#i have spent the entire week thinking about him

[shy-writer-999]

How many dreams to say "I love you"? (iii)

Summary: Zoro hasn't been able to stop having dreams about you, his best friend and crewmate. When he goes a few days without one, he thinks he's in the clear. Surely, realizing that he's in love with you is enough to make the dreams stop entirely, right? Right?

Part 3 of 4. ~3.6k words. (read part 1 here!) CW: Equal parts smut and plot. Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Sex! Love-making! Mentions of death, danger, and blood. NSFW content - minors stay away!

Part 3: Scattered polaroids.

Zoro had three whole nights of solace after he realized he was in love with you—three nights of no dreams, three nights of long and restful sleep.

After the third night, he was under the impression that the dreams had ceased entirely. The realization that he loved you was the cure for his sickness, he told himself. Now, he could pine after you from afar during the day and sleep peacefully, minding his business at night.

He did just that. For those three days, during his waking hours, he tried to calculate how to get closer to you. He put together nonsensical equations in his mind over how, why, and for how long he had been in love—he could, and would, keep doing this all day until he returned to his bed, savoring each smile from you.

Evidently, the conversation he overheard between you and Nami was the catalyst for the chain reaction of psychological warfare he had withstood for over a week—the end result was a euphoric crescendo of emotions, his realization that he was capable of romantic love and that his heart had been screaming for attention for months.

But what was there to do about it?

More importantly, did you feel the same?

Zoro needed to find out. He wanted to get to the bottom of everything—the conversation, who you had been talking about, why you were having a hard time being lonely around them, and how you felt about him.

While the swordsman did the mental math of what that discussion may look like between the two of you, he felt sick. He had fought dangerous foes of every kind and been on the verge of death many times before, but nothing ever gave him nerves like this.

If you had feelings for someone, would you tell them? He wondered about you, the sorts of decisions you made, how you would act and feel. If he got to the bottom of this situation and discovered that you had feelings for someone other than him, would he be able to cope with the jealousy?

Jealousy.

The emotion started to seethe when he thought about someone other than himself being with you. It boiled inside when he watched Sanji fawn over you, touch the small of your back, and whisper compliments in your ear. Every bashful smile and flutter of your eyelashes in Sanji’s direction twisted some dial inside of Zoro. Too many twists would prove troublesome. Explosive, even.

He knew that that this emotion, envy, had been there for ages before he recognized how he felt about you. It didn’t feel good, and he knew it was unhealthy. Various images and memories flashed through his mind as he recalled instances in which he felt this same burning envy frequently coupled with a fierce desire to protect you.

Zoro tried to comfort himself with the knowledge of what sort of person you were—if you had a problem with Sanji, or with any other person, you would have said something, no? He was certain that you wouldn’t hesitate to stand your ground.

But that thought was less of a comfort than he initially thought it would be, because you hadn’t ever reprimanded the blonde for his advances (that Zoro knew of), but you did shoo him away sometimes. Your smile felt restrained and reserved whenever it was sent in Sanji’s direction. It looked different than the smiles you gave Zoro.

Well, there was no point in getting himself worked up over the dynamic in question. Nothing would change, probably, unless he did something about it.

It had been a while since you and Zoro last spent time together, one on one. And he thought you had been a bit quieter than usual, recently, so… might as well catch up. Maybe spending some time with you would soothe his heart—it felt like it was aching any time you weren’t around, and when you were around it felt like it was on fire. He didn’t know how to cope other than find ways and excuses to spend time with you.

His solution was… lunch. Practical, at the very least, if not the most effective.

On the morning after his third night of restful sleep, Zoro asked you if you’d like to have lunch with him under one of the trees on the deck of the Sunny. This was nothing too out of the ordinary. He grabbed food, some drinks and some napkins and brought them out to you.

When Zoro handed you your plate, you smiled up at him from where you sat and he felt like he would pass out. He had absolutely no clue how to handle this recently unlocked feeling—the feeling of love—and he was trying to act as normal as possible. He was, all things considered, succeeding. 

He didn’t have much trouble acting ‘normal,’ per say. He was simply hyperaware of how beautiful you were, how fast his heartbeat was, and how blisteringly intense your eye contact was. He had noticed inklings of this before, but he was reminded, strongly. Every moment that your eyes met his, his heart fluttered. He was trying not to blush. It felt very out of character.

“How have you been recently?” Zoro tried to start the conversation casually.

“I’m fine,” you responded with a smile, like usual. “The same as ever. What about you?”

Zoro wondered if that was worth pressing you on, since you seemed a bit sad, or distant, or something along those lines. He decided it was worth it. Ignoring your question to him, he followed up.

“You sure you’re fine? You’ve been a bit quiet recently.”

You tried to brush it off. You had been quieter recently, and for good reason. You thought he didn’t know the reason, but he did. At least, he knew the bare bones of it. Something along the lines of feeling lonely.

“Ah, yeah. I guess I have been a bit down recently.” You responded, trying to hold your smile and pretend like your heart wasn’t crying inside. He studied your face closely, and you could tell.

“Why’s that?”

You had a brief internal battle over whether or not you would be candid with him, but you didn’t have it in you that day and the scenery wasn’t anywhere near private enough. You lied. “No reason, really. I’m not quite sure why.”

“If you ever want to talk about it, let me know.” Zoro smiled sweeter than you had ever seen and then dropped the subject. His smile was uncharacteristically sweet. Heart-stoppingly sweet. Painfully sweet. It was like a dagger.

You told him thanks and the conversation moved on. As a whole, lunch was enjoyable. Afterwards, you both felt significantly more at ease. To spend time together always brought your respective spirits up. It was a great dynamic—no wonder Zoro was in love with you.

Zoro told himself that he should just keep checking on you and go even more out of his way to spend time with you. He’d double down. Maybe it was lunch today, and then tomorrow it could be dinner. And after that, he’d ask you to watch the sunset with him in the crow’s nest. Or would he whisk you away and confess his feelings in his cabin? He was scrambled in the head, confused by that classic paradox of choice, where there are so many options that you’re incapable of choosing one. Was it even the right call to tell you how he felt? Would it screw everything up?

“Oh, Zoro?” Your voice stopped him in his tracks down the hallway after lunch. “Want to have some drinks tomorrow night? It’s been a minute since we caught up. You stood me up last time, remember?”

You were joking, but it was true. Last time Zoro asked you to have some drinks with him after a hard training session he completely forgot and fell asleep. You both laughed about it afterwards, and you used it to poke fun at him sometimes.

He agreed. "Yeah, drinks tomorrow night. I promise."

That was one problem solved.

DREAM 10: Un-solved

That night Zoro dreamed about you. It broke up that momentary peace he had of three nights with no dreams—it seems the internal turmoil of the day was enough to evoke a vivid and striking dream, unlike any others he had before.

Zoro found himself in a dimly lit bedroom lying on a big bed. The sheets and blankets were smooth and plushy. He could hear someone breathing next to him and he knew that you were there.

Turning his head, he saw that you were lying on your side facing away from him, completely nude, hair sitting perfectly on a silk pillowcase. The sheets were pulled down, so he could see your whole silhouette. In the dream, Zoro could feel himself compelled by something, reaching out a hand to pull you closer to him so your bodies were flush.

He smelled your hair, felt how soft your skin was, and ran a rough hand up and down the side of your body, trying to memorize every inch. He ran a palm over your hips and down your thighs, felt your back, shoulders, and waist; he was drinking up every second that his hands wandered over your skin, like your body was an oasis and he was dying of thirst.

You let out an indistinct noise. He couldn’t hear it well enough. It sounded like a sigh. As his hands moved, you stirred, turning your shoulder into his, giving him more access.

The faint sound trickled out of your mouth again, this time audible. Your voice sounded sleepy, sweet and faint. “Zoro.” He could feel his heart trip when his name fell from your lips.

Your hand groped back to grip his thigh and you whispered his name again. “Zoro. More.”

He snuck his hand from your hip to your front, starting to knead and cup your breasts. His fingers elicited another hushed entreaty from your lips. “Zoro. More.”

Suddenly aware of his hard-on pressing on you, his hand lingered on your chest and he began to kiss you. He started with you shoulder blade, marking a trail of kisses up to your neck, taking in deep breaths of your hair and skin. His kisses were soft and loving, coaxing more pleasant sighs from you.

He wanted to taste every inch of you, to draw out those sounds and muffled noises that he was starting to become acquainted with (at least, in his dreams).

Zoro lavished your skin with affection and care for a few moments, and you said his name again. Every time you said his name, it felt like every nerve in his body buzzed.

“Zoro. I need you.”

The dream fogged up and transformed. He was leaning over you from between your legs, missionary style. You were looking up at him, eyes pleading, hair ruffled just right.

Zoro’s erection was positioned right at your entrance, precum beading and pooling around his red, angry tip. The scene was vivid—his mind replicated every facet of what this would look and feel like in real life, down to each atom of detail. It was absurd.

He gawked at you, eyes jumping between your needy face and pouting lips and your glistening core. One of his hands was stroking his shaft leisurely, and the other gripped your waist.

“Please, Zoro.”

As your begging reached his ears, he slowly pressed into you, letting out a hiss of air through his teeth when he bottomed out because it felt so good. You gasped and the sound felt heavenly in his ears.

“Fuuuccckk, Zoro.”

He leaned in to kiss you, bringing a hand to cup your cheek. Your lips were still locked when he started slowly rocking his hips into yours, dragging his cock in and out of you slowly.

You felt amazing, so warm and wet around him, squeezing him perfectly. He sped up, finding the perfect pace. As his hips rolled into yours, you began to moan his name, mewling it into his mouth as he explored yours with his tongue.

Zoro reached a hand and pushed one of your thighs down, allowing for the deepest angle possible. He wanted to hit your g-spot just right; he wanted to make you feel good, wanted to see your eyes roll back in your head and hear his name as many times as possible.

The dreamscape transformed again, just slightly. He was in the same position, but your faces were centimeters away now. You were holding his cheeks in your hands, making eye contact as he thrusted into you, deep and slow.

“Zoro,” you panted. “Feels good, Zoro. You feel so fucking good.”

He could feel your legs wrap around him, could feel you grinding down on his cock, trying to fuck yourself with it deeper.

A moment later, you were holding hands, fingers entwined. You moaned his name and only his name. He could feel himself about to let go. Your eyes were entrancing.

“Zoro,” you keened, arching your back up and squeezing his hands tightly. “Tell me you love me, Zoro.”

His heart stopped again and picked up at a rapid pace; his hips did the same, moving haphazardly, stuttering and shaking. He was seconds away from cumming in you, pleasure building into one massive cliff that he was about to free fall from.

“I—love—you,” he thrusted between each labored breath and grunt. The words tumbled out of his mouth and on the last one he orgasmed. He reeled with ecstasy, convulsing in pleasure as his cum painted the inside of you a hot, milky white.

Zoro collapsed on your chest panting. One of your hands traced circles on his back and the other petted his head, which rested in the crook of your neck. You cooed “good job baby” in his ear and kissed his shoulder.

He woke up, and even though he wasn’t shaking or sweating this time, he felt extremely unwell. It took him a moment to realize that he came all over the inside of his underwear while he was asleep. While his return to consciousness was gentler this time in comparison to his other dreams, he was still disturbed. It was a scarily realistic and wildly intimate dream.

He tried to get his thoughts in order. There was no point in feeling any shame here, he told himself, because you didn’t dream about that on purpose. But really, what the fuck was going on? A wet dream? How long had it been since he had one of these?

The frustration he felt upon waking was agonizing. Three whole days and nights of a clear head. He thought that since he realized he loved you, the dreams had stopped—the realization of his feelings had been the cure to his lovesickness, after all.

Evidently, he was wrong. One intense dream snapped Zoro back into the insanity he had lived in for a week. He felt like he was going to go crazy.

Wasn’t the realization that he loved you enough to make the dreams stop? If that wasn’t enough, then what would be?

Did he have to do something about it?

Fuck.

He really had to do something about it. Perhaps he’d do something about it when he had drinks with you.

But those promised drinks never came.

The next day, the Strawhat crew ran into a hostile pirate group. The skirmish lasted a handful of hours. Lucky for the crew, there were no truly formidable opponents, but it still ended up being a pain in the ass. The crew got separated, and Zoro got lost and left behind—an experience he was well familiar with.

Finally making his way back to where the ship was docked, after hours of wandering around aimlessly on the island and defeating some random mid-tier power user, Zoro returned to the ship. He was met with a startling sight.

The Sunny was ransacked. On first impression, the crew was nowhere to be found. Your absence was starting to agitate him more than usual when he realized the ship was most likely empty. His latent realization of his love was certainly contributing to that.

As the swordsman explored the ship and went room to room, his distress mounted.

There were blood splatters on the walls of some of the hallways—a pattern that looked like someone, gravely injured, was dragging themselves around the ship. In addition, it looked like every inch of the ship had been turned inside out. The kitchen was a mess, pots and pans everywhere, and even the chairs and table were flipped over at odd angles.

In a rising panic, he dragged himself to your room. He was sure it wasn’t you who was injured and struggling, but… what if it was? Might as well check.

As he suspected, your cabin was plundered and empty, too. His heartbeat was through the roof, his vision started to go red in agitation.

Where were you?

In your room, the pirates rifled to their hearts’ content, searching for money, treasure, whatever they could get their greedy hands on.

Your mattress had been ripped off the bed. The drawers on your desk were pulled out and emptied, the sparse contents littered around the floor. Your closet was ravaged, too. Clothes were in piles and tatters on the floor. Your lamp was knocked over, and the bulb was shattered.

Geez, what the fuck were they doing in here? Zoro wondered. He took in the view for a brief second, noting that you weren’t here, and that he needed to move on. If the crew was in a tight spot right now he ought to go help them out instead of dawdling around on the ship in a frenzy searching for you.

Maybe you were with Luffy or the shit cook—maybe you had your snail, maybe he could call you and check if you were okay.

He had only felt this level of panic a couple times in his life so far. A thought cut through his worry—what if I lose her? What if I lose her before I’ve said anything?

He felt like he was sinking. His vision started to tunnel, his hand jumped to rest on one of his swords, getting ready to cut someone down at a moment’s notice. As he turned to leave your room, a lightning bolt of clarity struck him. Scattered across the floor carelessly was a messy tornado of polaroid photos.

Your camera was crushed to bits in a corner, but the photos, which you’d been taking for ages at this point, had been torn from their little box in your closet and thrown everywhere.

Most of the photos, he realized, were of him. His heart panged. He had never seen this many photos of himself in one spot. His memories with the crew slipped through his fingers every day as they happened, but when recorded and hoarded like this he noticed how happy he looked in the photos. Was it because you were taking them?

When did that light start coming into his eyes?

His stomach flipped. You weren’t here. Your room was destroyed. You were in danger.

In a panic, Zoro pocketed a handful of them and darted out of the room. He hurriedly checked the rest of the ship—completely empty, ransacked and pillaged. Luckily, the pirates didn’t find Nami’s stash. But aside from that, almost no corner of the ship was left untouched.

His heart started to feel like it was seizing—if he didn’t find you fast, he was going to snap.

Would the photos you took of him be the only relic of your shared moments of happiness?

He ran onto the deck, out of breath and sweating, and looked at the shore. Time froze.

A wave of relief crashed over Zoro as he took in the sight—the crew was now strewn around the beach. Some were laying on their backs in exhaustion from the battle, others were huddled up, talking, and still, some were injured, getting briefly triaged by Chopper. Nothing looked too serious. His eyes darted around, searching for you.

You were standing next to Luffy, holding your side and wincing. A pool of blood saturated your shirt, radiating outwards from where you pressed your palm to stop the flow of blood.

You were alive. Injured, yes, but alive. He released the tension in his body and a preliminary feeling of relief coursed through him.

It seems like Zoro had forgotten that life on the seas wasn’t just sunshine, lunches on deck, pining, and exploration. Death and danger were key elements of the whole experience.

Not only had he been lacking on his training, but he was lacking on being an attentive and good friend to you, let alone a crew mate that could protect you. In the lapse and haze he had been in for the past couple weeks, he had let his guard down somehow.

Ever hard on himself, Zoro had a ‘come to Jesus’ moment. He needed to sort shit out with you, fast. He didn’t want to have any regrets. He couldn’t lose someone that he loved again.

Taking deep breaths and internally cursing himself out, Zoro made his way down the gangplank and onto the beach. He decided that when the ship was cleaned up, and everyone was bandaged and fed, he would confess.

This love was festering in him. It had festered for far too long before forcing him to acknowledge it. He couldn’t cope anymore. The next chance he got, he would tell you how he felt, no matter what.

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taglist: @riftmage27 @eggrollforyou @imhwajaez @wiyenspanel @xxmysticxxx @moonmaiden1996 @chibinasu @theilluminatidragonqueen @becca-oak @my-name-is-heartache @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @adamwarlockislife-blog

a/n: happy valentine's day, everyone! thanks for your patience waiting for this one :) the next part won't take as long ❤️❤️

[fishiefishieluvr]

🍎🐶 caleb relationship headcanons🍎🐶

my heart is now shared by both rafayel and caleb so i had to succumb to my desires and write headcanons for our favorite colonel… forgive me these are a bit rushed i wrote it in like 20 minutes i’ve been thinking about him waaaayyy too much!

a/n: i tried to make it gender neutral as possible. warnings for nsfw content, implied obsessive / yandere tendencies, alcohol mention, that’s all i can think… enjoy!!

———

♡ — literally will drop almost anything he’s doing when he gets a text from you, whether it’s just simply chatting about your day or a new interest, or — better yet, inviting him over — he always responds and makes time for you.

♡ — even after graduating and heading off to the DAA, he still felt… intertwined, to say the least with you. as mentioned before, even in the brief absences between texts and phone calls, i feel like caleb definitely is the type to somewhat feel or understand what you’re feeling even while away. oh? you’re sad and depressed? that explains why caleb has been having kind of a shitty day without even knowing.

♡ — constantly fiddles with the necklace you had gifted him. it’s a habit, practically second nature to him. it especially helps him when his nerves are in overdrive.

♡ — this isn’t even a headcanon but gooood god did it piss him off somewhat when girls fawned over him. it wasn’t the girl's faults and he can’t really blame them it's just….. his heart has been dead set on you since the beginning. the only attention he thrives on is yours, whatever sort of attention even.

♡ — snuck one of your plushies away with him when he went off to pilots academy. he stashes it away whenever one of his guy friends (cause caleb never allows any girls in his dorm who aren’t you lol) stops by. he’s even freakier too, practically bathing it secretly in your perfume or body spray before he sneaks off to pack. it’s safe to say he sleeps with it almost every night.

♡ — when you do finally meet again whether during holidays or after he graduates, he sticks by your side almost constantly. regardless! he is respectful of your boundaries and will immediately retreat away if you seem even the slightest bit uncomfortable by it (that’s not to say he won’t sulk a bit. but he’ll do it in the comfort of privacy).

♡ — loves to cuddle and embrace you, fucking thrives on that shit. pre-relationship and growing up wise he snuck what he could from long and warm embraces, nights spooning you on the couch or in his bed, and little forehead kisses… even holding your hand causes his pulse to quicken and his cheeks to turn a rosy hue.

♡ — you thought he was clingy pre relationship? ohhhhh boy it’s increased tenfold when you both finally confess feelings. he feels physically and emotionally unwell when without you for a certain period of time. he only feels the slightest bit better when he goes on week to month(s) long missions as colonel once you finally relent and move in with him. coming back to you, his anchor, his home, his heart… his everything. it makes it all so worth it.

♡ — speaking of this man definitely spoils you in every aspect. i just know he gets paid so damn well so he spends all his earnings on you. don’t mention something that caught your eye even in passing because next thing you know it’s in your hands either the next day or a week later.

♡ — i believe without a doubt that caleb is the type to have planned on getting married to you the second he realized his feelings for you. why else would he chase off anyone who sought your heart if he wasn’t planning on a future entirely with just you and him (and some little ones. but not relevant rn!)? whatever sort of wedding you wanted, he’d give you in a heartbeat. proposes to you for sure pretty early on, which isn’t all that surprising seeing as you spent your entire lives together.

♡ — the bane of his existence is the nights you decide to go out with friends. regardless if drinks are involved, caleb insists on picking you up at the end of the night. and if a sleepover is in the works? oh he’s so pouty about it… i think there are a select few people who he trusts with your safety (even though you insist you’re grown enough to defend yourself), one of them is definitely tara. so yaaay! every now and then you can have a peaceful girls night ^^

now onto the nsfw part :o

♡ — i’m the biggest virgin caleb supporter ever. i agree that he’d read up and study on how to perfect his first time (and potentially yours if you’re losing it too). he definitely is pathetic though in my eyes and doesn’t last very long at all despite his long studying, cums under a minute whether it’s from oral or inside of you. prepare to comfort him because he will feel slightly pathetic about it…

♡ — finds comfort in rutting against your thigh, your ass, you name it! puppy caleb is so real… he’d whimper in your ear, breath hot against your skin, practically drooling as he warns you of his impending orgasm.

♡ — on the nights where his duty as colonel is far too exhausting, he definitely thoroughly enjoys cockwarming. after being apart from you for soooo long and even after work duties, he just needs to be connected and intertwined with you. there’s no work to be done so long as he has you in his arms and he’s inside of you in some shape or form.

♡ — gets fucked-out and drunk off of you way too easily. again with the first headcanon, he cums in his pants just from witnessing your pleasure. anything with you will get him off.

♡ — caleb definitely is the type to experiment with you. his only no-no’s are stuff that could risk seriously rendering you injured. choking? absolutely, that’s fine! just nothing too extreme. gun play? gets off sooo much watching the barrel of his gun in your mouth, no bullets inside, of course! he’s not picky, your pleasure is his pleasure, after all.

[beabnormal24]

Counting on a dark horse pulling on the throttle ~ Carcar, M

“Do you still have it?”

Oscar’s eyes are covered by a dainty hand as he presses his cheek to the white fabric of the pillow. Sometimes, Carlos is still stunned by the little things about him, the way he tries so hard to look so plain just for every smallest detail of him to fail his attempts.

The redness on his cheeks, the scattered moles, the bunny teeth, the almost funny small size of his hands that look so delicate when Carlos covers them with one of his own.

The almost artificial-looking swoop of his hair, the muscles lining his broad back, the birthmark on his abdomen, the pinkish head of his cock, the way it leans on the left side, the way his toes curl when Carlos presses a kiss to his groin.

Carlos rather thinks there’s nothing plain about Oscar Piastri, and he has become accustomed with that awareness for a while now.

But it seems like Oscar is willing to go lengths to surprise him even more.

“Have what?” Carlos asks, hoping that the slight frustration in his voice is not as clear as it seems in his head. It’s not exactly a good sign when your partner is talking while you have your fingers deep in them, squelching with lube and sweat.

Carlos should always be able to render Oscar speechless, by now, have him squirming under him by the smallest touches. Sometimes, it’s an easy task; other times, like this time, Oscar’s face flushes bright red and he covers his eyes and Carlos can’t tell what he is thinking.

“The jacket.”

Carlos presses his fingers deeper, curls them upwards and Oscar’s mouth opens around an almost soundless sigh even as his legs tremble from the pleasure.

It’s incredibly frustrating and absolutely amusing at the same time, the way Oscar says one thing and his body another, as if they were two completely detached parts of himself.

Carlos curls his fingers again just to see the muscles in his calves flex.

“The jacket?” Carlos repeats dumbly, earning a pointed glare from Oscar in the small flits between his fingers. He has to repress the urge to shrug, because he knows that would make Oscar even more glary-eyed than he already is. “Am I boring you that much?”

Oscar seems to deflate a little bit at the question, as if he can feel the slight disappointment on Carlos’ tongue, and he shuffles on the bed, widening his legs even more on each side of Carlos’ thighs where he is kneeling between them, pushing his hips down as he fucks himself on Carlos’ finger just once.

That’s enough to kick Carlos’ brain back into gear, suddenly completely focused on where he can watch Oscar’s hole fluttering around his digits.

His dick is twitching between his own legs, Carlos can feel the trepidation of getting to fuck into Oscar starting to be way too intense, but he tries to cover it by just wrapping a hand around himself and keeping it there, unmoving.

Okay, okay, fuck.

“The one- the one for the spot you did-“ Oscar stammers out suddenly, after what Carlos could believe were entire hours he just spent watching his fingers disappear into him, adding a third one just to see the way Oscar’s thighs quiver at every stroke, the thin layer of sweat makes his light skin glint in the semi-darkness of Carlos’ bedroom. “For the shampoo, that stuff.”

What?

“What?” Carlos asks, breathless. Oscar is not looking at him, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, now. Carlos desperately wants to stare at the way his freckles shine over his blush, but he won’t say it. “I- the L’Oreal Paris one? It was weeks ago.”

Oscar swallows, his entire body suddenly tense, immobile, even as Carlos keeps his fingers moving unrelentingly. “Yeah, you know what? Nothing, just-“ he puts his other hand out, shaking it in dismissal. “Go back to what you’re doing, I’m almost ready.”

Jokes on him, though, because Carlos’ interest has already been piqued and he’s known to not give it up very easily.

“They don’t leave the clothes, usually.” Carlos says, still, answering Oscar's previous question. “But I have a similar jacket of my own.”

Oscar just nods. His eyes are closed, now, as if trying his hardest to hide himself, eyelashes fanning on the redness, the slight purplish hue of his undereye where Carlos has been keeping him awake after too long weeks of staying apart.

Oscar swallows again, “Uh, good for you.”

“You want to see it?” Carlos asks before he can help himself. It’s stupid, really, they are both naked from head to toe - have been ever since last night, really - and Carlos is basically minutes away from finally fucking into him.

But- but, curiosity killed the cat or whatever.

Oscar finally looks at him properly, taking his arm away and blinking one eye open in Carlos’ direction.

“What?” Oscar says, and it seems like he’s making himself sound incredulous. “Why would you- No, go- just go back to your thing. It was stupid, don’t think about it.”

Again, his mouth says one thing, moving around the words with apparent carelessness, but his body has another mind of its own, his hole barely clenching around Carlos’ fingers, strong thighs tightening their grip around Carlos’ hips.

Oh. Oh, alright, then.

“I’ll take it.” Carlos says, before he can think about it twice. “Just give me a second.”

Oscar makes a strangled sound of protest, guttural, but Carlos is already moving away, slipping his fingers out of him and gently lowering Oscar’s knees flat on the mattress.

His hand is wet, from Oscar’s spit and Carlos’ own and the remnants of lube sticking to it, making the hair on the back of it plaster to his skin. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but Carlos still fights the urge to wipe it away somewhere to reach inside his walk-in closet.

He doesn’t really have a lot of clothes to fill it with. Actually, they’re probably just taking half of his space. But he’s always preferred comfort over looks, has his main pieces of clothing close to the heart and doesn’t really feel the need to change them out.

It’s better like this, more practical, especially when he doesn’t even spend that much time in his apartment anyway. Or, maybe, he does now that there’s Oscar but- well.

It’s easy to find the jacket, huddled between a similar brown one and a grey coat that his mother got him once she learned he would be moving to England again for a good part of the year. He has worn it once, really, the brown one he has is good enough for any kind of weather, and he can always wear a scarf if the wind is too bad.

But now Oscar has mentioned the black leather jacket, and Carlos is- well, Oscar is not exactly one to talk about things, really. He is quiet, mostly, which Carlos appreciates because he likes to think that he’s a nice kind of quiet, too.

When they are not fucking they are sitting on the couch, each focused on their own book, or phone, or whatever sport is passing on the TV. And when they are not sitting on the couch, even though it’s not exactly a frequent occurrence, they are cuddling in silence and Carlos sometimes even gets to press a kiss to the crown of Oscar’s hair without him going on about how wet his spit is.

Which is rich coming from someone who seems so eager to have Carlos’ mouth on him, but, eh.

Point is that Carlos is intrigued. He knew that the pictures had made the rounds on the Internet, even though both him and Simone had been forbidden from posting anything related, just cryptic stories about them being in Paris and nothing more.

Carlos didn’t know Oscar kept track of that kind of stuff.

It feels nice to know.

“I haven’t worn this in a while.” He says, just to break the sudden silence. He can’t see Oscar but Carlos bets he’s rolling his eyes. “I hope it still fits.”

The leather is cool against his naked skin, the metal of the zipper sending a shiver down his spine when it touches his abdomen. In general, it’s just weird, being naked from the waist down, his chest too, his dick still half hard against his thigh, and only a leather jacket to cover his shoulders.

Weird, but also kind of exhilarating, cold fabric on his heated skin, the flap of the collar pressed to the sweaty back of his neck.

When he brings his eyes away from where he is adjusting the sleeves around his wrists, it’s to the sight of Oscar outright staring at him, no shame whatsoever in the way he is still as exposed and starfished as Carlos had left him moments ago.

Which is fucking hot, especially as Oscar’s eyes rake down Carlos’ chest, his arms, his legs, licking his thin lips as if his mouth is salivating just by looking at him, like he’s seconds away to pounch on Carlos and fuck himself on him.

Carlos’ dick twitches at the thought. Oh.

He clears his throat, letting the sleeves go as he takes tentative steps forward, ending up right at the foot of the bed. He could take Oscar’s ankles in one hand, bring him down the sheets until he’s stretched open and ready for Carlos to get inside him, but he doesn’t.

“How do I look, then?” He asks, instead, moving side-to-side as if trying to show off.

They are not the type of relationship to give each other compliments. Well, Carlos is. He likes to remind Oscar how cute he is when he scrunches his nose, or how beautiful he looks as he gets up in the morning, but Oscar never takes him too seriously.

Oscar is not, at all, and Carlos does not need his validation, can easily find what he is looking for in the way Oscar looks at him from time to time, no words escaping his mouth but his eyes looking so intensely at him that Carlos knows exactly what to read into them. But he wouldn’t mind being told, for once.

This time, apparently, it must be different.

“You look good.” Oscar says, and his face goes even redder than before. At least, this time, he doesn’t turn it away. “Really- eh, good.”

“You liked the jacket?” Carlos says, he’s incredulous, he can hear it himself but he doesn’t really care. Maybe Oscar will learn to be a bit more explicit with his thoughts, just a few compliments to his basically-boyfriend won’t hurt anybody. “You saw the pictures?”

“Of course I saw the fucking pictures.” Oscar says, rolling his eyes, and he’s back to himself again. “They were all over fucking Instagram.”

“But did you like them?” Carlos insists, leaning just on knee on the bed, close enough to Oscar’s calf that he can feel the tension in his muscles.

Oscar looks at him, mouth agape, only the slight heaving of his naked flushed chest assuring Carlos that he is still alive and breathing. He must be calculating his options, as if he’s not too sure of what lengths he can reach with him.

Carlos shuffles his knee closer to Oscar, hitting the side of his thigh, a nudge that means he can say whatever without being judged.

Oscar swallows, flicking his eyes to a specific point between Carlos’ legs, to the hair starting to grow on his pecs, then back up to meet Carlos’ gaze.

“Yeah,” Oscar admits, breathless. “You- yeah, you looked really good.”

Carlos glances at the redness slowly creeping down Oscar’s chest, his perky nipples, the lines of his muscles above his belly button. His cock looks pinker and harder than before, lying beautifully, almost delicately on the patch of blonde hair around his groin, even though Carlos hasn’t laid a single hand close to it.

It’s intoxicating, and Carlos is torn between wanting to just slip inside him and fuck him like this or wait him out a little longer, tease words and compliments out of that mouth until he has Oscar slapping at his arms and trying to get him to shut up.

Yeah, he might go for the second option.

“You liked the black?” Carlos asks, climbing with his other knee on the bed. “Did it look good on me?”

“Are you trying to get me to stroke your ego?” Oscar snorts, but the hunger in his eyes is clear as Carlos lowers on his forearms, face to face. Surely, he doesn’t miss the way Oscar’s gaze flicks down for a second to the open hems of the jacket, showing off Carlos’ chest. “You got the wrong guy for that.”

“Did I?” Carlos thinks about it for a second, before sliding his knee closer to Oscar’s groin, bumping against his balls and nudging just that bit more to let him know exactly how he wants things to stand.

For all that he tries to look unaffected, almost with an air of superiority, Oscar is quick to turn to putty under him, gasping as Carlos’ knee brushes against his hard-on, his hands clenching on each side of his head.

“And yet you asked about the jacket when I had my fingers in you.” Carlos whispers, letting himself nip lightly at the side of Oscar’s throat.

He doesn’t leave any marks, he can’t, really, or Oscar would have his head hanging in front of Williams’ fresh new garage in an instant. But he can let himself imagine it, covering Oscar’s body in red and purple and pressing against them during the day in the paddock, letting him remember exactly where he was just a few hours prior.

“I didn’t know you hated my fingers so much.” He doesn’t, really. Carlos managed to get him to beg for his fingers in him, once. That was a glorious day. “It’s only fair you make up for offending me.”

Oscar gapes at him, as if he didn’t expect for Carlos to suddenly become so bold instead of getting the job done as efficiently as possible.

They are not exactly vanilla. There has been a slap on the butt then and there, Carlos biting at Oscar’s nipples, Oscar dragging his nails over Carlos’ back so much so that the covers got blood on them.

But this is new, actually. Carlos won’t say that he despises it, and by the way Oscar’s dick twitches against his thigh, he must not be against it, either.

“Tell me what you liked.”

“I-“ Oscar stammers, placing his hand on Carlos’ hips when he suddenly drops his entire weight on him. Carlos knows that Oscar can sustain him easily.

“Why did you ask me for the jacket, Oscar?”

“Why did you take it from the closet?”

Carlos raises an eyebrow, staring down at Oscar, the way his gaze seems to be wavering behind the facade of sureness.

“I am the one asking the questions.” Carlos says, and before Oscar can protest he presses his thigh harder into his groin, punching a moan right out Oscar’s chest. “Do you want to come? Answer me.”

Oscar stares at him for a second longer, searching. It’s a tacit agreement as Carlos nods slowly and Oscar nods back, just as slowly. He knows that Carlos will stop as soon as the words are said, anyway.

[writingsbychlo]

LONG-DISTANCE LOVER | REGULUS BLACK

SUMMARY: regulus thinks his long-distance girlfriend might've forgotten him on valentine's day, but he couldn't have been more wrong. WORD COUNT: 2510 NOTES: valentine's day post number three! I hope you guys are enjoying these, I promise the other's aren't as angsty as these first three have been!

Drunk and miserable, Regulus kicked shut the door of his small London flat. He smelled like his childhood home, he felt like the darkness of it was still crawling over his skin from dropping off his brother to bed. He shucked off his coat as fast as he could, as though shedding the layers would scrape away the sickly feeling. 

It wasn’t often that he let himself get this drunk, or intoxicated at all, actually, but it had felt necessary. As the day had chugged on, his mood had grown more sour, until it was so bitter his face was scrunching up at the darkness brewing in his soul. 

Luckily, he’d found a kindred spirit in his brother. Not much did they have in common, anymore. Not since they were kids, in their matching shorts and suspenders, hiding behind the greenhouse to play with the frogs and escape their tutor had they had so much in common. But today, they did. 

Regulus had waited all day for word, for a card or an owl or anything from you, something to prove it wasn’t as dire as he thought, something to prove you hadn't forgotten the first Valentine’s Day spent apart. But nothing had come. Almost a year ago, your parents had decided to send you to a prestigious Wizarding university in the South of France, dropping the news on you just before graduation and shattering your shared ideas of a future. Your summer of plans had become a frantic, condensed two weeks of pretending like your separation wasn’t looming before you’d slipped through his fingers.  

Then you’d been gone, and he’d hardly seen you since, a few stolen days and a couple of secret visits over Christmas, but that had been it. You’d tried to give him an out, but he didn’t want it, he’d refused it point-blank and told you your relationship was strong enough to survive this distance. Now, alone on Valentine’s Day in the cold and dark of his flat, he couldn't help but wonder if you’d wanted the out for yourself. 

He hated to think that about you, but if you weren’t thinking of him, who were you thinking of?

At least Sirius had understood. Sirius, too, had been alone on this day. Unable to spend it with his boyfriend Remus, due to a number of reasons, he’d been just as miserable and moody as Regulus was. They’d gone bar to bar in London, and when they’d become too drunk to be conceivably inconspicuous in Wizarding London, they’d made their way to Muggle bars too.

Sirius had tapped out first, much to drunk Regulus’ thrill, throwing up in an alley somewhere in Soho, and he’d taken Sirius home and put him into the trustworthy hands of Kreacher. Sure, it was Sirius’ home now, and he’d stripped it away of everything that their family home as children had once been, but Regulus felt like the darkness was in its very foundations, he didn’t know how his brother could stand to live there. 

He’d been too drunk to apparate, and far too drunk to find a Floo safely, and so he’d taken the laborious Muggle way. Stumbling his way to the nearest Underground station, and patting down his pockets for the little plastic card with his Muggle funds on, until he could clear the security gates. 

With his head rested on the dirty windows and eyes closed, he’d let the rhythmic chugging of the Tube soothe the spinning of his mind, focusing on his breathing until he felt less like throwing up. The cold and rain of a British mid-February night had sobered him up considerably, until only a dull buzz was left in his veins, and a headache was threatening to start any moment behind his eyes. 

He stared at the coat on the floor, entirely having missed the coat rack he’d tried to hang it on, but he couldn't even be bothered to pick it up. He kicked off his shoes too, stumbling to the couch in the cold living room, but detouring the trolley holding enough bottles to put down a Hippogriff, to grab one. What better way to save himself a miserable hangover tomorrow morning, than to just get drunk all over again?

Sinking into the couch, he stared at the empty fireplace in front of himself, trying to will it into lighting, but he was too far gone to muster even a flicker of wandless magic, never mind a whole fireplace. 

Where was his wand, anyway?

A question for another time. Now, more whiskey. 

Popping the cork of the bottle, he let it roll to the carpet, staring into the dark fireplace again as he brought the rim to his lips and took a heavy swig. He was just going in for his second gulp when the fireplace roared to life. 

Hot, green flames licked through the room, sparking brought light that burned his eyes for a moment, before retreating just as fast into ash and smoke and leaving behind the blurry figure of someone standing in the dark. He rubbed at his eyes with a fist, a little too hard, leaving his eyes throbbing as he tried to clear them. 

“Reggie?”

Oh. He knew that voice. Snapping his head up, he listened to the soft click of heels across the floor, until a warm hand was brushing wet strands of hair out of his face. The room illuminated a second later, with real fire this time, warm and comforting, and the hazy glow of it lit the room enough for him to pull your features from the dark. 

“Mon amour,” He slurred, words blurring at the edges no matter how hard he tried to speak them clearly, “And here I thought you forgot about little old me.”

“Regulus.” You sounded disappointed, he hated that tone of your voice. So, he lifted the bottle to take another drink. The bottle never made it to his lips, he felt you slip it from his hand and heard it clink back into place on the trolley before your hands were back on his face. 

He liked that. 

“You’re freezing to the touch, Reg. And wet. Why are you sitting here like this in the dark, you’re going to get sick?”

“I was feeling—” He cut himself off with an ungentlemanly burp, chuckling to himself about how appalled his mother would have been to hear it, “Poetic.”

“Poetic, or stupid?”

He frowned at that, his mouth tightening it to a scowl, “Hey. You can’t call me stupid right now, this is your fault!”

“My fault?” Your lips twitched in amusement as you offered him your hands, and though Regulus was sure that somewhere inside he should’ve been embarrassed by this state, he couldn't find it within himself to care. This all felt a little too surreal as it was, perhaps it was just an alcohol-induced vision, and he’d come around from it soon. Might as well make the most of it. “How, pray tell, does that work out?”

You tugged him to his feet, and Regulus felt his stomach turn uncomfortably as he found his footing. You led him through his flat like you knew the way by heart, a painfully endearing action that he would tuck away to rehash in the morning when he was sober enough to hurt again. 

You placed him down on his bed, and he sat on the edge of it, watching you open and close the drawers to his dressers, searching for something. Fresh clothes, he reckoned. So long passed by in silence as you found him a change of clothes that it seemed you’d forgotten the question you’d asked, but it was still bouncing around in his whiskey-addled brain, echoing in his ears. It was only as you were pressing a kiss to the damn waves atop his head that he managed to find his voice enough to answer;

“You forgot about me.”

You reared back, re-entering his line of vision, and he choked down the swelling ball of emotions that followed the words escaping. It was little use, not as hot tears stung at his eyes, and he sniffled with his next inhale. “Reggie, what?”

His lip wobbled, and you crouched before him, cupping his cheeks so tenderly that it shattered his heart all over again. Your thumbs wiped across his cheeks, clearing away tears that were falling heavily, and he took a ragged deep breath. “You forgot about me. It’s Valentine’s Day, and you didn’t even send me a note. You have owls, patronus, and even the Floo! And nothing. We promised each other it wouldn't change things, but you forgot about me! You forgot about the person you’re supposed to love, on the day of love!”

Sobs were breaking free, and then your arms snaked around him, holding him close. Even though you were the cause of his pain, he was a weak enough man to concede that you were also the cure. He pressed his face into your neck as you played with his hair, and he cried. 

He cried for the raging, turbulent emotions of the day. 

He cried for every night he went to sleep alone, in a half-furnished home, because you were supposed to be here with him. 

He cried for the relationship staggered to a halt that seemed like it would never get back on track. 

He cried for his long-distance lover, who was supposed to be by his side, whom he missed every second of every day like a missing limb. 

He cried for every part of his pain that he normally suppressed, every emotional thought he’d never given voice to. 

“I’m so mad at you for leaving, do you know that?” He croaked, when the tears finally stopped and all that was left was his raw voice and the painful truth, “I know it’s just for a few years, but it’s killing me, mon amour. I wasn’t made to be apart from you, I was made to be by your side.”

You sniffled too, and it was then that he realised your pretty makeup was smeared, your cheeks were splotchy with colour like he imagined his own would be, and your eyes were rimmed with red. Raising a trembling hand, he brushed a lingering tear track from its shiny river along your cheek. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it when I blamed you.”

“I hate it too, Reggie.” You finally said, settling onto the floor in front of him, kneeling on the carpet and taking his hands in your own. You kissed his knuckles, each one slowly, and he felt a weight slip free from his chest. “I miss you every day. I think of you every moment. It doesn’t matter how long passes, I still look for you by my side every time I hear a funny joke or have a thought, and I still catch myself saying goodnight to you when I’m alone in bed each evening. I reach for you every morning before my mind catches up with my body. I miss you too, please know that.”

Your words simultaneously healed something within him while shattering something else, they settled a weight in his stomach but freed one from his shoulders. You were both struggling, but it helped to know his misery had company. 

“I didn’t forget about you today, Reg. I planned to come to you earlier this morning but couldn't. I’ve been working on this surprise since Christmas, since the last time we had to say goodbye and I almost couldn't leave again.” His gaze snapped up to find yours, lips parting to release a breath, and his heart skipped a beat at the smile that crawled over your face. “The Floo I had booked travel collapsed during the night, the whole chimney fell in on itself and it took hours to clear. And by the time it was done, you clearly weren’t home. You know the Floo doesn’t open if you’re not home, Reg. I’ve been sitting in the pub waiting hours, trying every thirty minutes!”

His jaw dropped, the cogs turning in his mind, even if they were operating at a lower functioning pace than usual, and his cheeks bloomed with heat. “You didn’t forget about me.” He whispered, more in confirmation to himself than anything, as he lifted a hand to tuck hair out of your face, and you smiled sadly at him with a sigh. 

“Forget about you, Regulus Black? How could I ever do that? Your soul calls out to mine, you are tattooed onto my very heart. I don’t know who I’d be without you.”

“Now who’s being poetic?” He whispered, sliding a cold hand onto your neck, and pulling you in. Finally, your lips met his, and everything in his world felt like it shifted back into place. When you kissed him back, a resounding click seemed to echo through his body, as it all locked back into place. 

You stood, he no longer had to look down at you, but up at you instead, as he kept up with your kisses, even as you moved. Your hands went to the hem of his damp sweater, tugging it up in a bundle with his shirt and dropping the pile unceremoniously to the ground. Your hands were hot against his skin, and he groaned at the loss of your mouth on his once again, as you directed him into a new, dry hoodie. 

Between kisses and reassuring touches, you had somehow managed to coerce him into dry clothes, tipping a hangover potion to his lips, before he even knew it. Because the next time Regulus found himself possessing clear thought and legible inner dialogue, was hours later. 

His lips were kiss-bitten and swollen, and his heart was steadily pumping in a way that reminded him of how happy he was to be alive. He was warm, uncomfortably so, wrapped up in layers of clothing and bedding, with your body smothered atop him, but he wouldn't move. No, he would stay where he was, he’d die of heatstroke if he had to, just for the chance to hold you a little longer. 

It would hurt him, cut him deep when he had to say goodbye to you once again after the weekend was over, but it didn’t seem so bad now. His heart wouldn't be the only one bleeding, he wouldn’t be the only one struggling. Soon, you’d be gone again, but it wouldn't be forever, and you wouldn't forget him.

It just meant delaying those plans for the future a little longer, but he could cope, he thought. 

Maybe not all of the plans had to wait, after all. He could have a home and a life waiting and ready for you when you graduate. He could get the ball rolling, and when you were ready, he’d be right here waiting for you. 

How happy he could make you, he thought, if you both just waited a little longer. You were worth the wait, that much he knew. 

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly (part three)

genre: slow burn fic, fluff with hints of angst, light drama, no explicit smut

kms masterlist | <- part two | part four (soon) ->

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!introverted!kook!reader

cw: swearing, light suggestive themes, overthinking/anxiety

synopsys: it's the last year of high school and you were paired up with rafe cameron for a 2 week long project in art class. this wouldn't be a problem if you weren't awkward as hell and well ... if there weren't your big fat crush on him. could this be the beginning of a friendship or maybe even more? one thing was certain: rafe cameron was intense, impulsive, and complex in ways that weren't always for the better, and your mind? that shit was even more tangled. but you hadn't spent all these years crushing on him from a distance just to let this chance slip through your fingers ... right?

summary of recent events: during lunch you and rafe brainstormed some ideas for your art project. despite your awkwardness and an unfortunate misunderstanding, rafe had been mostly chill the whole time. after you both said your goodbyes to leave for afternoon classes, you awaited a surprise: rafe had somehow gotten your number and sent you a text message.

word count: 3k+

a/n: i know this part is more like a breather but i promise next part is gonna have y/n and rafe interacting a LOT more + it’s all building up to sth bigger and i really don’t wanna rush this story, so bear with me please <3 however i decided to bring in some jj action hibihihi. anyway please enjoy and as always any kind of support, comments, reblogs etc. is appreciated <33

This was insane. So fucking insane. You were seriously starting to think this was one of those cruel dreams where you spend an entire fantasy life with your crush, only to wake up at the best part, heartbroken and pissed off at your alarm clock.

Ever since you got home, your heart had been running a marathon, and that weird, buzzing feeling in your chest just wouldn’t go away.

Your mind was racing with questions.

Where did Rafe even get your number? Why didn’t he just ask you for it during lunch? Why did he text you—what was his intention here?

WAS IT EVEN RAFE????

Maybe someone was messing with you. Your mind flashed back to English class, to Kelce Statter grinning like an idiot while having texted someone. Was it him?

You frowned. That would be a pretty fucked-up joke, and honestly, you doubted Kelce had the patience or brainpower to pull off something like that.

With a sigh, you flopped onto your bed, inhaling the familiar scent of your room, trying to slow your racing thoughts.

If someone had strapped a heart monitor to you today, you’d probably be in the ER by now. It had been ages since your adrenaline had spiked like this.

Rolling onto your stomach, you grabbed your phone again, elbows propped on your mattress.

Your brows furrowed as you opened Cara’s chat:

Of course. The one time you actually needed her, she was nowhere to be found. Probably got caught texting in class, and now she was stuck listening to Ms. Langford go on about the importance of English literature or whatever.

You switched to your chat with Rafe, biting the inside of your cheek as you stared at his messages.

You should probably text back. You’d already left him on read for an hour, just because you had no clue what to say.

Not that he actually gives a shit.

But still. He had taken the time to get your number and text you. That had to mean something, right?

Dude, you’re overthinking this again. It’s literally just two texts.

Pressing your lips together, you started typing:

As soon as you hit send, you tossed your phone to the other side of the bed and groaned, burying your face in your pillow.

God, you just said hi—so why the hell did it feel like your entire nervous system was short-circuiting?

Shit. I should’ve left out that stupid smiley.

:)

WHY did its face look both pissed off and kind of turned on at the same time?!

Great. Now he probably thought you were sexually frustrated. And the whole I assume this is Rafe? thing? Seriously, Y/N. Of course, it’s Rafe. What a dumbass question. His cute ass profile picture made it obvious.

So now, not only you seemed desperate—you seemed desperate AND stupid.

Bzzzrt.

You sat up so fast it gave you whiplash, grabbing your phone in record time. Heart pounding, you unlocked it—

Cara.

You exhaled, part relieved, part annoyed, and opened her messages.

You sighed and let your phone drop onto your bed again. If only you could somehow call this dating—but whatever was going on between you and Rafe… well, there wasn’t even a between to begin with.

There was nothing.

At best, you were classmates. Maybe project partners. Nothing more.

You ran a hand over your face. This whole thing was exhausting, and the worst part? Nothing had even happened between you and Rafe. Well—except for the fact that you’d acted like some socially inept, know-it-all nerd just hours ago.

And yet… you couldn’t deny that it was kind of exciting. For the first time ever, you’d had an actual conversation with Rafe Cameron, and he hadn’t just gotten up and left in the middle of it.

AND THEN HE’D TEXTED YOU?! LIKE, HOLY SHIT?!

Which, in turn, made you feel like some dumb, hopeless girl. Because, seriously—what were you even expecting from this? A friendship? A friends with benefits situation? A relationship?

You nearly laughed out loud. That thought was about as far from reality as it could possibly get. Honestly, you had a better chance of making a groundbreaking scientific discovery—and you sucked at science.

Alright, one thing at a time.

You caught yourself staring at your phone again, still no reply from Rafe.

It’s fine, you told yourself. You only messaged him ten minutes ago, and just because he texted you doesn’t mean you’re suddenly texting buddies or some crap.

Holy shit, I’m overthinking this again.

You needed a distraction. Like, right now.

But staying here was only going to make you lose it. You needed to get out, do something.

Your gaze drifted back to your phone, and you tapped on Cara’s number.

Her soft voice came through on the other end. “Let me guess, you need help coming up with a reply?”

“He hasn’t answered yet.”

“Asshole.”

You laughed. “It’s not even been ten minutes.”

“Yeah, well, ten too many,” she shot back, but you could hear her trying to hide a grin. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“I thought we could hit the beach, chill a bit, you know, whatever.”

“You’re losing it, aren’t you?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

----------------------------------------------- The afternoon sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, casting a golden glow over the beach. The waves weren’t exactly massive today but they were still decent enough for surfing.

Not that you’d be surfing anyway—your head was way too all over the place for that. You’d probably wipe out the second you got on the board.

No, today was about chilling. Just you and Cara, away from the crowd, tucked under the shade of your beach umbrella. You lay stretched out on your towels, talking about everything and anything—everything except Rafe Cameron.

Diggory, Cara’s cute family dog, was happily lounging with you, curled up on a damp towel with his portable water bowl nearby.

“--and then I ghosted him because, like, what kind of guy eats salami, pickles, and Nutella for breakfast?” Cara finished, shaking her head as she recalled her short-lived fling with a Swedish Touron from last week.

You laughed, tossing the sunscreen aside after finishing your legs. “A psycho probably.”

“The worst part? His weird food choices—and yeah, plural—didn’t even make up for his performance in bed,” she scoffed, scratching Diggory’s head. “Two minutes in, he finished, and acted like he’d just found the love of his life.”

You shrugged. “What’s that saying? 9 out of 10 Tourons mistake a one-night stand for a love story.”

Cara let out a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, I think I’m done with Tourons for a while. Time to keep it local.”

You chuckled, but before you could reply, muffled voices drifted over from the side, catching your attention.

“Doesn’t get more local than that,” you noted, subtly glancing toward the new arrivals on the beach.

Cara propped herself up on her elbows, following your gaze. A slow grin spread across her lips. “Pogues?”

You smirked, eyes lingering on the tanned blond with a surfboard under his arm. “Maybank’s kinda cute.”

Cara shot you a look over her sunglasses, raising an eyebrow. “JJ Maybank? Okay, girl, you definitely have a type. He’s basically Rafe Cameron but like broke.”

You scoffed, furrowing your brows. “I mean, objectively, he’s attractive. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Objectively, they’re all one grade below us,” Cara said dryly. But then her expression shifted into an amused smirk. “But yeah, fair point. All four of them? Absolute smash.”

You both cracked up, the tension from earlier fading for a moment.

In the distance, a firetruck siren wailed, and Diggory let out a dramatic howl in response.

“Alright, alright, we get it,” Cara murmured, scooping up the still-howling terrier into her arms.

You chuckled but quickly went quiet as a 6-foot, sun-kissed Pogue strolled up to your little beachside oasis.

JJ Maybank’s cocky grin peeked under your umbrella, his surfboard left behind with his friends.

“Heard a dog over here,” he remarked, his gaze flicking between you and Cara. “Or was that one of you howling for me?”

You bit back a laugh, while Cara rolled her eyes. “Piss off, JJ.”

You knew better—she was flirting.

JJ let out a dirty chuckle, crouching down as Diggory leaped from Cara’s lap, tail wagging like crazy. “Your dog disagrees.”

He scratched the excited terrier behind the ears.

“Pfft, Dig would run up to a serial killer,” Cara scoffed. “He’s got no moral compass whatsoever.”

JJ smirked, glancing up at her, his eyes flickering over her sunscreen-glazed legs before meeting her gaze. “Neither do I.”

Okaaay, I’m definitely third-wheeling here.

"JJ!" Kiara Carrera’s voice rang out from a few yards away. "Stop harassing random girls!"

Cara smirked. “Your girl’s got a point.”

JJ scoffed, raising a brow before ruffling Diggory’s fur one last time. Then he stood up. “Just making new friends, Ki!” he called back.

His sunlit torso practically gleamed, and you quickly looked away when he caught you staring.

Awkwaaaard.

“You should let your dog run somewhere with actual grass,” JJ teased, turning back to Cara. “Poor guy’s paws probably got calluses from all that Figure 8 pavement.”

Cara tilted her head, amused. “What do you suggest? The Cut? Yeah, no thanks, I’d rather not get mugged and stabbed.”

“You wouldn’t if I was with you,” JJ shot back, flashing his cockiest grin.

You weren’t sure whether to laugh or gag.

Cara let out a laugh, waving him off. “One mutt's enough for me.”

JJ shrugged. “I don’t need a leash either,” he quipped before shooting her a wink and jogging back to his friends.

Once he was out of earshot, Cara turned back to you, a wide grin on her face and a hint of pink dusting her cheeks. “Okay, you’re right—he’s hot.”

You both burst into laughter as Diggory waddled back onto his damp towel.

And that’s how the rest of the late afternoon went: watching the Pogues surf (one cocky blond in particular), snacking on strawberries, and cracking up over dumb jokes and wild party stories.

As the sun began dipping the sky in shades of orange, you slowly started packing up your things.

And you hadn’t checked your phone once—not that it mattered, since it was turned off anyway.

As you folded up the beach umbrella, your eyes drifted back toward the Pogues, hanging out at their own little spot on the other side of the beach.

With a playful smirk, you glanced at Cara, who was rolling up your towels. “Not gonna say bye to your new admirer?”

Cara raised a brow at you. “Pfft, like I’d chase after a Pogue.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nooo, you’d rather ‘accidentally’ run into him while walking Diggory in the Cut.”

“Or maybe I just happen to be coming back from Barry’s, and Dig rips his leash and bolts straight to whatever hole Maybank crawled out of.”

You nodded slowly. “Riiiight.”

Cara stuffed the towels into her beach bag and added casually, “Speaking of Barry, every time I’m picking up my weed, he’s asking about you .”

For some reason, that made your face heat up. You frowned, leaning on the umbrella. “Cara, I’m not hooking up with your dealer.”

She just shrugged, kneeling down to clip Diggory’s leash on. “He thinks you're chill and that means something. He doesn’t like a lot of Kooks. I thought you also liked him?”

“He's cool. That still doesn't change the fact he's selling coke and other stuff,” you said flatly.

Cara met your gaze, looking almost dreamy. “Yeah, and? Imagine: he’s the bad-boy dealer, and you’re his sweet little Kook princess.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You need to stay off Tumblr and Wattpad.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Rafe Cameron Stan No. 1 for life.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and started walking off with Diggory.

You just rolled your eyes and followed after her.

-----------------------------------------------

Back at home, you had dinner with your parents, then retreated to your room. You dropped your bag and sank onto your bed, phone in hand.

And then it started again — the tingling nerves.

What if Rafe still hadn't texted you? The thought was somehow so depressing.

Oh my god, just check already.

You held your breath, waiting impatiently for your phone to fully turn on. The screen lit up and…

A huge smile spread across your face, and your heart skipped a beat.

SEEMED LIKE HE WANTED TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

Okay, okay, breathe. Don’t read too much into it.

AHHH, BUT HOW COULD YOU NOT.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Seriously, calm down.

And you did—until Cara’s words from earlier popped back into your head, and that heavy feeling settled in your chest again.

Rafe was probably just putting in extra effort so he could get a good grade on this project. This wasn’t about wanting to see you again or anything like that.

You scoffed. What a naive thought.

You know what? Who cares? He wanted to meet up again, and that alone was a nice thought—whatever the reason.

Alright, how were you supposed to respond?

One thing's certain: no more sexually frustrated emojis.

You checked the timestamp on his last message. A little over an hour ago. Okay, that meant enough time had passed for you to reply without seeming too eager.

That was fine, right? RIGHT?!

Ugh, not really. Again, you sounded like a stupid girl because of fucking course he had meant after school.

Frustrated, you closed your eyes and let yourself fall back onto your bed.

Why were you so bad at… this?

Cara had practically effortlessly won over JJ Maybank today (okay, maybe it had been the other way around but that wasn't the point), and she hadn’t done anything except be herself.

She always just said what was on her mind and if she got rejected or received a weird look in return, so be it. Even outside of flirting, she handled social interactions with ease.

Why couldn’t you do that? Why did you have to overanalyze every single move?

It had already cost you so many potential friendships—maybe even relationships. And no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t turn that part of your brain off. At least not during in-person interactions.

The worst part? You weren’t even truly shy. Well, okay, kind of. But you, you know, the real you—how you usually acted around people you felt comfortable with—was always trapped behind this stupid barrier your own mind had built.

It was so frustrating because—

Bzzrt.

Your eyes snapped open as you grabbed your phone.

Rafe.

It hadn’t even been five minutes.

You sat up quickly and tapped into the chat:

You scoffed amused.

Your heart was racing again, adrenaline kicking in.

You clenched your teeth, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You wanted to reply right away, but wouldn’t that seem too much?

Then again, he had answered quickly too…

But what if you texted back now and then he took another hour to reply, or worse, didn’t reply at all…?

Fucking hell, enough.

What if you just… shut your brain off for once?

Just do it. Who cares how it comes across?

You’d already reached peak embarrassment today—you had nothing left to lose.

So you typed your message and hit send without second-guessing it.

…

And it felt good. It wasn’t even a big move or anything, but still, it made you smile.

Your phone buzzed again, and you couldn’t help but laugh when you read his message.

Ruthie Whitmore was an arrogant bitch. Loud, annoying, stuck-up—the biggest pick-me girl in Figure 8. No, probably in all of North Carolina. And she was obsessed with your Economics teacher, Mr. Collins, who was at least in his late 30s.

You didn’t know what it was—Rafe’s bluntness, the fact that you could hide your awkwardness behind a screen, or maybe just how tired you were of your real self always being held back by your own hesitation—but texting Rafe Cameron suddenly felt easy.

Okay, maybe it was also because, deep down (yeah, you still couldn’t fully shut off your brain), you knew he wasn’t actually interested in you.

He just needed to pass art class because his high school diploma depended on it.

And that’s exactly why you saw this chat for what it really was: a conversation with a project partner who was hoping you’d help boosting his Art grade.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

For a moment, you stared at the chat—or more specifically, his stupid little profile picture which had to have been taken by Kelce or Topper at some party. Then you let your phone drop onto the bed and a huge, stupid grin spread across your face.

Normally, the way you had just texted him would have sent you into a spiral of overthinking. Shit, you’d been cheeky (yeah, yeah, nothing crazy but for you it WAS)—nothing like the awkward girl you had been this afternoon.

But the thing was, this was you. You had loud thoughts and strong opinions, you enjoyed joking around, saying stupid shit, and holy shit you LOVED the banter that came with it.

You were a loud soul trapped in a silent body.

I’m basically a closeted extrovert, you thought, laughing to yourself. It sounded ridiculous and cringe as hell but let's be real, it summed you up perfectly.

And honestly, it didn’t even matter what you said or how you acted. No matter what Rafe thought of you, in two weeks, your paths would split again anyway. and you’d go back to your own little bubble—where you could admire him from a safe distance.

Sure, if only it were that simple.

You rolled your eyes at your own naivety. You already knew that the second you saw Rafe Cameron again tomorrow, your nerves would be doing somersaults, and you’d fall right back into being an awkward mess.

Because that was the cruel difference between texting and talking in person: There was no screen to hide behind and no digital barrier to mask your insecurity.

And that was a struggle you had yet to overcome.

-----------------------------------------------

kms masterlist | <- part two | part four (soon) ->

-----------------------------------------------

Taglist (open):

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee @sttaejoon-blog @vogueprincess

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day fifteen: old wound

ᰔ pairing: agent whiskey x reader

ᰔ summary: first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes jack daniels unsure if the two of you are making the right choice.

ᰔ author's note: this one is going to be a bit longer and is p angsty. sorrrrryyyyyyy. thank you again to everyone who's been reading there, i've been having a lot of fun writing them 🥹💙

ᰔ content warning: afab!reader, reader is pregnant, conversation around pregnancy, mentions of abortion, bits of canon in an au setting, angsty angst, fighting, mentions of character death, no beta- we die like men

"Baby, can I talk to you?" You peaked your head into Jack's office.

It was late, and you had just finished up your nightly routine of tidying up while he tied up the loose ends of his job for the day. You detested the idea of him working after hours, but that was an uphill battle you had yet to see the other side of. For now, you had bigger fish to fry.

"Of course, darlin'. You okay?" Jack looked up from his computer. He had his glasses on, already showered and in his pajamas. It was a good look on him— hell, everything was a good look on him.

"I wanted to talk to you about something. It's..." Your sentence trailed off. You stepped further into the office, and found your way behind the desk. Jack's chair turned towards you as you leaned your thigh against the sharp edge of the wood.

Jack reached his hand out, placed on your hip to offer some form of comfort. Whatever had plagued you seemed to be written all over your face. Though you two had only been married for a few months, you had known each other for years.

So long, in fact, that you remember the days when you used to hang out with Jack's deceased wife. A beautiful woman ripped away too soon, herself and their unborn son caught in the crossfire of an incident no one could have predicted. The two had become the untouchable subject between you and Jack, and you abided by that without question.

Up until now, that was easy enough to follow. You left it alone, and looked the other way when Jack stared at pictures from high school for too long. He had his better days, and the worse days were spent at the distillery— long evenings of work until he'd trudge back home past midnight, too exhausted to think, let alone face his grief head on.

While it wasn't perfect, it worked. You tried to support Jack in whatever way he needed. He did the same for you, and it had all become apart of the give and take you two had.

Now though, you had to address the elephant in the room. One in the form of a polaroid tucked away in the top drawer in Jack's desk, with a sonogram clipped to it. As badly as you wanted to drag out the entire situation, you were on borrowed time.

"Talk to me," Jack gently urged. "It ain't like I'm gonna bite your head off." His tone was concerned, but a bit amused at his own joke. With his free hand, he removed his glasses and placed them on the keyboard of his computer.

You gave a weak chuckle and tapped your foot. The amusement in Jack's tone seemed to die off as you squirmed in your spot. It was rare that he saw you in such a state.

"I went to the doctor today," you started. "Got some tests done like we had talked about." You didn't meet Jack's eyes, wouldn't even look in his direction. His hand felt like it had burned its imprint through your leggings and into your skin.

"Everything okay, darlin'?" Jack sounded immensely concerned, which you expected.

You weren't going to visit the doctor in the first place, if it had been your choice. Over the last few weeks, you just hadn't been yourself. You had been plagued with debilitating headaches and stomachaches that could lay anyone out. Jack begged you to get them checked out, worried that you were facing some sort of terminal illness.

Thankfully, you were given a clean bill of health. That was, until the doctor came in with a round of congratulations and talks of scheduling an appointment with your obstetrician. In that moment, it felt as if something you had locked away for so long finally popped open.

You hadn't even considered kids with Jack. After the passing of his wife and son, you didn't recognize him. It took a long time for him to shed that version of himself and return to some version of the man he once was.

One drunk night, back at your place after a date early on in your relationship, he went on and on about how it was a terrible idea to have children. Nothing good happens, and even if they live, they were set up to face a cruel world. You didn't disagree, but you knew the voice of grief well enough.

Now, since you had left the doctor's office, you had a different stomachache. How were you going to tell Jack? You were in no mood to fight, but you knew it was going to be a spectacle when you did tell him.

"Yes... and no. Jack, honey, I don't really know how to say what I need to say." You fidgeted with your hands, suddenly aware of the manicure you had gotten last week.

"Well, if it ain't terminal, then that's a good start," Jack tried to reassure you. He had never seen you like this, so unsure and hesitant. You were strong and confident to your very core, so sure of every move you made or whatever came out of your mouth.

"I'm pregnant," you blurted out. There was no other way to put it.

Jack was silent, his hand stilled on your hip. You watched as his expression turned steely and his jaw tensed. It hurt more than you cared to admit when he moved his hand away from you.

You looked to him, then back to your feet. The silence hung in the air ate at you, tense and thick with animosity. What was supposed to be a picture perfect moment– or at least what you had imagined when you were younger– was now anything but.

The silence only made you fidget more. You felt that sour pit in your stomach return as you waited. After a while, you couldn't take it anymore.

"I asked how it was possible, and the doctor said it could happen on some birth control pills. We discussed some options and how to proceed with this." You hoped it would help, but Jack refused to look at you. Instead, his gaze lingered on the top drawer of his desk.

You waited for something, anything from him. All day, you had braced yourself for what was to come. You had even considered removing the fetus without Jack knowing, but that just didn't seem right. The only option you felt you had was to face the problem head on.

"I know we haven't talked about it, but I need you to say something. Anything, really." You reached for his hand, only for him to pull away. It hurt more than you expected, and you moved your hand back to your side.

"You know how I feel about it," Jack finally said. "Just– I need some time to think."

You almost rolled your eyes, but refrained. In the time you had known the man, he said what he wanted when he wanted to. Over time, you had learned what that meant. It was Jack for 'I don't want this kid and I don't know how to do that without upsetting you'.

"Take the time you need," you assured him. Even in your turmoil, you understood he had a lot to process. You knew grief too well, and what it did to a person.

The silence had returned, this time heavier. You watched Jack quietly turn back to his work, a dismissal of you and the conversation all together. Without a word, you left his office.

You went to bed alone that night. Not unexpected, but it still cut deep. Right now, you just needed your husband and the simple act of comfort. All lost because of one little confession. Something you tried to prevent, but failed.

You had barely slept a wink. All night, you tossed and turned in the empty bed. When the sun peaked out from over the horizon, light slow to fill the room, you finally gave up. You decided to take a shower and get yourself ready for the day. Even if you wanted to wallow in bed, there were still tasks that had to be completed.

"Jack?" You called out as you headed downstairs. The house was empty, and a quick glance out the front door confirmed the truck was gone.

Anger bubbled inside of you as you slammed the door. He never did things like this to you. Jack made it a point to kiss you goodbye and love on you until the absolute last minute. Now, he was gone before you made it out of bed.

All day, your anger sat with you. It lingered in everything move you made, every thought you had. If there was anything you hated most of all, it was the feeling of anger. You found it did you no good, but all of your logic had flown out of the window the second the confession came out of your mouth.

Jack wasn't the only one who struggled with this. You were the one that had to create a human— one that you had never intended to have. This whole situation was terrifying, and the one person you needed most was too wrapped up in his own mind to see what stood in front of him.

When it was Jack's usual time to come home, you were surprised to hear the truck pull up. Instead of greeting him at the door as you normally would, you continued to work on dinner. You didn't have it in you to be the sweet, doting wife you liked to be.

"Hi, darlin'." Jack's sweet tone felt like a slap to the face. There was no way he had forgotten last night, no way he thought you had forgotten what happened last night.

It was your turn with the silence. You continued to make meatballs with your back turned to him, the only sound in the kitchen came from the radio you had turned on.

You heard Jack sigh as he placed his keys and wallet on the counter. The sound of his cowboy boots clicked against the tile of the kitchen floor. His hand found the small of your back, and he didn't miss the way you tensed at his touch.

"I thought about what you said," Jack muttered. He was close enough that you heard the way he talked under his breath.

"I hope so," you huffed. "Not like we had much else to talk about between now and then." You didn't look back. If you saw those sweet brown eyes, you'd melt and forgive him in a second. You had to stuck up for yourself, even if that meant focusing on the meatballs instead of your husband.

"That wasn't right, me leavin' you on your own after what we talked about last night." Jack's hand didn't move from your back. His fingers gently pressed into your side as he spoke.

"Came to that conclusion all on your own?" You tried to bite back some of the venom, but it had been stewing inside of you all day.

"Darlin'," Jack sighed. "I- You know why I acted the way I did. I mean, I can't-"

You whipped around to cut him off. Everything that had festered inside of you had come to a head, and if you wanted to stick up for yourself, now was the time.

"I do know, Jack. I'm well aware of what's been lost. You know, she was my friend too. You weren't the only person who lost someone," you began. "I know what loss is. I've lost a lot of people, but I can still acknowledge that life goes on. You ignoring me and the pregnancy doesn't make her come back. Grief is a fickle bitch, but I'm still pregnant and it's still your kid." You poked Jack's chest as you spoke.

"I-"

"No, you're going to let me finish. If you don't want the baby, fine. I'll call my doctor and that will be the end of that. If you want to keep it, that's fine too. Stop comparing me to her. I'm not her. This baby isn't him. You can feel the sadness and grief, but what you won't do is ignore me." You took a long, deep breath before you spoke again.

"If you ever do that again, I'm gone. Don't try me."

Jack waited a beat, but you finally settled and crossed your arms over your chest. You gave him an expectant look. The ball was in his court now. He sighed and rubbed his jaw as he tried to collect his thoughts.

"That was wrong of me, and I'll be the first to admit it," Jack started. "It's also wrong of me to compare the two of you. The truth is I never thought we'd be here, havin' this conversation."

You raised an eyebrow, your hip cocked to the side.

"You never thought that there would be a chance at me getting knocked up? With how often we go at it, that's just delusional." You tried to refrain from the attitude, but once your feathers were ruffled, that was the end of that.

"We've taken the proper steps for precaution," Jack argued. His jaw tensed as you rolled your eyes.

"You ever taken a sex ed class? There's always a chance. Look, that's not what I'm getting at. I've tried to avoid the subject as long as possible, but there's no more waiting. There a fetus in me, and we need to decide how we're gonna handle this before it's too late."

Jack sighed as he leaned back against the island, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. You were right, as you had always been. How you saw right through him was beyond him, but then again, that's what he admired about you.

"I don't know if I can handle another loss," Jack admitted. "I can't lose you."

You huffed a bit, your hands curled up at your side.

"Stop trying to get me killed! It hurts, Jack. It hurts to think that you're prepared for my death, that I can't make it through and have this baby— to know that you've accepted my death before you could even think of the life we could have." You turned back to the meatballs, and grabbed a hunk of meat. It did not ease your aggravation, but the physical work was cathartic.

Jack was silent. Between the two of you, an old country song wafted through the air. If the circumstances had been different, you'd be drinking wine and laughing with him. You were sure the two of you would be—

Your thoughts halted as a hand wrapped around your waist. The meat was dropped and you wiped your hands, all before Jack tugged you away from the counter. His strong arms wrapped around you as he pulled you to his chest.

Even in the thick of a fight, Jack made you dance with him. The first time it happened, you were so bewildered that you just let it happen. Every time since, you let him apologize in his own way.

Jack held you as the two of you swayed to the music. He was a sucker for Jonny Cash, you had come to learn. Whether it was slow and sweet, or something with a quick pace, he had to hold you close and dance with you.

If I Were a Carpenter played through the speakers, Johnny and June bore witness as you let Jack take lead. The two of you were quiet, but the footwork seemed to say a lot. As angry and hurt as you were, he knew every move you'd make. He knew you as well as you knew him.

"Would you'd love me if I was a carpenter?" Jack's voice was soft. You had one arm around his neck, the other wrapped around his as he led you.

"I'd love you no matter what," you assured him. It was true, you loved him through and through.

"Even now?" Jack asked. "Through it all?"

You nodded without hesitation.

"Through it all, even if I want to strangle you."

Things would be fine, and you knew that. What Jack had to work through was beyond you and the baby. As badly as you wanted an answer right now, that wasn't going to happen. He had to think and piece it all together himself. It got under your skin, but you meant what you said.

You'd love him no matter what.

[bullet-prooflove]

Lord Ashbury: Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @constantlyreadingsstuff @folkloroyy @ajanehopper @scrumptiousfacegalaxy

Companion piece to:

The PA - Rupert's new PA isn't like the others.

Bore Da Gold - Rupert discovers you have a secret.

Lord Ashbury is a cunt.

Rupert clocks that from the moment he steps into the room with a wife that has her nose stuck so high in the air, it’s a wonder you can’t see the stick up her ass. Your face lights up when you see him and something twists in Rupert’s chest, something unexpected.

It’s none of his business he tells himself, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to punch the smug bastard in the face when he breezes past you in the entrance way without so much as a second look.

The mistress’s lot he thinks as he takes in your crestfallen expression. You must be new to adultery.

It gets worse throughout the evening because Lord Ashbury, he doesn’t give you a shred of attention, not even when you run into each other at the champagne table. It’s like you don’t even exist and Rupert can see just how much it tears you apart.

He almost doesn’t catch you slipping out of the party. Maud’s spent the entire night attempting to seduce him but he only has eyes for you, for the drama that’s unfolding. He doesn’t even say his goodbyes, he just stands up and follows you right out the door, ignoring Maud’s protests.

He catches up with you half way down the driveway, falling into step almost immediately, his shoes crunching on the gravel. There’s a chill in the air, it bites at him as he strips off his tuxedo jacket, draping it around your shoulders. You don’t say anything, instead you withdraw your hair out from underneath the collar and it’s then that he notices the earrings are missing.

Tossed in a bush somewhere, he hopes.

“You can do better than Lord Ashbury.” He says frankly as you stroll down the lane together. “If his fucking is as lacklustre than his policies I’d say you dodged a bullet.”

“I’m not fucking him.” You say quietly as you tuck your hands into the pockets of his tuxedo jacket. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“A man doesn’t give a woman earrings that expensive unless he’s getting a little something in return.” Rupert says knowingly. “Is he one of those men that likes women walking all over him in stilettos? Tried that once and it was bloody awful. Had the marks for weeks.”

“I wouldn’t know.” You say, tilting your head back to look up at the stars and the way the moonlight illuminates your skin, it’s otherworldly. He’s fucked so many beautiful women over the years but he’s never cared about a single one of them, not the way he does about you. He’s not sure when that happened. Maybe it was the night he came back to the house and found you curled up in front of the fire with his dogs. Or the time he was so sick he could barely get of bed so you took it upon yourself to care for him, mopping his brow, making sure he ate. There are a thousand tiny moments that have passed between the two of you over the past few months and he realises it could have been any one of them.

Making him switch to decaf in the evenings so he sleeps better, the fact you take him to task when he’s misbehaving, your words honest and unflinching. The way you look on a Sunday morning, hair wild, clad in those floral short pyjamas of yours, the ones that make him bite his lower lip when you reach for something in the top cupboard.

All of them have cumulated in this feeling, this absolutely odd blossoming in his chest that erupts whenever he’s with you.

“You were disappointed tonight.” He remarks as you remove the packet of cigarettes from his left pocket before placing one between your lips, igniting it. He selects his own before following suit, watching the smoke plume into the night sky as you exhale.

“You aren’t going to let this go are you?” You murmur and he shakes his head.

“You know me, I’m dogged in my pursuit of all things.” He tells you, taking a drag of his cigarette, the house coming into view down the lane. “So we may as well just get this over with as I’ll never stop hounding you.”

“I thought you liked the chase.” You smile and it’s the first glimmer of real you he’s seen all night.

“Not when it comes to something that upsets you.” He finds himself admitting. “It rather makes me want to destroy the thing that’s causing the problem.”

“You’re in danger of becoming a romantic.” You inform him and he realises there’s a possibility you might just be right. Silence falls between the two of you as he absorbs that before you continue. “He’s my father.”

That, he didn’t expect. It takes him a second to follow the family tree. Lord Ashbury, he has two sons, both older than you by a couple of years with his current wife Carmela.

“You’re illegitimate.” He says with understanding.

“My mother was an actress on the West End.” You tell him as you remove the keys from his right tuxedo pocket and open the door. “Their affair is still ongoing. When I was younger he used to pseudo parent me. I’d come in and they’d both be sitting there, delivering a united front when they told me I was off to boarding school, it was like having a real father…”

“But not at the same time.” He finishes, the two of you spilling into the hallway. You slip out of his tuxedo jacket, handing it back and he almost feels a sense of disappointment at the notion. “And tonight…”

“Carmela doesn’t know so…” You shrug your shoulders with a dejectedness he feels in the depths of his heart as you climb the stairs. He follows a step behind you, watching as you remove the gold earrings from your purse, depositing them in the nude jar.

“You can’t do that.” He states, preserving the sanctuary of the nude jaw, his hand coming to rest upon your wrist. His thumb sooths over the indentation as your gaze flickers up to meet his. “You haven’t done anything indecent yet.”

“Oh.” You say, your fingers clasping his hand lightly before you draw away. “Well let’s change that shall we?”

You reach behind you, fingers clasping the zipper of your dress, dragging it down. The fabric parts, sliding from your shoulders, down your hips and into a pool at your feet. His breath catches because the sight of you in emerald green lace, it’s enough to bring a man to his knees. You turn away from him, striding towards your rooms and that ass, he wants to leave his mark all over it.

He knows what this is, right now you’re hurt, feeling unwanted. Your daddy issues are playing out before him and Rupert, he’s never shied away from anyone who wants a good fucking. One night with him would be restorative, healthy even, a way of venting those feelings. At least that’s what he tells himself.

“Rupert, are you coming?”

Not yet, he thinks unfastening the top two buttons of his shirt as he follows you into the bedroom, but you’re certainly about to be.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[halforresterluvsford]

This was supposed to be posted on Valentine's Day but life happens and I fall asleep in the middle of writing, Oops. I honestly don't know how good this is, and if you see grammar mistakes no you didn't! Enjoy these sappy brosbands!

Stan breathes out into the cool night air, shivering and shoving his hands in his coat pockets. It was freezing in the Arctic. He was glad when he and Ford decided to head for warmer waters a week ago, winter in the Arctic circle is hellishly cold, and while it created many opportune moments for cuddling, he was getting real tired of being cold all the time. He wants to go to Tuscany, try the wines, the tomatoes, and the cheeses. Go to Rome and make fun of the hokey tourist attractions with Ford. Is it probably miserably hot down there and will Stan complain about it? Yes 100%, but as long as he's not freezing his balls off, he'll take anything. Subconsciously, he brings a hand out to adjust himself in his pants, thinking about Ford finally busting out those green shorts-

"Stanley?" He whirls around, hands shooting up out of instinct to protect his face before he relaxes. It's just Ford, good Ol' Poindexter scaring the piss out of him.

"Yeah, whatzit?" Stan asks, ducking his chin in his collar to shield his face from the cold. To also hide his blush. Ford looks good. Well, he always does, but for some reason, he looks really good right now. His hair is combed, for once, he's wearing a spiffy jacket and a pair of slacks that cut really nicely around his upper thighs. Stan has a hard time not staring. Hot damn is he lucky to have a one Stanford Pines as his lover. His Lover, capital "L". Sure it took some used to, getting over the whole incest thing, but honestly? They're too old to worry about that, and they've spent too many years apart to get hung up some trivial matter such as being related. At least, that's how Ford put it, and Stan couldn't help but agree, who were they hurting by being together?

"It's a rather nice night, isn't it? Do the stars seem brighter than normal to you?" Ford smiles so softly at Stan that he feels breathless for a moment, his heart aching at how much he loves his twin.

"Yeah, they-um, they're really pretty, the moon, too." Damn, he sounds like a babbling idiot. Just because Stanford looks extra good tonight and smiled at him so sweetly. You're a weak man, Stanley Pines. Weak.

Meh, he can live with that, being weak for the person he loves most in the entire galaxy. No, the entire multiverse. Stan would risk destroying the world a thousand more times for Ford, and he will if he has to, that's how much he loves him.

"Yes, the moon does seem rather bright tonight, does it not? I'm glad the sky seems so clear tonight, we were fortunate enough to catch it as it reaches fullness. You know, there are stories about..." Stan doesn't mean to tune Ford out, really, but he can't help but get lost in thought as he stares at him. The moon really is extra bright out tonight, gleaming off Ford's hair and reflecting off his face. Ford looks, well good is the only word coming to Stan's brain at this moment, but "good" doesn't really describe how he looks. He looks like he belongs in an old film as the smooth debonair protagonist. Like Hampterfuppinshire from "The Duchess Approves". Moses, he loves looking at Ford, looking at how he looks so much like when Stan saw him for the last time in Glass Shard but at the same time so different. He's taller, broader, stronger, and way hairier-Stan can attest for that. But he still smiles the same, still styles his hair-sideburns aside-the same. His brown eyes still sparkle the same when he talks, full of excitement and life and yearning. That's always been Stan's favorite part about Ford, his eyes. How they look like amber when the sun hits them at just the right angle, a shade lighter than Stan's. How Ford can never hide his emotions, not when Stan can look into his eyes and see how tormented, how pained, or how happy he is just with a glance. He loves most of all when they light up when Ford looks at his family, all together, when he looks at him-

Stan is jolted out of his thoughts when Ford drops down onto one knee. He scrambles, scared that he missed something serious or important when he was lost in the thought of Ford's eyes. He stops abruptly when his twin brings his hands up, cupped. He stares intently at Stan, who's getting steadily more confused and worried as Ford just stares at him. Finally, after what seems like forever, Ford opens his hands and reveals a ring glinting under the moonlight. It's black, dark enough that Stan wouldn't have been able to make out what it was if it was for the glinting of the moon off purple and blue hues in the ring. His brother is still staring, eyes looking at him, he knows that stare, he's staring so he can gather his words to speak in a way so that he wouldn't make as ass of himself. Stan's breath catches in his throat, and he fights to swallow the lump that formed as soon as Ford dropped down. He stares, he doesn't know what to think, his mind moving at half a mile per second. What is Ford doing? Why does he look so determined? And the ring? Stan opens his mouth to-to say something to get Ford to stop staring at him like that, to speak. He doesn't have to, Ford finds his words very soon.

"I love you, Stanley Caryn Pines. I have loved you for as long as I can remember. For me, it's always been you. Through our fights and being apart for 40 years, it's always been you. No one can make my heart sing the way you do," here, Ford's voice breaks a little, and Stan can see tears in his eyes before they're blinked away, "I need you by my side, I have always needed you by my side, even when I was a stupid fool who scorned you for mistake, even when I was raging against you, I have always needed you. I love you more than words can tell, more than I can say, really. And-and I know a wedding, especially at our age and with our relationship, probably seems ridiculous-heh-but I still want that. With you, proving our love to the world. I-if you'll have me, of course. So, will you-will you marry me?" Ford concludes his speech with an important question and a shaky smile, eyes tearing up and hands shaking-from nerves or the cold, Stan can't tell-but looking all the world in love. With Stan. He feels his heart clench so tightly he worries he's having a hear attack for a quick moment before shaking that thought away. He doesn't know what to say or how long he's been standing there silent, but he thinks its been too long because Ford is starting to look upset, his hand lowering from where he kept it up. "Stanley, I-I-"

Speechless, Stan reaches into his pocket and pulls out the box he's kept in there for 2 months straight now, too cowardly to offer it up to Ford. He holds the velvet box in his hands for a moment before he reaches out and hands it to Ford, waiting for him to open the case. He does so, slowly, eyes widening as he sees the old and tarnished ring sitting snugly in the case. It was their grandfather's, Stan inherited it-as Ford-when their father died. It's gold with a ring of silver in the middle. Ford's always like the story behind it, how their grandpa so desperately wanted to marry their granny, but couldn't afford a ring for her, so he gave a-Stan can't remember if it was a Jewelry maker or a metal smith, that part always changed-he gave a someone one of his mother's silver hoops and the gold caps from his teeth to make a ring with. Ford found the story sweet and romantic, Stan never truly understood that sacrifice until he spent 30 years living someone else's life just to bring back the only person he's ever loved.

"Well shit, guess you beat me to the punch, huh?" Stan laughs awkwardly at Ford's silent staring, his eyes going from the ring to Stan himself. "I-um. I got that after pa', y'know. And I-I've been carrying that old thing around for months now, just waiting for the right time," Stan waves his hands as he looks to the side, too cowardly to look at the man who just proposed to him holding the ring he was going to propose with. He pulls at his coat collar, feeling warm and a tiny bit suffocated. "Heh, it's probably not as nice as the ring you got-" yeah, it's probably made from a fucking Meteor or some shit- "but I remember you liked the ring and the story when we was kids s-so." Stan swallows, or tries to, his throat is too damn dry. "Well jeez, Poindexter, say something at least, I'm dying here." But Ford doesn't say anything. He laughs, hard, belly bouncing, head thrown back laughs. Stan joins with some chuckles after a moment, hoping he's not being mocked, that Ford suddenly changed his mind because Stan got him an old and shitty ring compared to his cool sci-fi one.

"Great Minds think alike, Stanley! Hah! I should have known, you've acting odd for weeks now. Well, more than usual, heh." Ford was smiling so wide that Stan's cheeks hurt just looking at it. So, he's not being rejected, that's good. It's great. It's more than great. "And you remembered the ring, oh Stanley you have no idea how much this means to me." If he looks closely enough, Stan can see tears in his brothers eyes, soft and sweet, happy tears.

"S-so 's that a yes to marrying me?" What? He's still afraid of being rejected. Looking at Stan's history, can you blame him?

"Only if you agree to marry me, as well, Stanley." Ford looks nervous, too, but Stan has no doubt in his mind that he'd say yes to his brother's proposal.

"Stanford, I've loved you my entire life, before that, I think. I loved you before I knew you," Stan snatches the cool probably-a-space ring from Ford's hands and crams it on his finger. A perfect fit. He probably took measurements when Stan was asleep. Such a little creep, his little creep. "Yes I'll marry you. Think I'd also propose-no wait, Bropose-"

"Stanley don't call it that-"

"If I didn't?" Stan finishes, ignoring Ford's interruption.

"Well in that case, Stanley, yes I'll marry you, too. You big sap." Ford fits the other ring on his fourth finger.

"Creep, I bet you spent weeks measuring my fingers to get a ring that fits this well." Stan shoots back, he's got to hold on to his pride. He's no sap.

"Says the man who admitted to carrying around this ring for months. What was it you said? You "loved me before you knew me"? Sounds sappy-ow!" Ford rubs his arm where Stan punched him, throwing a pout his way. They break out into boisterous laughter again at the situation, sibling fights after proposing to each other. Can't beat this type of relationship.

"Hey, should I get you a second ring, for your extra ring finger? Symmetry an' all that Jazz?" Stan asks, shoving Ford out of the way to beat him to the door. It really is cold outside.

"Stanley, stop it! I-ugh fine, go ahead." Ford shoves Stan through the door, "I don't feel like it's wholly necessary to do that, but far be it from me to stop you. Should we tell the kids about this?"

"Nah, not right away, at least. We gotta get married on international waters, anyways, no laws against incest marriages here." Stan rubs his hands together to warm them, grinning as he feels the ring rub against his other fingers.

"We could get married far out enough from the Californian Coast to be in International Waters but have the twins there, assuming they'd want to come. Should we have a summer wedding? Hmmm, maybe spring, I want it to be warm enough that no one's shivering, but I do like our summers back in Gravity Falls, and I'd hate to miss out on it, even for our Honey Moon...." Ford talks on as they warm themselves up inside their cabin, pulling out the ingredients for Hot Cocoa.

Stan smiles at his-his fiance's ramblings. Moses, he really does love his brother.

[lafilleestmorte]

I have been thinking about Q.

Falling in love with the person leaving him notes at the cafe throws him completely off balance. It's his final year of high school, his world must revolve around his art and getting into college. But he's sitting thinking about this person he has never met and how natural it feels to love them and how deep this feeling has settled into his chest and how little he knows how to deal with it.

So he leaves. He goes to university. He spends a year making friends, dating around, drinking. His art surrounds him again and if he ignores the memory of that milk frappe boy whom he left behind then he can return to the person he understands. He loathes that he is able to live with having left him behind. He draws and fools around some more. And so the year ends, and, walking into a new semester, he meets Toey.

Q's mentee is. strange. For a fine arts major, he has the most peculiar relationship to art. He doesn't have the faintest clue of the skills that, to q, are simple as breathing. Armed with blunt pencils and a conviction like none other, Toey paints beauty into the world around him

It's like I'm sitting in a vast grassy field, with a gentle breeze under a bright sky. It's like I'm watching a masterpiece of art.

Q recognizes the way he's starting to care about Toey, but he's still trying to learn how to show it. Small gestures, little invitations. Quite moments with just the two of them. He remembers the milk frappe boy and regrets what he didn't do then. But he likes the person Toey is showing him how to be.

You said I didn't take care of you at all, so I'm treating you to some desserts.

It occurs to Q all at once that Toey might just as easily slip away. Because of a love beyond his hands or someone else who gets there faster or his own lack of action. Q refuses to lose the person he loves ever again. He's never been in love with a boy. He doesn't even know if Toey has a reason to like him back. But he doesn't have the time to give thought to his feelings or his fears. He needs to run towards Toey, faster than he himself thought it possible.

So when he finds out the truth, the feeling of betrayal is difficult to describe. The love that he had kept concealed - from everyone and from himself - out on display for all of his friends. A boy who made him want to reach out and hold onto his own genuine feelings, working behind him to catch him off guard.

The boy he has been in love with loves him back. He has always loved him back.

But the person he has been becoming now feels like he might slip away. How easy it would be to let him go. How easily he had left him in pain and silence, two years ago.

[hardtobeasaintdotmp3]

category 7 stupid moment: missed my flight home. however! got to stay at my friend's house for a night longer and watch more house md with him. so yknow. it all evens out

[guinevereslancelot]

not "i can do better" or even "i deserve better" per se, because i can't really believe that, but an inexplicable third reason i won't settle for a relationship where my level of care, effort, and sacrifice isn't reciprocated <3

[did-you-fall-for-a-shooting-star]

In what world is it considered okay to go and complain to someone about how much you miss a co-worker that died, MONTHS ago, when you werent too too extremely close. When the person you are complaining to about how you still struggle to do your job, had a really bad week this week missing him, etc. IS HIS CHILD??

Like Im sorry, I didnt realize I was supposed to be consoling YOU.

And to top it all off, HE WANTS TO HAVE AN EMPTY CHAIR AT THE DJ TABLE FOR HIS WEDDING TO HONOR MY DAD. Like look bro, Im sorry that he cant be at your wedding as your bestie or DJ. But ya know. I’m not gonna have him at my wedding either to WALK ME DOWN THE AILSE. SO MAYBE FUCK OFF.

[fingertipsmp3]

People find out about shit I’ve put up with in the past and are like “how did you not punch this person omg” and I just need to explain one thing to you about me. I can store up things indefinitely if I have to. I am capable of rational thought in even the most insane of circumstances and if I decide it’ll be infinitely more satisfying to get back at someone at a later date when I’m more coherent than to yell at them now, by God I’ll do it

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

pls i agree with the previous anon. like i need to see how your mind works. LIKE THE AMOUNT OF LORE YOU PUT INTO THIS STORY? no wonder you was struggling to write this chapter. no wonder you had to split it. YOURE PUTTING EVERYTHING INTO IT. i adore you.

i just love how you do megumi justice. like from what we hear from others (oh my god he was such a menace. jumping out of vehicles? biting people? willing to summon his ace just to spite everyone? trying to electrocute his uncle?) he has so much fire in him. he’s such a little shit. i love him. i’m so tired of everyone portraying him as some emotionless bland character. the dudebros don’t know him the way i do 🙁.

i’m honestly just itching to see yuuta spill the beans on his attachment to megumi like…would gojo actually be willing to kick that kid ass. IF ANYTHING gojo should consider this a win. the son he birthed from his gojoussy (i was there. i was the one cutting the cord ofc shh) has a loyal protector.

but in all honesty i have so many theories. like about mai, she might pop out to get the books & shit for her nephew? who knowsss.

the answer to how my mind works is “not well.” imagine a waiting room where the staff are only in attendance for 30 minutes per day (it’s never the same 30 minutes) and there is a hamster inexplicably lose. there are fish tanks but they are empty ones. you do not know what the business is or why you are waiting. dont stop me now by queen is playing on endless loop

[mcalhenwrites]

I'm not going to pretend it doesn't make me angry that I spend months and years trying to peddle my work to make ends meet, that I spend so much time mentioning my books and comms and everything, and people ignore that consisently... But the moment I finally break under the hopelessness - when it's obvious that it's fucking futile, that almost no one deems my work good enough to share with anyone else - suddenly they're concerned and scolding me. I'm working several jobs, bathing, generally keeping things clean, and I do this with several health problems including chronic pain. I found out that one of my cysts is growing and I may need to have it surgically removed. Which means potentially missing work to recover. Which means more money I lose. I spend so much time crawling out of the hole and it goes ignored, but the moment I just give up bc I don't have any strength left, suddenly that's my fault and I'm mentally sick. And that kind of makes me wish my entire situation upon people, and when they whine that it's hard, well fuck you, you thought I could ace it so surely you can, babe! I hate being angry about this, but it's just so exhausting to tell people who accuse me of not trying that I HAVE I HAVE SO FUCKING HARD AND YOU DID NOT PAY ATTENTION THEN Or you know you're attempting to gaslight me by claiming I didn't try despite that I obviously have worked my ass off trying, and that's so much fucking worse

[obeymeow]

being neurodivergent is all fun and games until you remember those hourly quote bots on twitter and think well maybe I can't make a bot anymore but I could schedule a few quotes a day, that shouldn't be hard. it sounds fun to have a bunch of quotes of my favorite character Thirteen from hit mobile game Obey Me! and its sequel Obey Me! Nightbringer. and then you think about how arduous collecting the quotes is going to be but she's only been in the games for maybe a year and a half with little screentime and you love collecting things so you start but then you remember that you love collecting things so naturally you have ALL of her screentime in the game and suddenly you have 45k characters of quotes and are several lessons into season 4 (which is truly a trial in and of itself) but not nearly close enough to the end but you refuse to just stop collecting the quotes and make the account with the EXCESS of what you have already because you literally only have season 4 to get through and if you don't do it just seeing the bot (because now you've been informed you can make tumblr bots instead) will haunt you with that knowledge even if nobody else would ever know. this is a general anecdote of a situation that could easily happen to anyone though and not in any way related to my life