

ShuffleComp is a musical interactive fiction competition where you make games based on songs, which are submitted by other entrants. Creators have until January 20th 2025 to upload their works.

Once upon a time, a game jam was held to create stories around the theme of fairy tales… and that game jam is the Once Upon A Time VN Jam. It’s running from October 1st to January 31st.

Concours de Fiction Interactive Francophone 2025 is for all French-speaking enthusiasts. Submissions are accepted March 3rd 2025.

Are you perhaps a fan of more somber, melancholic themes? Then check out the Dying Year - Visual Novel Jam! You have until the end of the year to participate.

The Black Visual Novel Jam is all about working with creative professional developers who work in visual novels to bring more Black stories to life. The goal is to create a space where Black creators can show their unique storytelling through visual novels.

IF Short Games Showcase 2024 is a great way to shine some new light on your projects made in the past year (Jan 1, 2024 to Dec 31, 2024), regardless of whether or not they are previously released! You have until January 15th 2025 to join.

Winter Visual Novel Jam 2024 is here! You have until January 1st 2025 to submit your projects.

Are you familiar with Decker? Then why not take a part in the Deck-Month 2?

SeedComp! is a 2-round interactive fiction game jam, focusing on creativity and the growth of ideas and the Sprouting Round has just started! Check out the Planting round for inspiration.

~ NEW RELEASE ~

Gentleman, Adventurer, Crocodile (Forked) is a twenty-second romp around the Victorian world in the company of an adventurous crocodile. It is a story filled with wondrous lands, strange people, wealth, power, friendship, betrayal, shipwreck and delicious pastry.

Murder Gods Play Pachinko (Super Videotome Engine) - A group of friends gathers in a remote house for the first time in two years. This is the place where Kaya took his life. Tensions are high, to say the least. The snowstorm isn't letting up. It appears they're trapped. The only company they have is each other. Little do they know -- time isn't on their side. He's on his way.

A new era begins in Maroland… The Ancient Talking Dragons have nearly all been annihilated… The Elves hide in their ancient mansions. The future belongs to humans… However, naive human wizards long for immortality. It’s only a matter of time before one of them finds something they can’t control. The Elves of Maroland is now available for free downloading in English language.

You are a prisoner of the jaguar empire, being forcibly marched by your captor to the blood pits at the heart of the empire. In your condition, your choices are limited -- but you refuse to let them have you. Escape your captor, explore the continent, and struggle for survival in this unique text-based roguelike, Wild Continent (Unity).

Echoes in the Deep (Twine) is an atmospheric, choice-driven narrative game set in a failing underwater research station. As Dr. Evelyn Moore, you must uncover the station's secrets, restore failing systems, and escape before time runs out. Will you survive the depths, or will its mysteries drag you under?

Calmaria is the newest companion app developed by the Design School in partnership with the Informatics College, the Student Engagement Office, and the Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Office of the University of ≭∘⊊⊚. Please enjoy Calmaria.

Dive even deeper into the world of A Date with Death with an all-new route. Starting with a fresh Day 6 and unfolding all the way through Day 10, this DLC brings you new conversations, stunning art, four new endings, and of course, the same beloved Grim Reaper. - A Date with Death - Beyond the Bet (Ren’Py). @twoandahalfstudios

As always, don't forget to check out the submitted entries to the events mentioned in the previous pages. They deserve some love too!

~ NEW RELEASE (WIP) ~

Everyone knows vampires: bloodthirsty, unholy creatures, some barely any better than animals. You never thought you'd become one yourself. You're a believer in the new gods - but here you are, trying not to feel that they've abandoned you. Feed, fight, and flee from the sun, all while looking for a cure to turn your life, or lack of it, right again in Glass Fangs (Twine). @glassfangsif

You are the heir to the Dracian kingdom, born of dragon blood and royal lineage—but you know nothing of this truth. To protect you from the tyrannical king of Dracia—your own grandfather—your parents sacrificed their lives. They hid you away, ensuring the prophecy that foretells his downfall would survive, even if they could not. - Rise of the Forsaken (CScript).

Dazzling phantom thief heists, romantic meetings in the dead of night, and making a name for yourself; The Mysterious Thief, Forget Me Not (Ren’Py) is a mostly linear girl's love visual novel that features multiple POVs throughout. The story is set in the fictional city of Twinbells, England, and shows how the lives of our four main characters are changed forever when a ballet company — and its treasured jewel — visits the phantom thief-loving city. @solsketchbook

Rigor Mortis (Ren’Py) is a visual novel for goths of all stripes who are surviving under late-stage capitalism. Discover the adventures of Lunis Culpeper, 12-year-old newlydead, as she learns about (un)life in the (under)world the hard way.

Your life as an alchemist has been safe and comfortable so far... but when your sister makes you one last wish before passing away, you'll embark on a dangerous journey that might change your life—and the lives of your two companions—forever. Hopefully, you'll also learn to see the world in a new light after this Trek to Dead Water (Ren’Py).

Take centre stage as a former-rockstar turned actor navigating your new career and the chilling grip of fan-obsession in Scapegoated (CScript). Your once-famous band may be nothing short of a ghost of the past to you, but the rest of the world cannot seem to let go. The split in 1968 was scandalous, abrupt and mysterious. And although you’ve thrown yourself into acting and secured your first major role with a big time Hollywood director, whispers of blame have been on your tail ever since.

You are the illegitimate child of King Aldric the ruler of one of the seven kingdoms Ceryndor, marked by your half elven heritage and shunned by society. Born under a cloud of prejudice and tragedy, you are feared as the “Black Wolf” – an omen of misfortune and a harbinger of chaos. When the son of a wealthy trader is found dead, the fragile peace in your land begins to crumble. The investigation leads you to uncover secrets that could shake the foundations of the seven kingdoms. Will you embrace the tyranny they accuse you of, or will you rise above the scars of your past and forge your own path in War of Crowns (CScript)?

A Life in a Year (Unity) is a narrative-driven adventure game that explores the emotional challenges of studying abroad. You play as Laura, a 16-year-old exchange student in a Nordic country. The game navigates themes like language barriers, cultural differences, friendship, family, and more.

Your trade as a Keeper is suffering under the rule of the current Emperor, but you've just gotten lucky – the Summit Library, the largest and most important Library in the Eawin Empire, has requested your services. But when you arrive you suddenly find yourself in a dangerous magical mystery: something's wrong with the books, and the Library is falling apart at the seams. Also, there might be a war? But The Summit Library is situated on neutral territory, so that doesn't affect you... Right?

~ UPDATES ~

A Sun Asunder: Post Apocalypse (CScript) updated their demo. @asapostapocalypseif

Meteoric (CSscript) added new content to their demo.

REMEMBER, YOU WILL DIE (CSscript) released Chapter 5. @vapolis

The Ultimate Magic Student (CScript) updated their demo.

Thicker Than (CScript) released their monthly update on Ko-Fi. @barbwritesstuff

Virtue’s End (CScript) updated their Patreon demo. @virtues-end

A Warmth in the Cold (CScript) added new content to the demo.

Spire, Surge and Sea (CScript) updated a new second Chapter.

The Adventures of Alaric Blackmoon (ADRIFT) released Episode 10.

Sentience (Twine) released Chapter 5. @sentience-if

Adrift With You (CScript) released Chapter 2. @kathrinesadventures

A Shriek of Ash and Fire (CScript) released Update 6. @krogpile

Drink Your Villain Juice (CScript) updated their demo. @drinkyourvillainjuice

Oh Mother, Where Are Thou? (CScript) updated their demo.

Dragon Kin (CScript) added new content to their demo.

Soulmates Inc (CScript) is back with a new update. @soulmatesinc-if

Voiceless: A Siren’s Song (CScript) released a re-written Chapter 1.

War of the Divines (CScript) updated their demo.

Hunter’s Requiem (CScript) added new content to their demo. @huntersrequiem-if

~ OTHER ~

Crown of Exile (Twine) offers a limited Access up to Chapter Ten for all their readers. Check it out before it’s too late! @ramonag-if

The Rosebush released an Interview with Chandler Groover, an interactive fiction author known for his influential games such as Eat Me, Toby’s Nose and Midnight. Swordfight., as well as his contribution in Fallen London’s storylines. @the-rosebush-mag

Devil On Your Shoulder is looking for beta testers.

~

As always, we apologize in advance for missing any update or release from the past week. We are only volunteers using their limited free time to find as much as we can - but sometimes things pass through the cracks.

If you think something should have been included in this week's zine but did not appear, please shoot us a message! We'll do our best to add it next week! And if you know oncoming news, add it here!

~ MAYBE YOU NEXT? ~

We did not get a submission this week. But if you have an idea for a short essay, or would like a special space to share your thoughts about IF and the community...

Shoot us an email!

~ HIGHLIGHT ON ~

A couple of games that we thought were cool.

I.A.G Alpha by techniX (INSTEAD)

The interactivity turns the idea of an IF piece on its head!

//submitted by Max//

The Master of the Land by Pseudavid (Twine)

A night of celebration with many storylines to explore. Replay again and again to understand, not to win.

//submitted by Sera//

Wonderland Noir: Behind the Looking Glass by Slim Pickens (Ink)

Delves into heavy topics, reminds me of Disco Elysium. Incredibly evocative writing, almost no attention given.

//submitted by Mouthofdirt//

Your favourite game here?

Do you have a favourite game that deserves some highlighting?

An old or recent game that wowed you so much you spam it to everyone?

Tell us about it! And it might appear here!

WE LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU ALL! WHETHER IT'S GOOD OR BAD, OR EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN...

Have something to say? Send us a message titled: Zine Letter!

As we end this issue, we would like to thank:

Max, Sera and Mouthofdirt

For sending us a Highlight!!

And as always, huge thanks to all you readers who liked, shared, and commented on last week's issue!

What might be tiny actions are huge support and motivators to us!

Thank you for cheering us on this journey!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We all wish you a great start to next year!

We will see you in January with a 2025 edition of What’s New in IF!

AJ, DION, BRIAR, JEN AND PETER

WHAT'S NEW IN IF? 2024-ISSUE 33

[mysecretlittlelibrary]

Second Lesson

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: edging and overstimulation

Genre: smut

Summary: Some things are not self explanatory, and Steve has decided he's going to fill in the gaps by coming to you to ask his questions about sex and some of those questions have more involved answers than you'd expect

***

You hear a knock at your door while you're looking for something in your closet.

"Coming!" You call, taking a moment to contain the hurricane that you've created in there. You open the door to find Steve in the hall.

"Are you busy?" He asks.

"Not particularly, what's up?"

"I have another question."

"Shoot." You say, gesturing for him to walk into your room.

"Edging. What it is?"

"It is pleasuring yourself or someone else until the brink of orgasm without letting them actually have an orgasm."

"That sounds like torture." Steve frowns.

"Sometimes it is. It can be used as a punishment, some people enjoy it though, it can also be about increasing endurance- you know- training to last longer in bed, it also usually makes the orgasm more intense when you do eventually get to that point."

"Huh, have you done it before?"

"Been on both sides." You shrug. "Oh also I should mention that like most kink terms there is an equal yet opposite complementary term. For edging its complementary term is overstimulation."

"And that is?"

"If edging is about restraint when it comes to pleasure then overstimulation is a hedonistic indulgence in it. Orgasming again and again and again, sometimes to the point of pain this is where a safe word can be useful because you may say things like stop or I can't take it especially because post orgasm sensitivity can be a bitch but the whole point is to keep going and if you've already talked about exploring either edging or overstim, your partner will probably ignore you saying stop because again the point is to keep going even if you are sensitive, but if they're going to ignore you saying it's too much, you need to be able to stop them if it actually is too much."

"Are all aspects of sex so- severe?" He asks.

"No. Sex can be incredibly soft and gentle and sweet, it can be slow and tender in many ways. I mean, you saw some of that last time. You just- happen to have coincidentally questions about the other end of the spectrum today." You shrug.

"It just seems very, intense. Like maybe too intense? I don't get why you would want to put someone through that. It seems like a slippery slope, sex should be about love not some form of- torture."

"Well calm down, you sound panicked and it's not like I'm going to strap you down and force you to experience it. It's not for everyone Steve, different people have different preferences, this is why it's good to have those conversations before you sleep with someone so nobody gets put in a stressful situation they didn't sign up for. Plus there are a lot of ways to express love you know. If your person wants you to do these things then that absolutely shows that you love them, especially if you do them with the care you're meant to."

"I just don't understand it I guess." He shakes his head.

"That's fine Stevie, no one can force you to do it or enjoy it or even comprehend it really. Like I said, it's a personal preference. Just- be honest with your partner when the time comes." You shrug.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you... like this stuff?" Steve asks.

"I do. With the right person."

"Really?"

"You have your ideas about sex, I have mine." You shrug.

"What's that mean?"

"You said sex is about showing love and I agree with that to a point but to me it's also about pleasure. It's about exploring yourself, sometimes through someone else. It's about learning and adventure. The heat and intensity, passion that is borderline all consuming, sex can be many things. I like to experience all of them."

"Oh." He breathes.

"Of course that's just me. I'm not here to change your mind about anything." You hum.

"I have to try this edging thing."

"You don't. The hands on lessons are an option not an obligation, you don't seem interested in that and that's fine! You can just take the verbal explanation and proceed with your day as long as it makes sense to you, there's no reason to force yourself to try something that don't appeal to you." You shake your head.

"Well, it's hard to understand something if you're not open to experiencing it right?"

"I mean, I guess sometimes."

"So I want to experience it. That way I can understand it." He insists.

"As long as you're sure about this."

"I'm sure. Let's do it." He nods.

"What? Now?"

"Do you have time?"

"Depends on what time it is now."

"Three seventeen."

"I've got til six, I have another engagement later this evening."

"Is that enough time?"

"Plenty. Get comfortable, I would recommend getting naked, you do need to at least take off your pants or you'll likely stain them but it'll probably be more comfortable to take off everything because there's a chance you'll get hot. I know you run pretty warm already but I don't know how much you'd enjoy your shirt sticking to your back after twenty minutes." You say.

"Right, yeah." Steve hesitantly shuffles out of his pants and underwear and then, after seemingly debating in his head, he also pulls his shirt over his head and places all of them on your desk chair before sitting on the bed.

"Alright, I'm going to treat this like I would a real situation. Of course, the expectations are different, I know so don't worry about performing a certain way. Just like last time if at any point you have a question or something makes you feel uncomfortable you can simply say so assuming you can focus. If you can't focus use your stoplight. Yellow, or red, just like we discussed before." You tell him as you pull open the drawer by your bed and grab the bottle of lube.

"What's that for?" Steve asks when you squirt a generous amount into your hand.

"It's a lubricant. It might be a little cold at first, but I'm sure you'll appreciate it, especially the longer this goes." You say sitting beside him. "I'm going to touch you now, is that alright?" You ask.

"Yes." Steve nods with more conviction than you'd expect. You wrap your fingers around the base of his dick and he takes in a large breath. His exhale is shaky as you drag your hand up his length with a pressured grip. You circle his tip, slowly massaging it, watching his reactions, enjoying the way his abdomen seems to flex sporadically. His breathing is coming out harsher now and you begin to pump him. Last time you made a point not to stare at him since he was clearly rather nervous about the whole thing but not looking is rather impossible with this 'lesson' so you take the time to really get a look at his dick as you stroke him. The tip is a reddish pink and there are a couple veins running very noticeably along it. You already knew he was big, he's been inside you for fuck's sake, but looking at it unobstructed, boy was he... endowed.

"So how this works Stevie, usually, is that you'll tell me when you're close, ask me, beg me if I tell you to, ask me to cum and I'll tell you if you've earned it. Of course I won't demand all that from you, I'm rather good at reading people's bodies." You explain to him, stroking faster, holding a little bit tighter.

"W-what do you mean usually?" He asks wearily.

"When I do this with partners. There's a bit of power play that comes with this, if you hadn't noticed, having control of how much pleasure your person receives at any given moment. It's a very powerful feeling. But this is more about teaching you than my own enjoyment, so it's a bit different, I'm just offering you more details about the appeal of it all." You explain.

"A-and you- you like that? The p-power play?" He asks. You can tell he's really starting to struggle with his focus, his body is twitching, and he's gripping the sheets, blinking rapidly as he speaks. You watch his whole body tense up and take that as your cue to ease up. You slow your wrist to almost a stop, relishing in the groan Steve lets out.

"I find it can be intoxicating." You smirk.

"So that's how this works?" He pants.

"Pretty much." You nod, picking up speed again. Steve moans as his body jolts again. You can't help but imagine how nice he'd look with a couple of hickeys. You won't be giving him any of course but the idea does captivate you for a brief moment. It's clear that Steve is trying to control his reactions, but the shaky breaths and strained grunts give him away.

"My god." He whispers, tipping his head back. If it was anybody but Steve saying those words, you'd affirm that you are their god and they should worship you as such but it's not somebody else, it's Steve and you'd best keep it simple. When his body tenses up again, you slow your hand accordingly, and Steve lets out a strained groan.

"You know Stevie, you don't have to try so hard to keep quiet. I like your little noises. They're hot." You say.

"I'm not- r-really used to... making n-noises like that." He pants out.

"Well, a bit of advice, most girls like to hear that you're enjoying yourself."

"Really?"

"Yep." You say, stroking him faster, again. You continue your game with him, slowing down when his body tenses up and speeding up when his shuddering breaths quiet. With each denied orgasm his restraint on his vocalizations seems to slip, by the fith time you're slowing down he's an unending string of moans and grunts and even a few whimpers when you squeeze in just the right place.

"This is torture." Steve grits out. His entire body is flushed and his skin is glistening.

"I know but you're doing so well. Just a little longer and I promise I'll reward you. Don't you want that?" You ask with a mocking sweetness in your tone.

"Please." He says breathlessly.

"Oh that sounded nice." You smile. You're not even trying to break him like you would under usual circumstances but the sound him whimpering please to you almost makes you want to.

"Y/n- I feel, like I'm on fire. Please I need to cum." Steve huffs through clenched teeth and you start to wonder if he's reaching his limit. Gripping his chin you gently tilt his head to look at you.

"Checking in Stevie, gimme a color please." You say softly.

"G-green, this is insane." He says shakily.

"You haven't tapped out yet." You smile slightly.

"Is that the goal?"

"Not today." You wink at him. You decide it's probably best to stop here, so you pick up your speed again watching for the telltale signs of his orgasm but this time you finally let him peak and you can't decide if the sound or sight is more dazzling. Either way, you work him through it as evidence of his release spurts over your hand and his thighs in thick ropes. There's an impressive amount of it and you wonder if this is a super soldier thing or if he's just really pent up. When nothing else comes out and he hisses against your touch you let him go. "I'm gonna get a wash cloth, hang tight." You tell him standing from the bed and walking into your bathroom. You rinse your hand first and then soak a washcloth with room temperature water. When you pop back out his arm is draped over his eyes but he otherwise hasn't moved. You start with his neck, wiping the sweat that's probably made his skin sticky. You do a quick swipe across his chest too before moving on to cleaning the remenants of his orgasm from his thighs and recovering dick. "How are we feeling?" You ask him once he's clean. You toss the washcloth in your hamper and grab a water from your mini fridge before sitting beside him on the bed.

"That was- intense." He says.

"Yes but you knew that going in."

"I mean- when you finally let me, you know. It was intense- probably more so than I've ever felt." He says and you giggle at his avoidance of saying orgasm.

"We should really work on your comfortablilty with some of these terms. But yes that intensity is a high some people crave."

"Wow."

"Was it worth it?" You ask.

"What?"

"You said it was the most intense orgasm you've ever had, would you say the payoff was worth the buildup? After all you called it torture."

"You're not even nice about it."

"I was actually very nice, I didn't wait til you were crying to get you off which- is usually what I'll do."

"You make people cry?" He blinks surprised.

"Sometimes." You shrug.

"That's- further than I-"

"I know, that's why I didn't make you cry. Although crying is way more likely with overstimultion anyhow." You shrug.

"Is it?"

"Wanna see for yourself?" You ask opening your bedside drawer again.

"Well I'm not sure I can hand-"

"Here." You drop one of your toys in his hand.

"What's this?"

"A vibrator. I figure it's not fair if every lesson is just me doing things to you like some sort of lab rat so I thought you might want to try overstimulating me. The only other way for that to happen is for you to learn my body but who has time for that? This is efficient and pretty much idiot proof it'll get the job done regardless of your personal experience." You shrug.

"You- want me to use this on you?" He asks wide eyes watching you quickly take off your clothes.

"Yes I do. It's simple, I promise. It does most of the work for you. If you have the energy for it that is." You say.

"Depends on just how simple it is." He says. You sit on the bed next to him and grab his wrist, placing the vibrator in his hand against your clit. It's not on but your insides still clench in anticipation when it touches you.

"Put it here, small circles or wiggling it up and down is fine but keep it in this general area, start with light pressure and press harder as we go. I'll be using the same stoplight system, so here's a couple of preliminary warnings, if I squirm away follow me or hold me down, if I cry that's fine, if I scream let me, ignore me if I ask you to stop or say it's too much. In fact, no matter what, you keep this against me until I call red and I will call red. Sound simple enough?"

"You might cry and that's a good thing?" He frowns.

"It's not a bad thing. It probably won't happen anyway I'm just covering my bases no need to look so terrified." You chuckle.

"How do I turn this on?" He asks after a moment.

"The last button."

"What are the other two?"

"One controls the rhythym and the other controls the power, don't mess with those buttons. For the sake of this lesson they are off limits."

"Last one turns it on?"

"Yes." You nod. Steve stares at the buttons for a moment before a sharp click fills the silence and you jolt from the sudden stimulation. He moves the toy in tight circles, his face pinched in focus. Your hips grind against the vibrator and it doesn't take long for your first orgasm to hit you with a soft moan.

"Oh." Steve says, as if he's surprised.

"Keep going, add pressure." You huff out. Shuddering pants indicate that Steve's done what you asked, your muscles tensing from the continued pleasure post orgasm. The thing with this particular vibrator is that it works quick and you hardly manage to calm down before your second orgasm sneaks up on you. Steve trades the circles for little up and down motions that draw a couple sharp moans from you. 

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"Fine Stevie, I'm fine." You say shakily. Your third orgasm comes with a cry through your closed mouth. You know it's impractical to be so mindful of your sounds but you've got to remain at least semi-composed to be of any help to Steve. More and more your body spasms as the stimulation continues, practically twitching from the pleasure. Small whimpers begin to escape with more frequency as you quickly approach orgasm four. On this one your eyes roll back and you allow an obscene sounding high pitched moan to fall from your lips. Steve makes a sound somewhere in his throat which you barely hear. You're starting to feel that bite of overstimulation layering under the pleasure and it makes you squirm. You jerk against the toy, hoping for a reprieve from the buzzing and Steve, the dilligent student that he is, places a hand across your stomach, holding you in place and all you can do is cry out as he presses the vibrator firmly against your clit. You grip the sheets tightly as he starts to make little circles around your too sensitive bundle of nerves, your whole body is shaking as another orgasm quickly creeps up on you with a squealing noise and string of curses. You can feel your brain getting fuzzy, that familiar hedonistic haze threatens to blanket your thoughts, you know if you don't stop Steve soon you'll be far too blissed out to do so and Steve is not equipped to handle that sort of headspace.

"Okay, red. That's enough Stevie." You say breathlessly but firm. Steve quickly moves the toy but struggles to turn it off so you take it from him and turn it off yourself. You take a couple of moments to recompose yourself, ignoring the phantom buzzing and overwhelming wetness between your legs when you sit up and pull your knees to your chest.

"Are you alright? Do you need water? Can I get you something?"

"I'm fine Stevie. How are you feeling?"

"Me? I wasn't the one-"

"The whole point of this was to see if you enjoyed either edging or overstim- having tried both, do you feel like you at least have a better understanding of them like you wanted?"

"I- guess I have a better understanding."

"Well what're you thinking?"

"I thought I would- hate the edging thing but, as... intense as it was there was something, freeing about it? Like getting on a ride at Coney Island and the ending was, worth the build up."

"And overstimulation?"

"It's incredible watching the way your body reacts to such an onslaught. Plus the idea of bringing your lover imense pleasure like that is undeniably delicious, I can see how that kind of thing can be so thrilling."

"Well there you go. Questions answered. You're free to leave." You say.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm fine Steve I'm just going to hop in the shower you've got nothing to worry about really. I've got other things on my schedule of today remember?"

"Alright- if you're sure. I'll see you around. Enjoy your evening."

"Thanks. See ya." You say. Steve seems hesitant to leave but without a reason to stay, he has to shuffle his way out. You let out a sigh after your door closes. You've got a couple hours before your evening plans, good thing, you'll need it. Hopefully one of these days Steve will ask a simple question with a simple answer that doesn't a demonstration.

***

Tagged Users: @chososg1rl

[sweetiesicheng]

dino - drunk

word count : 645

-

"is that channie?" you ask when you notice a guy, who looks exactly like your boyfriend, walking through the house. you giggle, "he looks exactly like my channie."

"jesus christ, how are you not sober yet? did someone give you more alcohol?" seungkwan questions and grabs one of the many solo cups in front of you. he sniffs the drink and sighs, "who gave y/n more alcohol?! she's cut off! move the jungle juice somewhere else," he scolds and takes away your cup, replacing it with a cup of water.

chan walks into the kitchen and immediately goes over to you. "baby, you feeling okay?" he asks you.

"you can't call me that! you're not my channie!" you say to him and turn away. "seungkwan! help me!” you plead.

seungkwan groans in annoyance. "hey, just take her home already," he says to chan.

"i have to wait for her to sober up and realize that i’m actually myself. she’ll scream if i try to carry her," chan replies.

"hey, you!" you shout at chan, earning some attention from the people around you. "don't think about touching me! i'll throat chop you!"

chan looks around at whoever is listening, but most people already know the two of you are dating or know how you can get when you're drunk. others explain the situation to those who don’t know.

"baby..." chan sighs, "it's me. your channie," he says to you and grabs a new cup from a plastic sleeve. he pours water in from a gallon jug and places it on the table. he doesn't realize that you already have a water cup because there's about twenty cups on the table. "drink some water."

you stare at chan, trying to figure out if he is your boyfriend or not. "you're my channie?" you ask.

he smiles, "yea, it's me baby. now drink." he picks the solo cup up and puts it into your hands.

you manage to drink some water without spilling it everywhere and continue to hold the cup in your hands. chan looks around the kitchen, trying to find snacks or just something for you to nibble on. however, most of the food is already gone, and he doesn't know who lives in the house, so he doesn't want to take their snacks.

"hyung, is there anymore food?" chan asks seungkwan.

seungkwan looks over, "i think some other people ordered more pizzas, but i'm not sure," he answers before returning to a conversation with joshua.

chan goes back to you and sees you finishing the water in your cup.

"here, i got it," chan says and takes your cup from you. he pours more water into the cup for you.

"thanks," you reply. you get the cup back and drink some more. "hehe," you start laughing.

"what's so funny?" chan asks you.

"you look like my channie."

chan raises an eyebrow.

again?

"i do, huh?" chan replies. "drink some more water," he says to you. he grabs a folded up chair that is against a wall and unfolds it. he sits down next to you and turns his body to face you. "so i look like your channie?"

you nod, "yup. you're an exact copy of him." then you gasp. you lean in towards him, "are you an alien?"

chan leans in too, "an alien?" he replies.

"because you're an exact copy of him. did you come from outer space?" you question.

he shakes his head, "i'm not an alien. i'm your channie. i promise you that."

"ah, you're right. my channie would never be an alien. he's too handsome to be an alien," you say.

chan chuckles, "yea, you're right." he rests his elbow on the table and leans his head against his hand. you drink some more water as chan watches over you. he thinks to himself with a grin.

silly girl.

[planetaryaether]

I swear I have the capacity to be normal about things. with that being said I have many thoughtsTM about today's JF2 episode (#29).

Duncan volunteering to send his black lotus to Rythian as well is something that can be so personal. To over analyze it, although he says it is in case "the first one gets lost" they have no reason to think that items wouldn't get to their destined locations, so the choice reads much more as a gesture of friendship. After the events of Flux Buddies (no spoilers) Duncan has had to learn to face the consequences of his own actions in a way that he simply had not during Blackrock - which at the end of the day was the thing that drove a wedge between him and Rythian.

By not being able to accept that his actions led to genuine harm (intended or not) to those he called his friends signaled to Rythian that he cannot trust others/especially Duncan again. This perceived threat of future betrayal combined with Rythian thinking that Zoey had joined forces with Duncan and the nuke reveal all served to retraumatize Rythian, placing a wedge in their relationship that has not been able to be addressed due to the end of Season 2 and Rythian deciding to give up on any relationship (friend or enemy) with Duncan ('the opposite of love is not hatred, it is indifference' etc etc).

So Rythian choosing to send this task to the JF2 crew, almost certainly knowing that Duncan is among them, shows that Rythian has been able to grow since we have last seen him. He has been able to finally process, at least to a degree, what he has been through and perhaps is able to understand why Duncan acted the way that he did - that he never meant to cause harm but was terrified for his own safety both in the old and tekket worlds.

Duncan being the one, in episode 28, to want to listen to the message (as well as including the purple flag 'for Rythian') shows how much he has also changed. That he also understands, at least to a degree, where Rythian was coming from and why he did what he did AND that he doesn't hold that against him. All of this happening independently from each other until now. Rythian made the first move at reconciliation with entrusting Duncan (and the others of course) with a task that was important to him (but at the same time it is a task with a low level of responsibility so that if Duncan did not want to accept this peace offering of sorts, no harm would come to Rythian/Zoey). And Duncan, by sending his black lotus after barry has already sent one, is a clear acceptance of that gesture. More than that, it is returning a peace offering of his own. (and to REALLY over analyze, sending flowers is a sign of an apology with black/dark lotus flowers in multiple cultures representing rebirth).

Even if we never get anything else Blackrock related (which I am of course not counting on getting anything more), this serves as a wonderful epilogue to their dynamic, especially with some of the main themes of Blackrock being about the cycle of violence and the question of 'can you heal from your traumas before they destroy what you care about most?' (mostly focusing on platonic/romantic relationships) with the answer being that 'your actions will change the relationship from what it otherwise would have been, but if and only if both parties want to heal the relationship and put in the necessary time and effort to do so, then the relationship can survive'. And here we are getting a sign that both of them are willing to do something to salvage their friendship. It will never be what it was in the Old World, but the friendship is not gone, it just has a new starting point.

[didnt-hear-idsb-live-again]

it's the 21st of December, and now they really are ringing the last bells.

December 22, 2018, the first day of what seems like Act II of my life, feels like a world and a daydream away.

it was the morning I woke up next to you for the first time, and hangover aside, I had a thousand things jumbling around in my brain - which would, very quickly, morph into a thousand more: will I ever see you again? what could things be if I do? is everyone outside of my emotionally abusive ex as wonderful as you? was it this simple all along? was I just lucky to find you? how can I just never see you again? what if I did? what if what country I lived in didn't render this all moot? If I come back, how am I supposed to leave? what hope exists for me in the world if not a fantasy about a man and a country I can't have? when can I go back? what would a life look like if I lived there? why isn't it that simple? do you ever think about me? do I matter to you at all? you changed my life but do you even care I'm alive, after all you are to me? what would happen if I ever saw you again?

will I ever in my life return to find out?

It is December 21, 2024, and, I am pleased to say, I have answered every single one of those questions. I have found every answer, and found all the new questions that stem out of them. I have answered them all, and I have pulled threads and spun webs from them into oblivion. I don't have all the answers in life, and I have a lot of new problems and questions that stemmed out of living in Australia for a year and then leaving. But I do have all the answers to all of the questions you could ever, and will ever, exist at the center of.

This year, I lived a long-forgotten dream; one thats floated around my heart since 2007, that was half-heartedly tried and abandoned in 2016, that I brushed with in 2018. One that you had been re-sparking and lighting the fire of ever since. It's a dream I would've never come any closer to than an uneventful 2 month vacation, if not for the kindness you showed me, and the emotions you lit under me as a result, 6 years ago.

This year, I walked by the steps of the Victoria State Library more times than I can count. I traced back the walk to your house, your old address burned into my mind forever, and I stared at your yard, paved over and with all the love and life it once contained from your friend group and your housemates, extinguished with cold pavement. I sat across from you in a coffee shop and fumbled over my words, a complete fool who is not good enough written over my every misstep, whether you noticed or not (I don't think you did). I walked the laneways you unknowingly changed my life on, a few steps behind you, as you recounted some of my favorite memories to a group of tourists who were seeing my favorite city for the first time, knowing smiles exchanged between us.

I saw everything flash before me, like it was a lifetime ago and like it was all happening again at 10000x speed within each of those moments.

I cradled the broken, scared, December 21, 2018 version of me as I did all of them, and I kept the December 21, 2019 version of me, who wrote the first post of many like this in a cold Brooklyn apartment - devoid of absolutely all hope in the world - fresh in my mind as I did all of those things. I cared for them both the way you would something you could crumble in the palm of your hand. Those versions of me never left, and I lived almost every precious moment I breathed in Melbourne in 2024 in service of them.

But I, and those versions of me, did more than that in Melbourne this year.

The city of you became my city, instead. I did walk 'Cornelia Street' again. A lot. And it stopped screaming your name. Now it screams Jack. Emily. Aya. Emma. Katie. Ruby. Jack. Logan. Taylah. Tim. Hannah. Juliana. Emelia. Rain. Maggie. Katie. Laura. Johnny. It screams Jungle Boy and skinny dipping in St Kilda Beach in the winter and it screams watching Disney movies with Emma and Josh and it screams walking barefoot down Flinders Street after the Eras Tour, and skipping down Fed Square in the moonlight after seeing Maisie Peters. It screams for dumplings in Emelia's very dirty apartment, going up to the roof and looking at the skyline. It screams the lyrics to Espresso and Karma and Too Sweet while we close up the bar. It screams of the coffee shop I frequented, and its white brick walls and the barista who knew me and the wildflowers in vases on each table. It screams of the taste of daiquiris and aged rum, of British accents and mornings with Jack in the South Yarra market. It screams of Aya's friendship and sitting on her couch, and The Eras Tour Movie and wine at Katie's house, in the same exact living room she hugged me while I cried over you 5 years prior.

I once, 5 years ago, cursed at the sky for the fact that I was a spec of dust on the windshield of your magnificent life; for the way I felt myself growing smaller and smaller on your horizon. I could feel it every second that passed, and it hurt. And alas, seeing you face to face again last October felt like the universe coming together to give me a gift, the kind of full-circle perfection I never even dared dream about, and shot down from anons on this blog for 5 straight years. A scene from a movie I never thought I might live to see. But that wasn't the end of the story. The end of the story was you, too, fading back on my horizon, and me filling the road up with light and life and color all my own. It shines like a type of gold that 2018 me never could have even imagined existed.

Your story is not the greatest story I will ever tell. It is not my favorite. The story I carved for myself in Melbourne in the past 365 days is my greatest. That is my favorite. And it's mine. Yours is just the origin story, and it exists to me like something out of Greek Mythology.

It is magnificent. And everything that will ever come after stems from you. But it has nothing to do with you anymore. You gave me the gift of a second chapter of my life; one where I wasn’t afraid of sex or men in general, and one where I fell in love with and yearned for your city. The rest is now on me to write and carry, and I’ve done it.

For those who have read these posts, every year, for the last 6 years, I thank you so deeply for being on this journey with me and for caring about me; for caring about this and my absurd emotions and the storybook of it that I have written myself into.

There's lots of analysis to be had and lots of essays and discussions of unpacking Australia itself for me, that I may well still do for the rest of my life.

But I do know that this is the post where we close his book. I once cried while driving across Brooklyn asking, "if the story's over, why am I still writing pages?" I see and hear it vividly in my mind still. I remember waiting at the same set traffic lights in Bed Stuy with tears streaming down my face like it was yesterday.

But now all the dots are connected, all the stones are unturned.

It’s funny and it’s ironic that How To Make Gravy by Paul Kelly, the song that mentions the date and was the soundtrack to December 21, 2018, lyrics of which had been the headlines of all these posts, is a tune about a phone call from a prison, where the narrator gets incredibly nostalgic (and a bit chaotic) about holidays past and future - I found myself embedded in this song, subconsciously or not: for many of these 6 years, America served as a prison for me, and I longed for Australia and the unwritten future I could have in it the way the narrator speaks about the future in the song; the gravy he swore to someday make again being my long fantasized return and the memories I left unhad. I didn’t think about it this literally, but I felt the rush of the correct emotions whenever I listened to it, and that was the reason why.

Well: I did it. I got outta there by July, and I made gravy. I made plenty.

Of December 21, 2018, there are no more pages to write. Only the folkloric legend of a man who gave a lost girl the hope and light and tools to, 6 years down the line, not only be well past the emotionally abusive relationship he healed her from, but to write and create something completely for herself, too.

I owe you to the end of everything for that, and I always will.

[officerwhitmore]

I Knew You Were Trouble

Somehow, in the hours after Vincent returned from the interrupted hookup with Tony, comforting Stella and June had turned into comforting Stella, which had turned into talking to Stella, which had turned into making love. It was immoral, given everything he’d done in the hours prior, but he couldn’t help but give in to the part of himself that had yearned for it for ages.

Stella laughed softly, the sound delicate in the stillness of the bedroom, her head resting on Vincent’s shoulder. The faint warmth of her breath brushed against his skin, sending a fleeting shiver down his spine. Beneath the covers, their bodies were pressed together, bare and vulnerable in the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. “God, I forgot how you always make those little whimpers when you thrust,” she murmured.

Vincent chuckled low in his throat, a self-deprecating sound. “Yeah, you used to tease me about that in high school.”

“I remember that,” said Stella, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. She sounded like she was smiling. “I thought it was cute.”

"You did?"

"Yeah, I did. Even back then, I knew most guys didn't make as much noise as you do during sex. My girlfriends always said I was lucky."

Vincent’s lips curled into a faint smile, but the thought gave him pause. His fingers ghosted over the curve of her spine, warm skin smooth beneath his calloused fingertips. “You told your girlfriends about me?” He smirked slightly, a bit incredulous. “Is that why Rachel was always looking at my crotch in Phys Ed?”

Stella let out a small, breathy laugh. “Probably. She never believed me when I said how long it was. I told her not to make it obvious.”

Vincent huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. “I’m a grower, not a shower,” he said. “Whatever she saw in my basketball shorts, it couldn’t have been much.”

Stella chuckled, soft and warm. "That's alright. It's like... it’s like a little jack-in-the-box, you know? Wind you up and it pops right out. You even sing a little song."

Vince scoffed, slightly offended, and cringed good-naturedly. "Jesus, Stella, 'little?'"

She laughed again, the warmth of her breath against his shoulder sending a strange mix of comfort and unease through him. “It’s perfect,” she said softly, her fingers brushing through the dark hair on his chest. Her tone carried an intimacy that made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t in a long time. From her, at least. He didn’t allow himself to think of Tony. “Feels good too.”

Vincent’s lips twitched upward despite himself. “Yeah?”

"Mhmm." Stella's fingertips drew swirls in the dark hair on his chest, long nails gently scratching at his skin. "Vincent, I... I really missed this.”

“So did I,” Vincent said, voice quiet, staring at the popcorn ceiling and counting Stella's breaths. “I wish we—”

“I know,” said Stella. She turned her face into his shoulder and nuzzled her nose against his skin, her soft yellow curls brushing his cheek. “Why is it always so hard?”

Vincent frowned, his lips pressing together as he considered her question. He didn’t have an answer, not one that wouldn’t make everything worse. “I’m, uh…” He tried for humor, his lips curling into a faint grin. “I’m actually pretty soft right now.”

Stella giggled, the sound unexpectedly bright in the darkened room. She shook his shoulder playfully before tilting her head up to meet his gaze. The sight of her smiling—really smiling—was enough to make something tighten in his chest. Her teeth caught the soft blue glow of moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains, and for a moment, Vincent could pretend that everything was fine.

“I’m surprised you found that funny,” he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. It wasn't supposed to leave his mouth, wasn't supposed to enter his mind at all, but he said it. Maybe it was the closeness, maybe it was the sex. In the moment, he felt he could be honest.

Stella’s eyes softened, her expression becoming something unreadable. Deep brown, warm and familiar, they held a depth he hadn’t noticed in so long. His mind betrayed him then, whispering that her eyes looked like Tony’s, dark and endlessly expressive. It was a terrible thing to think with his wife in his arms, looking up at him like she’d finally remembered how to love him again.

“I think I always have, to some extent,” Stella said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just… eventually I convinced myself I didn’t.”

Vincent furrowed his brows, tilting his chin down to meet her gaze. Her words didn’t make sense to him, not entirely. “Why?” he asked, his voice gentle but insistent.

Stella hesitated, her lips parting before she bit down on her bottom lip. Her hesitation was a weight in the room, pressing against him. “Because…” she began, her voice faltering as she searched for the right words. “Because I got tired, Vincent.”

The admission hung in the air between them, raw and vulnerable. Vincent felt his chest tighten as he pulled in a deep breath, his teeth grazing his own bottom lip in thought. He didn’t know what to say, but he felt the need to fill the silence, to offer her something. Anything.

“Does that make any sense?” she asked, her voice barely audible, tinged with uncertainty.

“It does,” Vincent said after a beat, his voice quiet and sincere. “It does. I mean it, I get feeling… tired.” Lonely. Empty. Desperate. He understood it more than she’d ever know.

“I think we should try to fix this,” Stella said, her tone tentative but resolute. “Us, I mean. Get serious about it. Therapy. Counseling. A… a program. Maybe.”

Vincent was so stunned by the suggestion of making an effort to fix the relationship that he hardly had the time to process the final suggestion: a program. For her drinking, presumably. Holy shit. She was serious. There were things he wanted to say — ‘Do you even think we have it in us anymore? The energy, the willpower?’ — but didn’t. He may have cheated, but he still owed it to his family to repair this if there was any chance of it being salvaged. They could reboot. Rebuilt. They could be happy again. “I think that sounds wonderful,” he said,, and he pulled her a bit closer with the hand on her back. “June needs an example of a healthy relationship in her life. We can’t just keep… doing this. Fighting. Screaming. Pretending.”

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. “You know?” he added softly, his gaze dropping to the top of her head.

Stella didn’t respond right away, and when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, trembling with emotion. “I wanna go home, Vincent.”

Vince’s chest seized up for a moment with that cold panic he always got at the thought of returning to Chicago. He knew what she meant — she wanted to move back there forever — but he couldn’t face that right now; needed to do anything possible to avoid it. “You’re gonna,” he said softly, running his fingers up and down her back. “Your flight takes off tomorrow evening—”

“No, Vincent, I—” Stella stammered a moment, shifting to lift her head up to look at him. “I mean, yes, I need to visit my family, but I want to go home. With you and June and — and the dog. I want to go back to what we had in Chicago.”

“Oh, Stella…” Vincent frowned, those nerves returning to his chest. They’d been over this before, and it sucked every time. “Stella, I can’t—”

“Vincent, please.” Stella sat up straighter, hand planted on his naked chest, looking straight into him with deep brown eyes. “I was happy there. We were happy there.”

And that was true. Vince couldn’t deny that. “We were happy until I got shot, Stella,” Vince said. It was a miracle he kept his voice soft, calm, mostly devoid of tremors. “Until my partner died in front of me. That city is broken, sweetheart. Neither of us can fix it ourselves.”

“Vincent, I know we can’t—”

“And think about June. We’d be throwing her into what might as well be a whole different planet. She’s not used to — god, think about how much worse it’s probably gotten, too. The drugs, the instability. We’d have to do homeschool, or private school, or—”

“Well, what about what I need, Vincent?” Stella said. Vincent wasn’t expecting to hear those words in that tone, less accusing and more begging, like she was pleading to be seen by a man who’d ignored her cries for help every step of the way. Was that really him? Was that what Vincent had done the whole time? He didn’t want to know the answer. “I’m not trying to be selfish, I know it sounds terrible, I just… I…”

Ghosting the backs of his fingertips across her cheek, Vincent gently pressed his thumb to her soft, pink lips to stop the next words before they came. ‘I feel trapped,’ is what they’d be. Or something like that. He knew. He pretended to be oblivious, but he knew what Washington did to her. But he just couldn't stand the thought of going back. “Hush, sweetie,” he said softly, and when he rubbed his thumb back and forth across her lips, he tried not to think of how Tony did the same to him. “Let’s put a pin in it. Okay? Tonight, let’s just enjoy this right now. It’s been a year, and… right now, I just wanna hold you. Okay?”

Stella’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Vincent smiled just a little, eyes tingling with the bitterness of the moment. Stella’s eyes were dark and sad when she looked at him, but she leaned her cheek into his hand a bit. “Okay, We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “Just.. don’t forget, okay?”

Vincent felt his lips twitch. “I won’t, sweetheart.”

“You promise?” asked Stella.

Vincent’s eyes turned soft, watery, his smile melting at the edges. “I promise, Stella.”

Vincent lay awake in bed long after she fell asleep with her head on his chest. Eyes boring holes into the popcorn ceiling, he told himself that they could fix this, restart, try again, because for all the lies he’d told her that evening, they’d made more progress in an hour than they had in the last three years. Holding her soft, warm body in his arms, Vincent could almost pretend he hadn’t broken their vows already. Could almost pretend he hadn’t spent the afternoon with a man who’d haunted his mind ever since. Could almost pretend that when he pulled her close and arched his back and came inside her, he hadn’t been thinking about Tony’s warm, glittering smile. Not even his cock or his hands or what he’d done to him. Just how he’d smiled at Vincent in a way that made him feel wanted. He tried to imagine Stella’s smile before he drifted to sleep, but found that without the help of a picture, he couldn’t recall what it looked like.

The next afternoon, when she turned around and gave him a kiss before boarding the ferry, he felt her smile against his lips, an old, nostalgic feeling that he found he’d dearly missed. But when they broke the kiss, he only saw it with his eyes for a moment — warm and bright, soft lips and straight teeth, brown eyes nearly auburn in the sunlight — before his phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting them both. ’I’ll check it later,’ he murmured, and then kissed her again. It wasn’t quite the same that time, but it was better than no kiss at all. Then she boarded the ferry and he hopped back in his car, opening his messages without a second thought. His heart stopped when he saw it was Tony, not just because it was him, but because he hadn’t gone into airplane mode, so the man could see that he’d read his messages.

‘I hope everything is okay?’ was what stood out the most. It brought back the memory of the man checking on him during their traffic stop, soothing him when he’d pressed himself against the wall in shame, looking at him with warm, thoughtful eyes as Vincent blubbered in his lap about how overwhelmed he was. Vincent wasn’t even with him in person, and Tony was still concerned for his well-being. Somehow, this time was the most dangerous of all of them. Vincent could convince himself he’d misremembered the others; could tell himself he’d been hysterical and misinterpreted Tony’s words and body language, but these were concrete letters that couldn't be denied by anything. Tony cared. After all the bullshit Vincent had put him through, he still gave a damn. Vincent considered for a moment that he was just trying to get back into his pants, but for one: he could find anyone else for that, and for two: Tony was just so goddamned sweet, Vincent was halfway convinced that he didn’t even know what an ulterior motive was.

God, he was dangerous. Just as dangerous over text as he had been in person, kissing all over him, cradling his jaw, growling, ’You’re mine.’ Dangerous because even miles away in his SUV with a stress headache and an uncomfortably full bladder, the man still had the power to make Vince’s chest flutter and melt, his body turning warm in a way it hadn’t even as he sank himself into Stella’s wet heat and heard her moan his name for the first time in ages.

Stella. He loved her still, despite everything. Wanted to make things work with her, wanted to fix the marriage for June. In order to do that, he couldn’t see Tony ever again. Tony was dangerous. Impossibly so. Vincent would end up dead trying to juggle both lives at once, and the only person in this equation who deserved that grief was him.

He stopped himself halfway through a message, chewing the inside of his cheek as he watched the letters delete themselves. He blocked Tony’s number, but didn’t delete it, then proceeded to convince himself that he didn’t know why he didn’t do both. Even as he drove home with the music deafeningly loud in hopes of drowning out his thoughts, Vincent’s brain still spared a bit of energy to think about how goofy it was that Tony had messaged him in code. After that, he tried not to think about Tony ever again.

Somehow, he managed to convince his boss to approve his emergency PTO to watch June in Stella’s absence. Two weeks? Three weeks? Neither of them were entirely sure, but he had more than enough to cover it. He spent the first two days helping her family make funeral arrangements from afar, calling places back and forth and sending Stella’s father links of various child-sized coffins, which was about as much of a bummer as one could reasonably expect. Admittedly, he hadn’t spoken to her family much at all in the decade since he moved Stella to Coldwater, but he could tell that something had changed between them in the time they hadn’t spoken. In their prime, Stella’s father had had nothing but good things to say about Vincent, sharing jokes and calling him ‘son’ no matter how visibly uncomfortable Vincent was with it. Nowadays, on every call, he was cold and distant in a way that was uncharacteristic even for a man who'd been through a very recent tragedy. Vincent quickly got the hint that Stella’s family no longer liked him, even as they accepted his long-distance assistance. Stella’s calls and texts, which had started out warm and affectionate when she boarded the ferry, had returned to their typical cold tone in a matter of days. Given all the things she’d likely told them about Vince, it was no surprise that her family didn’t like him anymore. Therefore, it shouldn’t have come to him as any surprise when her ‘let’s fix things’ attitude changed on a dime upon reuniting with them.

Vincent hadn’t had much hope in a proper revival of the marriage to begin with, but he tried to hold on to what little remained. June had seemed thrilled to see their change in dynamic before Stella left for Chicago, and that alone was enough to convince him that he still had to try — even if trying meant sending heartfelt text messages only to get curt responses and red heart emojis that made him want to throw his phone off a bridge and then follow it over.

He wasn’t used to being off work, and he wasn’t used to having the house to himself. The silence felt too loud, every creak of the floorboards and hum of the refrigerator amplifying the thoughts he didn’t want to face. When June was at school, he tried to keep busy, picking up a book only to find his eyes glazing over the same paragraph three or four times. When reading didn’t hold his focus, he turned to video games, shooting pixelated enemies in a desperate bid to drown out his own mind. When he got bored of that, he cleaned—scrubbing counters, organizing closets, anything to distract himself from the gnawing guilt that had taken residence in his chest.

But no matter how much he busied himself, it was still there, coiled tight and heavy, like a lead weight in his stomach. He thought about Tony more than he wanted to admit, every memory of the man a mix of warmth and shame that left him feeling split in two. Eventually, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d lock himself in the bathroom and jerk off, his mind flickering to the moments he spent with Tony—the way his hands felt, the way he looked at him. It wasn’t about lust, not entirely. It was about the way Tony made him feel seen, wanted, and how that feeling contrasted so violently with the guilt of betraying Stella.

The cycle repeated itself every day until June came home, her laughter cutting through the quiet like sunlight breaking through clouds. With her around, the weight lifted, and the house felt alive again. She gave him purpose, grounding him in the present and forcing him to set aside the constant, suffocating tug-of-war in his mind. Her presence made everything easier, even if it was only temporary. When she was home, he could almost convince himself that he hadn’t ruined everything. Almost.

At first, they kept busy. Afternoons turned into marathon Battletoads sessions, complete with playful trash talk and June’s occasional victory dances when she bested him. Other days, they curled up on the couch under a shared blanket, watching old Disney movies and arguing over which one had the best songs. Vince always stood by The Lion King, while June staunchly defended Mulan. They baked cookies once—an idea Vince regretted the moment flour dusted the counters and chocolate chips melted into smudges on the floor. But the look on June’s face when they bit into the gooey, slightly misshapen cookies made the mess worthwhile.

Still, the novelty wore off quicker than Vince anticipated. After a few days of the same routine, they started running out of things to do. June noticed it first, her boundless energy clashing with Vince’s more subdued pace. “Daddy,” she said one afternoon, sprawled across the living room rug with her chin propped on her hands. “We’re boring.”

Vince raised an eyebrow from the couch, where he was attempting to beat his own high score in Tetris. “We’re not boring.”

“Yes, we are. All we do is play games and watch movies. Can we do something fun?”

“This isn’t fun?” he teased, gesturing at her with the controller.

“No,” she said flatly, then perked up. “Hey! Let’s go to Fright Fest!”

Vince sighed, already exhausted by the thought. Pinecrest Plaza’s Halloween festival was famous for its crowd-drawing antics, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy for that level of chaos. “You sure you don’t just wanna stay home and bake another batch of cookies?”

June groaned, rolling onto her back and flailing her arms dramatically. “Nooo! Fright Fest, Daddy! Please? It’s only here for, like, a couple weeks!”

Her excitement was infectious, and eventually, Vince gave in. “Alright,” he said, setting the controller aside. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Costumes and all.”

That declaration set off a whirlwind of planning. June dove into her closet, pulling out every piece of clothing she thought could be repurposed into something spooky or silly. When nothing quite worked, Vince suggested the simplest option: a classic sheet ghost. They spent the evening measuring her height against an old pillowcase, cutting out eye holes, and debating whether or not to add jagged edges to the bottom.

That night, she was ready to go, and so was Vince—though he stuck to his usual slacks and sweater, claiming he’d be the ghost’s 'dad escort.' They had a blast at Fright Fest, playing carnival-style games, running through the haunted maze, and stuffing themselves with caramel apples and kettle corn. June’s laughter echoed through the crisp autumn air, and for the first time in weeks, Vince felt like he could breathe again.

On Saturday, June wanted more. This time, she unearthed a too-small fairy costume from the depths of her closet. “It still fits!” she insisted as Vince helped her wiggle into the glittery tulle.

“Barely,” he said with a laugh, but he didn’t fight her on it aside from making her wear a pair of shorts beneath it.

They returned to Fright Fest, June in her sparkly wings and Vince, once again, costumeless. As they walked among the vendors and performers, she tugged at his sleeve. “You need a costume next time, daddy.”

“I don’t need a costume, monkey, you’re pretty enough for both of us,” he argued, though the look she gave him suggested otherwise.

That night, while June slept, Vince scrolled through Amazon, half-heartedly searching for ideas. Then he saw it: a Star Wars costume set. Princess Leia for June, Obi-Wan for himself. He added it to his cart without hesitation, grateful for weekend delivery.

Sunday morning, he woke June up with a surprise. Standing in her doorway with the costumes draped over his arm, he grinned. “Guess who’s saving the galaxy today?”

June gasped, shooting upright in bed. “No way!” She scrambled to grab the Leia outfit, holding it up to her chest. “This is so cool, Daddy! You’re actually dressing up?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, smirking. “But yeah, I’m dressing up.”

June pumped a fist in the air with a full-throated “WOOO!” and Vince was too busy laughing to care much about how his left ear suddenly couldn’t hear so great anymore.

It was around 4:00 PM that they made it into the SUV, June’s dark hair coiled into two perfect space buns and Vince’s hands aching like a pianist with arthritis because he’d spend thirty minutes getting them just right. June chose her own music as soon as he powered the car on, having happily assumed the role of Music Dictator ever since she’d been allowed to regularly sit in the front seat. Three days ago, Vincent would’ve complained when she turned on pop music, but to his own horror and dismay, he’d become used to it.

Vincent tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, keeping one eye on the road and the other on June in the passenger seat, who was bouncing and belting out Taylor Swift with the kind of unabashed enthusiasm only a ten-year-old could muster. June had one hand in the air, fingers splayed dramatically as she sang, the other clutching the hem of her white Leia dress, which she’d been fussing over since they left the house. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her space buns wobble a little whenever she hit a particularly powerful note.

“Once upon a time, a few mistakes ago…” she sang, eyes closed, putting her whole heart into it, “I was in your sights, you got me alone…”

Vince joined in, deepening his voice comically and leaning toward her, his fake Jedi robe swaying with the motion. “You found me, you found me—”

“You found me-e-e-e-e,” they both sang, drawing out the note until it turned into something closer to a howl. Vince let his voice go ridiculous and warbly, and June cracked up, doubling over with laughter, her hand flying to her mouth. He felt that familiar warmth in his chest—this was what he loved most about these moments with her, the easy laughter, the way they fell into each other’s silliness so naturally.

“Daddy, you’re ruining it!” June laughed, straightening up and taking a mock-serious breath to dive back into the chorus. “I knew you were trouble when you walked in…”

“Shame on me now!” Vince joined in, raising his eyebrows in a dramatic expression of mock regret.

“Flew me to places I’d never been…” June sang back, her voice lowering, and Vince matched her, leaning forward as if he were channeling all the regret of a Jedi master.

“Now I’m lyin’ on the cold hard ground—”

They both lost it, barely making it through the next line. Vince’s laughter mingled with hers, his heart light, his worries a distant thing this evening. He stole a quick glance at her, memorizing the joy on her face, the gleam of her braces, the dimples that would probably disappear by the time she was grown.

Ahead of them, Fright Fest glimmered in the distance, a soft, festive glow cutting through the October night. Twinkling strings of orange and purple lights draped the trees like enchanted cobwebs, casting flickering shadows on the ground below. Inflatable ghosts swayed gently in the breeze near the entrance, their bulbous forms glowing faintly as if welcoming visitors to their haunted haven. The scene unfolded with charming vibrancy: booths offering games and prizes lined the central path, while smaller tents bustled with food vendors from local businesses, their signs promising everything from warm apple cider to freshly baked pumpkin cookies.

The entrance was framed by grinning jack-o’-lanterns and skeletal figures, their details illuminated by hidden LED lights that made them seem alive in the shadows. It wasn’t a massive festival—just a cozy neighborhood event—but it had a warmth and whimsy that felt larger than life. Against the black canvas of the sky, Fright Fest looked like something pulled straight from a Halloween movie, every glowing detail brimming with charm and magic.

“Ready, Princess Leia?” he asked, turning down the volume a little as they parked nearby.

She grinned, smoothing down the front of her dress like she was about to meet royalty. “Always ready, Obi-Wan.”

Vincent chuckled, grinning. “That’s the spirit.”

“The HALLOWEEN spirit!”

Now that the volume was down, Vincent jumped a little, pausing halfway to the keychain to raise his hand to his ear, wheezing a laugh. ”Jeesus, Junie — inside voices when we’re in the car, alright?”

“Okay!” June shouted, just as loud. If she noticed anything wrong with her response, it wasn’t evident in her expression, her whole body practically vibrating with energy. Glancing down at her lap, Vincent found that she was quite literally white-knuckling their lightsabers in her clenched fists.

“You are really excited for me to wear a costume, aren’t you?” Vincent asked, chuckling a little.

“Yes!” June shouted. “Let’s go!”

She tossed him a lightsaber and he caught it on a flinch a moment before it whacked him in the face. By the time he looked back up at her, the passenger door was slamming shut and June was gone. Vincent chuckled a little to himself, shaking his head and turning off the car. Catching his own reflection in the rearview mirror, Vincent thought to himself that if Stella hadn’t left for Chicago the day after the affair, she might wonder why the ‘seatbelt rash’ on his neck was still there after a week. By the time he resurfaced from that dark thought, his grin had vanished. He grabbed his things and hopped out of the SUV before it could get any worse.

Fright Fest was admittedly quite a bit more interesting when Vince was in. The festival was alive with laughter and the hum of families moving from booth to booth, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the Halloween lights. June tugged at Vincent’s hand constantly, her energy contagious as she pulled him toward various activities. They played a ring toss game where she nearly got a prize, painted mini pumpkins together at the craft station, and stopped to watch a spooky puppet show featuring skeletons that danced to a pop remix of Thriller. Everywhere they went, people smiled at them, and more than a few complimented their costumes.

“You two look great,” one woman in a witch’s hat said with a grin as they passed. June beamed up at Vince, clutching her little Princess Leia blaster tightly.

“Thanks!” she chirped, nudging her father to say something too. Vince nodded politely, his Obi-Wan robe swishing as they moved on.

It was when they were near the food tents that another compliment came from a woman dressed as a dominatrix, complete with a leather corset and a whip dangling from her belt. “Love the Star Wars look,” she said, her smirk pointed and teasing as her gaze lingered on Vince’s face for a moment too long.

“Uh, thanks,” he said quickly, his cheeks heating up as he instinctively pulled June closer. She barely noticed, already scanning the horizon for the next attraction, but Vince found himself highly disturbed by the whole exchange. Jesus, it’s a family event, he thought, glancing at her outfit again before politely steering June in the opposite direction. Hot, but… seriously?

The food area was bustling with delicious smells—grilled meat, fried dough, sugary caramel apples—and Vince’s stomach growled as they wandered past the various booths. “How about that one?” he suggested, pointing toward a stand advertising loaded baked potatoes.

"Look, Daddy! It’s the cook from the diner! Johnny Cage!"

It was like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. June’s voice, so gleeful and innocent, bounced around in his skull, but he couldn’t make sense of it. His feet felt rooted to the ground, his body refusing to cooperate as dread clawed its way up his spine. No, no, no. Don’t let it be him. Please, god, fuck, not here.

His neck stiffened as he forced himself to turn in the direction she was pointing, every muscle in his body bracing for the worst. And there he was.

Tony.

The Drifter's Diner banner stretched lazily above him, flapping gently in the breeze as he stood at the booth. A red flannel hung open over a tattered shirt, the fabric hugging his chest and shoulders in a way Vince felt in the pit of his stomach. The werewolf makeup on Tony’s face wasn’t just good—it was damn near Hollywood quality. His cheekbones looked sharper under the dark contouring, his brows furrowed with dramatic shading, and there were claw marks painted down his neck, the streaks of red and silver a striking contrast against his tan skin. Even his beard had been dusted with a hint of gray, giving him an aged, wild edge that Vince couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

Tony wasn’t just dressed up. He looked incredible. Too incredible.

The sight of him hit Vince like a punch to the gut, every detail drawing up memories he’d been trying—and failing—to bury. He could still feel Tony’s hands on him, gripping his hair, pulling him close; his lips dragging along his jaw, his voice low and growling, calling him mine. The heat that shot through Vince was immediate, shameful, and he swallowed hard, his mouth dry as his gaze lingered on the way the tattered shirt clung to Tony’s frame. His chest rose and fell as he worked, large hands deftly wrapping up a taco and handing it off to a kid in a demon costume who barely muttered a thanks.

It wasn’t just the costume, the physique, or the way his sleeves were rolled up to show off forearms that could make someone weak in the knees. It was the way he carried himself—easy, confident, like he owned every inch of space around him. And Vince? Vince was rooted to the spot, his pulse thrumming so hard it felt like his ribs might crack under the strain. He tried to find something—anything—to say, but all he could do was stand there, staring at him, his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

The air between them felt electric, like it might snap if Vince moved an inch. His chest was tight, every breath shallow, and for a brief, panicked moment, he thought he might actually pass out. He tried, he really did, to find a way out of this. “June, maybe we should—” But her grip on his hand tightened, her determination unwavering as she tugged him forward, her little Leia buns bouncing with each step.

“Daddy, come on!” she insisted, her excitement contagious in any other context but now.

Every nerve in Vince’s body screamed at him to turn around, to steer her toward another booth, to find literally any excuse to avoid this. But he couldn’t say no to her. Not when her eyes sparkled like that, not when her smile was so wide and unguarded. His stomach churned as she pulled him closer, and before he could stop it, they were standing at the edge of the booth. Tony was right there, barely a few feet away. Vince’s heart slammed against his ribs as he watched the man wrap up the last taco and turn slightly, his movements fluid and relaxed. God, he looks incredible, Vince thought bitterly, his jaw tightening as he tried to keep his composure. Every inch of him felt like it was on fire, his mind a chaotic mess of regret, guilt, and something else he didn’t want to name.

June didn’t hesitate, stepping right up to the counter with the unshakable confidence only a kid her age could have. “Hi, Mr. Werewolf!” she said brightly, her voice cutting through the buzz of the festival. “Obi-Wan and I are gonna get food and cotton candy! You should come with us!”

Vince blinked rapidly, forcing his legs to move as he stepped forward on autopilot, his fatherly instincts taking the reins even though his mind was screaming at him to run. He reached out and put a gentle hand on her shoulder, his voice steadier than he felt. “Ah-ah,” he said, managing a faint smile. “Don’t forget the stipulation. We’re gonna get food and maybe cotton candy if you’re a good girl.”

June’s grin widened, unbothered by the correction. “Oh yeah. We’re gonna get food and most likely cotton candy. Come on!”

@tex-mex-tony

[omgkalyppso]

9, 18! (from @bladesandbhaalspawn)

Thank you for the ask! ヾ(•ω•`)o

9. What did they do for work/to get by?

I'm so embarrassed that I didn't give Étoile a "day job," but every d&d setting I've ever played has had an Adventurer's Guild, and having made their mother my Skyrim Dragonborn oc, it felt fine at the time to make Étoile's profession "Adventurer."

I imagine a lot of work obtained from the Adventurer's Guild can look like mercenary work, such as protecting scholars as they research something dangerous or travel from place to place, or being hired to drive a cult out of a particular land, or collect so many vials of gelatinous cube, etc. But that being a part of the Adventurer's Guild means swearing off taking additional mercenary work or a promise to direct potential employers into going through the AG so that you're not hired in competition to your fellow guild members by those bandits, that cult, etc.

I think Adventurers are largely paid well / are more likely than the average person to come across rare and magical artifacts and other items that can be sold to stay afloat, but on the occasion that this income needed to be supplemented that Étoile wouldn't be opposed to odd jobs; painting a house, fixing a wall, helping someone move from one place to the next, dock-work, and they aren't a doctor but a few applications of Lay On Hands has to be worth something.

18. What did they want to be when they were younger?

I don't think there was something they wanted to be so much as there were things they wanted to see! They wanted to see the world! They wanted to feel prepared to leave their little home on their mountain and see what lay at the bottom of it, and beyond; to see how people lived across the Sea of Stars, etc.

They wanted to be respected, like they imagined (or perceived) their mother Wylla to be. Whether she's just coincidentally respected in Étoile's presence because the only people who they meet in her company are members of her werewolf pact and paladin order, and community members who have benefited from her actions directly, or because she was actually a respectable woman, her reputation would have stood out more to a young Étoile who felt like an assistant or apprentice to their mothers' works.

Étoile definitely had a period where they worried they'd falter and spend the entirety of their life in Aranea's temple to Auril / Azura, or that in Wylla's absence that Aranea would force them to stay, but Wylla trained them to be a paladin and Aranea nurtured their faith to ensure that when they felt othered because of it or their upbringing that they'd still be able to continue on and pursue those other desires of wanderlust.

It wasn't really until the illithid parasite that they went through anything traumatic enough that made them homesick.

[hulloitsdani]

What do u think Kiran is

How do u think the order sees kiran

*slowly sits up in my chair*

I think Kiran is a very normal person. This is someone you and I have met before. Be that from the other side of grocery store cashier, waiting in the same elevator, or walking by on a crosswalk. Kiran is a civilian from our world trying to roll with the punches of being warped somewhere completely alien. And you can see it in how they conduct themselves.

I always have a lot of fun writing Kiran’s dialogue because their casual modern speech almost feels like a dialect in comparison to the more formal fantasy tone everyone else speaks with. An “ain’t” will never exit Alfonse’s mouth, you know? And there’s a difference in “Do you have gold?” vs “You got gold?” To me, this gives Kiran an air of unfamiliarity to anyone they interact with. Let’s use Grima as an example, because it doesn’t sound like this grammatical change would make much of difference until Kiran has the audacity to hit Grima with a bro mid sentence. But that’s just how they talk. And as sweet and friendly as they are, there’s always moments like that to remind that no one has the cultural context to fully understand Kiran. Except for the audience, who can realize that Kiran let the customer service voice drop to talk to Grima like he’s an actual person.

And that’s just about how they talk! This view is only emphasized by every other thing about them! They’re a lovable goof, which is normal chill person behavior in the audience’s eyes but feels REALLY ODD to the characters of FE’s medieval fantasy war setting. There is this air of unknown about them that the more socially perceptive will pick up on and will try to come to a conclusion about. Example, I imagine Soren would interpret a lot of this as a dangerous and deeply annoying lack of intelligence from someone he has the displeasure of sharing a tactics table with. Or looping back to the Grima example, he would totally think Kiran has greedy ulterior motives behind that pleasant facade. It takes a lot of work for those types to realize that the discrepancy present isn’t really any of those things. But I also wouldn’t be too surprised if Kiran doesn’t try to directly prove any of those assumptions wrong unless they have to.

Why? Well now it’s time for the implications! Oh how we love the implications.

Because the Summoner is a different story. No one has any fucking clue what that is.

I can tell you what Kiran has pieced together so far. Summoning people from across time and space is apparently not easy. It’s not some school of magical study that some mage could pull off with enough time and research. Trust, Eitri tried. It’s a lot of complex moving parts. For example, the contracts. The contracts Kiran automatically binds their summoned to don’t even compare to the ones Veronica used in book 1. They are far more intense and infinitely harder to break. The only way out of them is if Kiran wills it so. Not even death is an option, because Kiran can come in for the revive. If they had to guess, it’s an older, more completed version of the art. Something lost to time. But no matter the case, Kiran has the ability to take full control of whoever they manage to summon. From a lowly farmer to the divine. And their power only grows.

In a similar vein, if there was any character to canonically see the hud, I think it would be Kiran. It’s genuinely part of their power set. I have previously described Kiran as the party mage until Veronica shows up to be the actual mage, but it would be way more accurate to call them a mystic/seer. They see the map, everyone’s stats, and is doing a fast amount of math to give the combat forecast. Then, upon processing all this information their enemies couldn’t dream of having at their disposal, Kiran can telepathically communicate any change in plans to anyone under contract. Kiran is not inherently some great tactician the moment they touch ground in Askr; they simply can do things no one else can. They’re learning the actual tactics part on the fly. This makes them simultaneously the largest ace up the Order’s sleeve and potentially its biggest liability. If they fall, it could cause a whole system cascade. By that same token, some of the biggest threats the Order has faced are the ones who do their research and rightfully target Kiran.

Now. Thinking critically about all that. That’s downright terrifying. A ridiculous amount of power has been dropped callously into Kiran’s lap and they have to work extremely hard to be moral with it. It’s terrifyingly easy not to be. It would actively take less effort to ‘take the reins’ as it were. But in order to be able to sleep at night ever again, they go the extra mile to not invalidate the will of their summoned. To take over like that. To make a colony of worker bees out of people. Because oh dear god they just summoned a child and the fact that they could easily force them to fight and die for them, only to be revived and do it all over again, is HAUNTING. No. No the Order has an in house orphanage now. This kid is getting adopted and cared for god damnit or Kiran might just pop a blood vessel. And sure that child is going to be a child and there will never be a world where they get along with everyone else, but that’s just going to need be a problem they address when they get there and not an excuse to use Hubris; the power set. Now replace the word child with everyone they ever summoned and you have the wider philosophy they apply to the entire Order.

They’re hyper aware of the power imbalance. They hate it with every bone in their body. They work really hard to correct it in whatever way they can.

So Kiran might not jump on the opportunity to correct those who think lesser of them. It’s… oddly comforting to know someone is keeping a critical eye on them. Holding them accountable. Especially since so much of the order just thinks of them as this quirky yet well meaning host. And, really, what can they even do about that? They have gone over the contract with every hero they summon and despite that they still choose to stay. So, what, do they try to inspire more mistrust? The problem with that they would have to actually do acts that intentionally inspire mistrust. And even if that was successful they can’t just waste the extra man power because every other month there’s some new divine asshole who wants them all dead. And if they fail that means they have to start their life from square one and god they can’t do that again so—

Just breathe Kiran.

It’s fine. You’re fine. Just breathe.

You have work to do.

[i-havenothingelsetopost]

genuine question, do you like maths?? i have a vague feeling i saw your post of tags or something that said something about it but i cannot figure out if it was in fact you or if it was even positive ahahah

Yeah that was me! I don't go looking for math problems, but when I happen to do them, I tend to enjoy it. Wasn't always this way — elementary school math was about speed and memorization and I hated that — but I had a really good teacher in upper secondary school, and it became about creative problem solving. It feels the same as writing a poem in meter or managing to untangle a really bad knot in a ball of yarn.

[nguyenfinity]

[blasts you with miscellaneous rinky doodles from our heartbeat event]