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bonnie-the-butcher · 14 hours ago

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Rip Tide | Chapter IX

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.129 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Y'all I am so sorry for taking this long to update, my whole entire family is in my house at the moment and they are all insufferable, pls send help. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You try to swallow your embarrassment along with your pride, hands still resting firmly against your brother's shoulder, but it's to no avail.

He doesn't budge, and neither does the shame.

Kareem is between you still, but you can't even look at him. – Leave. – He repeats. – You are a guest, not the owner. If you want to take up something with an employee you can do it in your own time.

He stutters, scoffing out a laugh as if he was being victimized. – She is my fucking sister, dude you don—

Kareem cuts in: – It still wouldn't matter to me if she was your wife. – His voice is ice, and he stands just as still as a glacier. – This isn't the time or place for you to come here shouting. So please. Leave before I make you.

– Excuse me?!

– You heard him, John. – He does another double take at your tone. – Please. This is my job now. You know just as well as I do how much we need this. Don’t make a scene right now.

– You have a lot of nerve.

– And you have a girlfriend and her whole family out there not to blow it all for. So leave! Make a good impression. I’ll make sure to give you the time to humiliate me when the paycheck comes.

You don’t give him the time to respond.

Like the whiny teenager he probably thinks you are, you shove him out the door and barely refrain from slamming it. Standing, face buried in your hands, back pressed against the door, in front of your new boss.

So much for good impressions.

– You’re the people-reader. – Kareem hums. – But I was right. He is a piece of—

– Please. – He makes no effort to hide his distaste as you raise a hand. – Look, I’m really really sorry about this, you can’t even imagine. – You take a deep breath, knowing you’ll be hearing about this forever. – You know how family is. John’s just— The words hang in your throat. – been very in his head since dad.

You don’t have to finish the sentence. Kareem gets the memo as he watches you flitter towards the oven to check on the pie, and he watches you move before walking behind you silently, leaning against the counter with his brows raised. – I get it. – He hums, crossing his arms over his chest. – But Routledge, you said it yourself, you need this job. Don’t let your family, your boyfriend, your best friend, your fucking parakeet, whatever, blow this for you. Believe me, the Camerons won’t appreciate your family drama. They’re complicated enough as they are. Don’t give them a reason to fire you.

You swallow, nodding. – I won’t. I promise.

– This isn’t on you, Routledge. This— He gestures exaggeratedly towards the kitchen. – Keeping this? it’s on the people around you, it's on them not to be around. Best thing for you, it’s to keep them away.

Funny. Even when things aren't your responsibility, somehow, you still have to be the one doing the work.

– Yes, chef. – Your shoulders feel heavier now, but you look straight at Kareem, the way a mature adult is supposed to do. – I won’t fuck this up. For either of us. Scout's honor.

– I know you won’t.

– Cause you’ll beat my ass otherwise?

– Damn right.

– Let me get this pie out of here before we come to blows, then.

He only laughs, clapping a hand over your back softly as you take the gloves from its handles and open the oven door.

The pie is apparently perfect, the sickly sweet scent of peach and syrup wafting through the perfectly savory golden crust. Your mouth waters as you set it down on the counter.

The smell takes you back. You didn’t make the connection when Rafe mentioned the pie, but John was right. This was your father’s favorite thing. The only thing you and him could do together. A pie for thanksgiving, one for his birthday, one for John’s birthday.

It had been your only marker of a decent day a long time ago.

And today it almost cost you your job. – I’ll take that there for you, if you want.

You’re almost startled, so deep in thought you barely realized Kareem was there, his gloved hands extended and ready even as a cautious look gleams in his eye.

– It’s fine, Kareem. – You laugh. – I know you don’t want to.

– Damn right I don’t want to. But that’s what partners are for. – He helps you remove the desert from the pan and set it on the dish. – We average each other’s misery.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. – You think I’m miserable?

– With a brother like that, it would be a wonder if you weren’t. – You raise your brows at him, and he raises his glove-clad hands in response. – Hey, I’m just saying. Keep him away.

– You’re forgetting the part where he’s Sarah’s boyfriend.

– Holy shit, that's right. That piece of sh— He stops himself short at the face you make. – I'm sorry. I just can’t believe your bad luck.

– Wow, Kareem. That’s really sweet of you.

He frowns:

– Yeah, I'm sorry. That wasn't nice. – You set the pie down with a flourish, watching as the golden crust gleams under the kitchen lights. Kareem eyes it like it’s a ticking time bomb. – C’mon, let me take that there for you, – He offers, already reaching for it.

You snatch it back, scandalized. – Absolutely not. I don't want you to think I have no dignity.

He laughs.

– Dignity? That’s cute. You do realize he’s still there, right?

– I’m well aware.

– And you're also aware that he clearly is an idiot?

His shit-talking is starting to irritate you. – You talk an awful lot of crap for someone who has known him for twenty seconds.

– Look, Routledge, I've been nineteen before. 20 year old guys are types. And your brother is the entitled-freeloader-type, the man-child type. That little temper tantrum? They don’t grow out of that. Most of the time, they actually grow into it.

Well, there goes half your social circle.

– And you say you don't read people.

– People. – He stresses. – Assholes are another thing entirely.

– Okay. You’re gonna have to watch it. – You don’t know where the defensiveness came from. John and you weren't the “don't talk about my family” types. In fact, you were sure that, lately, John's favorite hobby was talking shit about you. So you breathe in deep and take the pie, ready to end this thought before it takes root. – I'm taking the pie and when I'm back we can both talk shit about someone else, together.

Kareem pinches the bridge of his nose. – Fine. But when he inevitably makes some smart-ass comment to embarass you, I want you to remember that you did this to yourself.

– Noted.

He gestures to the door with a grand sweep of his hand, and pulls it open. – Go on then, noble knight. Face thy dragons.

You scoff, chuckling as you balance the plate like a prized trophy. – You're a peach.

– So I keep hearing.

You step out and the door quietly clicks into place behind you. The hall is quiet, you barely hear murmurs from the dining room. But you catch your brother’s eye from the crack in the door, and he averts his gaze immediately, almost groaning as you step into the room.

– There you are. – Ward’s voice is a hum: monotone and content. – If you’d taken any longer, Rafe would have started a riot.

– Well, the peace corps have arrived.

Ward laughs, but Rose is not impressed. – Too bad she doesn’t get paid extra to be a comedian.

You can hear her husband begin to speak as you put the pie down, but it’s Rafe who cuts in, his hand on your arm, yet his eyes set on his stepmother: – Don't listen to her, newbie. Rose's just bitter cause she can't cook for shit.

Her scoff is like the swish of a blade, you almost feel the need to recoil.

– I don't need to cook, Rafe. I work. – You don't miss the venom that splatters on you, but where your mouth remains shut, Rafe's is twisted into a smile:

– Oh, you work, huh?

– Yes. I don't understand your tone.

– John B knows something about that kind of work too, don’t you John B? Freeloading off someone who actually makes their money by working.

It's Ward who cuts in then: – Rafe! Don’t get into this now. Is it so much to ask that we have one dinner in peace?

– He started it.

– Don't be childish, Rose. It doesn't become you. – He looks at you, nodding, almost relieved, as you take his plate. – Thank you, miss Routledge. That looks great.

– Yeah. Do me next, newbie.

– Can you fucking stop it?! – Your brother's voice cuts through the room. Even Sarah looks taken aback. – These innuendoes, this stupid shit you’re doing, it’s not funny Rafe!

– We don’t curse at this table, John.

– It was Rafe! He's the one—

– My son just asked for a piece of dessert. I understand you are protective of your sister, but he didn't mean anything by it.

Rafe laughs, the only person at the table that does so. And he squeezes your arm in his hand as he hands over the plate. – Does your brother always get so worked up when he sees someone working, or does he just extend that courtesy to you?

– Rafe! – Ward shouts, but his son ignores it.

You turn to take the plate from Rafe’s hand, ignoring the way his fingers linger against yours. His grin is lazy, almost triumphant, like he’s already won some invisible battle.

John is seething. You can feel it radiating off of him, the white-knuckle grip around his fork. Sarah tries to talk to him, the soft murmurs of her voice reaching your ears even as the words evade you, but your brother doesn’t seem to listen.

You clear your throat, ignoring the tension as you look back at Rafe. – How do you want the slice?

His eyes flick to yours, slow and deliberate. – I don't know. – He chuckles. – But I bet you like it with a lot of filling, don't you?

He licks a crumb off his hand, eyes locked onto yours.

John slams his hands on the table. – Are you fucking kidding me?!

– Language, – Ward warns.

Rafe tilts his head, expression all mock confusion. – What’s the issue, Johnny Boy? Can’t a guy appreciate a good pie?

– You’re disgusting, Rafe! – John spits, pushing back his chair. – You don’t even pretend to hide it anymore, do you?

Rafe just laughs, dragging his fork through the pie like he’s got all the time in the world. – I have no idea what you’re talking about. – He pops a bite into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly. – Damn, newbie. You did put a lot of filling in this. Real sweet, too.

That's it.

John lunges.

The chair screeches, his fist flying toward Rafe’s face—but Rafe’s faster. He ducks back, chair tipping precariously before he catches himself on you.

You pull him towards the wall before John can near you, his back against your chest, your back against the concrete, heart hammering in your chest.

– Jesus, John B! – Sarah hisses, her hands gripping his shirt, his arms, his hands. But it's fruitless, like trying to put a leash of a bull.

Ward stands in a startle, pinching the bridge of his nose. – Sit down, John.

Your brother doesn’t move, chest heaving. He’s vibrating with rage, fists still clenched at his sides.

Rafe just grins. Smug. Pleased. You can feel the chuckle he lets out vibrating through his skin as your hand remains on his shoulders.

– You’ve got a nasty temper, huh? – He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as if the whole scene was just a mild inconvenience, and then looks at you. – Jesus. Look at what you did, John B.

His eyes are wide, his voice is soft. You’re still holding him when he reaches for you, and yet you still flinch when his hand nears your face.

– I'm— Your breath is caught. – I should go back. Clean up.

Rafe catches your arm. – Hey. Hey, it's okay. He's leaving. Right, John B? Why don't you get your unemployed ass down to the Cut, huh? I bet someone could use you to mow their lawn. Or maybe that’s too complicated for you.

John lunges again, and this time it takes both you and Sarah to shove him back.

– Get off me!

– That’s enough, – Ward finally snaps, voice just sharp enough to cut through the chaos. His gaze levels on John. – You don’t raise a hand in my house. Do you understand me?

Your brother glares at Rafe, still breathing hard. – He started it.

Ward sighs, exasperated. – He was eating dessert.

– Oh, come on, – Sarah mutters. – Dad, you don’t even believe that.

Ward’s eyes remain on his daughter for a moment, but just as he opens his mouth, Rafe keeps firing:

– Yeah, John B. Chill out. We’re just having some family bonding time. I know you don't get a lot of that. What with the way you treat your sister, I doubt she wants to spend any time with you at all.

John’s fist connects with a sickening crack.

Rafe’s head snaps to the side, his weight falling back on you before you latch onto the edge of the table. For a second, there’s only silence. The scrape of the chair legs. The sharp inhale from someone—maybe Sarah.

And then you move.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. You reach for Rafe, clinging to his arm, hands skimming his face, his shoulder, searching for the damage.

You don’t know when your heart started racing, but you feel your ribcage ache with the speed.

– Rafe! – You breathe. Your pulse is buzzing in your ears, shaking within you. You feel like you might break apart.

He doesn’t answer right away as you hold him, steadying him. He just blinks, dazed, the emotions flitting through his face like a carousel: Confusion at first, then anger, and then something softer, something pleased. A slow smirk curls on his lips. But there’s blood—on his mouth, at the corner of his lip, smeared across his chin.

– Shit, – you whisper. – Jesus Christ. – He exhales through his nose, wincing as you press your fingers to the swelling. – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

– What are you sorry about? – You don't register the laugh. The way his body relaxes as you touch him, how he leans into the pain instead of away from it.

You just see the blood on his lip.

The noise rushes around you like a vortex, you can’t even pay attention. All you see is Rafe, his eyes blown out just as they were that day at Barry's, and your hands shake as if the life was leaving him all over again.

– Just—just let me see, – You murmur, tilting his face toward you. – I'm sorry, Rafe. God, I'm so sorry.

– It's not your fault, baby. – He whispers, barely a hum.

John’s still there. Still heaving, fists clenched at his sides. But you barely notice him now. Your world has narrowed to the warmth of Rafe’s skin beneath your hands, the way he lets you touch him without protest. It isn’t the moment for you to ponder on how easy it is to die, but you feel your back pressing against the back of the chair Rafe would’ve fallen onto if you hadn’t caught him, and suddenly he feels like a newborn puppy. All soft, thin skin and whiny whimpers, something so delicate the world around him feels like a deathtrap.

You tighten your hold on him.

– Are you kidding me? – John’s voice is raw. Furious. It feels like he’s screaming at you from above. Like you and Rafe are sitting at the bottom of a river, the sound so muffled you barely realize its there. Your hands feel heavy as they move over his skin. – Him? You’re worried about him?

You don’t look up.

Your eyes are set on the blood at the corner of Rafe’s lips. It’s on your hands now, but it isn’t warm anymore. You don’t know why that thought scares you.

You can’t look away.

But Rafe does.

Even with blood on his lip, he’s still grinning, slow and smug.

– Aww, come on, Johnny Boy, – He drawls. His voice is rough, but not from pain. From something else. Something satisfied. – There’s no need to be jealous. She might like me better than you, but then again, that’s not very hard, is it?

John moves again, but Ward steps in this time. His voice is low, final. – Get out.

– Mr. Cameron I—

– You nothing, boy. You’re not gonna come into my house and be violent and disrespectful. I don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour here. Get out.

John doesn’t move. Not right away. His eyes flicker to you again, searching. Maybe he’s waiting for you to tell him something—anything—that will make this okay.

But you’re still touching Rafe.

His pulse thunders under your hands. You try to focus on that, pull yourself away from your thoughts. But you can’t. You’re still hovering over him, checking the cut on his lip, fingers light against his jaw.

His bones feel like glass beneath your touch.

John lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head before turning away. Sarah is the one to pull him back, her voice soft as she mutters something under her breath. The front door slams behind them a moment later.

But the sound takes none of the tension from the room.

You sit in the silence, Rafe’s pulse under your hands.

One, two. One, two. One, two.

Ward sighs.

– Rafe? Son, are you okay?

Rafe doesn’t acknowledge him.

Because he’s looking at you.

His eyes are hooded, his smirk lazy. You try to pull back, but his hand wraps around your wrist, keeping you close.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t whine, doesn’t groan.

Just sits there.

And smiles.

– I'll— I’m gonna go get some ice for you. – You’re shaking. You barely catch a stumble on your step as you sit Rafe down and rush to the kitchen. – Kareem. – You call him once, twice, a third time, but he doesn’t answer. The back door is ajar. His things are still on the table.

You shouldn’t be worrying about him.

So you turn. Your feet move before you mind does, and you’re rushing to the walk-in refrigerator.

Your fingers fumble as you wrap the ice cubes in a washcloth, pressing them together too tightly, the cold seeping through the thin fabric and stinging your skin. Your pulse is still thrumming too fast, rattling in your ribs, your breath unsteady as you step out of the kitchen.

And then you see him.

You almost jump back.

Rafe is waiting just outside the doorway, leaning lazily against the wall, his head tilted slightly, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, something distant, like he’s not all the way there. His lip is split, swollen, a smear of red still clinging to the corner, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he looks amused.

He exhales a short laugh, running his tongue along his teeth like he’s testing for more damage.

– Gotta give it to him. Your brother might be a bitch, but he's got a hell of a right hook.

You don’t laugh. Your stomach twists as he steps closer and leans against the shelf before you, that same strange look in his eye. Your grip tightens around the washcloth. – Rafe—

– Relax, baby, – he drawls, his voice softer now, slower. His hands bracket your arms, your skin is buzzing, like someone turned a light switch in you. – You look like you’re the one who just got hit.

You frown, shake your head. You can’t stop shaking it. – I’m fine. – Rafe laughs. He’s not acting right. He’s too relaxed, too loose, and there’s something almost sweet about the way he’s looking at you, like the punch knocked a different side of him loose.

– You might have a concussion, – you mutter, reaching out before you can stop yourself. He leans into your touch, holding onto your wrist as your fingers brush his forehead. – C'mon, let’s— let's sit you down.

He doesn’t fight you as you guide him toward the counter, settling him onto the cool surface. He’s still watching you, his head tilting slightly, studying you like he can’t quite figure you out. His hands twitch at his sides, restless, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

– You’re frowning. – He chuckles, like it's funny, and presses a finger between your brows. – You look really cute when you’re worried.

You push his hand away, the words flying over your head.

– This is gonna sting a little. – You step between his knees, pressing the ice against his lip, and he hisses softly at the cold. – I'm sorry.

– You said that already. – Rafe exhales, the sound more like a laugh than a groan. – I'll forgive you if you kiss it better.

You glare at him, but it’s weak. He grins anyway, his hands coming up, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing absently down your arms. It’s light, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

– You’re shaking, – he murmurs.

– The freezer. – you hum. – It's cold.

– Mm. – His fingers drift to your shoulders, then to the ends of your hair, twisting a lock between his fingers. He eyes it intently, pressing the strands between the pads of his fingers as if trying to assess whether or not they are real. – Dunno. Feels like something else is making you nervous.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him, focusing on the ice pressed against his skin. You can feel the warmth of him, the way his legs bracket yours loosely, the way he just lets you tend to him.

It feels too much. Too something.

You have to stop yourself from backing away.

He exhales again, this time slower, his breath warm against your wrist. – You always this nice when a guy you like gets hurt?

You don’t answer. You just press the ice against his lip a little harder.

He hisses again, but when you pull the washcloth away, his lips part slightly, tongue flicking out to chase the cold. His eyes search yours, heavy-lidded.

Then, softly, almost teasing:

– You sure you don’t wanna kiss it better?

Rafe hums, low in his throat, his fingers still lazily playing with the ends of your hair. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, his grin widening just slightly. – Still hurts, y'know? – He murmurs, tilting his head, exaggerating the movement like he’s testing the ache. – You really gonna leave me like this?

– You're gonna be okay.

– Dunno. – His hands drift, tracing up your arms again, then down, smoothing over your shoulders like he’s trying to work something out of his system. – I feel like I’m aching everywhere, baby.

He shifts slightly on the counter, his knees brushing against your hips, the warmth of his skin burning through your clothes. His voice is quieter now, softer, coaxing. – C’mon. Help me out here.

You shake your head. – You’re beat up, Rafe. You aren't making any sense.

– I’m not making sense? – His laugh is breathy, and his hands tighten briefly on your shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into your skin. – You’re the one standing between my legs with your hands all over me. Feels like you wanna help.

You don’t dignify that with a response.

But his gaze doesn’t waver. He tilts his head again, mouth curving into something dangerously close to a pout. – It really hurts, you know. Really hurts.

You sigh, hands itching to press onto his mouth and shut him up.

He's like a child. He pulls you around and he backs you into a corner, then his eyes widen, his lips pout, and you just have to do what he wants. – Please? – He whispers. Batting his eyes and tilting his head to the side just like your mother often did when she wanted something, from your dad, from her boss, from that guy at the drugstore she was always talking to.

It didn’t matter.

She always got what she wanted.

And so did Rafe.

You find yourself looking at the door as he pleads again, sliding a little closer until he can press your hips between his legs.

So you do.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in and press a peck to his lips—so small, so fleeting, you barely feel it. But you do feel the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten against your shoulders, the way his whole body seems to go still, just for a second.

His mouth parts slightly as you pull away, and then he lets out a slow, pleased exhale, his voice low, almost smug.

– Forgot how good you kiss. – His grip shifts, hands sliding up the curve of your shoulders again, thumbs pressing into the dip of your collarbones. He’s already leaning back in, already chasing another taste, and his voice dips into something softer, something almost desperate. – Just one more.

But before he can close the distance, you press your hand to his chest, stopping him. It’s not forceful—not a shove, not a hard rejection. Just a quiet barrier, a gentle push.

He doesn’t move back right away. His lips part, his brows furrowing, like he wants to argue. Like he wants to beg.

But then—

– Rafe.

The voice cuts through the thick air between you like a knife, sharp and immediate.

Rafe’s shoulders go tense beneath your palms.

Your hand drops as he exhales slowly, his entire body stiffening, his easy smile fading into something angry. – What do you want?

Ward Cameron steps further into the kitchen, his presence like a cold gust of air. You straighten a little, keeping your eyes to the ice. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick between you and Rafe before settling on his son.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t soften his tone.

– You were reckless.

Rafe scoffs, shaking his head. – Oh, here we go.

– You knew exactly what you were doing, – Ward continues, ignoring him. – That mockery at the table was cruel, Rafe. The things you said, I'm surprised she didn't punch you.

Rafe rolls his eyes. – Oh, please—

– Don’t interrupt me, boy.

You felt like you were twelve again.

You might not know the man, but you knew that tone. — It was your father’s go-to, when he wanted you to feel guilty, or inadequate, or whenever he got bored of pretending you weren’t there.

For a second, Rafe almost looks like he might listen. His jaw tightens, and his hand clenches into a fist against the counter, but he doesn’t speak.

Suddenly you wish you could hold him.

Ward crosses his arms, his jaw clenched. – You know damn right you wouldn’t like it if someone spoke about your sisters that way.

Rafe lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. – Yeah, well, I’d never be as much of a cunt as John B is, so we don’t have to worry about that.

Ward’s expression hardens. – Watch your mouth around me, Rafe! I'm not one of your little friends!

– He’s right. – Both men turn toward you, surprised. – Rafe’s right.

You wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if you didn’t say anything, but you’re regretting that instinct even as your eyes meet the floor.

You shift slightly, exhaling through your nose.

You don’t resent your brother. You know what he was trying to do—protect you, in his own stupid, thoughtless way. But the problem with John has never been his heart. It’s always been his temper.

– John doesn’t know when to stop, – you say. – I know he was trying to look out for me, but that’s just it—he doesn’t know when to stop. If I don't walk away when we fight, eventually he just— Your voice dies in your throat. The bruise around your arm throbbing. – It's just like dad all over again.

Rafe doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, watching, waiting. Then he turns to his father. – I told you so.

Every last bit of calm on Ward's face vanishes:

– Every time I think you’re getting better… – He scoffs. – She’s not shifting the blame, Rafe. You were wrong, and you know that.

Rafe makes a quiet, irritated sound. – Can you spend a second talking without making me the bad guy?! The guy is an asshole, dad. He treats his sister like crap, how do you think he's gonna treat his girlfriend?!

You swallow hard, whispering. – Rafe.

He doesn’t listen. – I mean, look at what this piece of shit did now! You wouldn’t imagine he— He grabs your arm, pulling up the sleeve on your left arm. – grabs like a fucking—

– Please!

You don’t know what to do. You grab his hand, you're still holding onto it as you focus on your breathing, trying not to cry.

Rafe stops.

His shoulders shift, almost sinking into himself.

He’s standing frozen before you as if you’d just slapped him, his eyes wide again.

You don’t have to say it twice.

He lowers his head, and quietens his tone, squeezing your hand in his as he whispers – I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That was shitty. I shouldn’t have done that.

The words lingers between you, his father suddenly silent, almost stunned.

– It’s okay. – His hand clutches yours tighter. He almost seems guilty. You pull the sleeve back down. – John does have a temper, but this was a mistake. He’d never hit me, even though he hates me right now. And he’d never hit Sarah either. Never.

You turn, unsure of what else to say, and your eyes fall back on Ward. The shock on his face is not hard to miss, barely a raise of a brow as his lips part open for a moment, he steps closer, placing a hand on his son's shoulder before he can give away anything else. But you catch it. That sudden shock on his face. – Go to bed, Rafe.

The boy’s tone is softer, but no less annoyed: – Dad,

Ward looks at you for a moment, then looks back at Rafe, almost cautious, as if he’s trying something out. – Please, – You feel Rafe’s grip on your hand tighten, and loosen again.

– You should rest. – Your voice is sweet, you know that. It's a low blow. But the shock on Mr. Cameron’s face stirs a question up in you. You’re not exactly sure of what that is, but there’s something there you need to probe.

And though Rafe hardens for a split second, you feel some tension leave him along with a breath as his eyes meet yours. His expression softens, his jaw unclenches, but he looks like a kid who's just been told off, all unkempt anger and barely restrained complaints.

So you keep going. – I'm gonna get you some painkillers. – You brush your fingers over his hand, soft, quick, thoughtless, but he chases that touch as you move away to get him some water and the naproxen in your purse. You can feel him watching you as you fill a glass with water, and when you put your purse next to him, he starts looking at it, playing with the clasps and toying with your keychains. – Here. You should close your blinds, and have some tea. I can bring it up to you.

He breathes, laughs. The stress in his face turning into something like amusement.

He lays your purse on his lap, patiently taking the pill and the water. His eyes still cling to you as his throat bobs, draining the cup as quickly as possible.

He seems so much calmer as he hands the cup back to you.

It worked. – Thanks, newbie. – He hums, with half a smile on his face, almost resigned. – I hate tea, though. File that for later.

– Filed. – You nod. – Do you need anything else?

– Yeah. – You're glad to hear him laugh, lighter now, with ease. – For you to quit doing those puppy dog eyes at me. It's breaking my heart.

You take back your hands, putting them over your eyes. Rafe chuckles, and you can see the smile even with your eyes closed— Sweet, soft— It's even sweeter when your hands fall back beside you again. – Better now?

– Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow?

– Eight AM on the dot, just like my boss told me to.

– That’s a good girl. – He hums, and stands, his eyes darker, his smile wider as he stands barely an inch away from you, and then moves again. – Night, newbie.

– Sleep well, Rafe.

The last you hear of him is a hum, something between a chuckle and a sigh, as he walks out of the kitchen, ignoring his father entirely.

Ward exhales slowly, his fingers smoothing over the cuffs of his sleeves. His gaze lingers on the door Rafe just walked through, his expression unreadable.

Then, suddenly, his eyes flick over to you.

You stiffen, instinctively straightening your posture. Your hands twitch at your sides, unsure whether you should be standing at attention or making yourself small.

– I’m really sorry about all of this, – You blurt out, voice steady despite the tension. – I didn’t mean for any of it to—

Ward lifts a hand, cutting you off mid-sentence.

– I don’t need your apology, – He says simply. – I need professionalism.

You nod quickly. – Yes, sir.

His lips press together, but not in disapproval. If anything, he seems almost pleased. Not overtly—nothing as obvious as a smile—but in the way his eyes narrow just slightly, as if filing your response away somewhere important.

He studies you for a long moment before speaking again.

– You handled that well, you know, given the situation.

You don’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment. You don’t know if you want it to be.

You're not sure you agree either, as the remnants of a racing pulse are still running slower under your skin.

– Thank you, sir.

– I have an older brother. – He says, almost like an afterthought. – He treats me just like that, like I'm the problem, as if I'm not the one who works. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face if I showed up to my place of work and he was there. Most people would have let their emotions get the better of them. Especially with Rafe.

You tilt your head without realizing, but you nod, and even if half-unconsciously, he keeps going.

– He gets that from his mother. Nothing in this world pleases him more than getting under people's skin. – Ward’s gaze flicks to the washcloth still clutched in your hands, the ice inside melting slowly, dripping down your wrist. His head tilts slightly, considering. – He didn't get under your skin, though. I thought you would punch him, with everything he kept throwing at you. But you de-escalated him at every turn.

– That's my job.

He hums, and you can see him file that response somewhere in his mind.

– How old are you?

The question throws you for a second, but you don’t let it show.

– I'll be eighteen in a couple of weeks, sir.

His brows raise slightly. Not in surprise—more like interest. Like he wasn’t expecting that answer, but it fits into whatever equation he’s solving in his head.

– You worked at The Wreck before this?

– Yes, sir.

– For how long?

– Three and a half years.

He makes a quiet noise in his throat, almost amused. – Started young, then. – You nod. – And what did you do there?

– I was a roast chef.

His lips twitch, like he’s waiting for something more. – A good one?

You hesitate, but not for long. – Yes.

That earns a small nod from him, his gaze flickering over you like he’s weighing something, testing something.

He watches you a second longer, then exhales, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. There’s a sense of finality in the movement, but it's not dismissal. It's not exactly approval either, but he seems pleased, the way a child is pleased when they figure out their homework.

– You can leave after you clean up. – He says. – I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’s not a compliment, but it feels like it. The fact that there is work tomorrow after such a giant crisis is the greatest reassurance you can receive.

And as he walks away, you realize that Ward Cameron isn’t just assessing you.

He’s pleased with what he sees.

The relief sinks into you like a carbon tablet, and it fizzles out slowly as you go through the motions, cleaning, putting away and writing down the rough draft for tomorrow’s breakfast. Halfway through 8 PM you realize that Kareem won’t return, so you follow Ward’s orders, and gather your things to leave.

The night air is thick and warm as you step outside, the damp heat of the island settling against your skin as you clutch your purse to your side. The driveway stretches long and empty before you, the distant glow of the streetlights barely cutting through the dark.

You exhale, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Walk or call someone? Neither option seems particularly appealing at the moment. Walking means at least forty minutes alone in the sticky night air, but calling someone—JJ, since he’s your only option now—means answering questions you don’t have the energy for.

You’re still mulling over your options when you hear it.

Footsteps behind you.

You turn, and there he is.

Ward Cameron stands in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim light spilling from the house. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze is focused—zeroed in on you with that same unreadable expression.

There’s something familiar about it. Something you’ve seen before.

On Rafe.

That realization sits uneasily in your stomach, but you push it down, straightening as he steps closer.

– You’re not driving? – he asks, voice smooth. Casual.

You shake your head. – I don’t have a car.

He hums, as if he already knew that.

– How were you planning to get home?

You hesitate. – God gave me legs, figured I should use them.

His gaze flicks toward the road, the dark stretch of asphalt cutting through the island. His lips press together, but this time, in something closer to disapproval.

– I’ll drive you, – he says simply.

It’s not a question.

– Oh— You shake your head quickly, forcing a polite smile. – That’s really not necessary, sir. I can—

– I insist.

You swallow. – I don’t want to be any trouble.

His head tilts slightly, studying you. Then he exhales, slow and measured, as if he’s amused by your reluctance.

– You think it’s trouble to drive one of my employees home?

You don’t know how to answer that without making it worse.

His eyes flicker, something sharp and knowing flashing behind them. – It’s late, – he says, like that alone settles the matter. – And I’d rather not hear about something happening to you on your way home.

The words are simple, but the weight behind them isn’t. It’s not concern. Not exactly. It’s something else—something quieter, something calculated.

Something distinctly Cameron.

He doesn’t give you another chance to argue. He just gestures toward the car, expectant, almost commanding.

You hesitate for half a second longer, then nod.

Because really, what else can you do?

You slip into the passenger seat as he slides behind the wheel, the doors shutting with a quiet finality.

The engine purrs to life, and as Ward pulls out of the driveway, the silence between you settles thick.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His grip is firm on the steering wheel, his posture at ease. But his gaze—steady, focused—flicks toward you briefly, that same unreadable look lingering.

The same look Rafe always has.

You exhale slowly, shifting your gaze out the window.

The drive stretches ahead, the road dark and winding.

And you’re not quite sure where you stand anymore.

The low hum of the car engine fills the silence between you, steady and rhythmic. The road stretches dark and empty ahead, the occasional flicker of streetlights casting brief shadows across Ward’s face.

You keep your gaze out the window, watching the shapes blur past, but you can feel his attention shift. The weight of his gaze settling on you, sharp and deliberate.

– You seem to know Rafe well.

It’s not quite a question.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

– I— You hesitate, just for a second. – I wouldn’t say well.

Ward hums like he’s considering that. Like he doesn’t quite believe you.

– So how did you two meet?

You knew this was coming.

Your pulse ticks up, but you keep your face even, your voice smooth. Lies are easier to tell when they aren’t really lies. When they’re just stretched-out versions of the truth.

You inhale, carefully measured. – We were supposed to go to a party together. – Ward doesn’t react. Just keeps driving, keeps listening. – But he got sick, – you continue. – I stayed with him and drove him home.

A pause.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s something—something—about the way he exhales through his nose.

Like he’s remembering something.

– And when was that? – he asks, almost casually.

You swallow. – A couple days ago.

Ward laughs. But it’s not really a laugh. More of a sharp exhale, dry and humorless.

– That makes sense.

You stiffen slightly. – What do you mean?

Ward doesn’t answer right away. He turns onto a quieter stretch of road, the car gliding smoothly through the empty streets. His grip on the steering wheel is loose, relaxed, but his voice is steady when he speaks again.

– I’ve been wondering what’s gotten into him these past few days, – he says, almost like he’s thinking aloud. – He’s been… different.

Different.

You don’t know what to make of that.

– He’s always been agitated, – Ward continues, his tone even. – But lately, it’s like he’s been looking for something. Distracted. He's at home a lot more than he used to be.

His eyes flick to you, sharp and searching.

You keep your face carefully neutral. – I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.

Ward hums again, low and thoughtful.

– No, – He says. – I suppose you wouldn’t.

But the way he says it makes you think he’s not entirely convinced.

The silence stretches again, thicker this time.

And you get the unsettling sense that Ward Cameron is still putting something together.

Ward doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. It stretches between you, thick and heavy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break it first.

You don’t.

His fingers drum against the steering wheel once. Twice. Then—

– He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?

The question is casual, but the way he asks it isn’t. His voice is light, but his gaze flickers to you, sharp and waiting.

You shake your head. – No, sir.

Ward exhales through his nose. He doesn’t look convinced.

– Rafe can be a handful, – he muses, like he’s not really talking to you, more to himself. – Always has been. He was a good kid, though. Smart.

The words are nostalgic, almost distant, but there’s an undercurrent of something else there. Something measured.

– Still is, – you offer carefully.

Ward huffs out a small, dry laugh. – You think so?

You hesitate. – I think so, sir. – You swallow, all the recent interactions reeling through your mind like a movie. – I'd say he's a people person, though. Read me like a book. My brother too. – He looks at you as you look away. – They did know each other for longer, but, it's like he knows him in his marrow.

– Mm. – He watches the road for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then— You said this was a couple days ago?

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice steady. – Yes, sir.

Ward nods, slow and thoughtful. His knuckles tighten just slightly around the wheel. – That would explain the missing motorcycle.

You still.

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the weight of his words. The way they settle in the space between you, thick with meaning.

You don’t know what to say. What answer he’s looking for.

Ward exhales, shaking his head slightly. – Doesn’t matter, – He says. – I’m sure it’ll turn up.

Your fingers curl in your lap.

The street lights flicker past, the golden glow casting fleeting shadows across his face. He’s still thinking—you can see it, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way his fingers tap absently against the leather of the steering wheel.

Then, finally, he speaks again.

– Rafe doesn’t take to people quickly, – He says, almost musing. – Never has.

There’s something off about the way he says it. Like it’s not a compliment.

You keep your voice neutral. – I wouldn’t know, sir.

Another hum. Another glance in your direction.

– But you’re here.

You swallow. – I needed the job.

Ward nods slowly, like he’s filing that response away. – Smart girl.

The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should, and you don’t quite know what to make of them. The car stops. You're in front of your house, you realize, and he’s still looking at you. – Aren’t you gonna thank me for the ride?

He chuckles, lightly, and you have to force yourself to smile back. – Thank you for the ride, Mr. Cameron.

– I'll see you soon.

– You bet. – The door doesn't open when you reach for it, you move two other times before you look back at him.

Ward is sitting still.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then as if it was nothing, he smiles again, laughs, and unlocks the door. – Sleep well, Routledge.

You do your best to maintain your smile.

– Thank you, sir.

You step out of the car, your pulse a dull, an erratic thrum in your throat. The weight of Ward’s gaze lingers long after his car disappears down the street, swallowed by the dark.

You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the unease.

And then you see it, right there, bathed in shadow, almost invisible as it leans againt the tree: yellow and red metal.

Rafe’s bike.

The porch light flickers against the metal frame, casting long shadows across the muddy driveway. The sight of it turns your stomach to ice.

What the hell is he doing here?

You don’t think—you just move.

The door creaks as you push inside, the house bathed in stretching darkness. The kitchen window lets in a sliver of moonlight, cutting across the counter in a thin silver line. The furniture sits in silhouette, familiar shapes swallowed by shadows. It feels empty—like the air itself is holding its breath.

You look over your shoulder at John's door.

The only glow in the house seeps from the cracks beneath it, a warm, flickering light bleeding into the hall. His voice is a low murmur, sharp and frustrated, barely intelligible from behind the thick wooden door, tangled with Sarah’s. The words are indistinct, but you can hear the tension, the way it scrapes against the walls.

Your stomach tightens.

If Rafe is here, he’s not with them.

Which means—

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag as you take careful steps toward your room. The ground creaking beneath you, that sound sets your nerves alight.

You push open your bedroom door. The air inside is still. Undisturbed.

The thought barely forms before you turn toward your dresser and freeze.

There’s someone sitting on your bed, but it isn’t Rafe.

Your eyes drag over the cut on the jeans, caked with dry blood. The heavy boots, still powdered by dirt, the black wife beater.

Your stomach drops.

Barry.

He’s barely visible in the dim light, his posture relaxed but… off. One arm draped over his knee, the other flicking something between his fingers. Your lighter.

His gaze flicks to yours, cautious, almost nervous.

– Hey, sweetheart. – He says quietly, his voice is thick, slow, like he’s thinking too much about every word.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He flips the lighter open with a click, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he snaps it shut again. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t grin. He just watches you.

– I— He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. – I know I shouldn’t be here.

You don’t move as he stands, nearing you. His face shifts, almost hurt.

He clears his throat, tapping the lighter against his palm. – Door was unlocked.

You swallow hard.

His eyes flick over you, searching, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not you’re going to kick him out. He shifts slightly, closer than he was before, expectant, uncomfortable.

Then, voice quieter—almost hesitant—

– Can we talk?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvillaintrophy

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caspercryptid · 15 hours ago

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good morning. i come begging for a crumb of Jayvik Dungeon Meshi AU 👀🙏

Okay, I haven't done this in a while because the seasonal depression got my ass, but let me get back on this fucking horse. So-- I think i actually have a full AU of this in my brain. Woops. I think Jinx dissapeared into the dungeon years ago.

arcane fic index -- my ko-fi -- newsletter ___

The thing is, it's really not a decision at all.

That's the thing Caitlyn is missing as she yells herself blue in the face about what the hell he thinks he's doing. he's doing what he has to do. There are no other options. He can see in Vi's face, too. She knows.

Every step deeper into the dungeon, Jayce has worked on the spell. Every day that passed he expanded it, adjusted what would be necessary. More and more and more has become necessary. What does he think he's doing? What he has to. Nothing more, nothing less.

He's going to lose Caitlyn over this, he knows it. He's accounted for that too. Everything is already in place. There are no choices. He turns his back on her, lets Vi try to talk to her, starts sorting the bones. Every single part of the man he loves. He is going to give everything he has, and it will have to be enough. I love you, he tells the bones, the carpals, the sternum, the ilium. I love you. He's only half hearing the threat to walk, to report them. She will, he's certain of it. He doesn't care. Sorry, mom. I'm not coming home.

Every day, every step, he's dug this grave, he's let the dungeon become his new world. Every dark crevasse, every monster. He's complained, but he's always known the truth. There was no return for him. Not without Viktor. And the deeper they got, the more it became clear that he wasn't returning with Viktor, either. So, the price. Viktor, for the world. It seemed fair, to Jayce. The man he'd die for. Why wouldn't he live for him? even down here, in the dark. He'd live anywhere if Viktor would live with him. He's only half aware of it as Vi moves to help him sort out the bones-- She's moving with the easy certainty of someone who knows the animals down here, with a quiet that's uncharacteristic of her. Mirroring him, he guesses. When she picks up Viktor's bones she silently offers them to Jayce, and he takes them, lays them out gently onto the ground, handling them with a care that Viktor would never have allowed himself to be handled with in life.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He writes the lines, he carves where he needs to carve, lets the blood well up and spill into the cracks in the dungeon floor. If Viktor stood and walked on this ground, then it could be beautiful again. He knew it had been beautiful once- before the gold had been stripped from these buildings, before the city sank into the earth. Before the death of the king. Before this place had become a dungeon. He's wondered why, over and over, looking around-- why someone would build this. If he hadn't been so focused on saving Viktor, it might have haunted him, upset him that now he has to carve out a piece of someone else's canvas and take it for his own.

I'm sorry. I'll give it back. But first you need to give me back what's mine.

He stands over the skeleton, plants his staff in the ground.

give him back.

It has to be enough.

#jayvik #jayce x viktor #jayce talis #dungeon meshi au #arcane fanfic #arcane

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roamingtigress · 2 days ago

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Vandermatthews Headcanons - updated!

-They have a nightly bedtime reading; they'll discuss what's going on in each chapter and will read paragraphs to each other; sometimes this on well into late night

-Neither of them can tolerate cold well, particularly Hosea, and a fire on every night; Dutch will spoon him to further keep him warm (I've made mentions of them not tolerating the cold as well as they did when they were younger but didn't touch too much onto them)

-Dutch is very ticklish! Particularly his ribs/belly/waist, and Hosea will tickle him in public (or 'threaten' to) when he flirts in public or is moody or general PiTA. He does his stoic face but eventually, he'll crumble. Unfortunately for him, Hosea isn't so much to keep him further (I realize I'm sharing trade secrets here, no regrets, do what you want with them, mwah <3)

-Since their bed was made only for one person, they are 'forced' to lay on top of each other (and can also be found laying by the bonfire), usually, Hosea lays on Dutch but doesn't always go that way.

-Wolves wait to pounce the moment Dutch steps out because of their attraction to his hair pomade, and the 30 pieces of beef, 10 fish, 20 squirrels stuffed in his pockets because he doesn't have a satchel.

-Reverend Swanson got them married <3

-Hosea loves his back being rubbed, sides massaged, waist being held in those hold-you-close hugs and shoulders rubbed (this whole area will get him to melt like butter) and has a spot between his ear and jawline that when touched, gets him to his happy spot, but he's a happy chappy wherever Dutch touches him (but I need to touch upon this more!)

-Dutch loves chest rubs, belly rubs, and there's a spot on his right hip that makes him squirm; he also loves to have his jaw/chin scratched and especially that cleft of his chin that he used to feel self-conscious about; scritching him here will elicit big manly little purry sounds from him * (though I have yet to get into the chin/jaw scritches in my story; it's in my head waiting to get out); he also likes to have his mustache/soul patch touched

-They love a bit of roleplay; they'll create scenarios where they'll be acting out their first (I've made a post where Hosea is a bartender and Dutch is seeking a job as a musician there)

-They take turns in deciding on a quiet place to read. Heartlands Overflow was their latest spot. They'll also do a spot of readin' at the camp, too).

-Hosea can't stomach warm beer, Dutch will drink it cold or warm

-Dutch is the RDO equivalent of Jane Goodall; he'll happily socialize with other people's characters, and will also observe their goings-on (in a quiet spot if a quiet spot exists L) among them and reports on what he sees back at camp to get a better understanding of this strange world

-Dutch's favourite feature on Hosea is his eyes, hands and fingers and he tries to make eye contact with him as much as possible; he loves to hold and kiss his hands, and of course, be touched with them as much as possible; he also cannot leave his chest alone (so that's another favourite) and has a thing about hearing his heartbeat at night on those nights he lays on top of him, so maybe it's his heart that is his #1 <3 (but imo whole man is his favourite part)

-Among Hosea's favourite features on Dutch? His nose; he loves grabbing it, and kissing it, as well as his silly waist and the slight belly he's gotten from being looked after so well by him, and of cannot resist those locks that he can't resist touching.

-Dutch's favourite role is the Bounty Role because of the PEW PEW that's often involved but tied with Moonshine; he loves dancing like a fool and playing with the band, and the excitement of running 'shine like a proper degenerate; also loves the excitement of what the Trader Role can bring on hose trading run and now gets along with Cripps (they were ornery and antagonistic at the start until they learned they'll have mutual benefits from working with each other)

-Hosea's favourite role is the Collector role; it's generally the least problematic role between them both (and prob the most old-man-friendly activity) and they have an extensive selection of things they picked up (Hosea has issues with giving up the items they've collected); they also turn Collecting into a date and will often dress up more for this role than the others

-Hosea's favourite horse is his Turkoman stallion, Silver Dollar, but he has a bit of a fondness for Morgans, Standardbreds (particularly buckskin) and Belgian Drafts and will steal one if given the opportunity

-Dutch's favourites? His little princess pony Arabian, The Count. He makes me feel like he's bigger than he is. Others include Legend the dun Mustang mare, Sienna the black Kladruber mare who makes him feel fancy.

-Whenever Hosea is really angry at Dutch (which doesn't happen too often and when he does he doesn't stay mad at him for long); he gives him a wide berth (might be canon?), he's which is so difficult because he's clingy and needy but will not cross that invisible barrier (I want to write a chapter on this but trying to think of something that would create this scenario; there will be of course a cavity-inducing reunion)

-Dutch loves kissing Hosea in public; doesn't matter if it's in Smith's Saloon or wherever he'll just give that old man a big ol smooch on the lips (Hosea secretly loves it though he'll at times act embarrassed but doesn't exactly push away from it)

-Dutch is big into using the star/sun/moon as directional compasses; but doesn't always follow a waypoint; it seems to be in his coding but in my head he's just pigheaded about them and views them as a mere suggestion, which has gotten him, Hosea and his boys into trouble *

-Hosea is sometimes exasperated by his husband's neediness and clinginess and needs to reassure him when he does need to get some breathing space; he respects this and will go off on little misadventures with their sons or on his own, often winding up in some sort of trouble, often Valentine with his study subjects and buddies (I often don't bring Hosea around big groups of people esp in Valentine because of the potential of an incident but I have a feeling he's fine with that because Valentine is often just too chaotic for him), but always comes back and gives that idiot a big ol cuddle when he comes back

-Hosea CANNOT resist his husband's little gestures of appeasement; a hand squeeze, a kiss of his hand, tugging at his curls, and . . . Puppy eyes, which he weaponizes

-Hosea loves it when Dutch grabs his ass but always 'shoos' him and acts annoyed

-Dutch can't get enough ass grabbage and will pout if he doesn't get another squeeze

-Nose boops are a daily occurrence, including nose-to-boops which sometimes occasionally result in a bloody nose but are a bit safer than forehead boops which have more than occasion left Hosea seeing stars

-They really do do it on Fridays, for the most part (I keep them too busy to have too much intimate time, my bad)

-'Sea doesn't go on every bounty hunt (he takes this time to Collector inventory, general inventory, get some personal space (difficult to obtain at times LOL) and other odds and ends) but does go on every Collector, Trading and Moonshine run

-The boys don't visit Harriet often because someone keeps getting sprayed by her

-Both will gift each other with random, sometimes useless things; like I don't think Hosea really needs a donkey but Dutch will get him one anyway for a laugh and Hose would so say he doesn't need two asses (;D) (meaningful gifts are given aplenty too)

-Dutch doesn't like to be violent against other people's kids because he is careful; he'll tip his hat to the ladies and blow kisses to the guys (fuelling jealousy in Hoseea)

-One of those useless things? 'Sea has ordered an expensive mirror from France (that isn't too practical out on the range but there you go) because he gets a kick out of watching his hubby check himself out and then acting like he wasn't checking himself out in the mirror)

-Hosea has a dry sense of humour

-Dutch will laugh at his own jokes

-They both will feed each other bits of food on a fork <3

-Dutch is the little spoon; he feels safer ith Hosea curled up around him

-Nicknames? Hosea nicknames Dutch his Beautiful Idiot, Babygirl, the Mustached Idiot (and just idiot), Babygirl, Duchess; Dutch calls Hosea 'Sea in addition to Old Girl (he also calls him Silver Fox but have yet to include that in my fics; I'm thinking of more nicknames for him too!)

-Dutch despises ran but Hosea will take this time to wait it out with him and play with his hair

-Both are rather useless at the cowboy thing; one gets dragged through the mud, the other will go on a slaughter spree for being bumped.

-They are both deeply affectionate towards each other; kisses, hugs, cuddles, and touches aplenty are given to each other (they touch each other a lot in my stories; can't keep their hands off of each other)

-Dutch carries his tiny Hosea plush with him in his saddlebag whenever Dutch is off somewhere without Hosea (Hosea deserves a break now and then).

-On random Sundays, they make pancakes for breakfast in bed (whoever gets up first is the pancake maker). Always heart-shaped, though Dutch's attempts are endearingly sloppy.

-Hosea gave Dutch his gramophone for his birthday. He regrets his decision.

-Hosea hums while reading the newspaper

-Dutch will twirl his hair and kick his feet while reading.

-Dutch's most ticklish spot? His belly button!

-Hosea has a little heart-shaped birthmark on his right butt cheek.

-Dutch tugs at his hair when he's nervous (does it count as a headcanon if it's actually canon?)

--They are occasionally polyamorous; Josiah Trelawny is among those who they let into their tight circle.

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psychohoneywhiskey · 1 day ago

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I'm not a writer, and English isn't my first language but I can't get these men out of my mind so:

Wade has been through some shitty situations in his life, being turned into a cancer-ridden monster, seeing his girlfriend being killed in front of him, and let's not even get started with his childhood trauma. But, by far, the worst moment of his life was the feeling after his roommate/partner/love of his life looked at him with a face full of hatred after he confessed his feelings to him.

Damn, he would have preferred if the man laughed at his face, got angry, or just straight up ignored him. But seeing that amount of hate, disgust, directed at him, is something he truly feels he will never recover fom.

He tried his best, fuck, he really did. He woke up, made him his favorite breakfast, bought nice clothes for him, bought him flowers, and treated him to a fancy dinner in an Italian restaurant Logan mentioned he wanted to go to a few weeks ago. And he should have known better, dammit. He is a mercenary, a broken, disfigured attempt of a person with more issues than attributes but fuck, did it hurt.

Logan stood up, and left the restaurant. And hey, the worst he could have done was reject him and move on, right? Right.

When Wade arrived home, everything that belonged to Logan was gone. His clothes, cigars, books (that of course Wade bought for him), even his fucking liquor, just disappeared.

He tried to look for him, damn, he tried. He went to every bar and motel in the near area, called Laura, and even went to the X-mansion. And after weeks of looking for him, he received a message with a photo attached, of Logan, kilometers away from the apartment kissing an unkown man outside of a shitty motel room.

And Wade, just gave up. What else could he do? Even if he acted as a dense fucking idiot all the time, he was sharp and smart as very few people out there. He knew how to take a hint, and fuck if Logan didn't make it fucking clear that he didn't even want to look at Wade. And that disgusted stare will follow him to the end of his very, very, long days.

So he closed up; he stopped meeting with his friends, his playful, childful, stupid attitude completely changed. He only talked to Althea and cared for Mary Puppins and then, when he distanced himself and none of his 'family' reached out to him, he finally understood he was the only one who cared. And they only tolerated him, for pitty or convenience, who fucking cares. He was tired, so fucking tired of being everyone's walking mat and at the end, receiving nothing. Being treated as a piece of shit at best.

Weeks pass, and someone knocks on Wade's door. Since he was not expecting anyone he warily opens the door. The TVA offers him a well-paid months-long mission to bodyguard an anchor being who had to leave his universe after being hunted down by a group of powerful criminals there. And well, he has nothing else to do so he accepts.

Only to regret it after he arrives to the TVA quarters and sees who the anchor being is. Of. Fucking. Course. It had to be an alternate Logan's version, and not any version, Patch.

And to make matters worse, the TVA explains that he will have to stay on a house with him for the future, what? Five fucking months, at least? Dammit. Him and his fucking bad luck.

The next months are going to be awesome, right? Right.

I love to daydream about Wade spending time with other Logan versions and just pissing everyone off. Cause let's be for real, most people treat him like shit and just expect him to take it and accept it and damn it if it doesn't piss me off.

I won't be writing more of this but I like to imagine Wade leaves a lot of money for Althea for her to take care of Mary Puppins and herself and leaves for months, only for everyone to see him appear on the news battling against some powerful aliens, criminals, whatever it is. Looking better, bigger, healthier, more lethal, fighting alongside Patch as natural as if they were one and everyone being surprised and regretful. And Logan being as remorseful and jealous as possible.

Maybe him leaving his universe for years just to heal and spend time with Patch, I don't know, endless possibilities.

I don't know why my brain does this, I love them being disgustingly sweet and then when I write anything is just pure angst, fuck.

#deadclaws #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool x wolverine #poolverine #deadpool 3 #angst #deadpool #wolverine

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nectar-cellar · 17 hours ago

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Hello! ☺️

I love what you do✨️

Quick question, how do you make the passion mod work? Is it buggy?

(I can't find the mod link)

Thank you very much if you answer me😘

thank youu 💝

passion is a bit glitchy yes, but it works fine most of the time. it doesn't really slow down or lag my game.

ok so you basically need 3 things: the passion mod, a mod to make your sims naked, and some SEX animations. i'll give links below.

Part 1: Download Passion

this is the link to the sims 3 section of loverslab. https://www.loverslab.com/forum/55-downloads-the-sims-3/

click on the topic called "Passion [Requires patch level 1.63+]". click on the "view file" button and download the mod. you need to make a loverslab account to download it. read the included instructions, i can't summarise it for you here!!!! put the mod packages in your Mods/Packages folder.

here are the packages i did NOT install:

BarMaid_Service

BarMaidOutfit

cmar_XCAS_corefull67

cmarNYC_Penis

now, you need to a way to make sims get naked and have proper genitalia.

download jvsmith enhanced bodies (you only need the packages in the "GEOM" folder, other stuff is optional) https://www.loverslab.com/files/file/27723-enhanced-bodies-for-all-ages-and-genders-penis-male-underwear-bulges-sliders/

remove any previous nude/genitalia mods and sliders you had, if any

in-game: click on a sim or a bed/shower/etc., choose the "erotic" interaction, and watch your sims get naked and do the sex animations.

but before you start the game...

Part 2: Download Passion Animations

go back to the sims 3 section of the forum. click on the various topics with "animations" in the name. download the animations you like, or else there will be no sex animations for your sims to do in the game. 😱 these packages go in the Mods/Packages folder as well.

"which animations should i download???" 😳🤔 ok, you want to save time and get right to playing. if i had to recommend just ONE animation pack, i'd recommend creator oOLaLa City. it's a big, high quality pack with a mix of hetero, gay, and group animations on various pieces of furniture. download the zip, put BOTH packages in your Mods/Packages folder.

this is the link: https://www.loverslab.com/files/file/16273-sims-3wip-ooolala-citys-sex-animations-for-kinky-world-passion-ts3-animated-penisupdated-3rd-february-2025/

that's all! now you can open your save and watch your sims have fun.

i leave you with this:

#nectar-cellar how to download and install passion guide i guess #sim spice #gif warning

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my-rats-call-me-daddy · 2 days ago

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Hii!

I'm Peter, but more importantly I have three pet rats and they are the loves of my life, I will talk about Cheddar, Gravy and Meatball a lot.

Left to right is Cheddar enjoying a piece of his namesake, Gravy looking up at me innocently which means that she caused some chaos somewhere, and Meatball playing her favorite game, stealing my stuff Stardew Valley.

Cheddar: he/him Gravy: she/her Meatball: she/her

When I'm not with my lovely pets, you can find me playing chess, doodling or doing some gardening. I'm working on making a garden that Gravy, Cheddar and Meatloaf can play in!

And of course you can't play chess alone, so I'll often rope some of my friends into playing with me!

[list to be updated when everyone's made their accounts lol]

@deer-in-head1ights - James Potter, one of my best friends!

@siriusly-underrated - Sirius Black, another one of my best friends!

@r-moony-lups - Remus Lupin, yet another one of my best friends!

(how did I get three best friends?? /pos)

@marlene-and-co - Marlene McKinnon, she kinda scares me

@d3ad-l1ttle-st4r - Estelle Black, Sirius's sister

@madprofessorevan - Evan Rosier, idk him very well but he likes plants and art so he can't be too bad (just as long as you don't use lab rats >:( )

@pandoras-g1fts - Pandora Rosier, she seems cool and also not entirely human

@l0ve-1s-str4nge - Xenophilius Lovegood, idk him very well but he seems nice

@ultim4te-br4t-b4rty - scarier than Marlene

@ everyone else

Other stuff about me: I'm 16, i'm a guy so he/him please

I can get easily overwhelmed but I do in theory like talking to people

[ooc: he'll probably end up aroace and possibly non binary but he doesn't know that yet]

This is a rp account; don't like don't watch/read/interact

Also I have far too many classes so I'll be as active as I can be but I can't promise a quick answer lol

#rp account

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jupiters-starchild · 2 days ago

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After the First Kiss

A little Rook x Harding piece I wrote about the scene where you lock in your romance with Lace. Some aftermath and fluff from that scene. Rook uses they/them pronouns

"Rook I said stop! I told you not to touch me!" Lace shouts annoyed as a wobbly Rook chases after her, earning laughs from the other lords of Fortune who are there to witness this ridiculousness.

Lace runs past Taash and Davrin who had accompanied Rook to the hall of valor. Taash sniffs the air and grabs Rook as they almost faceplant chasing after Lace.

"Hey, she said stop." Taash says firmly, scolding Rook who just reaches out after Lace with uncoordinated hands. "Why do you smell weird? Rook do something to upset you Lace?" The Qunari asks.

Lace groans and lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes her head.

"No no it's not.....uhg! No Taash, Rook didn't do anything wrong." She groans.

Davrin glances at Rook who squirms trying to get out of Taash's grasp and back to Lace.

"Uh Harding, how did Rook get drunk in like....five minutes?" He asks.

"They aren't drunk." Taash says, "they smell weird but they don't smell like booze"

"Put...me down....I need to....she's right there... Laaaaaace....!" Rook whines, slurring a bit.

"No you idiot! I could hurt you! No touching untill we figure this out! You don't even like being touched anyway!" Lace groans.

"Only by you...." Rook says sadly, still reaching out to her. Lace's heart skips a beat, and she realizes it's true. While Rook would often flinch at the slightest touch no matter how casual or brief, they had never been like that with her.

"It's....it's not safe...."

"someone please explain what's happening....Im lost here" Davrin sighs.

"It's .... complicated....I....kissed them...and I think my new powers gave them...lyrium poisoning" Lace says, embarrassingly covering her face with her hands.

"You kissed Rook--"

"Lyrium poisoning--"

Taash and Davrin say in unison. Lace looks down at her hands, which are still crackling with energy.

"I think....when I touched that dagger...not only was I given those stone powers but...my body was like....infused with lyrium....it doesn't affect me but when I kissed Rook...they collapsed...like I sucked out all their energy." Lace's mind was reeling, she and Rook had being playing this game for months of will they won't they, and now that she finally had an answer to her feelings, and a positive one at that, she can't even hold them.

"I...I need to go back to the lighthouse...to think...Taash can you...make sure Rook is okay for me...?" She asks the dragon slayer. Taash looks down at her seriously and nods. Lace sighs and starts to head back to the Eluvian, glancing back at Rook who seems uncomfortable in Taash's clutch.

Once Lace was out of sight Taash and Davrin looked at Rook who seemed to have started coming back to their senses.

"Taash... you're hurting me..." Rook winces.

"Can you stand?" Taash asks slightly loosening their grip on Rook. Rook nods bracing themselves against a wood beam.

"How you hanging in there boss?" Davrin scoffs, earning him a middle finger from Rook.

"Well, the girl I've been pining after for over half a year kissed me, so that was nice, on the other hand it nearly killed me and I doubt I'm going to get a second....uhg....second chance...any time soon...I'm.... going to sit down a bit..." Rook groans lowering themselves onto the floor of the Hall of Valor.

"You look like shit." Taash says kneeling beside them.

"Thanks Taash..."

As Rook expected Lace seemed to keep her distance from them over the next few days, running or backing off whenever they got too close. After a few days Rook finally manages to corner the dwarf in the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

Lace jumps as she hears the door shut and tries to act nonchalant as she sees Rook leaning back against it with their arms crossed.

"Found you~"

"Whaaat...? I have ...no idea what you mean!" Lace stutters.

"Lace...you know that running from me really hurts my feelings." Rook sighs, "can we talk? Please Lace?"

Lace groans, seeing that look on Rooks face was not making this easier, she felt a itching sensation run along under her skin, maybe more of a prickle.

"Not fair....don't....look at me like that!" She whines, Rook cock's an eyebrow,

"This is just my face."

"Yeah...! Your cute face that....I can never say no to.... damnit Rook...I hurt you! I could have killed you! You knew the whole time and you just let me do that! You just let me kiss you!?" She's shouting, but she's more annoyed than angry.

"You have a face I can't say no to." Rook says with a smirk making Lace groan, and blush simultaneously.

"Would you just sit down? Maybe we can talk about this? Because I don't want to pretend that what happened at the hall of valor never happened. I don't want to pretend like those feelings weren't there, like you didn't kiss me." Rook pleads, sitting down at the table and gesturing for Lace to do the same. She eyes them wearily, but sits down nonetheless, fidgeting and avoiding their gaze.

"So...mind tell me what you're thinking right now?"

Lace gulps, "I'm thinking I wanna curl up into a little ball and disappear."

Rook frowns.

"I'm not scared of you. And I'm not sorry I kissed you back. Lace, we've been going through this back and forth for almost...a year, and now I know you feel the same way I feel about you. I'm not suggesting we rush into things, but I want this. I want you." At their words, the prickling sensation under Lace's skin grew more intense, "you were never imagining things."

Lace pouts, it's nice to hear that Rook still sees her the same way, that they still want her regardless, but the idea that she could hurt them with something as sweet an gentle as a kiss was terrifying.

"Lace, I'm not giving up on you. Whatever this is we can get through it, together. Maybe Emmerich has some answers, he's a well versed mage and a scholar at that maybe we start there." Rook says with a soft smile.

"I did.... mention it to him....he said he'd take a look at me." Lace tells them.

"Good," Rook says with tender smile,"let's start there."

#lace harding #rook x Harding #scout lace harding #rook #dragon age #dragon age rook #lace harding x rook #harding x rook #harding x reader #datv #da4 #veilguard #dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #da: the veilguard #scout harding #taash #davrin

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doe-eyeddreamgirl · 2 days ago

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Thinking about Robb Stark asking you to marry him.

It's just the beginning of Robb's war, but it's been going well. The plans the pair of you and the war counsel had devised had been successful, even capturing the Queen's brother, although he had almost escaped not long ago. He wore thrice the amount of chains since then.

You had known Robb your entire life; you were an orphan at Winterfell and had been taken in by the Starks as Sansa's handmaiden, but you had been raised as their daughter. While you loved all the Starks as family, something about Robb was... different. Although you'd never admit aloud, you were particularly fond of the Young Wolf.

The night had grown dark in the war camp. As you wandered through the camp, you listened to the crickets and the pops and crackles of fires, witnessed as the soldiers sat around them, singing and laughing, while others stood tall, posted at their duties, and others returned to bed.

You nodded to the soldier outside this specific tent, well acquainted. You pressed your cheek to the flap, feeling it flutter through your fingers as a gust of wind past. It made you shiver, but it wasn't nearly as cold as the breezes in Winterfell. The reminder made you long for home. "Your grace?"

"Enter," came Robb's gruff voice, laced with authority, sounding much older than what you were used to.

You brushed underneath the flap, eyes crinkling at the wave of light from inside the tent, lit by an assortment of flaming torches. Robb stood over his make-shift desk, adorned with books, maps, and candles alike. His palms were braced against the wood, body turned to show the entrance his side profile.

Robb took a glance over his shoulder-- a glance at you --and sighed. His posture unraveled as he dragged a hand down his face, trying to rid it of sleep. "Y/N," he breathed, voice full of relief.

"Had you thought I was someone else?" you chuckled, wandering deeper into the tent.

He was still dressed in his clothes from the day. Suddenly, a part of you felt self-conscious to be dressed as if you were ready to pass out at given moment: hair undone, nightgown lazily falling from your shoulders.

You tugged it up quickly as you moved to stand beside him, peering down at a map of the seven kingdoms, decorated with chess pieces.

"I hadn't known who," he sighed. "I'm glad it's you though. I need your help with something."

You smiled, watching Robb divulge into hypothetical scenarios, plans of war, oblivious to the mess of auburn curls on his head. It made it hard to focus, but not impossible. When he concluded, you nodded slowly. "That could work," you said slowly. Then reaffirmed it, nodding, "Well. That could work well, definetely."

Robb sighed, a tired smile coming over his face. "Thank the gods."

You hummed. "Finally deeming yourself fit for bed now?"

"Well," he tilted his head, eyes scanning over the table, debating. "I still have quite of bit to get done..."

"Robb," you stated sternly, a hand coming to rest gently on his bicep, dragging his attention from his work to you. You nudged your head toward his bed. "Greywind is falling asleep before you. Rest."

Robb turned his attention to his bed, where Greywind, his direwolf, a supposed 'mighty beast' laid across the end, head on the edge, dark eyes blinking hazedely. He snorted, running a hand through his hair and turning back to you. "'Suppose your right then. That doesn't happen too often."

You slapped his arm. Robb faked a cry. "Ouch, my lady! That's a king you're striking, you know."

"A humble king, as well."

"Aye," he grinned, "That I am."

You rolled your eyes, smiling so widely dimples formed in your cheeks. "To bed, Robb," you said, huffing. "I mean it. I'll clean up."

"I can't ask you to do that--"

"You don't have to," you interrupted, watching the tension in between his brows unknit itself. You turned away from him, giving him your back. You closed a book, already shuffling a pack of papers together. "You can repay me after the war: make sure I marry some rich handsome Lord who leaves me alone and has a plot near your castle, yes?"

There's silence. Your brows furrowed and you looked behind you. "Robb?"

He'd gone quiet, staring at you. His brows furrowed again. He seemed confused. "You wish... to marry some... Lord?" he asked, the tease he had moments ago lost.

You didn't understand what's shifted. "It's duty," you shrugged. "I'll marry a Lord, if I'm lucky. It's not guaranteed. I'm no lady, Robb. Not like your wife will be."

You turned around again and continued cleaning, thinking the matter is settled. You didn't see the crestfallen look on Robb's face, the battle in his eyes, the sputtering frog in his throat which he swallows. You didn't notice him inch closer, not until you feel the warmth radiating off his, pressing to your side, his arm gently finding your wrist.

"Marry me."

You blinked, lips parting. A guffaw burst from your lips. "What?" you laughed, shaking your head. In fact, it sent you into a fit of giggles, much to Robb's obvious dismay, who stood staring at you, dead-serious. His eyes had a peculiar shine to them.

Your laughter died down. "Robb, you..." your lips twitched, still in disbelief. "You cannot be serious."

He took a step closer, blue eyes gleaming down at you, reflecting the fire within him. "I am, " he whispered, the grip on his wrist sliding down to your fingers, lacing them together. "Marry me and we won't have to worry about stupid Lords or ladies, just you and I."

You blinked, heart hammering on his chest, smile dropping swiftly. For as long as you could remember you had loved Robb, but as long as you had known him you had known you could never be wed. He was going to be the Lord of Winterfell-- now the King of the Seven Kingdoms-- and you were merely Sansa's maiden, an orphan the Starks took pity on. He had duty and honor, you had nothing. "You..." you shook your head slowly, "Robb, we cannot."

"What?" he asked, confused. "Why not?"

Your head shook, lip beginning to wobble despite your attempts to prevent it. "You have a duty, and I will not get in the way of that."

"What?" Robb took a step closer, deeply, utterly confused. He could feel the rush of blood in his veins and his heart pounding in his chest. He was fully awake now. "What are you talking about?"

"You are meant to marry a noble lady from a noble house--" you began.

Robb cut you off quickly, grabbing your other hand as if it would make you see reason.

"I do not wish to--"

You tugged your hands from his grip, stepping away from him, trying to get air. You couldn't breathe with him looking at you like that, eyes full of hope and desperation. You could hardly think. "You cannot just marry me because you do not wish to marry a stranger!" you shrilled.

Greywind stirred from his sleep, shifting from his bed, watching the two of you.

Robb shook his head wildly, lips twisting like he had been insulted. He looked at you crazed, taking a step forward. "You think that is it? I want to marry you because- because what? I'm afraid? I'm desperate? Because I do not wish to marry some powerful Lord's daughter." He took another step closer. "Do you think that is why I dance with you at feasts as well? To avoid mingling with other ladies?" he spit. "Why have I spent these years trailing after you like a lost pup?"

"I don't know why you choose to do what you do."

Robb threw his hands in the air. "It's because I love you! Ever since I was a boy. Ever since I have known what love was, I knew that I loved you."

The memories flashed in his mind: Snowball fights and horse rides. Sword fights and bandages. Sneaking to the kitchens and watching you do his sisters' hair. His teases, your scolding. His calloused hand holding your soft palm.

He swallowed, voice low. "Say you do not love me."

You shook your head. He wasn't understanding. "I cannot," you said, frustratedly, quickly adding, "But I cannot marry you."

"Why?" he growled, exasperated.

"I will not let I this," you waved between the two of you, "bring death to your duty. I will not ruin your chances at bringing your sister's home; at avenging your father; at winning this war. I will not kill you."

He couldn't give a damn about being alive if it meant not being with you.

Robb's jaw clenched. "I love you."

Clamping your eyes shut, you ignored the gnawing of your heart that begged you to stay, and you turned around, "Good night, Robb."

"No, you cannot just go!"

He hadn't meant to shout. It had just happened, erupted from him like dragon fire. At the commotion, the large wolf on his bed shot up to stand, barking. The barks became background as he watched you turn around, eyes wide, looking frozen.

Fuck.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, dragging a hand down his face. "I-"

You beat him to it, looking down at your hands, picking at your nails. "Your grace," you said plainly. Robb flinched. "If I can please be dismissed."

"You don't..." You didn't need to call him that. He tugged on his curls, a pout on his lips. "It wasn't a command. I would never command you to do anything. Of course, you can..." he couldn't bring himself to say the word 'go'.

If he said it, he'd be giving up. On this conversation. On your marriage. On you. He would never give up on you, not even when you whipped around, rushing to escape his tent like a freed hostage.

Without meaning to, he rushed after you, watching as your head disappeared underneath the flap of the tent. "Y/N," he pleaded.

You reappeared just as quickly as you left, head peeking through the flap. Eyes glossy, but stern. Beautiful. "Do not seek me."

And you left Robb alone again, and he listened. He stayed in his tent, trying to tune into the sounds of crickets; laughter, singing, and snoring; Greywind's disappointed huffs; and his ragged breathing, but nothing could overpower his thoughts and the crack of his heart breaking.

But yk just a thought.

Robb please let me have ur babies, thank yur

(My reoccuring scenario uhg)

oh uh not proof read and written in an hour before i should go to bed

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