#it does not help that it’s the middle of the fucking night

[taintandviolent]

sin creeps in ; Nosferatu x Reader

summary: You're plagued by heinous nightmares of a mysterious monster, but you can't help but feel drawn to he who plagues you.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.5K | female reader, monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, bloodplay, biting, drinking blood / blood loss, mentions of death, making out, smut, unprotected sex, mentions of accents, shadow play (fingering)????.

a/n: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR NOSFERATU 2024! this is just.... listen, I'm not even going to try to justisfy myself. rack up yet another hear me out moment for me. you either understand or you don't. shorter than I wanted it to be, but I needed to get this out and sate my hunger. banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You awake with a strangled gasp, your hands flying to your throat as your breath gradually returns. The nightmares had roused you, as they had every night, but this time, something lingered. Your room was frigid; the gauzy curtains fluttered in front of the open window like misplaced ghosts, allowing the chill of the night to penetrate your quarters. Everything looks terrifying at night; familiar shapes are transformed into horrible spectres, and your very room feels unknown. Unsafe. 

He is here. For the first time in several nights, you weren’t dreaming – he has come for you.

“I know that you are here with me,” you bravely whisper into the emptiness of your own bedroom. The wind whistled, a familiar sound, but something growled – growled in a language you didn’t speak, but understood. The voice was low, gravelly, and heavily accented. 

Hurriedly, you kick the sheets from your legs. The moonlight pales your skin, washing you in its blanch, bluish tone. Gripping your gown with both hands, you gather it up your thighs, exposing them to the cold. The chill of the wind hits your center, and you hiss through your teeth. Your head drops to your chest, and so does your gaze, watching patiently. At the edge of your bed, a large, slender shadow manifests. Him. 

You dare not look up. The feeling of his presence petrifies you, but also arouses you – letting a slick warmth pool deeply between your legs. 

The shadows continue to creep further up your bed, until they reach your feet, which twitch in response. Up, up, up… along your shins. Your skin prickles, and you shiver, doing your best to remain calm. Though he doesn’t touch you, you feel him. You feel every pass of his large hand as it makes its way up your body. His shadow glides over your hip, to your stomach and finally between your plump breasts, coming to a stop over your beating heart. It thumps away like a rabbit’s heart underneath the blackness of his form, and you hear a ragged, strained groan.

Then, with no warning, it moves down, leaving a cold, lifeless chill in its path like a gust of winter wind. You pant, desperately clinging to what breath you have. All at once, the shadow envelopes the soft, warm mound between your legs and your hands fall to the bed, bracing yourself. You have felt his ghostly touches for countless nights, tasting your body as a lover would, but each time your body climbed the peak, the sensations disappeared.  He comes to you in dreams, always leaving you unsatisfied. Your chest heaves in the night, cold droplets of sweat peppering your decollete and breasts. Your hands claw the sheets while you dream, but never reach euphoria.

Tonight, there are new sensations. The phantom wisp of his middle finger runs along the length of your slit. Grazing it. Somehow, you feel his finger part your wet folds, toying with your most sensitive areas. The nonexistent pads of his fingers sweep back and forth over your swelling clit, bringing a spasmodic twitch from each of your muscles. Wanting. Craving. While the sensation lacks the familiar warmth of a living man, it is bountiful with pleasurable feelings – your body responds embarrassingly; your shoulders shudder violently. 

He inhales, a deeply hollow sound. “You desire this… thine own body craves it….” 

The accent seems to fill his entire mouth, rumbling in his throat as he speaks slowly, drawing out each word like an incantation. You let out a plaintive moan, throwing your head back against the pillows, the down feathers crackling underneath you. As though he’s still pleasuring you, your hips writhe back and forth, practically convulsing with need. The shadow of his hand is gone from your body, replaced by the looming darkness of his physical form. After a moment of trepidation, you finally lift your head, and stare into the dark, terrifying eyes that watch you. 

You swallow hard. “I do.” 

A moment passes before you continue. “Take me as you will, for I am yours.” You consent again, desperate to convey your own insatiable hunger, your unimaginable need. 

Another intake of breath from him – it almost sounds labored, painful. His footsteps are dreadful as he moves around to the side of your bed. He’s tall, his form stretching towards the ceilings and towering over you, consuming your atmosphere as he had in your nightmares. His silhouette is large; enhanced by the countless furs he has on.

Weightlessly, his lithe, ghastly fingers reach for you and make contact with your form. They are cold, and the icy feeling of them penetrate the thin fabric of your nightgown. He moves gradually, but hungrily, feeling the curves of your body beneath the cotton. As he moves southward, his fingers skim over the peak of your breast, a nail catching on the swollen nipple. It hurts, but your chest jerks forward still, craving more of his touch. 

Pulling a breathy moan from deep within your throat, his long, sharp nails rake across the tender flesh of your thigh. It’s bathed in the silvery moonlight, which casts horrible, elongated shadows of his fingers down towards your center. He scrapes downward, his middle finger digging into the flesh enough to leave a reddened streak behind, but not so much to break the skin.

“P-please…” you mewl, looking up into his horrifying visage. The sight of him fills you with dread and disgust, but like a single drop of blood in water, it’s tainted with something else, something else that has been lingering in your system for days. 

He’s above you now, though you don’t remember seeing him move atop of you. Still, he’s there. The bed creaks as you push yourself into the mattress, whimpering underneath him. He lowers himself down onto you, the brush of his mustache tickles your face as he lingers above you. A second passes and his waiting mouth envelops yours. He tastes damp and cold, faintly of ash and earth. His tongue slips out and it too is cold, slipping wetly along your own and along your bottom lip. His kiss is dreadful, but possessive, and he inhales each time you exhale, as though he’s trying to suck the very warmth out of you. No man has kissed you the way Count Orlok kisses you, and the chill of the room disappears, snuffed out by the fire that rages in your lower abdomen. 

Your tongues collide with each other; you tasting his lifelessness, and him tasting your utterly intoxicating, vibrant liveliness. For a moment, the two of you stay intertwined at the mouth until he separates himself, smearing his mouth over the warmth of your neck. He hovers, pausing over your pulse. It thrums under his lips, and his hips urge into yours, indicating his hunger.

There is a shuffle, a rustling of clothing. You try to lift your head up to gaze between your bodies, but his hand holds you fast, pressing you against the pillow. The size of his hand is staggering; his palm underneath your chin, while the fingertips extend past your hairline, into the strands. You shudder again and whisper his name. He inhales as though he plans to speak, but doesn’t. 

The front of your nightgown falls apart, revealing your chest to him. With one hand covetously clutching your breast, his mouth opens between your breasts, the slithery coolness of his tongue gliding down along the length of your sternum. As the teeth puncture your flesh, your hands make fists on either side of your body, pulling the sheets into the confines of your palms. He enters you, in more ways than one, and you feel the steady tug of his mouth as he sucks the blood from your veins. Warmth pools in the cave of your stomach.

The fingers of his other hand crawl up your shoulder, and like a quill in ink, he dips the pads of his fingers into the hollow of your chest, coating them in your crimson essence. He smears the blood along your decollete, along the hem of your nightgown, tugging it harshly over your shoulder. The blood coats you in a flash of warmth, and then chill as it meets the cold air. 

His hips rut against yours as he drinks, the pulse of your blood matching the thrust of his hips. An ache starts in your neck, a slow pulling sensation that has your eyelids fluttering. He moves within you, his length penetrating as deeply as his sharpened teeth have. Your release is found amongst blood and groans and that same language which you understand, but do not speak. His tongue scrubs at your soft skin, lapping up the blood as it comes… as you do. 

The darkness is ever-looming, and as your aching cunt ebbs its throbbing, it settles down upon you. You let yourself fall backwards into the abyss, freely. It takes you, wrapping its arms around your tiny frame which is dwarfed by his stature. His mouth breaks free of your bloodied skin with a slick pop.  Into the softness of your skin, you hear him growl, ‘Mine.’ The feeling vibrates against your neck, and your lids flutter shut.

[starboye]

starring: biker!bf x male reader

request: Biker bf that is out of our house in the middle of the night and call us to take us in a long night drive, ending in a secluded place where things get freaky 😋

warnings: smut, deepthroat, sorta public sex

it was a night like any other one, completely boring with nothing to do, so you tell you boyfriend and in minutes he's at your front door "wanna take a ride" he asks you and you're out the door, wind blowing through your hair as you drive down the empty roads and tightly holding on to his waist.

soon after a bit of riding he pulls over into an alley and stops the motorcycle "why stop here" you ask as he gets up and takes off his helmet and you doing the same "because i wanted to admire you" he says pulling you into a kiss "and plus i have a boner" he adds in between the lovely kisses making you laugh a bit.

"of course you do" you chuckle "well wanna help me with it" he asks groping his bulge and moving his kisses down to your neck to persuade you some more "fine" you huff and he does a silent celebration as your back turns to him, leaning against the wall and pulling his pants down along with his under wear as you get on your knees in front of him.

whipping his dick out and watching your eyes marvel at it although you've seen it hundreds of times by now but it's like it just gets bigger every time, with no hesitation you sink your mouth on to him, going all the way down to the base before pulling your head back and repeating.

"fuck baby just like that" he moans dropping his head onto the wall and gripping the back of your head with his hand to control your pace, your tongue running back and forth across the bottom of his cock making him shudder a little and with every time you go all the way to the base you flick his balls with your tongue a little.

your gagging fills the empty alley with sound as you get sloppier and sloppier, his balls smacking the bottom of your chin and his tip abusing the back of your throat more and more as his cock slid down your throat.

"m'close" he grunted through shut teeth and with that you started slobbering all over his dick, your tongue licking every inch of it until you could feel him shaking above you before pulling out and replacing your mouth with his hand "let's decorate that pretty face" he says before spurting his load all over you.

tapping his tip across your cum stained lips before getting you back to your feet and kissing you, but you finish it off by wiping the cum from your face and licking it up which gets him started again, you might be out all night at this rate but at least you're not bored anymore.

taglist:@mailmango @spermeboy @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac

[loracarol]

You know what fucks me up (still?) Is that Athena heard Ody call out for her and then immediately went to God Games, but she never actually responded to Odysseus. And yeah, we laugh because Ody's all "who fought for me?" In Dangerous because it was Athena! It was obviously Athena!! But Odysseus doesn't know that! All he knows is:

They had a fight and didn't speak for ten years

He called out for her in a moment of despair

She never responded

He doesnt know!! He thinks he called out to her and she ignored him!!

And Hermes brought him the wind bag - maybe Aeolus was the one who helped?

No wonder he reacts the way he does when he meets her again after ten years; he's just murdered 108 people, he's hopped on adrenaline and ohfuckimhomenow.

Do you think he has a moment later, when he's had a chance to breathe? That he wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes it was Athena that fought for him? That she hadn't ignored him? Do you think he calls out to her, or do you think he looks at himself as something too broken to be in her presence?

Do you think anything would have changed if she'd given him any sort of sign that she'd heard him before going into GG?

[thewrittenqueer]

It starts with Regulus taking up gardening

He’s an exceptional potioneer and if he’s going to go far in that career he needs to know how to make his own ingredients. Plus, though, he is one of Slug’s favorite students he can’t just regularly take supplies from Slug’s stash (especially for personal use)

However he can’t make a garden in the dorms. It’s a usually cold dungeon, with the only sunlight being reflected through murky lake water, and only a finite space to work with. So he had to find a place on the grounds to do it.

It’s on one of his late night broom rides or stargazing at the astrology tower when he can’t sleep that he finds it. He only sees a glint of glass from up there, so he goes exploring during one of his free periods.

It’s on the very outskirts of the forbidden forest. A very rundown cabin and an equally rundown greenhouse. Regulus guesses it’s the old caretaker dwelling’s before they were moved closer to the castle.

Regulus spends months fixing it up until he can start planting. He’s pretty much the only one who goes there and he only plants what he needs.

It’s stays that way until, of all things, w**d. Barty keeps complaining about the hufflepuffs raising the price

(Glaring at Barty as his reading is interrupted for the fourth time by this rant, Reg says, “Your dad’s literally the Minister of Magic, Barty. It’s not like you're hurting for money,”

“It’s the principle of it, Reg!”

Not even looking up from the newest witch weekly she’s reading Dorcas adds, “Yeah fuck capitalism and all that,”

“Yes! Thank you Cas!”

She merely flips him off when he turns his glare on her)

Unable to deal with any more of Barty’s complaining, he adds a corner to grow it for him. Which of course leads to the skittles wanting their own area too. In the end its covered in so many various fruits/veg, flowers, and plants (muggle and wixen alike) that it leads outside of the greenhouse

Eventually this leads to all the skittles spending more and more time over there until it goes from Reg’s place to all of theirs

——

The cabin is a perfect hideout. There’s a tiny fireplace that Reg has to chop wood for.

James does start to notice that Regulus’s arms start to get bulgier and more defined. He starts paying more attention to Regulus. Obviously because he has to be doing some over the top quidditch training to win the house cup that James has to steal it (no other reason)

On top of that there’s a cozy little reading nook where he can read muggle books and “trashy” wixen ones without judgemental eyes. As well as a comfy living room and bedroom.

Though the cherry on top is that he’s allowed to relax and be him. He doesn’t have to wear a dozen masks and appear to be the utmost perfect heir to everyone. Most importantly, though, he can freely hang out with all his friends too.

Not only the skittles but Remus and Lily too. (Yes they get their own spots in the garden too and they sit around trading books, reading together, studying together, etc. in the nook. Barty and Evan, the a**holes that they are, loves to call them the swot squad)

Plus through it he becomes friends with Marlene, Xeno, and Mary.

Lily, Dorcas, and Pandora refuse to hide things from their partners. (It does help that they’re free to make out without prying eyes there) He doesn’t have to worry about anyone reporting this back to his parents

Sure they can hang out in the library (a place he never has to worry about his brother or James coming in) but they either have to be tucked back in hidden corner so no one can see or hear them or pretend not to know each other as they sit at the same table (it’s the same way with Slug Club)

Somehow Lily manages to get a whole muggle telly and other electronics in there (no one knows how she manages this as they are hella expensive + it's the middle of the year but even Barty is afraid to ask) and her and Mary make it their mission to catch the group up on Muggle culture, especially pop culture.

He loves it

——-

For close to half a year they manage to keep a secret.

However with Remus disappearing constantly (which alone raises Sirius’s radar) there’s not someone there to reel Sirius and James in. Plus with Peter busy with chess club + his new girlfriend and promising to tone down their pranks as they’re older now, they get bored quicker.

Sirius deals with this by paying more attention to the other people at Hogwarts, or more specifically the slytherins. Snivellus and Mulciber and their gang are as awful as usual, but there is something going on with his brother’s gang. Immediately he believes it to be something nefarious or evil and becomes determined to see what his slimy brother and his friends are up to

James deals with this through trying to find Lily and Regulus. With so much time spent watching Regulus trying to figure out the man’s secret quidditch practice routine, he can’t help but admit the man intrigues him. He wants to learn more about the man outside of his preconceptions from Sirius’s rants. It’s kinda the same in Lily’s case. After spending so long pining after her and getting turned down at every turn and then learning that she has a girlfriend he’s given up. Now all he wants is to be her friend to make up for her putting up with all his antics and shit over the years. Though both he can’t seem to find either of them anywhere

So one day, after curfew, they follow Evan back to the cabin. They wait by the tree line as Evan goes inside. Before James can stop him, Sirius tosses off the cloak and slams the door in. Hoping to catch his brother and friends red handed.

Neither of them except what is actually happening inside.

Xeno and Remus are busy in the kitchen making hot cocoa and snacks

Barty and Lily are about to throw hands over a game of monopoly with Mary cracking up from the sidelines and adding fuel to the fire once in a while

Marlene and Evan are entranced by what’s on the telly and playfully slapping each other (this will eventually lead to roughhousing then full on wrestling with the rest of the group placing bets on who will come out on top)

Dorcas has bullied Reg into letting her paint his nails black as Pandora does his hair with promises of him doing the same for them

Bottles of elf wine and firewhiskey being passed through the groups

They all freeze when the door slams into the wall and Sirius’s resulting shout of “What the absolute fuck is going on here!”

[maisnamedmoon]

The Birds Of Gotham #1

This is part one of, well maybe a series, i dont know yet, i guess it depends on if people like it. So leave a comment if you want more parts!

POV: Me acting this whole thing out infront of my mirror and my cat watching me like, "What is wrong with her?".

Here is my AO3 again, all my fics will be postet there a few days before they are posted here.

"Never Been Bats, have we?"

“How dare you call me?” Nightwing spat out before he even fully materialized in the Zeta Tube.

“Nightwing, what are you talking about?” Superman, ever the boyscout, tried to diffuse the situation. His efforts were ignored, instead Nightwing, who was in sweatpants and a T-Shirt with leggings and a long-sleeved shirt underneath, instead of his suit, domino mask peeling off slightly at the edges, singled in on Batman.

“How dare you call me up here, when I was the one sitting on Steph’s bedside, rubbing her back, when she was coughing up blood the whole night?” The vigilante seemed close to ripping the bat’s head off, weren’t he in the middle of the Watchtower, surrounded by heroes.

“Everyone gets hurt on patrol at some point, get yourself together.” Batman finally turned from the computer to his former protege.

“Oh! That’s what you think I’m mad about? I know that everyone gets hurt at one point or another, that basically comes with the job! What I’m mad about is the fact that I shouldn’t be the one sitting next to your children the whole night, making sure they keep breathing! I should not be the one making sure my siblings don’t die, while you are up here or down in the cave, looking over case files!” Shocked gasps ran through the rows of heroes, partially because they didn't know Batman had other children and partially because, how could he?

“It should not be me who they call for help, when they are injured or sick in the middle of the night, simply because they know I will come and care for them, instead of telling them that they have to work in every situation and that it’s good training! They are children for fucks sake! They aren’t machines, that can be repaired when they are broken! That’s not how bodies work, not how human minds work, once they are broken, they will never be whole again! Just look at Jason, but when have you ever done that? When have you ever seen us as the fragile children we were, we are?”

“Nightw-”

“No! I should not be the one who reminds Tim to take his antibiotics! I should not be the one to always carry emergency Epipens with me, simply because you don’t even know that Duke is allergic to Peanuts! I bet you didn’t even notice that they changed their emergency contact in their files months ago!” Batman seemed to crumble with every word Nightwing said.

“Now if you’d excuse me, I have to go buy snacks for family game night” That seemed to be it, the big scary bat, in his black kevlar suit fell forward on his knees, not so big and scary any more.

“Yes! Game Night!” The young speedster sprinted forward towards Nightwing, “Can we get M&M’s?”

“Of course”, Nightwing looked down at Bart, his demeanour completely changed, lips curled in a smile, “You coming?”, he looked up at the Young Justice team hovering in the corner, knowing better than to stand in the way, when their leader starts yelling his disappointment at someone.

“As long as we don’t play Monopoly again” Superboy stepped up next to the duo, shoving Bart towards the Zeta Tube.

“Don’t worry, Monopoly has a lifetime ban, so does DKT. I actually don’t plan on anyone getting stabbed or shot tonight.” Bart opened his mouth to retort something, but Batman, who seemed to be in the condition to talk again, was faster.

“Richard” He whispered, looking pleadingly at his son, who’s smile dropped in an instant, expression turning so icy that Connor and Bart took a step back.

“Don’t you ‘Richard’ me.” Nightwing – Richard – walks until he stands in front of his father, coking his head like he was thinking about something, he crouches down so that he was face to face with a man that would probably even find a way to give blowjobs standing, just so he didn’t have to bow to anyone.

“You know, the others had a bet; What will happen first, me snapping or you ‘The Worlds Greatest Detective’ figuring out that slowly but surely, you have grown to be the only Bat Gotham has. But then again, we have never been Bats, have we? We have always been the Robins, tiny little, cute Robins. That’s the way you raised us, like birds, being shoved out the secure nest – fly or die. But we flew, we flew and we grew, out of the cute, little Robin persona, into something bigger, something more lethal, that you simply can’t control any more. Your cute little Robins grew into birds of prey, while you, the lonely little bat, grow old and weak in your cave. Do you know what happens when bats grow old, weak and lonely, their only friend justice and their moral code? They simply can’t hold themselves at the top any more and then they fall and shatter on the cave floor. With no one looking for them, because bats grow up in the safety of their cave, having everything served to them on a silver platter, while birds learn to either fly or die.”

Nighwing kept his voice cool and hard through his whole speech, not moving from his spot in front of Batman, the man in question looking close to tears by the end of it. Even the heroes of earth, it’s first line of defence, looked shocked, not sure if they should help Batman, make sure that Nightwing hasn’t turned evil or agree with what the young man said. So most of them are just standing there, looking confused and slightly shell shocked at the revelations.

Richard just stood back up and turned to his father once again, “Maybe bats shouldn’t be raising birds in a bird way, expecting them to turn out as bats.”, Nightwing turned back towards the Zeta Tube, ignoring the man kneeling on the floor in the middle of the Watchtower, just to stop next to Bart and Connor “Good talk, Bruce”.

With that he ruffles Bart’s hair, “Lets go get your M&M’s”, and the trio dematerializes back to earth.

[cakesunflower]

lovelorn (and nobody knows) [rafe cameron au fic] chapter 18

Summary: Isla Carrera had planned for the summer before college to be focused on three things: helping out at her family’s restaurant (the helpful daughter), preparing for college (the good student), and having fun with the Pogues (the loyal friend). But one fateful night, where her car breaks down and her rescuer is none other than Rafe Cameron, seems to send her summer down a path she didn’t see coming–one teeming with a secret, illicit romance with the last person she expected. And if her friends and sister found out, Isla isn’t sure they’ll be so understanding, no matter what her feelings are.

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

A/N: not gonna lie, i wrote & rewrote this chapter a bunch of times and i'm STILL not sure if i fuck with it completely. hopefully it doesn't suck too bad asjkdrnfjk happy reading (maybe)!!!!

For a couple of long seconds, Isla hears nothing but an insistent ringing in her ears. Every other thought eddies out of her head, the only thing running through her mind being oh, no and how the hell did they find out? Oh so slowly, panic begins to bloom in the middle of her chest and gradually spreads out as her gaze flickers between all of her friends, their hardened expressions suddenly making painful, horrible sense.

How did they find out? How did they find out?

Oh, God. She waited too long, didn’t she? Isla should have told them the truth when she had the chance, because no matter how they found out, she can’t deny it. Denying it now means she can never confess the truth without hurting them more, and her brain searches for the words she can’t find. The cardboard straps of the bag in her hand burns on her fingers, heart pounding like a drum.

“Um, how—” Her throat is hoarse, tight. “Where did—”

“Sarah got a picture,” Cleo says, her tone measured as brown eyes meet Isla’s green. “Of you and Rafe. Kissing. Courtesy of Topper.”

Isla’s heart falls to the pit of her stomach, eyes falling shut in a tense combination of disbelief and defeat. Fucking Topper. Anger brews, but it’s overpowered by the nerves that tighten every part of her. She and Rafe hadn’t been careful. Topper must have seen them in the hallway or something after they ran into him. Her heart is racing even as she wishes for it to calm down—as she wishes for Rafe to be here with her.

Oh, this isn’t how she wanted them to find out. God, when she finally felt like she was ready to tell them the truth, Topper fucking Thorton beats her to it and does it in the most uncouth and fucked up way. Maybe their reactions wouldn’t have been positive ones if Isla was the one to tell them, but at least they would have heard it from her and not from someone who is always looking for ways to hurt them in some way. The desire to punch Topper returns tenfold.

“Look,” Isla starts carefully, eyes opening as she looks at them all. “I was—I was going to tell you about us—”

“Us?” Kie repeats, eyes widening under furrowed eyebrows as she gapes at her. Kie’s arms are crossed, the tension rolling off of her in waves, making Isla’s throat work. “You guys are an us? Are you guys in a relationship?” Isla presses her lips together, and it’s an answer enough. Kie’s shoulders rise and fall, her expression akin to horror. “What the fuck, Isla?”

Suddenly, it was like everything Isla had practiced saying to her friends, all of her reasoning and explanation, vanished. She’s caught so off guard that she can’t remember anything that she planned on telling them, and is instead scrambling to find the right words to make this better, somehow. Even when a voice in the back of her head tells her no soothing word of any kind can soften this blow that has rocked all of her friends.

“It was—it sort of just happened,” she says desperately, forcing the words through her tightened throat as she rests the bag of books and flowers down by her feet. Some of them gape at her, some don’t even look at her. Isla’s palms grow clammy. “We kind of kept running into each other and, I don’t know, one thing led to another and—and—” She exhales roughly, her voice a little meek as she says, “He’s really not as bad as you think.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope snaps, sitting up straight as he narrows his eyes. JJ tenses up. “Are you forgetting the amount of fights we’ve gotten into with him over the years? I’m pretty sure we all know exactly the kind of person he is.”

Isla tries not to flinch at Pope’s harsh tone and harsher words against her boyfriend. “But you guys haven’t noticed that he hasn’t started anything with you for a while now?” Isla tries helplessly, gaze flickering over them. John B’s jaw clenches as he looks away. “I mean, I know you’ve gotten into it with Topper and Kelce, but Rafe hasn’t gotten into it with you, right?”

She knows she’s right, but none of them agree with her. Kie scoffs, shaking her head as the incredulity remains on her face. “I cannot believe you’re defending him right now. He’s an asshole, Isla!”

“Stop calling him that,” Isla snaps before she can help it, but she doesn’t regret defending him, even when Kie pulls back slightly, blinking in surprise. Isla meets her gaze steadily, chest tightening at the betrayal that flashes across her sister’s face. Swallowing, Isla looks at the girl sitting on the couch. “Sarah, come on. He’s your brother.” Sarah’s gaze flickers, meeting Isla’s, and Isla sees the conflict waging war in her friend’s eyes. “I-I know you’ve seen the change in him, too. He’s different now. He’s different with me—”

“How long?” Isla cuts off at the sound of JJ speaking for the first time, her shoulders tensing as she turns her head to the right to look at him. He turns his own head, ever so slightly, to meet her gaze, and Isla’s heart stops. JJ’s blue eyes have never looked so icy. “How long have you two been together?”

Isla’s heart thunders. Her body feels the weight of everyone’s gazes. She looks to the floor ahead of her, her voice a whisper as she answers, “Two months.”

Someone sucks in a sharp breath in the deathly still silence following Isla’s revelation. She lifts her gaze, forcing herself to look at her friends because she isn’t ashamed of her relationship, even if she is worried about their reactions. John B lets out a rough breath, a sardonic chuckle as he drolls, “Wow.”

Isla takes in a breath. “Look, I’m sorry that you guys found out this way—”

“But you’re not sorry about dating Rafe Cameron?” JJ spits out, turning to finally look at her fully, his expression a combination of disbelief, anger, and the same betrayal mirrored on Kie’s face.

Isla steels herself. “No, I’m not. Come on, guys,” she tries, shaking her head. “You know me. You know I’d never be with someone I genuinely thought wasn’t a good person. But I’ve gotten to know him. I know the kind of guy he is—”

“Oh, barf,” Kie cuts her off with a roll of her eyes, and Isla’s teeth press together tightly. “Are you serious?” She leans forward, arms still crossed and gaze locked with Isla’s. “He’s obviously playing you.”

Isla’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Playing me for what?” she asks. “What the hell does he get out of pretending to be a good person just to date me?”

“Not to date you—he just wants to fuck you,” JJ says tightly, his crude words damn near making Isla flinch as she looks at him in hurt. Cleo purses her lips, but Isla doesn’t miss the disapproving look she throws towards JJ, who promptly ignores her as his narrow eyed gaze remains on Isla. “Maybe he’s just getting some kind of twisted revenge, I don’t know, for Sarah becoming one of us. Maybe—” He takes a step towards Isla, eyes hard and unforgiving. “He’s trying to prove once a Kook, always a Kook.”

The tightness in Isla’s chest intensifies to the point of pain, lips parting slightly as she gapes at JJ, a slight crease in her forehead as his words land like a slap. An angry JJ always knows the right words to say that cause the maximum damage, and making Isla feel like an outsider in her own friend group is a sure fire way of making her feel small. Pressure begins to build behind Isla’s eyes, but she forces the tears back, not letting them gather as she lifts her chin in defiance. 

“We all welcomed Sarah with open arms when she and John B started dating,” Isla points out, voice surprisingly steady. She doesn’t want to bring Sarah into this, but she needs to point out their hypocrisy.

“Sarah isn’t Rafe,” John B answers tightly. Next to him, Sarah twists her lips to the side, that confliction still evident in her expression as she looks between Isla and the others. “She’s never thrown a punch at any of us.”

Exasperation and desperation form an ugly combination inside of Isla. “It’s not like you guys are innocent, either!” she exclaims, gesturing to all of the guys. “You guys have started plenty of fights with them for no reason.”

Kie scoffs, leaning back against the wall. “Nice,” she mutters, and Isla’s heart aches fiercely because, God, she had so desperately hoped her sister would be on her side, at least. But she won’t find an ally in Kie, and that fucking hurts.

“What do you want from us, Isla?” Pope asks, frowning up at her. “What’d you expect was going to happen after we found out? Whether we heard it from you or from anyone else?”

“I—” Isla falters breathlessly as she looks at each of their faces. Various degrees of anger, hurt, and disbelief still stare back at her. She knew this wouldn’t be easy, but the tightness in her chest is still uncomfortable. Her voice shakes despite her best efforts as she answers, “I expected you guys to trust me.”

Only Sarah’s expression softens, and maybe Cleo’s, upon hearing Isla’s words. Not the guys’. Not her own sister’s. 

“Trust you?” Kie asks, that disbelieving edge creeping back into her voice. “You’ve been secretly dating Rafe behind our backs for months. You can’t talk about trust when you’re the one who broke ours.”

Isla presses her lips together. Despite her pain, she knows Kie has a point. “I was going to tell you when the time was right,” she informs them. “I just—I wasn’t ready for this before. I knew you’d all react this way so I kept putting it off.”

“You knew we’d react this way because you know how fucked this is,” JJ counters. His eyes narrow in contempt, one corner of his mouth peeling back in a sneer. “Out of all the people on this damn island, you chose him? The Goddamn prince of the Kooks?” he scoffs with a shake of his head.

Isla’s throat works, her jaw clenching. “He’s good to me,” she says quietly but firmly. 

Pope shakes his head, staring at Isla as if she’s lost her mind. “He’s going to screw you over.”

No, he won’t, she wants to argue. But her gaze sweeps over them all one more time, and Isla knows that she hasn’t gotten through to them. Still, she wants to try. She owes it to Rafe and to their relationship. “He cares about me. He looked out for me before we even got together. He—he helped me when my car broke down. And when the cops showed up at the Boneyard party. And Kie, he—” She looks at her sister, whose eyes have sharpened. “He stepped in at the last party, remember? With Topper. He stopped things from escalating even more. Guys, he’s not as bad as you think, okay? A person can change.”

“You’re delusional,” JJ says sharply, and Isla tries not to flinch.

Sarah sits up, frowning slightly at the blonde. “JJ—”

“No,” he cuts her off, facing Isla with a tightened jaw, arms crossed. His cheeks are flushed slightly, angrily. JJ’s gaze is hard, unrelenting, as he says to Isla, “You need to decide; him or us.”

Isla stills—the whole room stills—as she stares at JJ with widening eyes and parted lips. It feels as though no air is going into her lungs as she chokes, “What?”

“It’s pretty fucking simple,” JJ snaps, Isla’s heart picking up its pace too quickly as she gapes at him. He cannot be serious. This can’t be happening. “You’re either with us or with him. But you can’t have both.” He gestures to Sarah. “She doesn’t have a choice because he’s her brother. But you started dating him—” He practically spits those words out, like they’re poison in his mouth. “Knowing the kind of asshole he is.”

“He’s not an asshole!” Isla argues tightly. “Can we just—please—” She helplessly looks at the others, and Isla knows that she hurt them with this, but pain lances through her at the realization that none of them are outright coming to her defense. It’s gotten so out of hand, so fast, and the panic and dread war inside of her. “You guys know me,” she tries again desperately. “I wouldn’t be with him if I thought he was a bad person. Why can’t we just leave the past in the past?”

“You can’t expect us to suddenly be all buddy-buddy with Rafe,” Kie says, frowning. “He’s never given us a reason to—”

“I’m giving you a reason! Right now!” Isla cuts her off, hand pressing to her chest and feeling her heart thunder against her palm. Her skin is warm from anxiety, cheeks probably flushed from the heat that spreads through her. “He’s been nothing but sweet and kind to me. I’m your sister—your best friend,” she adds, looking at each of them. “My word should be enough.”

JJ shrugs. “I don’t really trust liars.”

Isla’s jaw clenches, throat tight. “JJ,” Sarah chastises, her throat working as she looks around the room. “Look, come on, guys. This is getting a little crazy. I mean, Rafe isn’t some—some monster—”

“Of course you’d defend him; he’s your brother,” Pope scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “But he’s never given any of us a reason to think differently of him,” he adds. His gaze meets Isla’s sharply. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can take your word for it.”

A rough breath escapes Isla, defeat creeping through her like an unwanted shiver. Her word isn’t enough? She knew. . . She knew they would react badly, but this? The pressure returns in her eyes and she drops her gaze to the ground, blinking quickly. Her chest is so tight, it makes it difficult to breathe as the hurt burns through her. To know her friends don’t trust her, that they aren’t willing to hear her out and see things from her perspective. . . Her throat dries, unable to swallow the massive lump formed in the middle of it.

She never thought she would feel like such an outsider amongst her friends. Isla knows she’s always had one foot in each life, Pogue and Kook, sometimes more so than Sarah. It had never been a point of contention before. But this has blown up far more than she thought it would. Maybe she was naive in thinking that they could talk and work things out—

No, no, she wasn’t naive. She had trusted in her friends, in the relationship she had with them all. She had thought that their friendship would be important enough for them to want to see and hear her side of things, to accept her relationship that she already had been hesitant in getting into because of her friends’ reactions. But Rafe. . . He makes her happy. So genuinely happy, in a way she’s never experienced before with anyone else. How can she let that go? How can she let any of them go? Is it selfish of her to want both? She didn’t think so at first, but now. . .

“Him or us, Isla,” JJ’s hard voice breaks through her thoughts, forcing Isla to look up at him. His gaze is still sharp but, God, she sees the subtle hope that swims in those blue eyes. Hope that she picks them over Rafe. It tightens her throat even more.

She gives one slow shake of her head, her voice quiet but defiant as she answers, “I’m not choosing.”

JJ’s jaw works, his chin lifting. Disappointment flashes across his eyes, mixed with surprise, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. He wants her to choose them, but Isla can’t do that, not if it means not having Rafe. In the same way, she can’t just choose Rafe but also lose her friends. She wants both—why can’t she have both? Why does she have to choose? What kind of sick ultimatum is this?

Shrugging, JJ says, “You saying that is an answer enough. Don’t come crying back to us when he fucks you over.”

Silence descends and Isla wonders if they can hear her heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes burn, throat locked, and she’s suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to flee. They won’t listen to her—not like this, not when the truth is a fresh wound. “Okay,” she whispers, clearing her throat after as she steps back towards the door. “Obviously, this has gotten a little out of hand.” An understatement. “We can talk again once we’ve all calmed down.”

JJ and Pope scoff at that and Isla tries not to flinch as her gaze meets Kie’s. Her sister stares at her for a brief moment before turning her head, effectively looking away, and Isla swallows as she opens the door. “Okay,” she mutters again before walking down the steps and away from the house. 

Every step she takes away from the Chateau feels heavy, part of Isla wanting to go back and continue the conversation until they’re all on the same page. But hurt blooms through her chest, spreading everywhere else as her nose stings and vision blurs from the onslaught of tears. They way they all talked to her—the tones of their voices and the looks on their faces—was awful. Sure, she and her friends have gotten into arguments in the past, but never like this. They never belittled her before. Never made her feel so small. Her best friends, her own sister, were downright mean, and a breath shudders out of Isla as she quickly wipes away a tear that rolls down her cheek.

“Isla!” She freezes upon Sarah’s voice before turning around, watching as the blonde jogs up to her. Isla sees the paper bag in her hand and bites the inside of her cheek. “You forgot this,” Sarah says, coming to a stop in front of her and holding the bag out.

Isla meets her gaze, sees the way Sarah’s expression softens because no doubt she takes notice of Isla’s red rimmed, glassy eyes. Sarah’s lips turn downwards as Isla takes the bag from her, sniffling because she can’t help it. “Did um—did Rafe buy you the flowers?” Sarah asks haltingly.

Biting her bottom lip, Isla nods. “Yeah, he did,” she answers, unable to help the way the corner of her mouth kicks up slightly.

Some of the unbearable tightness in her chest loosens, just a fraction, when Sarah mirrors the subtle smile. It disappears, though, and her expression falls, a little pleading. “Just give them some time, okay? They’re pretty raw right now. I-I’m sure they’ll come around?”

“You think?” Isla asks. She aims to sound hopeful, but it comes out unconvinced. “Will you?”

Sarah is silent for a beat. “I think what JJ said is unfair. And I think I owe it to you and my brother to not jump to conclusions.” Her hand reaches out, and Isla’s throat works when Sarah takes her hand, squeezing it reassuringly as her soft brown eyes meet Isla’s green. “I’ll talk to them. It’ll be okay, Isla. Just—just give them some time.”

Isla nods a couple of times, appreciative. At least someone is on her side. “What happened in there was fucked up,” she mutters, lips turned downwards. She’s still angry, but right now, she feels more tired than anything else. A little too defeated to focus on the anger.

“It was,” Sarah agrees with a frown. “It went too far. I’ll talk to them.”

“Thanks,” Isla says, squeezing Sarah’s hand.

“Are you—how are you getting home?” Sarah asks.

Isla shrugs. “I’m gonna walk up to the park, I guess. Clear my head a little before heading home.”

Sarah nods, though her forehead creases in worry. Isla is mildly surprised when she pulls her in for a hug, but Isla welcomes it, eyes squeezing shut to keep back the new burn of tears. “I love you. It’ll be okay.”

“I love you, too,” Isla responds, her voice only slightly shaky as she returns the hug and hopes that Sarah is right.

*****

The chain of the swing creaks slowly as Isla sways back and forth gently, her feet scraping against the dirt with every movement. Around her, kids run around and play. In the distance, a group of guys play basketball at the fenced-in court. It’s late afternoon, so the sunlight isn’t so bright, more clouds in view, but Isla’s gaze remains on the ground ahead of her.

You’re either with us or with him. But you can’t have both.

Was she naive to think that she hadn’t expected the ultimatum? Or was it just faith in her friendship with all of them that had her believing that they would be able to talk it out and they would see where she was coming from? Not accept her relationship right away, but it wouldn’t have gone so horribly the way it did.

Now, away from them, Isla no longer holds back the tears that burn her eyes. They roll freely down her cheeks, a breath shuddering out of her as she swipes a hand under her sniffling nose. Her stomach is in knots, tight and painful, as she squeezes her eyes closed to shut out the conversation replaying in her head. 

Her sister, her friends—these people she loves and has spent so much of her life with—called her untrustworthy, had practically insinuated that she was crazy for dating Rafe. Her head is at war, knowing where they are coming from, but also hating how everything went down. Isla could barely stick around to continue the conversation, feeling their words beat her into defeat until she has to retreat to collect her thoughts and wits before even thinking about broaching the subject with them again.

And. . . What? If she doesn’t break up with Rafe, will her friends stop talking to her? Has she really committed that big of a fuck up in their eyes? Why can’t they just see it from her eyes? Listen to her? Doesn’t she deserve that much? One relationship is going to be the cause of destroying a handful of friendships?

“Isla.”

A breath catches in her throat at the sound of Rafe’s voice, lifting her head and blinking away her tear blurred vision to see him standing before her. His expression is tight with concern, forehead creased and blue eyes flickering to look at every inch of her as he lowers himself on his knees, his hands on her legs.

“Baby, what happened?” he asks, squeezing her knees as he looks up at her so earnestly.

But Isla stares at him in mild disbelief, drinking in the sight of him as she asks, “How’d you know I was here?”

He rarely, if ever, comes onto this side of the island. He’s only ever been here for the parties at the Boneyard, or when he’s secretly given her rides to John B’s. “Sarah texted me,” he answers, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “She—She told me you told them and it didn’t go well.”

A sad scoff escapes her, sniffling after as she says, “I think that’s an understatement.”

Rafe’s jaw works and she can tell, easily, that he’s pissed off. But he pushes it aside, his voice softening as he takes her hands. “Come on. Let’s sit,” he says, standing up and pulling her off the swing. One hand remains holding hers, while the other grabs the bag of books and flowers, and Isla lets him lead her away from the swingset and to a spot in the park that doesn’t have too many people around.

He sits down at the base of a tree, giving her hand a gentle tug to get her to join him. She settles down numbly, sniffling as she mutters, “God,” quietly under her breath as she wipes away the errant tears from her cheeks.

The trunk of the tree is wide enough for them to sit side by side, his arm pressed to hers as he grits, “I should’ve been there.”

Isla shakes her head. “It might have just made things worse,” she says sadly.

Rafe loosens a rough breath. “How’d they find out? I didn’t ask Sarah.”

Exhaling slowly through her nose, Isla turns to look at him, her expression tightening. “Topper,” she says, making Rafe rear back. “Apparently he caught us at the hotel. Sent a picture of us to them, and God—” Isla leans her head back, looking up at the deep green leaves of the tree. “This was not how I wanted them to find out. He fucking made things worse than they could’ve been.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Rafe mutters, running his fingers through his head as he shakes his head, no doubt wondering about Topper’s Goddamn audacity. “So what—what did your friends say?” he asks carefully, looking at her with his forehead creasing in worry.

Isla’s throat dries as she thinks of their words again, her muscles tightening with the hurt that is still present—and probably will be for a while. She brings her knees up, arms wrapping around her legs after fixing the skirt of her dress. “They. . . They were pissed,” she starts, exhaling slowly as she stares ahead at a group of kids in the distance climbing around on the play set. “They feel like I-I betrayed them, and JJ, he—”

She cuts herself off, lips pursing to keep her lower lip from trembling. Rafe’s hand comes to rest on her back, his touch warm and comforting as he rubs her back reassuringly. It’s much needed, his hand on her, knowing that he’s right there next to her, right where she needs him. “What’d he say, baby?” Rafe asks gently, even as she hears the edge creep into his voice.

Isla swallows the lump in her throat, nose stinging and tears gathering as she blinks them away rapidly. “He wanted me to choose. Between you and them.”

“He—” Rafe exhales sharply and from her peripheral vision, she sees him shaking his head incredulously. “He gave you an ultimatum? That’s—are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was,” Isla murmurs desolately, eyes falling shut briefly. Some tears escape, but she wipes them away as the hurt remains frozen in the center of her chest, uncomfortable and tight. There are some other things JJ said, too, but she doesn’t want to tell Rafe, knowing it will only piss him off more. Or, worse, make him want to confront her friends.

He just wants to fuck you.

You’re delusional.

I don’t really trust liars.

Each word was a slap, still stinging right in her heart. Isla wipes her cheeks again, an elbow resting on her knee and leaning her cheek against her palm. “I told him I wasn’t choosing,” she continues, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t want to—I can’t,” she shakes her head before turning it to look at Rafe. He’s looking at her with such concern, touched with helplessness and anger, and Isla’s lips tremble as more tears gather. The emotions of the fight fly to the surface, and in Rafe’s presence, she doesn’t try to push them back.

“I knew they wouldn’t be happy, but it just—it got so fucked, so fast,” she breathes out, her words trembling. “They wouldn’t even hear me out. Whatever I said just—it didn’t seem to matter and—and they’re my best friends. And they just. . . Didn’t want to listen. Even Kie—” Isla inhales deeply, trying to steady her breathing, but now that she’s given permission for the tears to come, they won’t stop. Rafe’s hand slides up, cupping the back of her neck comfortingly. “Kie wasn’t even on my side. But Sarah was.” Rafe takes in a breath at that, looking both surprised and relieved, especially when Isla gives a hint of a smile at that. It was probably the only silver lining in all of that shit show. “She said she’d talk to them and I appreciate it but they were—”

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head as their words echo in her mind. For a moment, she wonders if she’s being too sensitive, if she should have just expected all of this. Isla is at war with herself, fighting between logic and shattered hope and expectations. “They were what, baby?” Rafe quietly asks, his voice so soft it’s painful.

“They were just mean,” she says with a breathless, hollow laugh. And maybe that’s a childish thing to say, but it feels too accurate at this moment. Her friends can be crude and brash, but never mean. No matter what kind of fights and arguments they’ve had in the past, they never made her feel like this. Her friends have never made her feel so alone. “If I stayed, it just would’ve escalated even more and I just—” She shakes her head with a deep breath. “I had to get out of there.”

Rafe squeezes the back of her neck gently, reassuringly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, frowning as he shakes his head. “Do you—I can talk to them—”

“No,” she cuts him off, straightening. When Rafe purses his lips, unhappy, Isla sighs. “I appreciate it, I really do,” she assures him, sniffling as she puts a hand on his thigh. “But if they’re not going to listen to me, what makes you think they’ll hear you out?” she asks with a sad, knowing smile. “It’s just better to let them be for—”

For how long? Days? Weeks? Is this something they can get over quickly, or will it take time? Isla figures it’s the latter, but the amount of time it’ll take is a mystery. All she can do is hope that they all can come out the other side of this intact.

Rafe lets out a breath, nodding. “What do you need from me?” he asks gently, almost a plea that tightens her chest. There’s an intensity in his eyes and a crease in his forehead that tells her he’s desperate to help, not knowing how, but wanting to nonetheless.

Isla presses her lips together, the corners lifting into a solemn but appreciative smile. “Just need you,” she tells him honestly, watching as his expression softens upon hearing her words before he shifts, winding an arm around her waist, the other going under her knees.

She lets out a breath as he shifts her so she’s sitting sideways on his lap, resting her head against his shoulder as he leans back against the tree and holds her to him, his hand resting on her thigh, fingers against her skin. Isla swipes the back of her hand under her chin when she feels a tear rivulet, throat working. “God, I probably look like a mess,” she mutters, fingers then swiping across her cheeks as she looks up; she definitely has mascara running down her face.

Rafe tilts his head as he moves his hands to cup her face, turning her head to face him. He looks down at her, something flickering across his blue eyes as he no doubt takes in her tear streaked face, his own thumbs swiping along her cheeks. “A beautiful mess,” he corrects, grinning, and Isla knows he both means it and is trying to lighten her mood.

It works, a huff of a laugh escaping her as she rolls her eyes. Shoulders slumping, she says, “I guess we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”

Her tone takes a hopeful lilt as Rafe’s hands lower to rest on the sides of her neck. The late afternoon sun peeks through the leaves, bathing him and a spot of sunlight hits his eyes just right, making his blue eyes glimmer prettily. “You sure you wanna be seen with me?” Rafe smirks teasingly, arching one eyebrow. “I have a bit of a reputation.”

Isla breathes out another laugh, arms sliding around his neck and holding him close, her chest pressing to his. She pushes closer to him, the tip of her nose bumping against his as her gaze drops to his lips briefly. “I don’t scare easily,” she murmurs as they share the same breath.

Rafe’s eyes meet hers, flickering down to her lips before lifting again to lock gazes once more. Isla’s heart stutters as he leans closer and captures her lips with his, feeling a new kind of freedom as she earnestly kisses him back without worry of anyone spotting them—or, more accurately, caring if they do. She sighs into the kiss, muscles finally relaxing in relief at the closeness. Rafe’s hold on her is gentle, his fingers threading into her hair as her lips open under his, his tongue sliding in to dance with hers as he angles her head.

When they pull away moments later, Isla settles back against him, head against his shoulder and forehead tucked along his jaw. “I’m sorry about your friends,” he murmurs.

The remorse evident in his tone makes her heart clench. She knows Rafe isn’t crazy about her friends, but he wants to make the effort because he knows how much they mean to her. Isla had been hoping her friends would show the same thoughtfulness. It’s a lot to wrap their heads around, sure, but the conversation didn’t have to take the kind of turn that it did. And even if they did come around, would Isla be able to forgive them for their words?

She sighs. One problem at a time. “You don’t need to apologize,” she tells him truthfully.

Rafe huffs out a breath. “What I need to do is give Topper a piece of my fucking mind,” he mutters, an edge creeping into his voice. When Isla glances at him, she sees the muscle in his sharp jaw working while feeling him tense against her.

“He’s not worth it,” Isla mumbles, even if she doesn’t entirely agree. She just doesn’t want Rafe getting into a fight, though she has no doubt Rafe can easily take Topper.

“It’s ultimately his fault you were crying, so I’m gonna disagree with you on that,” Rafe says, his arms around her tightening a fraction, like he wants to protect her from her own tears.

Isla lets out a gentle laugh. “Gonna defend my honor, Rafe Cameron?”

He turns his head enough to press his lips to her forehead, Isla’s eyes fluttering shut at the gentle contact. “Damn straight; day and night.”

He holds her close, and she believes him.

[xf-cases-solved]

ayyyy, @numinousmysteries, guess who it is! it's me, your secret santa for the @poangpals gift exchange, here to gift you words that are kinda angsty, kinda hurt/comfort-y, and kinda (or more than kinda) horny. i've written a lot of cancer arc lately and was like "hmm, maybe i should branch out..." BUT, when i saw your ideal episode was "memento mori but they bang at the end," i was like, "okay, well, obviously this was meant to be." so that is what i have brought you! a post-memento mori fic where they bang at the end! thank you for everything you bring to this community. you're a baller and i hope you enjoy your gift <3 -diz Title: Memento Vivere Word count: ~6500 (bc i can't shut the fuck up to save my life) Rating: Explicit Here's the link to ao3, or save yourself a click and read below!

***

Memento Vivere

She is in the middle of grimacing at her own reflection in the small compact mirror she found at the bottom of her overnight bag when Mulder shows up at her hospital room, keys jangling in his hand as he hovers in the doorway, neither outside nor inside, like he's uncertain about what kind of proximity he's allowed this morning. Like she's a skittish cat he's trying to win over. And what grates at her isn't his tenuous disposition—it's that it's completely warranted, and it's so jarring to be known so well.

She knows that he knows that she bared her heart to him last night, and is now grappling with mortification. She's never been good with emotions. In college, she could do a walk of shame with her head held high, but when a lover would voice their affection for her she would suddenly become incapable of looking them in the eye. Her heart is in a lockbox and sometimes she goes so long without opening it she almost forgets the combination, and when she does manage to pop it open she gets frantic, wanting to immediately slam it shut.

"You about ready to go?" Mulder asks casually. Too casually. He's assessing her like he would a suspect, adjusting his tone to meet her mood and make himself more approachable, and she wants to snap at him for profiling her, but she won't. She can't. Not without confirming his analysis of her, and she doesn't need to open the spine of her book any wider when he can already read her with such clarity.

In her writings—the filled pages already torn from the notebook and shredded into pieces in the wire trash bin next to her bed—she had thought she was divulging the secrets of her heart to him. It occurs to her only now, as he watches her from across the room with a purposefully mild expression, that while he may not know her every thought, he is the only other person who knows the combination to the lockbox in her chest. He could open it at any time, but he doesn't. He could reach inside her and hold her beating heart in his cupped hands, learning every detail and committing it to memory, but he would never take from her anything that wasn't freely given. His respect is almost more overwhelming than anything, because it's a reminder that if he weren't an honorable man he could ruin her. He has access to her nuke, and she can do nothing but trust that he won't hit the button.

"Yeah, just a second," she replies—casual. 

She slips the compact mirror back inside her bag and gets to her feet. She tries to summon the woman inside her who walks down the hallways of the Hoover Building—confident, assertive, and unaffected by stares or assumptions—but it's difficult without her body armor. Even though she only had one infusion of the chemo, her body still feels frail and hungover, like the day after a bad twenty-four hour flu, and she's wearing flats with her yoga pants and sweater, highlighting the height disparity between the two of them in a way her heels usually help to mitigate. There wasn't a hair dryer to use after her shower, so the natural curls she usually irons out are taking over, absurdly making her feel disorderly and sloppy. And she's not wearing makeup, and it's not the dark circles around her eyes or even the mole above her lip that she's self-conscious about—it's the freckles that spatter across her cheeks and nose. Well put together women don't have freckles, and she's sure he's going to interpret her vulnerabilities on her sun-kissed skin like the soggy tea leaves at the bottom of a china cup. 

The worst part of dying, she's starting to think, is the discovery that her walls that felt sturdy like concrete are actually made of straw, and there's nothing like an illness to come sweeping through to blow your house down.

On the way out of the hospital they pass the room Penny died in. She looks away from the door, and Mulder looks at her. In a blink-and-you-miss-it moment he reaches over and squeezes her hand. 

They don't say anything. 

Scully thinks his choice of silence says more than words ever could.

*

When she wakes up on her couch she isn't sure if it was the nightmare that roused her, or the relentless throbbing in her head.

The ride back home from Allentown had been uncomfortable in every sense of the word. Mulder had rambled theories at her—about Dr. Scanlon and MUFON and government agendas—until her lack of engagement made the conversation eventually dissolve, first into him nervously chattering about the most ridiculous X-Files cases he could think of and, when that didn't work either, into nothing, a pall falling over them as she shifted restlessly in her seat, unable to find a position that didn't feel ill-fitting like a shirt that she couldn't untwist. They didn't once speak the word cancer.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep after he dropped her off, but ten minutes into some daytime talk show and she was suddenly dead to the world, and judging by the low light that surrounds her, she has slept all the way from early afternoon well into dusk. The TV still flickers at her, now playing the evening news, and she's sure that there aren't going to be any headlines about manufactured brain tumors and shady oncologists who betray their Hippocratic oath by purposefully poisoning women who look to them for salvation. The types of horrors she witnesses rarely make the news. Not with all the facts attached, at least.

She pushes herself up with a groan. Her head really hurts, and although her first instinct is to attribute it to the mass in her sinus cavity, when she reaches up to swipe under her nose there are no remnants of dried blood, and the dryness of her tongue and hollowness of her belly makes her think that the rhythmic throbbing in her skull is probably because she can't remember the last time she had a glass of water or a single bite of food. 

She goes about the motions of getting together what she supposes is technically dinner, even though she forgot to proceed it with breakfast or lunch, and when she gets it all together—a hearty meal of half a banana, a slice of buttered toast, three ibuprofen, and a tall glass of ice water—she settles back down on the couch and assesses the other ache she'd awoken with.

The nightmare is formless in her memory, lacking a cohesive plotline now that she's in the waking world, but nevertheless, the emotions it stirred up inside her are visceral. There is a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, bottomless as the abyss. It's a type of fear that grips her from the inside, putting her adrenal gland into a chokehold and activating her fight or flight, except she can't fight her own mind anymore than she can flee it. 

This is how she knows, even without the details, that her dream was about dying.

These types of dreams have been coming to her more frequently nowadays, starting the night Leonard Betts spoke five chilling words to her in the back of an ambulance. She's had friends who have been pregnant, and they would often tell her about the constant dreams they would have on the subject throughout the entire nine months. In a way, she figures, it's a similar concept; she and her friends all have had dreams about what their body is growing inside them—the notable difference of course being that they grew something into life, and she's growing something that takes it away. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to start making phone calls. Make appointments and discuss treatment options and try not to get discouraged when the options are limited. When she first told Mulder about the cancer, he had been so insistent, saying, "There must be some people who receive treatment for this," and at the time she hadn't been able to bring herself to tell him that she wasn't sure she was going to be one of them. The odds were, and are, so heavily stacked against her, and as a medical doctor she is very aware that sometimes quality of life outweighs the quantity of it. Her experience in Allentown hasn't really endeared her toward the idea either, if she's being honest, and not because of Scanlon, or even because of Penny, but because she had not felt sick at all, up until she tried to treat the illness, and then suddenly she'd been in hell. 

But while she may be uncomfortable with how much of herself she bared to him last night, she knows that she made promises that she can't take back. She is loyal to a fault, and she gave both him and herself her word that she would continue to live as long as she could, and so she will. 

She's just not convinced much of her life in the upcoming days and weeks and months and maybe even years will feel much like living. In fact, she's pretty worried—down to the very depths of her subconscious, if her dreams are any indication—that she's going to feel like she's dying.

They say doctors make the worst patients. Sometimes that's because of stubbornness. Sometimes it's because they know exactly what to expect.

She finishes her meager meal and drinks down the last of her water. She slips an ice cube into her mouth and bites down on it, shattering it into pieces. The enamel of her teeth has always been sensitive to temperature, but instead of being off-put by the pain that spikes through to her jawbone when the ice touches her nerves, she revels in it. Her head, while somewhat improved, is still aching, and she finds herself appreciating that as well. She finds she is grateful for the signs her body is giving her to tell her it's still here, and maybe that's the trick. Maybe to get through this she has to go into it with a respect for the pain. This only hurts because I am alive, she'll have to train herself to think. 

She can do that. She's certainly stubborn enough. 

She wishes it didn't all have to be about pain, though. She doesn't want to forget that a body can feel good things too.

Ice crunches between her teeth, shocking her like a root canal, while she thinks about the signs of life that are enjoyable. Warmth. Comfort. Pleasure.

Pleasure.

On the TV, the news anchors are tying up their reports that are lacking things they don't even realize are missing. In her mouth her internal temperature warms the ice water, and the ebbing of the pain is a brief moment of gratification that acts as a sampling of what endorphins can do. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to make plans to put herself in a varying, yet indefinite state of pain, and she will have to learn to appreciate it in order to remember how to be alive. 

Tonight, however, she could remind herself in a different way.

It is a terrible idea.

It's an idea she has had a million times before and has stamped down just as often.

Ten minutes later and she's out her front door and getting into the driver's side of her car. Muscle memory guides her down the streets toward Alexandria, while she spends the whole drive telling herself to turn back.

She doesn't.

*

"Hey," Mulder says in surprise, eye widening slightly at the sight of her standing at his door. He's got on a white tank top and dark grey sweatpants, looking nothing like the federal agent he usually does. Instead of seeing a professional, albeit a tad bit crazy, government official, she sees her friend in the way that is much easier to ignore when he's wearing a suit and an ugly patterned tie. Like this, he exudes masculine energy, and her eyes are immediately drawn to the slopes and curves of his muscular shoulders and biceps. There is hair peeking out on his chest where the neckline of his shirt dips low. He hasn't shaved for at least a day, an even stubble shadowing his cheeks and jaw. She drops her gaze to the floor before he can catch her roaming eyes, and she sees his feet are bare. For some reason that's the most intimate part of it all, and the reality of what she's come here to do hits her like a freight train and she flushes with what must be a particularly spectacular shade of red.

In contrast, she's feeling a lot like she did this morning, like a soldier out of uniform. She's wearing the same pair of yoga pants, and under her coat she has on a faded souvenir t-shirt her parents gave her after an anniversary trip to the Outer Banks well over five years ago. It occurs to her only now that she'd left in such a rush that she hadn't even bothered with a bra, and she becomes instantly aware of the oversized shirt brushing directly against her breasts.

At least she wore boots with a heel this time, but in reality it's not doing much to level the playing field. Mulder's six-foot frame still dwarfs her completely, and while she normally feels like a peer in his presence—like a respected intellectual whose gender is totally irrelevant—tonight she is feeling a lot like she did the first time she entered a university science lecture and found herself surrounded almost entirely by men. The difference is that back then she had felt, ridiculously, embarrassed by her femininity, hyper-aware of every questioning stare, asking the same question: What is she doing here?

But like with most things, Mulder—simply by virtue of being Mulder—challenges her way of thinking. While she has long since stopped viewing her womanhood as a flaw, she is always viscerally aware when the people around her view it as one, and over time that has bred resentment. Standing here before him, though, she holds no animosity toward the difference in their sexes. Like the way her science complements his reckless belief, so too, in this moment, does her feminine ying balance his masculine yang. 

She doesn't even worry about the freckles on her makeupless face. 

"Scully?" He sounds concerned, and she realizes she's been standing here in silence after appearing at his apartment unannounced, and the last time they saw each other it had ended with her muttering a curt goodbye as she all but bolted from his car to escape the suffocation of her own self-imposed belief that emotional vulnerability was akin to disgrace.

But what Mulder isn't privy to yet is that the shame from this morning about being so transparent has been wholly replaced by the need of a dying woman to be reminded of the good parts of being alive. Scully is ready to be bare, by every definition, and she can only hope that he'll let her. 

Refusing to give in to cowardice, she forces herself to look up from the floor to meet his eye. 

"Can I come in?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course." He angles himself to place a hand on the small of her back, ushering her inside, and even through her coat and shirt the contact burns like the ice touching her enamel. She kicks off her boots, sinking back down to her natural five foot two—three, if the height gauge at the doctor's office chooses to be generous—and lets him take her coat and hang it up, before leading them both over to the couch. He plops down, leaving a purposeful vacancy beside him, and looks up at her expectantly, but she doesn't sit. Cocking his head, he asks, "Are you all right? Why are you here? If you needed something you know you could have called me and I would have come to you. I know you only went through one day of treatment, but I'm sure it had to have taken a toll on your—"

"I'm fine," she insists, cutting him off. She doesn't say it harshly, but she doesn't leave room for him to argue against it either, even though she can tell he desperately wants to. Instead, he chooses to heed her command, and presses his lips closed, waiting for her to tell him why she's standing here when earlier today they drove over three hours and she had barely said a word the entire time.

It's possible she didn't think this far ahead. More than that—it's possible she hasn't thought this through at all. 

But she's committed now, and she's starting to feel feral, her needs centered around primitive instincts. It is in every species' nature to fight for survival at any cost, but she is burdened with a human's intellect that can allow her to deny herself continued survival if doing so also means prolonged suffering. If she is to keep her promise—if she is to fight for her life with treatments that make her feel sicker than the disease they're targeting—then she has to go into it with a memory that reminds her why it's worth it to stay alive.

She walks over to his desk and leans against it, mindlessly thumbing through documents strewn carelessly across the top. There are pieces from casefiles, and pages photocopied from obscure books on phenomena she'd never believe. There are scratch pieces of paper with notes scribbled on them, written in a shorthand that she's sure only makes sense to him. There are newspaper clippings and articles torn from tabloid magazines he would call source material, and she would call a scam. She doesn't read any of it, but she keeps her eyes trained on them as she considers her next steps.

Gaze pinned on a faded picture of some kind of creature that has clearly come off a printer that was running low on ink, she finally says, "I want to ask you for a favor, but I should warn you that it's a bit unorthodox."

"Unorthodox, huh? I dunno, Scully, I'm a pretty conventional guy, I'm not sure I can handle anything out of the ordinary."

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. How does he do that? she wonders. How does he know how to calm her when he doesn't even know that she's feeling frantic in the first place? 

That you should know my heart, look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you. That are you. 

Those were words she had written only days before, placed inside a journal that was meant to be a confessional, but again, she should have known better. What use is there in inviting someone into your heart when they're already there?

She stops fiddling with the contents of his desk and looks over at him. He's regarding her with an expression of concern that on a different day she would construe as pity and detest, but right now she has the capacity to accept that he's looking at her like that, not because she's weak, but because he cares. Because he's worried. Because he wants her to live.

"Last night, when you said you read some of what I wrote... how much did you read exactly?"

Mulder rubs the nape of his neck and shrugs.

"A bit," he says, which she takes to mean "all of it." She can picture him, after confirming she was safe, sneaking into her hospital room and sitting on her bed, skimming each page, and then going back through a second time to take it in more fully. It should feel like an invasion of privacy, but instead her impulse is to huff a small laugh. She tries so hard to hide from him, and yet he finds her every time.

"So you know about the treatment. What it feels like." He nods slowly, like he's trying to piece together what she's getting at and hasn't quite formed a cohesive picture yet. She sighs.

"Tomorrow I'm going to set up a meeting with Skinner and take him up on his offer in getting into contact with an oncologist. We can still pursue the case—that is, if any new evidence presents itself to give us any new leads—but in the meantime, I need to figure out what treatment options are available to me. Time is of the essence in these sorts of situations." 

Mulder nods again, still waiting for the clarifying piece of the puzzle.

"Mulder, without talking it over with a specialist, I can't know for certain what treatment route they're going to have me take, but with my medical background I can make an educated enough guess to safely say that, whatever it is, it's not going to be pleasant."

"Any help you need, Scully, you know I'm just a phone call away. And don't worry about work. If you have to take leave that's fine. What matters most is that you get yourself health—"

"I know. I know that, but that's not what I came here to talk to you about."

"... Okay." He gives a small shake of his head. "What then? What's the favor?"

Scully draws her lower lip between her teeth. 

"I need your help," she says slowly, "in reminding myself that my body can do more than feel pain. That it's more than just a vessel to get me from one place to another... I need you to help me remember why it's worth saving."

"I don't..." he starts, but his sentence trails off as she makes her approach over to him with a purposeful gait. She goes to stand between his legs and he opens them wider to give her space like the action is automatic. He tilts his head back to look dumbly up at her, and the change in dynamic—her above and him below—makes her feel some type of way low in her belly. 

She reaches out and cups his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with her thumb, and she sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. She thinks the picture may be becoming clear to him now.

"Scully—"

"You can tell me to leave," she cuts him off. "You can say no and I won't hold it against you. We don't ever have to talk about it again. But if you're willing..."

Mulder gives a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

"Scully, trust me, it's not a matter of whether or not I'm willing, but look at what all you've been through in the past couple days. I don't think you're thinking rationally, and I don't want to take advantage—"

"Not thinking rationally? Me?" She smiles a little as she pulls her hand back, making a point to drag her fingers slowly across his skin on the way, and she doesn't think she imagines him leaning into her touch. "Mulder, I appreciate your concern, but why don't you let me decide what I do and don't want to do."

"Scully..."

"Do you trust me?"

He lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Of course I do."

She takes hold of both of his wrists, and when she tugs his arms out to settle his hands on her hips she's met with slight resistance, but she knows it's just for show. She's not weak, but he's got plenty of strength to get away from her if he really wanted to. Instead, the pads of his fingers press into her pelvic bone, even after she's dropped her hold on his wrists.

"Then trust me when I say this is what I need from you," she says. She smirks and adds, "I told you it was unorthodox." 

"You weren't kidding," he mutters, and fuck, his eyes are boring into hers so intensely she nearly shudders. 

Sweatpants are not exactly ideal when it comes to maintaining modesty in sensitive situations, and Scully's effect on him does not go unnoticed. Her eyes dart down to the significant bulge between his thighs, and then back up to his face where he gives a bashful half-grin accompanied with a one-shouldered shrug, as if to say "can you blame me?"

"I won't hold it against you," she tells him again, "but I do want this."

"Fuck," Mulder breathes. He shuts his eyes for a beat, like he's trying to compose himself, and then blinks them back open, embers of an impending fire starting to glow behind his dilating pupils. "This is a bad idea," he tells her, stating it more like a fact than as a deterrent. 

"Maybe," she agrees.

"We have to work together tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that one, too. You don't think this will... change things?"

"Not if we don't let it." 

"You really think it's that simple?"

She considers the question. Considers whether or not she can learn what it's like to have him explore her body tonight, and then pretend like she didn't come morning.

"We're two consenting adults," she says, evading the question. "Has the thought of doing this really never crossed your mind?"

"That... That feels like a leading question."

"Would it make you feel better if I said that it has definitely crossed mine?"

"Jesus, Scully," he breathes, shifting in his seat and clutching her hips so tight that she won't be surprised if later she finds finger-shaped bruises on her skin, reminiscent of dusted prints at a crime scene.

"It's just sex, Mulder," but even as she says it, she knows it's a lie.

He knows it too, judging by the muscle twitching in his clenched jaw as he holds her eyes with a steady look.

"Is it?" he asks evenly, and they both know the answer is no.

No. Of course not. Sex could never be "just" anything between them, but the reason why is a topic they've come to an unspoken agreement to never acknowledge aloud. But Scully isn't stupid. She knows that the way electricity behaves between them—constantly thrumming and sparking, in tense situations as well as banal—isn't normal. Four years ago she dropped her robe in front of him in a candle lit hotel room, and she hasn't stopped feeling his gaze on her lower back since; the tender way his eyes roved over her delusive mosquito bites is as permanent a tattoo as the blood red ouroboros that has only recently lost its scabs.

The term "something more" is a vague and fanciful concept she would sooner dismiss as nothing but a perpetuation of commercialized romance, if she herself wasn't subjected to it on a near daily basis. Since day number one there has been an elusive "something more" surrounding them, fighting for their attention, even as they so ardently deny its existence.

So no, it isn't just sex, but Scully also didn't come here to give voice to the elephant that follows them from room to room. To put it plainly, she came here so he could fuck the will to live back into her body, and she refuses to lose sight of her mission.

So in lieu of a response—because she can't animate any elephants, but neither can she lie to a man who treats truth like the core tenet to his religion—she instead throws caution to the wind, swoops in, and kisses him. 

Ice touches enamel. She wants it to burn.

Whatever reservations or protests he may have been fighting against must not be too hard to cast aside, because his response to her is instant, tilting his head to slot their lips together and kissing back so forcefully their teeth clack together. But even that doesn't, or maybe can't slow them down.

Mulder's hands move from her hips to her ass, and in a single swift movement he lifts her onto his lap. He swallows her surprised gasp as she straddles his thighs, his hard cock brushing her center, the layers of their clothing teasing her relentlessly when right now she needs skin-on-skin more than she needs air.

Mulder seems to be of the same mind, because one second she's sitting astride him fully clothed, and in the next he has somehow stripped her of her shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Returning the favor, she peels his off too, feeling like a kid at Christmas unwrapping the box she knows contains the best present under the tree.

Scully tries to recapture his lips, but he stills her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. He then leans back to get a good, long look at her.

"God, Scully," he whispers reverently, eyes trained on her chest. He reaches out to touch her, and when he does her breasts fit perfectly in his hands. Tentatively, and with such profound focus you'd think he was attempting to split an atom, he pinches her left nipple and rolls it experimentally between his index finger and thumb. It's such a simple touch, but it goes straight to her leaking cunt, and when she moans Mulder's attention darts back up to her face, the embers behind his eyes now a full-fledged forest fire, blazing a warpath through the trees. He makes it a point not to break her gaze when he leans in and takes the same nipple into his mouth.

"Mmm," she hums, letting her head loll back. He sucks the nub of her nipple taut, and involuntarily she bucks her hips in response. 

Mulder mumbles something incoherent against her breast, and when she asks for clarification, he pulls away with an obscene pop and then nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck, saying, "You're everything."

Everything. Like he ran through the full gamut of adjectives and found himself wanting. Like she is so many things at once that there isn't a single word that encompasses the breadth of her worth to him. 

You're everything.

It's the most overwhelming compliment she has ever received, because she wants, more than anything, to live up to it, and yet she's not even sure if she is going to be able to simply live, period. She's not sure when her greatest fear became failing him. It might have been the first time he ever challenged her. When she stood in front of his projector, veiled by the illuminated slides he'd already prepared for her arrival, as he quizzed her on chemistry, and causes of death, and the supposed limits of science in a vast and complex universe. She had wanted to prove herself to him then, and then just never stopped. 

The truth of his influence over her is too much to handle right now, so she decides to kiss him again—an act that is quickly becoming her new favorite strategy for deflection—and then buries her fingers in his hair. She oscillates her hips in slow circles, taunting them both with light but consistent pressure on his cock. She feels him twitch in anticipation for her, and her pulse throbs in her cunt in turn.

"I want you," she whispers against his lips, but he shakes his head.

"No," he murmurs. "No, not yet."

Before she can ask him for clarification, he's lifting her up with a firm grip on the backs of her thighs, and then proceeds to lay her down lengthwise on the couch.

There's a manic energy wafting off of him in waves, and yet, in total contrast, the way he slides her leggings and panties down and off her legs is so purposeful and leisurely that she has the absurd thought that nobody has ever undressed her with such respect before.

When he kisses her soundly on the mouth and then begins making a trek down her body with his lips and tongue and an occasional nip of his teeth, she feels—for the first time since she stepped foot inside his apartment with this ludacris idea—a pang of apprehension.

For the most part, she isn't a self-conscious person. Once she got past the awkwardness of adolescence, she's had a fairly healthy relationship with her self-image. But that said, Mulder's intended destination is obvious, and she's had enough sexual partners turn their nose up at the suggestion that for a moment she worries he's only doing it because he thinks she expects it of him.

But then he settles himself in between her thighs and peers up at her with a hunger better fit for a man so far into starvation he's about to succumb to it, and she realizes then that while he may be able to read all the words on her every page, it is not a one-sided transparency. If ever there were to be a scholar on the topic of Fox William Mulder, she would be the one.

The apprehension, already fleeting in the first place, dissipates entirely, and she lets her legs fall open in invitation.

There is no hesitancy in his acceptance. He uses two fingers to part her labia, and then starts off by dragging the flat of his tongue from her soaking entrance up to her swollen clit in one long stroke, and that alone has her crying out, unconcerned about how she sounds or how thin the walls might be. 

Never a man to miss important details, it's unsurprising the speed at which he masters the intricacies of her body. She knows he's paying attention to every miniscule shift in her body language by the way he adjusts the pressure and speed and direction of his mouth and tongue. When he slips one finger inside her, quickly following it up with a second, and pulses a come hither motion as he sucks on her aching clit she wants to sob. He eats cunt with the devotion of a holy man, and he makes her feel deserving of being worshipped.

This is why it's worth it to live. Because for every twinge and ache and pain her body is capable of, it is equally capable of so much good feeling that it could constitute a religious experience. That while there are always going to be moments of suffering, there are also going to be moments of pleasure, and to truly live you have to accept the full spectrum of what it means to possess a human body.

When the coiling heat in her cunt finally boils over, and she arches her back and cries out Mulder's name while a rapturous climax works through her, suspending time and space, she thinks to herself, over and over like a mantra—like a promise: This is what I'm fighting for. This is what I'm fighting for. This. Is what. I am fighting for.

When she comes back to herself enough to spring into action, she is barely conscious of her own movements, acting more on primal instinct as she yanks Mulder up and kisses him sloppily, licking into his mouth and tasting herself on his tongue as she manages to flip them so that he's lying on his back, panting up at her with blown pupils and parted lips. 

She gets his sweatpants and boxers pulled down past his knees, and he kicks them the rest of the way off. He curses when she takes hold of him and guides him to her entrance, unable to wait to be filled by him any longer. 

He's so big, and even with the slickness from her orgasm she has to take him in slowly, letting her cunt adjust to the stretch of him. 

"There's so much of you," she groans, rocking her hips, slipping him in further inch by inch. He's holding onto her hips again, gripping her like she's a life preserver as he clenches his jaw, clearly trying his utmost not to thrust into her before she's ready for it.

"You feel... Jesus, Scully, there aren't words to describe how you feel," he says, strained between gritted teeth, and she's so thankful for him. For his patience. For his attention. For the "something more" between them that she doesn't dare give a name to, even in the privacy of her own mind.

When she finally takes him to the hilt, it feels like an accomplishment. Skewered between her legs on his massive cock, she has the same sense of satisfaction she gets when she pins him into a corner during a debate. Already he has infiltrated almost every aspect of her life, and now he's inside her body as well, and she understands what he meant before, because it's everything. He's everything.

She tells him so, and that's more than he can handle. After the words spill from her lips, he thrusts up into her, making her shout, but on the next thrust she meets him in a counter-rhythm, driving him impossibly deeper inside her. The apartment is full of the sounds and smells of sex as she begins to ride him in earnest. She plays with her own tits, and he watches her, rapt with attention, and when his breathing starts to hollow, he puts a hand between her legs and lets her rub her clit against him.

"Yes," she moans, riding him harder, shocked that he has her teetering on the edge again so soon. "God, yes. Mulder, I—I'm going to—" 

She completes her sentence nonverbally, falling over the edge once more, and this time Mulder follows her. He's chanting nonsense syllables that are probably supposed to be her name, as she clenches around him and milks his cock dry, letting him fill her fully and completely. She wants to feel his spend leaking out of her later. She wants to feel bruised when she walks. She wants to remember every last second of tonight—even if they never speak of it again—because she is going to need the memories in order to face what's waiting for her come tomorrow.

When they've both returned to Earth, they stay joined together in silence for just a little longer, searching each other's faces, possibly for signs of regret, or maybe just for the sake of looking. He pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear and she lets her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch. Between her legs he's starting to soften. Her unorthodox favor has been fulfilled, and reality is hurtling back to them at speed.

"Thank you," she says, not opening her eyes. 

He doesn't respond for a few beats, and then he says, "It's worth it, Scully. Remember it's worth it." 

She nods. 

It's so easy, she thinks, to be aware of her own mortality. To remember that she will die.

She vows now that, in the face of every upcoming obstacle, she will remind herself, often, that she can also live.

[made-my-peace-with-all-the-bad]

Ok I’ve written up a full soda angst yap! :D (guys I can not be left alone with my notes app because this got long and sad way too fast)

Sodapop Curtis who continues to watch his brothers suffer and wishes he could make all the pain go away.

Like Darry. He wishes he could do more to help Darry pay the bills and take care of the house and make sure everyone is ok. He secretly picks up extra shifts just to try and make sure they aren’t cutting it too close on money each month. He wishes that he could undo everything and he wishes there was a way he could help Darry go back to college. Because damn it, his brother was gonna get out. Then it all came crashing down, all of a sudden Soda is now in his older brother’s custody. The older brother who he used to trail behind for almost four years. The older brother who would come in and sit with him and read him a story after he had a nightmare. He wishes he could make all of Darry’s stress go away. He wishes he could just snap his fingers and fix all their problems. He wishes and wishes, but that’s all it is, a wish.

And then there’s Ponyboy. Sodapop’s baby brother. And there is nothing that Soda wants more than for his baby brother to never have to know pain. And then it happens. His little brother loses a mom, a dad, a best friend, and the guy he looks up to in less than a year. And there is nothing soda wishes more than that he could undo it all. He doesn’t want his baby brother to wake up in the middle of the night screaming and mid panic attack. He doesn’t want his baby brother to have to make almost daily trips to the cemetery to talk to his best friend. Soda wants Pony to be happy, and to continue on. He wishes that Pony could come home and see Johnny on the couch. He wishes so hard that his baby brother’s pain can be undone. He wishes and wishes, but that’s all it is, a wish.

Then there’s himself. And Soda hates self-pity, but it’s a little hard not to have self pity when you’ve gone through what he has. Because for fucks sake, he’s gone through it too. Soda lost his girlfriend, his mom, his dad, his first friend, and someone who may as well have been his brother too. And that hurts. And he wishes he could make it go away. Sometimes he wishes he could be numb to feeling. He wishes he didn’t feel as much and as deep as he does. He wishes that one day, he’ll go to sleep, and he’ll wake up to his life exactly as it was a year ago. But he won’t. And that sucks and he does pity himself. But not for too long, because at his core, Soda is a caregiver. And he can’t wallow in self-pity, because if he does, who will hug Pony and promise him that one day it will be okay? Who will sit down with Darry and reassure him that him and Pony won’t get taken away because Darry is doing his damn hardest to give them the best life he can? But sometimes, when Pony and Darry are asleep, he lets a few tears slip out. For just a few moments, in the silence of his childhood bedroom, he lets himself feel pity, and he lets himself wish. But in the end, that’s all it is, a wish.

[djevelbl]

Highschool au Kaboodle and BROTHER #1 I CAN'T NAME-DROP BC IT'S SPOILERS <3 are Rebellious Middle Child and Annoying /aff Little Sister coded SO. HARD that it's kinda painful /aff — he's the ANGSTIEST of the ENTIRE PIERCE FAMILY and Kabs is NOT letting him forget that shit: he's going through a bad day bc he fucked up an exam earlier that day? She low-key teases him about it bc he SHOULD'VE been studying last night instead of sneaking out to go for his underground tournament; she slides a chocolate bar beneath his door later on after dinner, though. He's fuming mad over that blondie boy destroying his ass in said tournament he ditched studying time for? She cackles her ass off as she's chased around the house about it bc WHAT DO YOU MEEAN A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD BEAT HIS ASS??? but she does patch up his injuries when she hears him sneaking back into the house at night, after that tournament.

Kabs has a bad day because bullies have been on her case incessantly? He may say that she should've stood up for herself or done something about it already, it's been almost a year, what are you doing? ... But he'll be the first out of the three brothers to raise his hand against those middle school twerps if they legit hurt her. She's fuming mad and frustrated and legit crying ugly tears over being unable to hit the pirouettes or splits or dance moves in their correct counts? He may roll his eyes and huff and go back to his DS game in the moment, but the second he notices she's crying he gets up and asks her what's the problem, checks the practice video on her phone, and helps her through the choreography.

Highschool au swagdoons to me is Rich Kid & Punk in terms of their aesthetics. that's it that's what they are to me

[apricotbuncakes]

I forgot that I’m mentally and sent this string of messages to my friend in quick succession so that they would not worry about me.

[criscura]

I want to get to the good part of this blastvoid thing I'm writing but i do NOT want to write the part before it and I'm procrastinating so fucking hard

Like i know what i want and it'll be satisfying but it's like the reverse of eating beef jerky, where this is the tough gross part you just need to swallow before getting to the fucking SPPIUCCE

[oversharer-that-overshares]

I recently (ahem, yesterday-ish) started reading httyd fics, and i'm noticing there are a lot of Hiccup Runs Before The Final Exam, or he wasn't there to begin with (feral Hiccup ✨) but what if he doesn't start dragon training at all? Like, The Raid was his final opportunity to show that he isn't completely useless at Dragon Killing, and he butched it, snd he was close to dying again or smthng and Stoick stops hoping for Hiccup to be a Beefy Viking Killing Machine, and when they 'talk' on the stairs when Hiccup comes back from freeing Toothless, he tells him that Gobber needs some help in the smithy and that he might learn how to properly make the weapons or tools and that, yeah, there are enough vikings who fight dragons but there aren't enough weapons when they're used viciously on an almost daily basis against Tough Skin

TL;DR: Hiccup becomes a smith, doesn't do the dragon training at all, and he has a bit more time to spend with Toothless bc Gobber thinks he might feel bad about not getting a chance to Beef Out so he cuts him some slack for a little bit, and also the prosthetic might be better/go along faster bc now he's /supposed to/ use the forge, but also might not bc now he has an official job/apprenticeship

He falls further apart from the other teens, who half-think (mainly the twins say) that he died a brutal death or smthg bc now they barely see him, and only to give/get back their weapons/shields/armor when they need fixing; and he gets ever-closer to the Nightfury on his proverbial backyard

He gets good at Smithing, blablabla, meets the Mad Queen, blablabla, gets increasingly stressed thinking abt how to save his best friend, soul-brother, partner-in-crime, adoptive-dragon-parent from the Mad Queen, and Astrid starts noticing him bc he's smoother when he isn't paying attention to others at all and he really is better at smithing than anyone ever thought he'd be good at, well, anything

[demareth]

i think one of the biggest breakthroughs ive ever had with my social anxiety is asking myself:

"if i were to see someone else do the exact same thing would i be judging or thinking meanly about them?"

the answer 99.9% of the time is a resounding hell no; so why am i not extending myself that same courtesy?

and if other people are even remotely that kind the vast majority of people also arent judging me over every tiny embarrassing thing i do. and if someone is? that is a fucking problem with them not me.

it doesnt work every time, but it does work more and more the longer ive been doing it. if i were the ticket checker at the movie theatre would i be thinking about that person who accidently said "you too!" when i said "enjoy the movie!" three days later?? hell no! so i shouldnt be either!!

[opens-up-4-nobody]

God. One of my little sisters is such a bitch. She's done me some genuine damage in exacerbating my already social bad anxiety. But when I have dreams where she's been hurt or killed, it's so horrible bc she's still my lil sister :-(

[parkeryangs]

ive learned to kind of. accept my sickness a lot more this year but some days ET is just so fucking miserable :(

[pa-pa-plasma]

people are so weird about stopping for animals on the road. sorry but if you don't have the ability to see that the squirrel standing on the side of the completely straight 40kph road 10 houses ahead is going to bolt in front of you, you can't do that with children either & should not be driving. it is literally a skill issue.