#it lasts. no matter how hard i try everything always ends up the same way. all this started because of my mistakes and itll end with them

[pascalispunkczechia]

When he came back

This is part 2 of a 3-part slowburn about Javier Peña. Last part is coming soon! 💌

Part 1 HERE 🎀 Masterlist for this fic HERE

Drabbles HERE

Summary: Part 2 is a story about what happened after. After everything changed. Javi is no longer the boy she once knew; and she’s not the same either. But some things never really go away. Like the feeling you get when you hear his name. Like that one place where you always knew you’d find him. And maybe… like love that never quite stopped. Just two people trying to figure out if they were ever just friends at all. And if it’s too late to find their way back.

Warnings: slow burn, emotional repression, unspoken love, breakup aftermath, anxiety, mild panic attack, family tension, jealousy, brief argument, heavy emotional themes (regret, longing, growing apart), bittersweet reunion, unresolved feelings

Word count: ~ 3.6k

The first few weeks and months of college were rough. Not because of the classes or anything but because I was here on my own. Yeah, I made some friends. But the one person who’d been with me through everything - the good, the bad, all 18 years of it - wasn’t here. And that fucking hurt.

And on top of that… I still didn’t get those weird new feelings that started bubbling up after Javi pulled me away from Jeff’s gross hands, and then again when we said goodbye before leaving for college. But over time, it started to click. The longer it had been since we last saw each other, the more I realized it - I’d fallen for Javi. I think. Maybe.

And it hit me like a damn truck. I didn’t get how it happened. I was confused as hell. Like… come on. We grew up together. Scraped our knees together. Shared dumb little secrets no one else knew. Held hands during our first horror movie and again at our first grandparents’ funerals. We knew each other’s favorite cereal and the stuff that kept us up at night. I taught him how to draw hearts. He taught me how to spit like a boy. We spent years doing the kind of stupid stuff that didn’t feel like anything special back then; but now I get it. Now I see how much it mattered.

And when I finally admitted it to myself, six hundred miles away from him, it shattered me. A million-piece heart, the fear I’d ruined everything between us, and the worst part… could we really go years without each other? Just hoping we’d see each other every now and then during breaks? I had no clue.

So I started trying. Even with a broken heart, I tried to find new friends. Sometimes I went on dates. But it never felt the same. Not even close. I couldn’t give myself fully to anyone; no matter how hard I tried. Not as a friend. Not as anything else.

Looking back, I don’t think I ever fully fell in love with anyone else. Not for real. But… I had to take care of myself too. Because somewhere along the way, Javi and I started to drift apart. In the ‘70s, it wasn’t easy to just call or text whenever you wanted, especially not when you were both off at college. And maybe that made it worse. Sure, we wrote a few letters. But sometimes… every single word from him hurt. And sometimes, writing back felt just as painful.

Then there were breaks and holidays. We didn’t always end up in Laredo at the same time. And when we did, it felt… different. Maybe it was my fault. Because back then, I was in a relationship. His name was John. I cared about him, in a way. He was my first real, serious relationship - we ended up staying together for another two years.

One summer, John wanted to see Laredo and meet my family. I thought I wouldn’t be seeing Javi anyway; my parents had mentioned the Peñas were going to Mexico for a couple weeks to visit relatives, so I figured Javi would stay on campus. That’s the only reason I said yes. Otherwise… I don’t think I would’ve let John come with me. Probably because, deep down, I didn’t want Javi to see me with someone else.

But Javi was there. And the worst part? John got even more clingy than usual, glued to my side the entire time. Javi and I barely had a chance to talk. It felt like he was avoiding me.

After that, it kind of became a pattern. Javi either didn’t come home for the holidays, or he’d show up with a girlfriend. Most of them acted a lot like Lorraine. He probably could’ve used a good friend to tell him to choose better… But we were already so far apart by then… I didn’t say anything. And he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

I don’t know why things spiraled the way they did. Maybe I was trying so hard to protect my heart that I forced myself to believe it had all just been some childhood, teenage kind of friendship and that it didn’t mean anything after that.

I don’t know. Even now, all these years later… I still don’t know. And I don’t know what caused the shift in our friendship from Javi’s side either. We never talked about it. Not once.

After college, I moved back to Laredo. John and I had broken up the year before, it wasn’t working. I didn’t regret it.

As for Javi, he came back to Laredo too, but only to tell everyone he’d been accepted into DEA training at Quantico.

We were full-grown adults by then, and whatever was left of our friendship felt… even more distant. I hated it. But what was I supposed to do?

After training, he stayed in Quantico for a few more years, working at the local field office. During that time, we barely spoke.

Eventually, he came back - settled in Laredo again for a bit. Home. And for a little while, we started reconnecting. We even went to see a movie together. Had to drive to the next town over, though. The old theater we used to go to every Friday… yeah, that one finally shut down. Probably when we stopped going.

I think we both tried to bring that spark of friendship back. But it didn’t quite work. I kept my distance; afraid that all those feelings I’d buried for years would crawl back up… and it would hurt.

And Javi… I think he could sense that wall I had up. Sometimes I’d catch him looking at me. Just staring. And there was something about the way he did it; like… something broken. Like disappointment.

I felt sorry. I did. But I didn’t have the strength to go there. Didn’t have the strength to ask what happened, or why we felt like strangers now. And besides… We weren’t kids anymore. We weren’t those reckless teenagers laughing until our ribs hurt, holding hands under the table, sneaking candy into movie theaters, swearing we’d be best friends forever. We weren’t like that now. Grown-ups don’t get to be that way. Not really.

Unfortunately, things got even more distant between us after that. It started when I randomly met someone - Frank. And it only got worse when Lorraine showed up in Javi’s life again.

Yeah. That Lorraine.

I never really understood why he let her back in. And since we didn’t tell each other everything anymore - since we weren’t us the way we used to be - I never found out.

I just watched it all from a distance. Lorraine probably loved the fact that Javi and I barely talked or saw each other anymore.

As for Frank… it was a relationship, sure. But it didn’t last long. Same old story: no spark.

Javi knew I was seeing someone. But he never found out we broke up a few months later. There just… wasn’t a moment to tell him. We didn’t bump into each other anymore. Didn’t have a reason to talk. Lorraine was still around. And something told me she wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if he sat down with me just to catch up.

A few months later, the wedding invitation came. Javi brought it himself. No Lorraine. Just him. He rang my doorbell; I’d just moved into a small house outside town. My first place on my own. No parents. That’s when you really feel like your childhood’s over. Like everything you knew has changed.

Anyway. I opened the door, and there he was. Tight blue jeans. A plaid shirt. He might’ve been a DEA agent now, but he still looked like the same boy he used to be. Brown hair parted the same old way, and this kind of pained look on his face. It almost felt like old times. Like when we’d get into some dumb fight as kids and he’d show up at my front door with those puppy dog eyes.

But this wasn’t then. It hadn’t been “then” for a long time. The last time we properly talked? A year ago, maybe.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Your mom gave me your address, so… uh… I brought you this,” he mumbled, handing me a white envelope.

I took it. Already had a sinking feeling what was inside. Opened it. Wedding invitation.

With joy in our hearts and rings on our fingers

Lorraine & Javier

are getting married

Yeah, something like that. With the exact date printed underneath. I knew Javi didn’t come up with that line. Back in the day, I would’ve laughed in his face. Now? Laughing was the last thing I could do.

My stomach flipped, and not in a good way. I felt that burn in my eyes, the sting of tears coming up fast. All those things I’d buried over the years started clawing their way back. Every single emotion I hadn’t let myself feel… they were back. Loud and angry. And it hurt like hell.

I couldn’t look at him. He’d see. So I just kept fidgeting with the envelope and mumbled, “Uh… congrats. That’s… that’s a surprise.”

“Thanks… uh… are you okay?” Javi’s voice dropped. He stepped closer and touched my arm.

And that was it. It was like fireworks inside me. Like a damn electric shock. Fuck.

I pulled away. “Yeah… uh, yeah, I’m good,” I stammered, still not lifting my head. Tried blinking the tears away. Didn’t work.

He reached for me again, wrapped his fingers around my arm - gently - and pulled me a little closer. Then lifted my chin with his thumb. I had no choice but to look at him.

Shit. He saw. My eyes were glassy, and one tear was already sliding down my cheek.

He let go of my face, and for a second he looked even more miserable than before. “You… why…?” he started, voice shaky now too.

“No, I’m fine, really… I’m just… moved, I guess. That my… my friend… is getting married,” I mumbled, trying to sound convincing. I could tell he wanted to say something else. But I didn’t let him. “Sorry, I… I’ve got something to take care of, so…”

“Yeah… yeah, sure,” he said, looking totally lost, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his whole damn body.

“Okay. Bye,” I said, and closed the door.

Then I fell apart. I cried harder than I had in a long time. Ran my hand behind my ear and touched the little bump of raised skin.

The tattoo. The one we got together all those years ago.

Maybe I should’ve said something. When he stood there, all quiet and unsure. Maybe one word could’ve changed it.

One “stay.”

One “why her?”

But I didn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I was terrified it wouldn’t matter anyway.

And I didn’t just cry for him. I cried for everything. For the fact that we weren’t us anymore. That we weren’t the kids with scraped knees and dumb jokes and shared milkshakes. That everything that used to feel simple… now hurt.

I closed my eyes and wished someone would just rip that wedding invite up.

Erase her name. Write mine instead.

And that thought - that tiny, brutal wish - was the thing that truly scared me.

Because in that moment, there wasn’t a single doubt left.

I loved him. I loved Javier Peña. My best friend since diapers.

Once, when we were eight, we ran through the rain all the way to his house, soaked to the bone. I had a rock in my shoe and Javi knelt in the mud to help me get it out, laughing like an idiot and saying, “This is what real adult love looks like, you know.”

I just laughed back then. Now? It fucking broke me.

The wedding wasn’t for another year. I left shortly after he brought me that cursed invite. Work, supposedly. That’s what I told everyone. But really? I just needed out.

Far away from Laredo. From him. From Lorraine and that smug little smile she wore like a crown. From the damn invitations. From the way the whole town would talk. From every street corner that reminded me of that chocolate-smeared little boy who used to look at me like I hung the moon.

He never called. Never wrote. Neither did I. But I still came back for the wedding. Because… I was still his friend. Even if we weren’t us anymore, he was still Javi. My Javi.

And I’d made myself a promise - that I’d be there. Even if it shattered me all over again.

Everything that day looked perfect. Decorations everywhere, all carefully arranged. Lorraine looked like her dress cost more than my damn car.

But… he didn’t show up. Javi just… didn’t come. Didn’t show up to his own wedding.

At first, I was scared. What if something happened to him? I hadn’t seen him at all yet. I came straight from Oregon, got home to Laredo late last night, and today I was already thrown into this whole wedding chaos.

The guests started whispering like crazy, little rumors buzzing everywhere. Javi’s parents looked nervous; they didn’t know what the hell was going on either. I was just about to walk over and try to reassure them, even though I was just as worried, when she appeared.

Lorraine.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she snapped, sharp as a knife.

I gave a small nod and stood up. Oh, this wasn’t gonna be good. We hadn’t talked at all since that night - when Javi saved me from Jeff at the drive-in. Not a single word in all those years.

“You know what I think?” Lorraine started right in, no filter. “I think this is all because of you. It always was because of you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe you thought that just because you two grew up together, you had some kind of claim on him. But he’s not that boy next door anymore. And you’re not some special exception. You just ruined everything. Again.”

“Wait, Lorraine… what the fuck are you even saying?” My voice cracked, nerves shot. For the first time in her presence, I wasn’t quiet. I wasn’t polite. “You think he ditched this wedding on purpose? You ever stop to think maybe something actually happened to him, you stupid brat?!” I yelled. “I’ve been gone for a year, we haven’t even been in contact; how the hell could I have ruined anything?!”

“Exactly. You were gone for a year. And just when things were finally quiet, he was miserable. You get that? He was like a ghost. You know what? I’m done. Take him. That’s what you’ve always wanted, right?” She was shouting now, loud enough that people were starting to look over.

It was humiliating. I had nothing to say to that. My brain was still stuck on one sentence. He’d been like a ghost all year? All I could manage was a shaky: “I need to go.” Because if I stayed another second, I might’ve broken.

But I didn’t give a shit about Lorraine anymore. What if something happened to him? What if he passed out? What if someone hit him on the way here? What if he had an accident? What if… What if he’s lying somewhere, alone, unable to call for help?

God. Fuck. Fuck.

My breathing went shallow. Too fast. The room spun a little. I had to get out. Away from the people. Away from her. Away from those fucking white flowers on every table. I had to find him.

And then… just one image hit me. That clearing. That goddamn clearing past the river - the one we used to sneak off to as kids. Javi used to hide there when he was fourteen and fought with his dad. Later, when his grandfather died, he went there too. It was always that place. Anytime shit hit the fan. Anytime he was too scared to face something head-on.

I sprinted to my car. Started the engine. I had no idea if I’d actually find him there. No idea if he even wanted to see me; or anyone, really. But I had to know. I had to make sure he was there. That he was alive. That he was okay. I couldn’t bear the thought that he wasn’t.

He was there. Sitting under that old oak tree where we used to sit as kids. He must’ve been so deep in his own head that he didn’t hear the car pulling up. Didn’t hear my footsteps either.

He had a white shirt on. His jacket was tossed on the grass next to him. His head was down.

“Javi?” I called softly once I was close enough.

Only then did he turn and look at me. His eyes full of surprise and… something like awe? Before I could even register what was happening, he stood up fast; eyes red, glassy with tears, bow tie undone, the top three buttons of his shirt open.

And then he hugged me. Hard. Fast. Strong.

I didn’t even have time to react.

He just wrapped his arms around me like he’d been holding everything in for too long. Rested his head on my shoulder and breathed against my skin. He was trembling. Like he wanted to cry but didn’t want to at the same time.

I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him even closer. That warmth again. Spreading through me.

By now, I wasn’t surprised by it anymore. But I still didn’t know what to do with it.

He smelled like freshly washed laundry. Like those minty gums we used to buy and chew like maniacs when we were little. Like coffee. Like home. Like something familiar that calmed every nerve in me.

I don’t know how long we stood there like that. But the whole time, I was terrified he’d feel how fast my heart was beating. This hug - this kind of hug - we hadn’t shared one in years. Not since before we left for college. And that had been… a lifetime ago.

God, I missed him. I don’t think I even realized just how much until right then.

“I couldn’t do it,” he whispered into my shoulder. “I didn’t show up because I…” He trailed off. He slowly pulled out of the hug and looked me in the eyes. “I couldn’t. I mean… I was supposed to stand there and say I loved her. That I wanted to marry her. I was supposed to… fuck, I know that. But I stood in front of the mirror at home - dressed, ready - and the only thing I could think about was… whether you were smiling somewhere. Whether you were okay. Whether… you’d ever hug me again like you did that last time. Like a friend. Like someone who belongs with you.”

I took a breath, but no words came. I didn’t know how to respond to that. And even if I had… I couldn’t.

‘Like a friend’, he said. That’s all we ever were. All we were ever supposed to be. At least… that’s how I understood it back then.

We didn’t say much else that day. We mostly sat in silence. But after all that time, at least we were there. Together.

The next few days were quiet. All of Laredo was whispering. Lorraine was even more pissed than before, especially because Javi actually ended it with her; for real this time, it seemed.

And us? I don’t even know. Since that day - since the wedding that never happened - we were stuck in this weird in-between. Like… like I had this growing feeling that maybe I should’ve said something. That maybe that whole ‘I kept thinking about whether you were smiling, whether you’d ever hug me again’ thing… maybe he didn’t just say that. But I didn’t know. And honestly, I still don’t.

A few weeks later, Javi left for Colombia. Just like that. Told me and his family he was going; he could make a difference, he said.

And when we said goodbye, it wasn’t like when we parted ways before college.

This time, it was… different. Neither of us cried. No watery eyes.

Just…

Maybe…

Maybe if I’d said something, anything, he would’ve stayed?

But I didn’t know what to say.

And Javi… he just stood there like he was waiting for me to say something.

And when I didn’t, he left. Really left. To Colombia.

I haven’t seen him since. It’s been 10 years.

And I still - even now - keep wondering if he ever really wanted me to say something that day. Maybe I just imagined it. Maybe I just wanted it too badly. I don’t know.

But it’s time to come back to the present. I glance again at the newspaper article. Javier Peña allegedly helped some kind of vigilante killers in Colombia. I shake my head. Again.

Then… a knock at the door.

I flinch, caught in my thoughts. I rush to open it - It’s Javi’s dad.

“Hey,” he greets. Doesn’t step inside. He looks… shaken. God, did he see the article too?

Before I can even think what to say, what excuse to make about why I never told him I already read it (because he knows I’ve got a subscription to the Miami Herald), he speaks. And it’s something I can’t even begin to process.

“He called me. He’s coming back. Tomorrow.”

Fuck. Javi’s coming back.

After ten years of silence. After all that distance.

He’s coming back. Fuck.

•thank you for reading!

If you made it all the way here – thank you. Truly. This one felt quiet, a little heavy. A lot was left unsaid.

❕But Part 3: we’re finally stepping into Narcos canon. Javi’s back in Laredo, for real this time. Older. Different. And maybe not ready to face what (or who) he left behind.

Stay with me 💌 Part 3 is coming soon!

MORE FICTION? -> Masterlist

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Ghost, Simon & You [SMUT]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, Implied Breeding Kink, Implied Forced Pregnancy, Stomach Bulging, Possessive! Ghost, Kinda Evil! Ghost, Simon and Ghost are Separate People in the Same Body, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’.

Backed up! Simon who uses you as his personal cum dump whenever he returns from deployment. You know you’re in for an absolute pounding when you hear him banging on your front door, only to see him standing there, tall and dark as a shadow, looking down at you with an almost manic gaze.

He hasn't even been home to change first, still clad in his balaclava, eye paint and the under-layers of his tactical attire. He pushes his way in, kicking the door shut behind him with his boot and pressing his lips to yours. It doesn’t matter that you can’t feel his skin, that he’s almost crushing your skull as he grips your cheeks and brings you as close as physically possible, that you can taste gunpowder, dust and death on his mask. That this isn’t Simon at all, but the unholy spirit that possesses him. 

Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.

It also doesn’t matter that he literally tears your shirt from your body, a rumble reverberating through his chest when he sees you without underwear. You were expecting him. Good.

Simon – Ghost – is never gentle when it comes to the first round. He never strips all the way down, either, always leaving his mask on, too. He just yanks his pants down as far as necessary before pressing the hard, aching, weeping tip of his cock to your entrance, pushing in with neither care, nor restraint.

He sees the way you fist the sheets, face down against the mattress but your cries still managing to reach him. He just doesn’t care. Especially when your familiar warmth encompasses him, pulls him into the here and now.

It’s at this point that Ghost sees why Simon loves being around you so much, loves being with you. In you.

His member protrudes, a bump in your stomach evident like a tombstone. Whenever you try to press it, try to flatten your hand against it to get a feel for just how big it is, he takes your wrists in his hands and presses them against the mattress. The message is clear: you don’t interfere. I’ll cum when I say so, not by your hand.

Ghost doesn’t stop until you’re raw and red and leaking with either his or your juices, a ring of white forming at the base of his shaft where you can’t fit any more of his length inside you. You feel it, pulsating and battering and alive in your middle, feeling as if it’s nudging everything else out the way so it can lie uninhibited inside your warm cavern.

He’s hard and fast, rough yet thorough. He never leaves an inch of you unmarked, unbruised, by the time he’s done. Whether he’s aware or not, you always end up finishing first, your walls tightening and pulsating around Ghost’s cock as he continues to abuse your hole, hitting your most sensitive point over and over again, prolonging your orgasm and leaving you utterly spent yet satisfied.

When Ghost cums, it’s long, hard and hot. So, so hot – as if the all fire of his anger he’s had building up these last few months is now cradled within you, an unspeakable offspring. He never immediately pulls out. No, he waits, hands about your waist, no doubt bruises from where he’s gripped you, where he’s kept you so he can make sure you don’t crawl away.

His load is thick and there’s so much of it – you feel like you’re being filled past full.

If you’re capable and fertile, he often considers not giving you birth control after the fact, rather letting you stay dormant in bed and tying you up so you have no choice but to let his seed take. The idea never fails to send a shiver down his spine, making him hard all over again as the image of you, bedbound and incapacitated by his hand is enough to make him retreat to another room just so he doesn’t act on the fantasy. 

The look on Simon’s face, he often wonders, when he finds you’re marked as Ghost’s, carrying a permanent reminder that he got to you first; when he realises that the creature he entrusts his dirty work to, his militant alter ego, has utterly ravaged and claimed you from the inside out.

The horror. The futility of apology. It’s enough to satiate Ghost for now. Enough, enough.

And with that, he pulls out, taking the blazing heat of his body with him. He leaves you on the bed, ass up, face down, with his cum dripping out of you. Leaves you for Simon to clean up, to deal with. 

And to your side does Simon come rushing, for once Ghost removes his mask, so does he the haze he casts over his unwilling creator, letting him return to humanity. The vague pulsing of his member, the wetness coating it and the sheen of sweat clinging to Simon’s body is enough to let him know – remind him – what’s happened.

He comes to your aid, scooping you up in his arms and tending to you in every way he knows how - in every way that’s routine. He apologises, over and over, for letting Ghost do this you, for letting him have his way with you, for not being able to protect you–

You shush him. Look at him with kind eyes. You tell him you’re happy to do it, that you’d rather it be you than anyone else, that you wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t love Simon. Which you do. Monumentally. And Simon loves you, too. He just fears that Ghost may be growing to love you, too – in ways he shouldn’t. 

He feels him now, watching you bathe, sweeping over the bruises on your wrists, your hips and waist, the pressure in the back of his head mounting as Ghost lusts for the control to do it all again.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

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[horny-marbles]

Hey babe can I pretttttyy please request some Ben Drowned my queen my diva literally anything smut ;) or fluff is amazing with me if not it’s totally fine much loveee <3

bro i have so much shit with ben in my notes app from a few months ago when i was fixated on him it's not even funny. headsup that i hc him as a chill ass stoner with piercings because hot! 🤓☝🏻 kissiesss enjoy <33

(also can you tell i like the word molasses lmfao)

Wetware (BEN Drowned x F!Reader)

CW: drug use and sex under the influence, oral (f receiving), face sitting and rimming, light nipple play on ben, riding, creampie

summary: you and your weed bud get bored of smoking and lounging and decide to try something new.

wordcount 5.2k + a little bonus (epilogue?) at the end because i heart ben fr

Ben’s room is a black hole of time. You’ve gotten lost in it more times than you can count,somewhere between a third bowl and the fourth replay of whatever pixelated horror game playthrough he was hyperfixated on that week. There’s no clock in here. No windows either, not really, just blackout curtains held up with thumbtacks and stubbornness. It could be 3AM or noon, it doesn't matter.

You’re sinking into Ben’s mattress like it’s got a personal vendetta against spinal support, the springs threatening to divorce the fabric entirely every time you shift. It’s not gross, not really, just lived in. The pillows are criminally soft, like they’ve been through a hundred late night existential crises and held strong. The air smells like weed ghosts, synthetic berry vape and Ocean Breeze air freshener that expired in spirit if not in can. It’s too warm, too humid, your skin already buzzing under your clothes, but it's comforting. Familiar. Kinda gross actually. Whatever.

This is where you always end up. When the world gets loud, when your head’s heavier than your spine can carry, when you both decide without wors that it’s a “fuck everything” kind of night. No better place to waste time than this little cocoon of LED hell and lava lamp glory. Neon signs blink overhead in godawful Comic Sans. One says “NO THOUGHTS, JUST VIBES.” The other one is just a glowing PNG of Shrek’s face, flickering like it's gettinh high with you. He swears they're ironic, but you don't really believe him.

Ben’s across from you on the bed, one leg draped lazy over the side, arms behind his head like he owns the place - which, okay, he does, but it’s more about how he owns it. Effortless. Messy. Cocky in a way that never tips into annoying. His eyes catch the LED glow like they were made for it, red pinprick pupils in oceans of black, alien and warm all at once. That shaggy ass hair always in his face, and he never fixes it. You don’t think he’s looked in a mirror on purpose in years.

You’ve been his smoke buddy since forever. It just happened. One shared joint on the porch after a rowdy party in the mansion you both bailed on early, and suddenly you were always crashing here. Sometimes in the same bed, sometimes on the floor. No weirdness. No expectations. Just easy passes of the blunt and lazy banter between coughs.

But tonight’s different.

You’re both crosslegged, facing each other like it’s a summit meeting, except instead of discussing treaties, you’re cradling two little capsules in the sweaty curve of your palms.

Molly. Because weed’s gotten too safe, too expected. Too routine. You needed something new. Something soft-edged and alive under the skin. And Ben just shrugged and said “sure,” like you’d asked if he wanted Taco Bell instead of McDonald’s.

He rolls his capsule between his fingers. His nail polish is chipping, some seehrough black from last week still clinging to the corners. You feel the shape of this night settling over you just watching his fingers move. Not heavy. Just close. Intimate in that slippery way, like if either of you thought about it too hard, it might feel like more than it is. But you’re too chill to overthink. That’s the whole point.

“Bottoms up bro,” he mumbles, voice thick with cotton and calm, and you both knock yours back like it’s communion.

Ben’s gone quiet. Not unusual. He’s a drifter when he’s high, floats between tabs and videos and zoning out completely. But this isn’t that. He’s on his back beside you, head pillowed on his arm, watching the lights morph from pink to blue to red again like they’re telling a story. You’re turned toward him, fingers curled loosely under your cheek, your body floppy in that too-much-sensation kind of way. Like every nerve ending’s been gently unsheathed and is just vibing out under your skin.

You feel it in the edges first, like your thoughts are melting down the inside of your skull, softening at the corners. Breath deepens without asking. Jaw’s a little tight, but not in a bad way - like your body’s clenching in on itself, holding on before it lets go. Your heartbeat thuds a little louder than it should, pulsing in your ears like background bass. You blink slower, the lights go smeary at the edges. You feel the mattress underneath you in high definition, every lump and warmth patch suddenly personal, almost intimate. Your teeth feel good. Everything is soft. Everything is so fucking good.

The LEDs don’t flicker anymore, they pulse. Soft waves of color across the walls. Everything feels like it’s syncing. Like the room has a heartbeat, and it’s climbing up your spine.

You and Ben haven’t said much in a while. Haven’t really needed to.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s glowing.

It’s been...what, thirty five minutes? Forty? Doesn’t matter. You feel him now. Not just his presence, but the gravity of him. Like he’s warmer than the rest of the room. Like your chest expands more when he breathes. Like his exhales brushes your skin even though he’s a full arm's length away.

You laugh, breathless, for no reason. He turns his head, sluggish and drowsy, and smiles like your laugh was a spell.

You blink at him, he blinks back. His pupils are blown, looking like they could swallow you whole and you wouldn’t even mind. There’s a line of soft blue light tracing the bridge of his nose, the slope of his cheekbone, the little dip at the corner of his mouth.

“Shit,” he says softly, like it’s a revelation. “You look crazy good in this lighting.”

You snort, eyes rolling but heart thudding, and it’s stupid how warm your cheeks feel. “Shut the fuck up. You’re literally glowing like a Twilight vampire.”

He just grins wider, and it’s lazy and beautiful in a way that doesn’t even make sense. You’ve looked at him a thousand times, lit by smoke clouds and YouTube autoplay and dying lamps, but now it’s like his skin is gold leaf. Like every freckle, every lazy shift of his lips, every breath is shining.

“You’re high as shit,” he says, voice honey-slow, syrup-lazy.

“So are you,” you shoot back, but you’re smiling stupidly. Your face feels too big for your skull. Ben lets out this slow, breathy laugh, and fuck even that feels good. You watch his jaw flex with the smile, the little hitch in his shoulder when he shrugs like he can’t even be bothered to be cocky about it.

He shifts a little closer. Doesn’t say anything, just lets his fingertips brush the soft inside of your wrist, featherlight, and you both inhale like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched anything. You roll your arm a little, letting his fingers graze along the underside. Your skin sings under the touch, tingles that chase each other like static up your elbow, your shoulder, your spine.

“Dude," you murmur, voice wobbly with the hug of seretonin, "touching stuff feels.. insane right now.”

Ben’s grin goes lopsided. “Yeah?”

You grab his hand lazily, your fingers barely holding his, just enough contact to spark fireworks in your palm. “Yeah,” you whisper, and your voice sounds thick and sweet and sleepy. “Touch my arm.”

He does. Slow, dragging his fingertips up from your wrist to your shoulder, and fuck. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You feel each ridge of his fingerprint like it’s being engraved. You suck in an i voluntary breath, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Your fingers tangle with his. You roll onto your back and tug his hand with you so he follows, half leaning over you now, both of you blinking slow, pupils so wide you’re bordering on peering into each other's dna.

His hand finds your waist, slow and curious, and the second his fingers touch the curve there, you moan. Barely audible. Embarrassing. Real.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, pressing your face into your elbow. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Nah,” he says, voice dropped to something low and smooth and warm. “Don’t even trip.”

His hand spreads across your waist, fingers dragging up the fabric of your shirt, and it feels like lightning. You both start laughing, delirious and giddy, like you’re high on each other instead of this fucked up little pill you don't even remember where you got it from.

You open your mouth to say something stupid - probably “your hand feels like velvet, what the fuck” - but he kisses you instead.

And ohhh.

It’s soft. Like kissing in a dream, like your mouths are made of heat and velvet and instinct. No teeth, no rush. Just press and melt. His lip ring is warm against your mouth, smooth, the perfect little edge in all that softness. You let out this tiny sound, barely anything,and he presses closer.

His hand slides to your jaw, just his fingertips touching you, like he’s scared to press too hard and pop the bubble. His lips taste like whatever berry vape he’d been hitting earlier and maybe a little weed residue, maybe a little Ben - static? It doesn't matter. He kisses like it’s just something to do, like breathing, like gravity pulling him closer.

Your whole body is heat and nerves and cotton. You kiss back lazily, high and weightless, lips dragging open just enough to deepen it a little. Just enough to breathe into his mouth, and when you do, he shudders. JJust enough for you to feel it in your chest.

You murmur against his lips, “Is it just me or does this feel crazy good?”

His mouth brushes your jaw, his voice low and cracked open, “It’s not just you.”

Your lips find his again - hot, open, slower now. Tongue against tongue in a wet slide that feels like drowning in syrup and rapture. Your mouths fit like they’ve done this a hundred times in a hundred different lifetimes. Like they’ll do it a hundred more. There’s nothing messy about it. No grabbing. No biting. Just this lazy drugged gravity pulling you back into each other every time you drift a millimeter apart.

Every inch of him feels woven through every pore on your body. Every place he touches you, you feel ten times over, and it sends this slow throb through you, low and soft but steady.

You hum against his mouth, light and dazed.

“Feel good?” he mumbles, lips brushing yours, voice scratchy like he hasn’t talked in a hundred years.

“Mmmhm.” You nod once, small. “So good I might cry.”

Ben lets out a quiet, surprised little laugh, breathy and deep, warm where it puffs against your cheek. “You’re such a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, fingers skating under the hem of his hoodie, “you feel stupid good too.”

His breath catches, just slightly, when your palm flattens against the bare skin at his hip. He's so warm and smooth it almost feels fake. You trail your hand up, slowly, just feeling. Muscles shifting under your palm like slow waves, the stretch of them under soft skin. You feel like you could cry just from the warmth pooling in your gut.

“Jesus,” you murmur, “what the fuck are you made of?”

Ben groans, low in his throat, and that’s when he finally presses his hips just a little closer - barely a grind, barely a shift - but the heat of him slots perfectly against you and fuck. It’s not frantic. It’s not a need. It’s just there. Like his body wants to be against yours. Like it was always gonna end up here.

The throb between your legs tightens, sudden and thick, and the moan that slips out of you again sounds so helpless it makes his lips stutter on yours. He stills. Smirks a little, but his breath shakes. “That was so hot,” he murmurs, voice low and so close. “Fuck, you sound hot.”

His hands slide under your thighs, gripping just enough to guide, and you shift without thinking, letting him tug you upward and over until you’re straddling him. The movement’s effortless, but it feels like the earth tilting. Like gravity changed its mind.

Your hips start rolling before your mind can even catch up, like it just started happening. You’re barely aware of it, but the friction is fucking heaven, slow grinds over the hard line of his cock under his sweats. His hands are on your waist, guiding the motion - not pulling, just letting it happen. You kiss through it, drugged and soft and soaked between your thighs.

You whimper. Like a full body shiver that leaks out your throat. The words hit somewhere between your ribs and your cunt, hot and sudden and unbearable. You swear you nearly cum just from hearing him say it. The audacity? The casualness. You clutch at his shoulders, blink down at him like he just opened the fucking gates to heaven.

He’s looking up at you through drags of his mouth over yours like you hung the stars just by sitting there. He grunts, tilting his hips up into the drag of your cunt—just once, slow, and he murmurs low and sweet and way too casual for how hard he sounds.

“Wanna sit on my face, pretty?”

“Fucking- yeah,” you gasp, already shifting. You scramble up to your knees, laugh breaking out when you nearly fall sideways because your limbs are all molasses and light. Ben steadies you with a soft noise, then just lays back, arms folded behind his head, that stupid stoned smirk on his face like he’s the pillow now.

You pull your shirt off awkwardly, getting it halfway stuck, then give up and shove it over your tits, braless and flushed and fucking glowing. His eyes drop there instantly. Lingers. His tongue wets his lower lip and he mutters something that sounds close to awe as you start crawling up his chest.

And when you do, when you finally get your knees to the mattress and your thighs cage in his face,you hesitate just long enough to process what’s happening. Just long enough to see his face under you: black eyes locked on your dripping cunt like it’s sacred, watching the sway of your tits, hands coming up to grip your thighs just under the curve of your ass, holding you steady.

“C'mon, pretty,” he groans, voice so fucking deep it vibrates through your whole lower body, “have a seat.”

Then you lower yourself, and his mouth meets you.

And holy. shit.

The second your cunt touches his mouth, it lights you up. It’s like being kissed by heat itself. His tongue drags flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, lapping with a pressure so lazy and steady it feels like it’s been happening forever. His nose presses right against you, his mouth open and eating like you’re ripe fruit - sweet and messy and tender. There’s nothing polite about it. He’s fully in it, no teasing, no precision, exploring for himself as much as he's pleasing you.

You moan, broken and loud, hand flying to his head to hold on. His hair’s soft and sweaty and feeling like cotton candy between your fingers, and you can feel the way his mouth curves into a grin under you.

“Jesus fuck, Ben-”

He groans, nosing in deeper, sucking your clit just once, slow, and you swear your brain fractures. You jerk, thighs quaking, hands flailing for something to hold, something to feel so you don't yank on his hair because the sensation is so good it’s horrifying.

“Ben- fuck,” you gasp, breath snapping in half. “Fuck-”

His arms wrap around your thighs, strong and steady, pulling you down until you’re seated fully against his face. Sloppy, deep licks that dip and circle and press up into you with devastating slowness. He tilts his head just a bit and stays there, lips wrapped soft around your clit, tongue flicking slow, deliberate circles until your whole body is tightening.

Your body’s gone nuclear. Like your skin is lighting up, nerves raw and too alive, every drag of his tongue a lightning bolt that melts back into syrup. It’s lazy. It’s wet. You’re gushing on his mouth and he just takes it. Tongue buried, lips parted, devouring.

He hums low like it’s good, like you taste good, and the vibration punches right through your clit and lands somewhere deep in your stomach. You roll your hips once, instinctive, and a moan punches out of him right into your cunt, like you just gave him a hit of something purer than anything he’s ever smoked or gummed.

He noses up into your clit as he works, lips soft and open, tongue licking slow under the hood with maddening care. One of his hands slips up, palm cupping your hip like he’s grounding himself there, the other sliding back to your ass, pulling you closer, tighter, until your pussy grinds against him again, this time on his face.

He tilts his head just enough to suck your clit into his mouth - soft and slow and so fucking good - and your whole body jerks. Your hands tighten on the headboard, tits bouncing slightly with the movement, and Ben opens his eyes just to watch.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice muffled but needy, “ride my fuckin’ face.”

Your hips start to move without you thinking,just lazy little rocks, forward and back, riding his face like it’s the only rhythm left in the universe.

Ben’s hands tighten, fingers dimpling your skin and bruising just enough to look like he's been there, and his thumbs pull your cheeks apart just slightly, spreading you open so he can really lick you. You gasp again, voice wrecked. He laughs under you, muffled and arrogant and so pretty.

He watches your tits bounce softly with each breathless grind, eyes heavy-lidded and drunk with it, like he’s seeing a dream in real time. His tongue is relentless. Your thighs are shaking. And then, just to watch your reaction, his tongue slips lower, past your dripping hole, licking a slow, slick line across your rim.

Your whole body jolts like he electrocuted you. You freeze for half a second, but your pussy pulses in response, clenching around nothing so tight it aches. You can’t even speak. Your chest heaves. Your thighs twitch. And he hums, pleased, like this was the plan all along.

At first it’s just a breath. A ghost of a tease. He licks between your cheeks, slow and unbothered, casual as hell, just a lazy upward drag of his tongue over your ass. Your breath catches, whole body jolting, and you whimper, high and confused and wrecked.

You barely notice your hand creeping down your chest, palming your own tit like you need the grounding. He groans under you again, tongue still moving in sync with the tiny, wet grinds of your hips over his mouth and nose, slow and deliberate, back and forth between your soaked cunt and your ass.

You come like your body’s caving in on itself.

No warning, no rhythm; it cracks through you in pulses, long and drawn out, muscle-deep and fucking perfect, like it’s wringing you out. Your thighs lock around his head, hands flying to the wall to stay up, and your mouth drops open on a soundless moan as your whole body shudders. Pussy pulsing so tight you feel it squeeze his tongue. Brain splitting like lightning down your spine. Your muscles melt but your nerves won’t stop firing.

You feel crazy. You feel amazing. Like your brain doesn’t know what to do with all the good. The molly, the mouth on you, the weight of your body draped over his head while the room glows warm and golden around the edges. Your skin’s sticking to his in spots. Everything feels hazy and whole. Like this is the best place on earth to die.

His hands move with you - up, warm and slow, from your ass to the small of your back. One of them slides higher, fingers spread wide like he wants to hold your wholle spine in his palm. The other comes around, smooth over your ribs, thumbing just under your tit before finally cupping one with lazy reverence.

Then, all slow grin and and eyes glinting redder, he mumbles,

“So, like… you gonna ride my dick too, or you need a nap first?”

You snort. Half laugh, half moan, rolling your hips once like your body’s answering before your mouth can.

“Jesus- Ben-”

But you’re already climbing back down his chest, already fumbling for his waistband like you’re drawn to it, not choosing.

He just grins up at you, eyes low and lidded and glowing.

“C’mon, dude. You gotta know I’m dying over here.”

And he is. His dick’s flushed and hard and slick at the tip, twitching against his stomach like it’s got a pulse of its own.

You wrap your hand around it, slow, just to guide him, and his hips lift like he can’t help it. You have to take a moment just to admire the throb in your hand, the flex of his stomach, the glimpse of teeth showing when they sink into his bottom lip. And when you sink down, when your pussy finally wraps around him, hot and soaked and still fluttering from your orgasm, your hips stall. His jaw drops. Both of you go still.

It’s like a fucking detonation. A slow-blooming, devastating kind of silence. It’s not even how tight you are (though you are) it’s how hot it feels. How slick, how intimate, how molly makes it feel like he’s not just inside you, but part of you. Like your whole body was waiting for this exact moment to exist. You clench once, and his hips jerk like you electrocuted him.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

You start to move eventually. Slow. Just a tiny grind forward, a slow circle back. Not even up and down yet. Just wet, slow drags. Like your body’s trying to memorize him from the inside out. You’re both gasping, breathing harder, but there’s no rush in it. No urgency, just pleasure. Thick and consuming.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes, barely audible, like he’s praying to your cunt. And fuck, maybe he is with the way his head drops back to the pillow, throat exposed, jaw slack, brows furrowed like he’s on the edge of something just from the way you’re grinding on him.

You drag your hands up his sides, still moving slow. The friction is everything. Your clit brushes against his pelvis with every roll, every grind, and you can feel yourself start to tremble again, thighs burning but too high to care. His hands find your hips, not to guid, just to hold. Fingers twitching like he wants to tell you to slow down - if going any slower is even possible - but his body saying otherwise.

Your palms slide under his shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. The way it rides up under your fingers makes your mouth water. It bunches under his arms, revealing his stomach, his chest, and when his pierced nipples come into view, flushed and tight from the heat of you or both, you lean down, lips brushing over one.

He twitches. Breath stutters.

You lick. Just a soft kitten lick, and then another.

Ben chokes on a moan. Hips buck helplessly up into you, cock grinding deeper inside you.

“Fuck, dude-”

You do it again, with more conviction. A slow lick around the ring, then another just beneath it, teasing, playful. Your hips never stop moving, just grinding down into his cock like you can feel it in your soul how he’s splitting you open and making you whole at the same time.

He grabs your ass tighter now, still not forcing, just grounding, needing.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum, what the fuck," he breathes, eyes fluttering open just to watch you mouth at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing to me.”

You grin against his skin, eyes glazed and happy and wrecked.

“Riding your dick,” you whisper, and he groans like you just blessed him.

You lean back slow, hands smoothing down his stomach again, and you plant your palms on his waist, arch your spine just to feel how your tits bouncer with the motion, half for yourself, half because you know he’s watching.

His gaze stays on you like he’s seeing you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His pupils are blown wide and bright, lips parted like he can’t even close them without gasping. There’s sweat at his hairline. His chest is heaving.

Then, for one perfect second, his face twitches. Just a shift; mouth curling up into this crooked, gritted-teeth grin like the sight of you fucking yourself on him is too much to bear but he loves it.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty it’s pissing me off,” he mutters, voice low and dazed and almost laughing.

You bark a breathless giggle and bounce a little harder on him just for that. And he groans, eyes rolling halfway back, hands flexing on your hips like he’s trying to be chill, but his body’s begging for more.

His hips roll up under yours with slow precision, timed to every bounce like a perfect rhythm only the two of you know. Slow, dliberate, meeting your movement with this thick, upward grind that punches a moan right out of you. Not fast, not rough, just deep. Skin slapping sticky where you’re soaked all over him now, the noise heavy and lewd.

“Yeah, fuck me, just like that- holy shit-"

He moans it like a prayer, voice cracking as you grind down harder to match his thrusts. Your clit’s catching on the base of him just right, and your walls pulse so tight around his dick you can feel the way he throbs inside you. Every drag is wet and obscene, every slide in so thick and hot it feels like your brain’s sloshing in your skull. The molly makes it bloom. Every sensation feels like it echoes, spreads, deepens.

Ben’s head drops back, throat arched, his hands gripping you firm but not forceful - like he’s bracing for impact. His abs flex under your palms every time he fucks up into you, low and slow, building the pressure like he knows you’re both about to see God in a minute or two.

“Jesus,” he breathes, jaw tight, “fucking Christ, love this fuckin' pussy, baby, ride it, c'mon- I'm close, fuck, please-”

You whimper and keep riding, chasing the drag, the slide, the stretch. The friction is everything. Wet and relentless and perfect. The way he fills you, the way your bodies meet with slick, noisy thrusts - it’s like being gutted slow, like a star collapsing in on itself.

You slam down once more and his hips snap up into you at the same time, so deep you choke, stars bursting behind your eyes, and you come. Together. Throb on throb, your bodies synced up like it's something celestial.

Second orgasm hits hard, violently soft, like you're being peeled open from the inside and having honey poured over every exposed nerve ending. Your whole body seizes up, mouth open in a silent scream as your pussy milks him through it, sucking him deeper. He spills into you with a whiny, cracked “fuckfuckfuck- goddamn-”, hips jerking, breath breaking apart against your neck as he holds you down through every pulse. You feel every throb deep inside you, feel the warmth spread between your thighs like it’s part of the drug, like it’s burning you alive from the core out.

You’re shaking. Still grinding just a little, just enough to ride out the waves. Your legs are jelly, your hands barely holding you upright as you collapse forward, sweaty chest pressed to his, your face buried in his neck.

Ben’s arms wrap around you, loose but strong, and he breathes through his nose, still catching up. One hand runs up your back, gentle, and the other smooths down to your ass again like he just needs to feel you.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just breath. Just skin. Just that slow, echoing after of molly and sex and feeling way too much to care.

You don't even realize you’ve slumped off of him until your cheek’s mashed against his chest and he’s laughing, soft and breathless, palm skating down your spine with the weight of molasses.

“Bro,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded and voice fried. “That was... unholy.”

You hum something between a laugh and a wheeze, forehead sticky against his skin. “I think I saw God.”

He snorts. You feel it rumble through his chest, and for some reason that makes your heart twitch. He lifts a lazy hand to push your hair out of your face, fingers catching in it but not bothering to fix anything, just letting it tangle. His other hand's still on your ass, more out of habit than intention. Neither of you move to clean up yet. Just breathing. Heavy and slow. Still connected in the heat of it, even if his dick slipped out somewhere along the way and left a mess between your thighs.

Eventually, slowly, you peel yourself up with a grunt and a stretch, making some squelchy sound that earns a quiet “ew dude” from him and a slap to his chest from you. He wheezes out a laugh again.

“Okay, okay,” he says, sitting up just enough to grab a crumpled hoodie off the floor. He tosses it toward your legs like a sad little towel, and you use it without complaint. Still giggling, still glowing.

Once the worst of the mess is handled with zero grace and zero effort, you both flop back down into the sheets. He groans, rolls over enough to reach into the drawer next to the bed, and pulls out a pre-roll like it’s a religious relic. Or more like something to dampen the horrendous comedown that's looming just around the corner.

“You’re disgusting,” you mumble, watching him dig around for a lighter with one eye half open.

“I’m thriving,” he corrects, sparking the joint with practiced laziness. The tip glows red and orange in the blue and pink lava lamp haze, smoke curling into the air like incense for a post-sex shrine. He takes a long drag, then offers it to you without looking.

You take it, hit it, let the smoke settle in your lungs like it’s a warm bath.

Then his voice, low and sleepy against your forehead, smoke soft in his exhale, "Yo. You wanna hit Waffle House in, like, three hours?”

You giggle into his neck.

“Absolutely.”

BONUS:

The Waffle House parking lot is mostly empty, just one tired cook inside and a waitress who gave you the side-eye when you walked in to grab your to-go order like you were smuggling out contraband. Ben didn’t step a toe out of the car - too many security cams, one too many people who’d wonder why his pupils are glowing red like a demon on a bender.

He waited slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie up, tapping at the cracked dashboard with fingers twitchy from the tailend of a serotonin flood. When you slid back into the car with a bag full of grease and sugar, he moaned like you just proposed marriage.

Now you’re parked under a busted streetlamp, eating waffles and hashbrowns out of styrofoam with plastic forks, legs up on the dash, his seat fully reclined. He looks like sin. Hoodie half off, hair a wreck, the last of the weed still burning slow in the ashtray. He smells like syrup and sweat and sex and smoke.

You're still giggling at nothing.

"Why," you say, licking butter off your thumb, "does Waffle House always taste like it was made by someone who’s lived through war."

Ben stares at you like you’re the second coming. “Because it was, bro.”

You laugh hard enough to choke on syrup, and he takes the opportunity to steal a bite off your plate with no remorse. The light from the LED “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign flashes red across his face every few seconds, making him look even less human than usual. But to you, right now, it’s just... hot. You’re high and full and floaty. He looks sticky sweet and stoned and so fucking pretty in that lazy post fuck way, lips glossy with syrup and smiling like a troublemaker.

You lean across the console and kiss him.

It starts soft. Just sugar on lips, mouths sticky from breakfast-for-dinner. He tastes like maple and smoke and something a little burnt, and your brain short-circuits at how good it is. You lick into it, messy and slow, and he hums low in his throat like it’s better than dessert. Your fork clatters somewhere by your feet but you don’t care; your hand’s cupping his jaw, and he’s tugging you halfway into his lap.

His tongue drags syrup off your bottom lip like he’s starving. You moan into it, more sound than intention. He grins crooked, still kissing you, still high, mumbling against your mouth:

“We might have peaked tonight, can't even lie.”

“Mmm,” you breathe back, not even pretending to disagree.

Neither of you stops. Not for a while.

Eventually, when your food’s cold and your thighs are back across his lap and he’s kissing your cheek with lazy pecks just to hear you giggle again, he sighs through his nose and rests his head back against the seat.

“I think,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, “we should definitely fuck in this lot before we come down and contemplate suicide for the next week.”

You laugh into his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

[tender-rosiey]

“IT’S LAUGHING?! IT’S ALIVE?!”

— gojo, geto, nanami, sukuna, and toji hearing the baby’s first laugh (f!reader)

a/n: guess who's back, back again then I will be gone again (probably)

GOJO SATORU:

your husband is, admittedly, a very funny guy.

his humor always manages to get to people one way or another, so even if he doesn’t get a laugh, he certainly gets some sort of reaction.

not with his little angel though, the one person that he would die to see her laugh.

no matter how much tickling or raspberries he blew, it was never a laugh, merely a smile or a very short giggle if he was lucky.

he would come across a ton of videos of babies having hearty laughs and simply wished to be able to get the same reaction out of his daughter.

it is the reason he is currently burying his face in your chest and whining, “I feel like she thinks I am just not that funny.”

“satoru, she is still a baby,” you hum, fingers carding through his hair, “you know that babies have different views about what is actually funny; actually, I saw baby not long ago at a photo of number eleven. it was so cute!”

“but I tried everything! even the unusual!” he huffs, standing up to retell all of his failed attempts, “I tried dropping stuff, quickly stirring a liquid, lightly touching her with a balloon—everything!”

he looks at his daughter with his best puppy eyes, “come on, d/n! isn’t there anything that would you laugh a belly laugh?”

a little idea pops into your head. giggling, you sneak off leaving your daughter trying to comfort her wailing papa the best she can.

d/n is caught up with satoru until you finally come back and she smiles, “mama!”

“hi baby!” you grin before smacking your husband—lightly but not so lightly—with a roll of newspaper.

he yelps, “y/n! why would you do that?!”

but he is cut off by his little girl laughing, and I mean laughing so hard she kind of leans back.

you wait until she is quiet again before smacking him with the roll one more time, and she, once more, starts laughing heartily with small little wheezes and a long breath in the end when she calms down.

your husband, mortified, picks his daughter up, “d/n! you’re not supposed to laugh when papa gets hit! you’re supposed to get sad!”

she starts giggling and kicking her feet, putting her hand lightly on his nose. she tilts her head confused, and satoru thinks he knows what she is waiting for him to say. he shan’t falter!

at least, that’s what he thinks.

d/n takes matter into her own hands and smacks him on the forehead, resulting in him yelping and her going into a laughing fit that lasted a minute or so.

how unfortunate that his most precious takes pleasure in him being hurt.

his head snaps towards you, but he guesses that it makes sense since you also love teasing him so much.

a bunch of devils he says! two cute devils he laments.

GETO SUGURU:

geto is convinced that he was blessed with two angels, her cute little twins from his beautiful wife, you. he is also convinced that they would do no wrong—which is like what wrong can a baby a couple months old do anyway.

he ignores how gojo screams about being bullied by the girls, how that one mean babysitter was yapping about how they most definitely threw their toys at her intentionally, and how miguel syas that the girls always hide his glasses because they love seeing his stressed face.

to geto suguru, his daughters could do no wrong.

aside from that, he also noticed that his daughters love playing with hair, sometimes eating it which makes him scream but oh well.

for the most part, they know to treat their father’s hair gently as they watch you and himself do it.

that’s why he never thought that his darling angels would get their first belly laughs by pulling on his freaking bangs.

each twin holds one of the bangs and with all their baby power, they pull and pull almost like they want to tear it off his head.

and while he adores that his daughter are laughing so much—for the first time too—that they stumble back almost turn red, but he really doesn’t want to bald before heat least reaches his 50 or something.

another problem is that you never interfere unless he straight up screams for your help.

that made him realize how much of a common occurrence it is and he finally decided that he needed to put his foot down.

so he sat his girls down—including you because you’ve tolerated the violation of your husband’s hairline so much—and took a deep breath.

“girls, we need to learn that papa’s hair is fragile and we shouldn’t pull on it so much,” he turns to you with the quirk of an eyebrow. “right, honey?”

you barely hold back your smile before nodding and loyally supporting your husband, “why, of course, my love!”

he rolls his eyes, “so, be good girls and don’t pull on my bangs, please?”

one of the twins, while the other frowns and starts fussing. you lock eyes with your husband, and you both try to telepathically figure how to handle this, until your other twin starts crying.

now, you have two crying babies.

congratulations!

so your husband concedes and kneels in front of them, bravely offering his bangs. almost instantly, they stop crying and start pulling the bangs on their respective sides.

they start laughing and squealing again, and geto starts to think that balding is a small price to pay for his angels’ happiness.

he should probably stop calling them that though.

NANAMI KENTO:

now, in constrant to nanami, his daughter came out all bubbly and smiley, and it had nanami going as soft as a marshmallow.

it also didn’t help that d/n is convinced that her dad is indeed a marshmallow in which that she could only touch him softly.

she would gently pat his cheeks, press clumsy little kisses to his forehead, and squeal in order to cuddle with you or him. she also is extremely empathetic and starts crying whenever she sees someone hurt or genuinely frowning.

that was also the reason why gojo adored her since her crying cut anyone’s session of bullying him short. though, of course, he buys her a ton of toys to make up and comfort her.

he fails to realize that the true way to comfort her is to place in your arms or nanami’s.

like that one time when she bumped her head lightly and started crying profusely, throwing punches at gojo who was supposed to be babysitting her—poor choice but who am I to judge. she screamed and squirmed, demanding she be comforted.

however, none of the toys gojo bought were working.

and the two of you were called into a mission, so he literally is rendered helpless. that is until nanami returns a tad bit early than planned, and satoru couldn’t have been more relieved.

he hurriedly places d/n in kento’s arms, and the little girl takes a few seconds to realize who is holding her now.

she looks up, smiling at her dad. he instantly smiles back, “hey there,” he hums, “did you miss me?”

anyway back to what i was saying: a very sensitive and empathetic baby, right?

so when one day, you have your girl perched on your lap and nanami is going all out with scolding gojo, no one expects your daughter to burst one laughing.

you giggle, looking at her, “d/n, you like seeing papa scold uncle gojo?”

gojo gasps, “what?!”

you usher your husband, “babe, try it again!”

nanami nods with determination and gathers everything gojo ever bothered him with and translates it into a bunch of very child-friendly insults.

with each reproach, gojo deflates and d/n starts laughing more, squealing and wheezing. your husband abandons the crushed gojo and goes to hold d/n in his hands, “you okay there?”

she squeals and reaches for her feet, eyes never leaving her father’s. you coo, “she is so cute!”

“I never imagined my daughter would laugh at the sight of me, out of all people, scolding gojo.”

a very wounded gojo screams, “well I sure did! you family of haters!”

your husband frowns, but before he can talk, d/n cups his face and starts babbling a bunch of nonsense. nonetheless, your husband hangs onto every bit of said nonsense. 

gojo takes that chance to flee to the hills.

meanwhile, you’re holding a camera and recording the lecture(?) your tiny angel is giving your husband.

RYOMEN SUKUNA:

your baby is the son of the all-mighty king of curses.

the man who sends terrors throughout the lands, the mere sight of his face is enough to cause someone to pee themselves.

everyone cowers in front of him, except you and more recently his son. on the contrary, in fact, your son can’t help but cackle whenever his dad puts on his “scary” face.

the first time it ever happened was when you were strolling the palace with s/n in your arms.

you know not to enter the throne room whenever sukuna has the villagers over to “hear their complains” as it almost always ended with him slicing one part of their body off.

you figured that it would be okay to at least pass by it since they always had the door closed—that started when you gave birth—but to your surprise, the door was open this time, giving you and your son a front row seat to sukuna degrading his subject.

“you’re wasting my time,” your husband states, and the villagers starts panicking.

“a-apologies my lord, pl-please grant me a-another chance!”

your husband scowls, “and now you’re ordering me around?”

the villager starts crying and kneels to the ground. on the other hand, your son couldn’t have been laughing more. his laugh echoed so loudly in the room that it drew everyone’s attention.

sukuna stares at the baby in your arms and scowls again, “y/n, why is he here?”

your son squeals and starts laughing again, hiding his face in your chest. you light up at his laughter, and sukuna finds himself livid at how the scene makes him feel content—until he notices the villager staring at you as well, what a short-lived happiness.

swiftly, sukuna slashes the villagers into cubes, and your son—who came out of his hiding spot—bursts into a fit of giggles that has you wondering just how much of sukuna’s sadism was passed to your darling son.

while you ponder over that, sukuna quickly makes his way to you, dismissing all the servants and tasking them with taking out the trash.

when your husband is right in front of you, you look up at him with a frown, “my son is laughing at torture, sukuna.”

“he is probably laughing at how pathetic the man looked,” he says as he smirks and pulls you close.

you huff and bounce s/n lightly, “shut up, old man.”

sukuna quirks an eyebrow and leans to be on your eye level. his hand is placed on your head, and he threatens, “you’re insulting your husband?”

s/n gasps lightly before harshly latching on sukuna’s face, fingers digging into his second pair of eyes. sukuna does not give any reaction except standing up to his full height.

your son, however, is relentless and is still hanging onto your husband’s face.

you don’t know how to react. sukuna doesn’t know how to react.

s/n just lets out a series of battle cries.

FUSHIGURO TOJI:

if there is anything that toji is doubtful of is whether his son actually loves him or not.

why you ask? well, the only thing that gets the kid laughing—aside from you laughing or smiling—is literally any inconvenience that happens to him.

he remembers that one time when shiu was over to discuss some business, nothing out of the norm. megumi was on just sat on his high chair beside toji since you were at work.

toji was just sipping on his coffee when he burned his tongue, “gosh damn it!”

shiu was about to make fun of him, but megumi beat him to it as he started laughing heartily, even taking breaths in between to calm down but to no avail.

toji’s eyes widen as he stands up to go to his son, “no way you’re laughing at me getting—what the hell?!”

toji groans after he bumps into the table, glaring at his son who starts laughing all over again. meanwhile, shiu chuckles and teases toji, “I think your son just loves you so much, doesn’t he?”

your husband rises to his feet, quickly carrying megumi and lifting him in the air. he grumbles, “I want my wife back.”

another time was when you guys grocery shopping.

you had most of the list crossed out and the only thing left was the frozen vegetables. easy, right?

so you, your husband, and son quickly made your way to the section—since megumi wanted to go to the park later to play with yuuji.

megumi stays in your arms, while toji goes to grab them. considering how unlucky this man is, the bag slips from his hand and falls flat on his face, and it freaking stays there.

to your darling son, comedy had never reached this peak, so he lets out a guttural laugh.

you want to join in on the laughter, but you noticed that toji is standing still, with the bag on his face.

so you walk to him, gently taking off the bag and teasing him, “you okay, champ? that made quite the noise.”

“don’t even start,” he groans and buries his face in your shoulder, ignoring the wheezing megumi. he then starts complaining, “they keep whining about how he is a quiet and shy kid, but he sure ain’t with me.”

“isn’t that a good thing? It’s important for him to feel free around his dad.”

he turns his head towards you, a frown plastered on his face, “no kid laughs whenever his dad gets ridiculed by life.”

“you told me that you laughed when your dad fell down a flight of stairs,” you deadpan.

“that’s because my dad is an ass; I am not,” he pauses, “for the most part.”

apparently, megumi senses his dad’s distress and starts slowly patting his head, albeit shyly. he lowers his gaze and mumbles, “so’y.”

toji’s eyes widen and he is frozen in place for a moment. your son takes note of that and starts staring him in the eye, waiting for his reaction.

your husband doesn’t take long for a small smile to break out as he lets a small sigh, “’s okay kid,” he hums and pets his head.

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do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[maskedbyghost]

Heyyy, it's me again, but this time we're talking situationship!Simon—aka the biggest fuckboy you'll ever meet. Honestly, girl, I have no idea why you're still putting up with him!

you can’t even define what you two have, but one thing’s for sure—he knows how to use his dick, and you're both free to mess around with whoever you want. but of course, you had to fall for him, for that stupid smile he swore only you were special enough to see, for the gentle touch that lingered on your skin during those rare nights when he stayed longer than usual. you fell for the way he made you feel like you were the exception, even though deep down, you knew better.

you fell for how he made you feel like you were everything, even though he’d always leave just as quickly. he knew exactly how to keep you hooked—giving just enough to make you believe in him, but never enough to make it real. you wanted more, but every time he left, you remembered that his promises were as short-lived as his visits. still, you couldn’t stop going back, hoping that maybe this time, he’d actually mean it.

but he never did. you’d have fun for a few hours, but then he’d leave, acting like you didn’t exist around everyone else. he’d flirt with other girls right in front of you, not even bothering to hide it when he left with them, almost like he wanted you to see.

and every time, it hurt a little more, but you couldn’t bring yourself to end it. you told yourself you didn’t care, that it was just fun, but deep down, you wanted to be the one he stayed with. yet, no matter how much it hurt to watch him with someone else, the moment he came back, all that anger faded, and you let him in again, caught in the hope that maybe someday he’d truly see you as more than just a temporary fix.

one night, you tried to have a serious conversation with him, hoping that if you laid out your feelings, he might finally understand. but he dismissed your emotions with a shrug, listing reasons why he didn’t want a relationship: he was too focused on his career, he wasn’t ready for commitment, and he just didn’t want to deal with the complications. simon insisted that keeping things as they were was the best option for both of you.

afterward, as you lay together, a clear realization hit you. even though you were physically close, you couldn’t ignore the emptiness you felt. that night you made a silent promise to yourself: this would be the last time you let him in, and the last time you let yourself be trapped in this cycle.

and, being the dumb man he was, simon only came to realize what he had lost after you were gone. a few weeks after your last conversation, he saw you a few times out with other guys, laughing and flirting as if you were moving on. it hit him hard—a painful mix of jealousy and regret. he realized that he missed you, but at the same time, he knew he had no right to these feelings. not after treating you the way he did.  

he managed to keep his calm for a few more days, but the weight of his regret grew unbearable. finally, he snapped and called you into his office late one night, claiming he needed to discuss the upcoming mission with you.

as soon as you walked in, simon felt his heart tighten in his chest. seeing your face calm, confident, like you had already moved on, stirred something deeper than he expected. there was no trace of the vulnerability you used to show around him, no lingering affection. he realized, in that moment, just how much he had pushed you away. regret surged through him, sharper than he imagined, and he knew this conversation wouldn’t be easy.

after talking about unimportant stuff for a few minutes, simon took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “i know i messed up, and i’m sorry for how i treated you. i’ve been thinking a lot about what happened, and i realize now how much i regret it. i was wrong to push you away.”

you looked at him, your expression guarded. “it’s a little too late for apologies, simon, don't you think? you had plenty of chances to get it right, and now you’re just trying to fix things because you see me with someone else.”

he tried to reach out, his voice softening. “i know it’s not enough, but i want to make things right. i can’t stop thinking about what we had.”

you shook your head, stepping back. “you had your chance, and you threw it away. i’m not going to be your second choice or your backup plan.”

"y/n-"

"no, simon!" you sighed, closing your eyes briefly to gather your thoughts. when you spoke again, your voice was steady, "you know, some people never fade from memory. they leave a mark that lingers just beneath the surface, no matter how hard you try to move on. but to be honest, i’m not in the mood for any more humiliation or heartbreak. so, this is my final goodbye to you."

you could sense that he wanted to say something, but you couldn’t let him speak before you had your say. “go ahead and fill your life with new faces, as if i were nothing but a distant memory. enjoy your freedom and let others wear you out as they please. i’m done being part of that. keep moving forward, and if you ever try to reach out, know that i’ll let your calls go unanswered. for now, i’m celebrating the end of our chapter.”

even as he heard you declare the end, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he still wanted you in his life. he was stuck between guilt and the lingering hope that maybe he could still fix things. despite your rejection, part of him struggled to accept that he had truly lost you, and he felt powerless to change the situation or let you go.

simon’s face twisted with a mix of desperation and anger. “you think you can just walk away and erase everything we had? you think you can move on and leave me behind like I’m nothing?” he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his voice was filled with raw intensity. “don’t fool yourself, i still want you, and i won’t just let you go. you’re mine, whether you like it or not. i know i’ve made mistakes, but i’m not done fighting for what we had. if you think you can find someone better, go ahead. but know this: i’ll keep groveling and doing whatever it takes until you take me back. i’m not going anywhere, and i’ll make sure you remember what we had.” he took a step back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

you just smirked, turning on your heel to leave. as you reached the door, you glanced back over your shoulder with a cold, confident look. “i can’t wait to see you on your knees,” you said, your voice sharp. then, you walked out, leaving him alone with his mess.

game on.

(I WANT HIM TO GROVEL FOR MONTHSSSS)

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

@daydreamerwoah

[cyripticchronicler]

Healing

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You had spent years in pain and agony, wanting nothing more than to go home to your mate. But now that you are home, you're unsure if he still loves you.

TW: Torture, wanting to die, potential SA, depression, crying, short mention of needles and blood.

A/N: This isn't my best work ngl but I was malaptive daydreaming about it this morning and figured I should make it into a fic! It's also my first Azriel/ACOTAR fanfic which is crazy! I love this dude and I'm definitely going to write about him more <3 It's a short fic but I hope you still like it!!

Masterlist

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ten years. You’d been gone ten years. 

Ten years of excruciating torture. Of being poked by needles. Touched by strangers. 

You’d always loved humans. You found them fascinating and tried to learn as much about them. But they wanted to know about fae as much as you did humans. 

You were sent on a task by Rhysand. It was simple; go to the human lands and see if it’s possible to form an alliance with them in the future. Everything was going smoothly until you were taken by an older man who spent his life researching fae and was determined to find the answers to his curiosity. He was a cruel, evil man. He took away your life. Your freedom.

You used to be happy. A blaze of sunshine that not even the biggest clouds could cover. And you had many reasons to be that way, the mating bond between you and Azriel had snapped; not yet accepted but you had planned to do it soon. You had a place in the IC. You worked hard for your court and created a home for yourself in Velaris. 

If you had known how quickly everything could be taken from you, you would have worked harder to protect it. 

You had almost given up, almost begged the man who hurt you to finish you off. To kill you. But the Gods weren't finished with you, and, no matter how much you wanted to die, you were found before you could. You were thankful, of course, but, despite being home with your loved ones once again, it doesn’t remove the long-lasting memories of agony and longing. 

Azriel hadn’t stopped looking for you ever since you went missing. While you spent ten years being tortured, he spent those years in his own sick form of torment. Each night he was plagued with dreams of you and each day he was troubled with worries of how you were doing and where you were. It was a never-ending cycle of you. 

When he found you, bound in chains with blood running down your cheek, he swears his heart stopped. You were back in his arms, wrapped around you so gently like you were made of glass. You’d melted into his warm body, tears freely falling down your scarred cheeks as you quietly sobbed. 

That was the only time you allowed yourself to cry in front of him. In front of anyone, for that matter. You didn’t want to worry anyone with your problems. They’d already spent years worrying about you, they shouldn’t have to anymore. So you jumped straight into your old self. You were talkative, made friends with Feyre and the other Archerchon sisters, and smiled and laughed when expected to. 

Despite your happy facade, Azriel hasn’t done more than hug you. He’s slept in the guest bedroom in The House of Wind while you’ve stolen his bed, his silk sheets nice and familiar. You’re unsure how to approach him. Does he still want to be with you? You’ve seen how he looks at Elain, eyes soft and caring. 

Ten years is a long time. And you’re worried that during that long time, he’s moved on. Maybe that's why you’re trying to act like yourself again. If he sees that you’re the same as you were before when he loved you, he’d love you again.

Your last straw was a month after you came home. All the tears you’d been holding back, and the emotions you’ve ignored overflowing one random night. You were lounging in the living room with Elain, Nesta and Feyre. You were nestled in an armchair, arms wrapped around your knees that are pressed up against your chest. 

You’ve already zoned out of the conversation, eyes glazing over as you stare at your frail hands, still so thin and shaky, like you never left that place. You only tune back into the conversation when a certain someone mutters your mate's name. “Azriel is a really good kisser. I bet he’s better than Rhys and Cassians,” Elain states casually, as though this was a normal thing to be talking about. Feyre and Nesta immediately jump in and defend their mate's skills but you’re already standing. 

Tears blur your vision, unable to be stopped with your usual pinch on your arm. Your fears had come true; Azriel, your mate, your love, had moved on. “Honey?” Your walk to the door abruptly stops, your lip pulled between your teeth and your eyes downcast. “Hey,” You’re embarrassed by the way your voice cracks. 

Azriels scarred hand tentatively reaches up to grip your shoulder, his other hand gently gripping your chin. He tilts your face, forcing your eyes to meet his own, warm caramel making your heart melt. “What’s wrong?” You shake your head moving away and wiping the tears from your face. “Nothing. I’m going for a walk.” He doesn’t respond and you take it as your sign to leave, hands eagerly reaching for the door handle as you escape into the chill night. 

Azriels footsteps were silent, a habit from being the court’s spymaster for centuries. His silence was why you didn’t notice him, loud sobs breaking free since you figured you were alone. By the time he makes himself known, your loud sobs have quieted to quickly falling tears and you’ve found yourself a bench to sit on and think. 

You let out a squeak when he sits beside you, jumping up from your sitting position. You whip your head around, letting out a sigh when you notice the familiar face. “You can’t just sneak up on me,” You mutter, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as you sit again. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers genuinely, eager eyes tracking your every movement. “We need to talk.” You sigh, slumping against the bench as your heart beats faster. “Do we have to?” You’d rather live in oblivion than hear what he has to say. He’s going to tell you he’s in love with Elain and that he can’t be with you. Then you’re going to have no one and you’ll end up alone and sad forever-

“-I’ve been trying to give you space. To let you process what happened. But I don’t think you are processing things, honey.” He sighs, hand reaching up to rub at the back of your neck. “I want to be there for you. I’m your mate and I love you. Let me in.” His eyes are pleading, begging. 

Your breathing turns ragged, heart pounding in your chest. “Don’t-” You shake your head, turning away from his face. “Don’t lie to me.” You shrug his hand off your shoulders and scoot further down the bench but he doesn’t let you go far, hands holding your face as he leans into you, desperate. “I’m not lying to you, baby. Why do you think I’m lying to you?”

“B-because Elain-” You can’t finish your sentence, breaking into desperate sobs before his eyes. His eyes are knowing, laced with guilt as he pulls you into his chest. “I was planning to talk to you about this when you were feeling a bit better.” He ensures your eyes are staring into his when he speaks. “Elain and I kissed once. A year ago. I was- Gods I was so lonely without you and I was drunk and she was there. I swear when I squinted she looked like you. But as soon as I kissed her I regretted it immediately.”

He’s desperate for you to understand, voice pleading as he as he grips your face tighter. Tighter but never hurtful. “You are it for me, baby. I don’t want anybody else. I’d rather spend hundreds of years alone than be with someone else.”

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, hanging your head in shame. He’s quick to calm your worries with another hug. “Don’t be sorry. I should have talked to you about it sooner.” You shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck and hiding your face. “I am sorry, though. I should have talked to you sooner. I just-” You’re sick of the way your voice thickens with tears. You’re sick of crying.

“I’m so tired.” You break, pulling him tighter against you. He hugs you just as tight, not wanting to let you go. “I want to be myself again. I want to be happy again but I’ve changed, and I’m scared you’re not going to like who I become.” You spill all your deepest worries, holding onto the lightness in your chest that you’re afraid won’t last long.

His breath fans your ear, a warmth that makes you shiver. “I’ve never expected you to stay the same. Even before you were taken. You’re changing but I’m changing too. That’s okay. You’re okay.” You pull away with a shaking sigh, hands moving to wipe your tears but Azriel pulls them into his own. 

His soft lips kiss your forehead, evoking another shaking breath. His lips then travel to your cheek, hot breath fanning against your flushed skin. As he places a kiss on your other cheek you can’t help the soft smile that lights up your face. Excruciatingly slowly, his lips graze down your cheek and to your jaw, light kisses making your skin heat.

He pulls away ever so slightly, breath fanning across your lips. He stays still, eyes eager as he waits for your response. He doesn’t have to wait long, your hands moving up to fist his hair. You quite practically yank him to you, lips greedily searching for his.

The kiss is warm and gentle and perfect. Love pours through him with each touch of your lip and swipe of his tongue against yours. You haven’t felt this loved in so long. So cared for. You keep him close, each touch mending the frail cracks in your heart.

“I love you,” you whisper, smiling your first genuine smile in years. “I love you, too. I always will.” Butterflies fluttering in your stomach, a sense of comfort washes over you. 

You know you’re not okay. But for now, you feel like you are. And that one moment, spent cuddled up to Azriel while the stars glisten down on you, gives you faith that you’ll be okay one day. As long as you have Azriel on your side.

[neonbonded]

If You Leave, I’ll Shatter

♡ ft. Love and Deepspace men x reader ♡ cw: angst, emotional breakdowns, fighting, hurt/comfort, possessiveness, late-night visits, desperate confessions, soft touches, and some really unhinged men trying to apologize with their whole chests ♡ a/n: six different ways they fall apart when you walk away—and six very different ways they beg you not to. some soft, some rough, some a little dangerous. but all of them? absolutely ruined over you.

XAVIER – The Gentle Rage

It started right after the mission.

Xavier had taken the hit. Again.

You were seconds away from closing the gap on the Wanderer when he stepped between you and its claws—no warning, just his body blocking yours, blade flashing, light Evol bursting like a flare.

The fight ended fast. He was bleeding. You were shaking.

And when you got back to base, you snapped.

“You can’t keep doing this!”

You shoved his chest, hard. He didn’t budge.

“Do you think I’m weak? That I can’t handle it? I had it under control, Xavier—”

“You would’ve gotten hurt.”

His voice was calm. Flat. That same infuriating stillness he always wore like armor.

“And what about you?” You were yelling now, pacing. “You nearly passed out from blood loss last time! You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You don’t get to throw yourself in front of me like—like you don’t matter!”

He didn’t look angry. Just tired.

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“No, you’re trying to die for me.”

Silence.

It hung between you like smoke, suffocating and thick.

You left before you started crying.

You didn’t mean to go far—just needed air. Noise. Distance. But the longer you walked, the more everything blurred. Your head was spinning, vision tight at the edges. The adrenaline crash hit hard, and with it came the flood of everything you’d been holding back for weeks: exhaustion, fear, and the growing ache in your chest you didn’t know how to name.

You ended up at your apartment, barely able to breathe.

And then—

The door opened.

No knock. No warning. Just the low creak of your lock and the soft sound of rain behind him.

Xavier stood in the doorway, silver hair soaked, sweater clinging to his frame.

“You didn’t answer your comm.”

His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. But his jaw was clenched, his eyes too sharp.

You didn’t speak. Just stared at him, sitting there with your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight like you were trying to keep yourself from falling apart.

“Why’d you run?”

You laughed, bitter. “Because you don’t listen. Because you’re always so damn calm. Because I hate how you—”

Your voice cracked. You turned away.

He walked to you without a word, kneeling beside the couch, close but not touching.

“You were scared,” he said softly. “So was I.”

That made your throat close.

“You don’t act like it,” you whispered.

“Because I can’t. If I let myself feel it, I won’t be able to fight.”

Finally—finally—his voice broke.

“But you don’t see how scared I am when you go quiet. When you bleed. When you don’t get up.”

You looked at him—and his expression wasn’t neutral now.

It was wrecked.

“Let me take care of you,” he said. “Not as a soldier. Not as a shield. Just… me.”

He reached for you slowly, like you might vanish.

And when your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him down, he let you.

He kissed you like he didn’t think he deserved to. Like he needed you to say it without saying it. His hands stayed careful on your hips, his lips moving over yours in soft, aching pulses.

“I’m here,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Even if you don’t want me to be… I’m here.”

ZAYNE – The Controlled Burn

It happened after another long shift.

You’d waited for him—again.

Sat in the hospital café for nearly four hours while he scrubbed in for a surprise emergency surgery. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. And when he finally walked in, late and exhausted, the first thing he did was ask if you’d eaten without him.

Like nothing was wrong.

“You said you’d be done by eight.”

“The patient was hemorrhaging. I stayed.”

“You always stay.”

He didn’t answer. Just started pulling off his gloves, tossing them into the bin like this was just another routine.

“Zayne. I waited for you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That broke something in you.

“I’m not one of your interns. You don’t get to dismiss me when I inconvenience you.”

His expression didn’t change.

“You’re being dramatic.”

You stared at him like he’d slapped you.

“I’m being dramatic?” you echoed, voice shaking. “You stood me up. Again. You shut me out. Again. You act like I don’t matter unless I’m bleeding in front of you.”

He finally looked up then—really looked.

But he didn’t apologize.

“I can’t afford to get distracted.”

“I’m not a distraction, Zayne. I’m—”

“You’re what makes it harder to breathe when I already spend my days holding hearts in my hands.”

It came out before he could stop it.

And you… couldn’t stay.

You turned and walked out—jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying not to cry in the middle of a sterile white hallway.

You didn’t answer your phone.

Didn’t text him back.

Just went home, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling for hours.

The fight played on a loop in your head.

Not because of what he said—but because of what he meant. Because maybe you really were too much for him. Maybe loving you was one complication he didn’t want on his operating table.

Your body ached. Your throat burned.

So when your door clicked open around 2:00 AM—your lock overridden, silently—you already knew who it was.

You didn’t move.

Zayne stood in the doorway in scrubs, coat still on, blood on the collar from a patient—not his.

He set something on your nightstand. It was a paper bag. Warm.

Your favorite soup.

“I should’ve called,” he said quietly.

You said nothing.

“I get scared,” he continued. “Not of failure. Not of surgery. But of you walking away from me and never looking back.”

You finally turned your head. His eyes were unreadable, but his hands were shaking.

“You treat me like I’m a scalpel,” you said. “Precise. Replaceable.”

“That’s not what you are,” he replied instantly. “You’re the reason my hands shake when you’re not around. And I don’t know how to handle that.”

He stepped closer.

“Let me fix this.”

“You can’t stitch this shut like one of your patients.”

“No,” he said. “But I can hold you until it stops hurting.”

And he did.

His hands were cold. His movements were careful. He didn’t kiss you right away. Just slid into bed behind you, pulled you against his chest, and held you like a man trying not to break apart.

RAFAYEL – The Meltdown in Paint and Flesh

It started in his studio.

He'd gone quiet for two days.

Paints left open. Brushes stiff. The canvas untouched since the last time you sat for him—when he told you to hold still and you laughed, and then kissed him with pigment on your fingers.

But this time, when you asked what was wrong, he wouldn’t look at you.

“Nothing, sweetheart. Go home. I’m busy.”

You didn't go home.

You followed him outside, to the dock near Whitesand Bay where the sky was bleeding into dusk, and you asked him again.

“Rafayel. Just tell me what’s going on.”

He exhaled a laugh. But it wasn’t funny. It was bitter.

“You want the truth? The truth is I can’t paint without you. I can't sleep without you. I can’t even fucking think unless I know you're coming back.”

That should’ve felt like a confession.

It felt like a blame.

You stepped back.

“I'm not your cure, Rafayel.”

“No,” he snapped. “You're the thing making me sick.”

You flinched.

“Then I guess I’ll give you some space.”

And you left.

You didn’t get far.

The second the door to your apartment shut behind you, it all started to unravel—anger giving way to something worse: the ache that bloomed beneath your ribs, tight and restless, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were alone now.

You tried to ignore it.

Changed your clothes. Splashed cold water on your face. Lit a candle, even though you never do.

But Rafayel was everywhere.

In the scent of ocean salt that clung to your jacket. In the flecks of dried paint on your wrist. In the echo of his voice still lodged in your skull, saying things he didn’t mean—saying them like they were the only way he knew how to bleed.

You curled up on the couch, arms around your knees, telling yourself he wouldn’t come after you.

He never chased.

Until—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your front door shook with the force of it.

You opened it mid-breath.

And there he was.

Wind-tossed, soaked from the sea air, shirt unbuttoned like he’d torn it open on the run. His hair was wild, his pupils blown wide, and his chest was rising too fast—like he hadn’t stopped running since you left.

“You left me,” he said, voice low and shredded.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Every nerve in your body was on fire.

He stepped forward. No hesitation. Just heat and momentum and desperation.

“I know what I said,” he murmured. “I know how I said it. But I didn’t mean a single fucking word, and I can’t fix it if you’re not here—”

He stopped.

Hands reached for your face like a starving man reaching for light.

“You think I know how to be gentle with love? I don’t. I only know how to need.”

Your throat clenched. Your hands curled into his shirt without thinking.

“Then say it,” you whispered.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever made that mattered,” he breathed. “The only color I ever see anymore. If you leave—I’ll forget how to breathe, not just paint.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was teeth. Tongue. Desperation.

His fingers dug into your waist, like he needed to feel you to know you were real. You gasped into his mouth, and he chased the sound—growled into it, even—like it cracked something loose inside him.

You weren’t thinking anymore.

You were burning.

And he was already unmaking you with every second you let him touch you.

SYLUS – The Controlled Collapse

The fight didn’t explode.

It simmered.

You’d been watching him for weeks—staying out late, coming back with blood on his cuffs, whispering orders into encrypted comms like you wouldn’t hear.

You knew what Onychinus did. What he did.

You just didn’t think he’d start shutting you out.

“You told me there were no more secrets,” you said, arms crossed. Voice low. Calm. Deadly.

He didn’t look up from the data pad.

“I said no more secrets that would hurt you.”

“You don’t get to decide what hurts me, Sylus.”

That got his attention.

His red eyes lifted, slow. Calculating. Cold.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m furious.”

“Good,” he murmured, setting the pad down. “I’d rather have your fury than your silence.”

You stepped back. He took a step forward. You held your ground.

“You can’t keep shutting me out.”

“And you can’t keep pretending you’re untouched by the world I built.”

That stung more than it should have.

“So that’s what I am to you now?” you whispered. “A liability? An attachment?”

He said nothing.

Which was worse.

So you left. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking. You didn’t slam the door, didn’t scream—because you knew that silence would drive him mad.

You thought he wouldn’t follow.

He always acted like he didn’t need to.

But two hours later, you’re pacing in your apartment, heart hammering, brain spiraling. You can still feel the heat of his gaze, still hear the unspoken stay beneath the silence.

And then—

The lights go out.

Power. Gone.

You freeze.

A soft knock echoes from the door.

Not pounding. Not frantic.

A warning.

And then his voice. Calm. Dangerous.

“Unlock the door.”

Your fingers hesitate.

“Sylus—”

“Now.”

You obey.

When the door opens, he’s there. Shirt half undone. Rain clinging to him. Eyes glowing.

“You walked out,” he says.

“Because you didn’t stop me.”

“No,” he corrects. “Because I needed you to walk. So you’d understand what it feels like when someone takes control away from you.”

He steps inside, shuts the door behind him.

“You want honesty? Here it is.”

He gets closer. You don’t step back.

“I’ve killed for less than what you make me feel.”

Your breath catches.

“So if you’re going to leave,” he whispers, “do it now. Before I ruin you for anyone else.”

You don’t move.

And that’s all he needs.

His mouth crashes into yours—bruising, possessive, hot. One hand in your hair, the other grabbing your waist like he owns every part of you.

Because he does.

Because he always has.

CALEB – The Soft Obsession Cracks

You didn’t mean to fight.

It started with a joke.

One too many playful jabs about how distant he’d been—how the mission came first, how he always walked out before sunrise now, like he didn’t want to be there when you woke up.

You didn’t expect his expression to drop like that.

Didn’t expect him to say:

“You don’t know what I’m dealing with. What I’ve done.”

“Then let me in,” you said, softer now. “Caleb, you don’t have to keep carrying it alone—”

“I do.”

He backed away from you like he was afraid of what would happen if he stayed close.

“I lost you once,” he said. “And I came back wrong. I don’t get to want things anymore.”

That’s what undid you.

Because how could he stand there, staring at you like you were already gone?

“You’re not broken,” you said, barely holding it together. “But if you keep pushing me away like this—I will leave. And not because I want to. Because you’re forcing me to.”

You waited.

He didn’t move.

So you left.

The silence in your apartment was unbearable.

Too quiet. Too heavy.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the tears hit harder than expected, and no matter how many times you told yourself you did the right thing, all you could think about was the way he looked at you. Like he already thought he’d lost you. Like this was inevitable.

You’d just started to calm down when the knock came.

Not pounding. Not rushed.

Just... deliberate.

You opened the door.

And Caleb was standing there, drenched from the rain, still wearing his Farspace coat, soaked through at the collar, eyes wild—like he’d run the whole way.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I needed space.”

“No, you needed me.” He stepped inside without asking, voice ragged. “I felt it. That spiral. The second you left, it was like someone tore the gravity out of me.”

You shook your head. “You said you didn’t get to want things anymore.”

“I lied.”

He was in front of you before you could breathe—hands on your face, trembling.

“I want you,” he whispered. “Every damn version of you. Even when you’re mad. Even when you hate me. Even when you run.”

“Then prove it.”

And he did.

He kissed you like it was a confession. Like he was begging you not to leave again. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth before it disappeared.

[erwinsvow]

𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥

summary: you were a pogue, and now you're a kook. just like how once you were no one's, and now you're rafe cameron's.

author's note: here it is!!! imagine like s1 rafe with the s2 hair, and basically just having a former-pogue girlfriend through out the whole season. i just think rafe would actually be such a good boyf, he just needs someone to settle him down when he gets a lil crazy. follows the sequence of s1 until about 3/4ths down, where i just started making stuff up. you might read this & think no one would act like this.. and that's fine, i know they wouldn't, but this is a self indulgent story for rafe <3 part 2 of the other seasons maybe? enjoy!!

now spinning: black beauty by lana del rey (soooooo rafe coded! he just needs a hug and some pussy!)

word count: 13.5k

warnings/tags: wheeze is a toddler for no reason. reader isn't the biggest fan of the pogues at this point in time. smut: oral (f receiving), fingering, degregation, use of daddy, rafe calls reader kid because <3, lemme know if i forgot something!

“So that’s it? Really? Your mom is marrying a Kook and you’re moving across the island… just like that?” John B speaks to you as if you had any choice in the matter. You look at him sadly, but you’ve cried so much the last few days, it’s hard to find any more tears.  

You want to tell him, want to explain everything. The way your mom has been so lonely for years, ever since your dad passed away. The way she would pull double-shifts every week just to make sure you had the nice, trendy shoes and hot dinner every night. The way you grew up in the cut but it never felt any different than growing up in figure eight, because she took care of you.

And now it was your turn, to take care of her. Blake Richards was rich, and he wanted to take care of your mom, which meant for the first time in a long time, she would be the one being taken care of. And you owed that to her, you owed that much.

“I-I don’t really have a choice, John B. I mean, this is my mom. And she’s getting her chance to be happy. I can’t ruin it for her.”

“Yeah, I get all that but, like, does this mean you’re gonna go full-Kook on us? Because I think that would just be disturbing,” JJ says, and you crack a smile, even as you feel a tear spill down your cheek. 

“I don’t think I could ever go full-Kook.” It comes out quietly, a notch above a whisper.

“Hey, hey,” you hear John’s voice again, as he stands up to get closer to you. You feel embarrassed, the way your cheeks flush and heat up when he’s only a few inches away from you. He wipes the tear away with his thumb. “No crying, okay? Nothing has to change.”

The way he says it, you almost believe him.

“Right,” you say, still quiet. There’s a sob stuck behind your throat, and you don’t want the boys to know how upset you really are. You’ve stitched up these boys more times than you can count, set shoulders and bones and nursed bruises for them. “Nothing has to change,” you repeat, trying to convince yourself. Everything was about to change, starting with your relationship with them.

And that’s the one thing you wish could stay the same. Deep down, no matter how many times you were teased and laughed with, there was a part of you, buried away, that thought you would end up with one of these boys one day. Sweet John, funny JJ, smart Pope. Well, maybe not Pope. You’ve seen the way he stares at Kie, even when no one else notices.

But John and JJ, the possibility of being with one of them always lingered in the air. Even when they’re flirting with tourists or cracking so-called boy jokes that you just wouldn’t understand, you always thought they were your endgame.

If only you knew. 

Pope and Kiara drive up, just as you’re wiping away another tear. You’re dreading repeating everything to them, shedding more tears. 

౨ৎ

“Who is that?” Topper asks, eyeing some girl entering the club. Rafe was getting sick of Topper crying over every pretty girl he saw on the street when he was supposedly dating his sister. He hardly cared about Sarah, daddy’s favorite, but that was his family, and he wouldn’t tolerate disrespect to his family. 

“She must be fresh meat,” Kelce says, “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Tourist?” Topper questions. Rafe downs the rest of his drink. 

“Nah, man, see that guy ahead of her? That’s Blake Richards. My dad works with him, he’s a big finance guy. He’s a widower, but I guess not anymore.” 

“Step-daughter? Jesus,” Topper says. “It’s like a cheesy porno. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he married her mom to tap that, I mean-”

“Enough,” Rafe snaps. “Shouldn’t you be in a fight with my sister?” Topper blanches. 

“I mean, look at her Rafe. That is something special,” Kelce says, and then finally, Rafe lifts his head to look at you.

You look… confused. Your head is turning, taking in everything about the club, like you’d never been there before. A waiter comes up to your family with tall glasses of water, little pieces of cucumber and lemon floating around in them with ice cubes. Richards—your step-father—takes a glass and hands it to a woman who can only be your mother, with the same hair and complexion. Before he can take a glass to hand to you, you take it from the tray yourself, smiling and saying thank you. The waiter, some teenage Pogue, blushes at your affection.

When you start walking, continuing the tour, the waiter turns to look at you walk away, gawking like men do when they see something pretty. Rafe feels an overwhelming urge to punch the kid, and cover you up with his jacket. 

You’re not in anything too immodest, compared to what he’s seeing girls at the club walking around in, but it feels like it’s too much for the leering eyes that follow you. Your jean skirt comes down a little less than half-way to your thighs. Your shirt is white, with puffy sleeves and little buttons that tighten around the chest.

He sees a glimpse of cleavage, which makes his chest tighten uncomfortably, not in the way he’s used to when he sees a pretty girl. He wants to take his shirt off his back and slide it onto you, buttoning it up all the way and making sure no one else looks at you the way he’s looking at you right now.

“Rafe?” his friend calls, and he’s not sure which one. In your glancing, you turn towards Rafe and you lock eyes for a second. You must have noticed him staring. You probably think he’s crazy, but he doesn’t seem to care much at the moment. Your mother must have beckoned you, because you turn away in a second, walking towards the older couple, trailing behind them again.

“Be right back,” he says, leaving a confused Topper and Kelce behind him at the table. He cuts through the tables near the bar, entering the walkway where your family is already, but coming out of the other end. He gets there just in time to run into Richards, who’s leading the little group.

“Hi, Mr. Richards, right?” he says, holding his hand out. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Oh, Rafe, hi,” the older man replies, shaking his hand. Rafe grips hard, making sure Richards doesn’t think he has a wimpy handshake. Otherwise he’s never gonna agree to what Rafe has in mind. “I haven’t seen you in years, I mean you were half your height last time I was over at Tannyhill.”

“Crazy, right? Well I just wanted to say hi since I ran into you. How’s, uh Benny and Brax?” 

“I can’t believe you remember them, they haven’t been to Kildare in years. They’re good, yeah, Benny’s in California now, and Brax is out at law school, at Oxford.”

“Oh yeah, international law, right?”

“Yeah,” Richards says, smiling wide. “You’ve got quite a memory, son, I’ll have to tell Rafe when I see him.”

“Oh yeah, he’s around here somewhere.” Then, he makes his move. He turns his gaze to your mom first. He thinks about it briefly, but if he addresses you before her, your mom will be on guard. He knows how their minds work. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, I’m Rafe,” and he shakes your mom’s hand, but turns back to Richards for the introduction—something else in his little cheat-sheet of rules. Let dad do the talking, so he feels like he’s in control. 

“Rafe, this is my wife, Anna-”

“Nice to meet you, Rafe,” your mom smiles at him sweetly, and he smiles back. 

“-and my step-daughter.” You smile, and hold your hand out. He shakes your hand, gently, and looks at your face, because he can tell the smile is forced. He wonders why. 

“Nice to meet you.” he says, and you smile that forced way again.

“You too, Rafe.” You let go of his hand, and it’s good, because if he held on any longer, the adults would get suspicious.

“First time here?” he questions, still looking at you.

“Yes,” your mother answers, laughing, if not a little uncomfortably. “Is it that obvious?”

“Nah, it’s a lot to take in, I remember that much.” Richards smiles at him, almost beaming. He knows Rafe has been coming here since he could walk. That means the old man appreciates him trying to comfort his new family. Another step closer.

“It is,” Anna says, looking at her daughter. She has those worried eyes, the one Ward’s new wife won’t stop looking at him with. 

“Well, it’s the perfect place to be all summer. I mean, pretty much everyone our age is at the pool or the courts.” At his mention of the both of you, you look up from staring at your shoes quickly to looking right at him. He smiles. You don’t smile back. 

“Really?” Richards asks, still openly friendly.

“I mean yeah, Mister R, I remember Benny on the golf course, like, everyday. And Brax, I mean he practically taught half of us how to swim.” Richards nods and laughs, continuing small talk about his sons. Rafe sneaks another glance at you, and you look back knowingly, like you can smell his intentions from a mile away. 

“Honey?” your mom asks quietly. “Do you wanna go with Rafe?”

“What?” you reply quickly, surprised. You weren’t listening, and he tries hard not to laugh.

“Well, I can take you ‘round, introduce you to everyone. I’ll finish the tour if you and Mrs. Richards are heading up to the course?” He nods at the golf clothes your parents have on, that you are lacking. 

“I think that sounds great, right, honey?” Anna presses, and after you lock eyes with her, you nod in agreement.

“Yeah, sure,” you say quietly. Rafe smiles again.

“Great, great, yeah. Well, it was great to see you Mister R. Missus R.”

“Thank you, Rafe. Kiddo, you can ask for the car to go home when you’re ready, okay? Your mother and I are going to get dinner here.” Anna looks up confused, probably wondering how they’ll get back.

“I’ll call someone to bring the car back, honey,” he explains, and your mom smiles.

“I can also take her back,” Rafe interjects. “Tannyhill is the same direction, and I’m headed back anyways. If you wanna leave the car here.”

“Really, Rafe, that would be great, thank you.” You look even angrier than before, but the plastic smile spread over your face doesn’t faze them.

“Right, thanks, Blake. Bye mom,” you say, and then lean over to kiss her on the cheek.

You watch them walk away, chewing your cheek and turning back to Rafe with anger splashed all over your pretty features. 

“I can’t believe that worked on them,” you tell him quietly, smiling when your mom turns back to look at you before they turn the corner. Your parents were too gullible sometimes.

“Yeah, me either, kid.”

“Don’t call me that,” you reply right away. “And despite what you think, I’m not touring this place with you. I’m probably never coming back here after today.” You start walking away, in the opposite direction of your parents, when he chases behind you.

“Y’know, I don’t get you. Every girl your age lounges around here all day, and everyone else wishes they could.”

“Well, you know what they say,” you start, smiling sweetly, though he sees through it again. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

“Really?” he shrugs. “Never heard that before.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t have.” 

“Come on, you’re not even giving me a chance. You don’t even know me.” You laugh at that.

“Yes, I do, Rafe, you just don’t recognize me.” You continue your brisk pace, looking for the exit and getting closer. He reaches out to grab your forearm, holding you back for a second. He guides you into the corner, between the hallway where there’s no one else around.

“Yeah, that so?” Rafe is almost caging you in. He’s so close you can smell his cologne and the scotch on his lips.

“I’m from Kildare, Rafe.” You try to break free of his grip, but it proves even harder than you thought. He holds you in place without even breaking a sweat.

“No, no, no, because I know every pretty girl in Kildare. And you’ve definitely never been here before, so-”

“Really? Even the ones from the cut?” You thought that would be enough to get him to drop your arm, but he doesn’t budge.

“Huh. So that’s why you’ve never been here. Old Man Richards married a Pogue and made her daughter into a Kook? Did I get that right?”

“I’m not a Kook,” you say, squirming, because you still don’t want to be trapped by him. His cologne smells good, your mind wanders and thinks, like ocean air and sandalwood. You snap out of it at once.

“Not yet, you’re not.” 

“I’m not going to be, either. A little money isn’t going to change anything for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, kid. That’s what everyone says, ‘til it does.”

“Rafe, let go of me, I said let go-” And he does let go, quickly, and your arm falls. Faint red marks appeared when he was holding on, what can only be a bruise tomorrow. He’s marked you, and you’re not half as angry as you would have thought. 

“Come on, kid, we’re finishing this tour. I promised,” he says, and the last bit is so mocking, you can’t believe mom and Blake fell for his act. 

He takes you around the entire club, shows you the restaurants, the spa, the pool. At least a handful of girls stare at the two of you walking side by side, but Rafe doesn’t look back at anyone. You don’t know how to feel about that.

The oldest Cameron isn’t a mystery to anyone in Kildare, but you don’t know anything about him besides what the boys have told you. JJ hates him, naturally, John doesn’t let you look at him in passing, and even Pope can find a few bad things to say. But right now, he’s not doing any of those things you would have expected once he found out you and your mom are from the other side of the island. The crude jokes and gold-digger comments are nowhere to be heard.

But you can’t write him off completely yet. After all, this is Rafe Cameron.

He finishes the tour on the golf course, so you can wave to your parents on the course. You’re sipping on a lemonade through a little pink straw, and he finds it hard to look away when your cheeks hollow to draw up the liquid. Your mom and Blake wave back, and you smile—genuinely—for maybe the third time that morning. 

“They’re good together,” Rafe comments, on the walk back to the front door, where his truck is waiting. 

“Do you really think that?” you ask quietly. You’re tired, he can tell, drained from trying so hard to make sure he knows you hate him. 

“Yeah, kid, I do. He’s been a widower basically my whole life. And he married your mom, so he must really love her.”

You can’t tell if he’s just saying it to get on your good side. You hope he’s not. Through all of this, all the crying and the suffering and how much you miss your old life and your friends, if your mom doesn’t at least end up happy, it’ll all have been for nothing. You feel more tears brewing.

“Thanks, Rafe,” you end up saying quietly, as you put on the seat belt in the passenger seat of his truck. His music plays softly in the background of the drive - rap, something you've heard before but can't place - back to Blake’s house. With your window down, you stare out of it and try to pay attention to the breeze in your hair rather than the entirely overwhelming scent of Rafe, which is all-consuming in his car.

Rafe turns to look at you every few minutes. You look perfectly in place in his car, leaning against the panel with your eyes closed. That means you trust him, even though every word you say makes him think otherwise.

Your eyes flutter open when he puts the car in park, outside the door to your house. 

“Home sweet home, kid,” you hear his voice in your ear, but he sounds closer than he should be. When you turn to look, he’s leaning over you and so close to you, you feel the heat radiating from his body. 

“What’re you doing?” you ask quickly, heartbeat picking up and rocketing off. 

“M’just getting the door for you, kid.” His arm flexes, only an inch or two away from your chest, pulling the handle and swinging open the door. He leans back into his seat, smirking. “Why, what'd ya think I was gonna do?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in and swallow uncomfortably. Your throat feels dry and your palms are suddenly clammy.

“Nothing.” 

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

You climb out of his car, shoes hitting the ground a little too hard. He strains his neck, trying to make sure you’re okay. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, not meeting his eyes, closing the door behind you. 

“Anytime, kid. I’ll be seeing you around.”

You thought he would take over the second the passenger-side door was shut, but he doesn’t. He stays and watches you fix your skirt that had ridden-up on the drive, and walk into the front door, glancing behind you, just for a second, before going inside. And then you hear the roar of the engine, only after the door was closed and you were safely inside.

౨ৎ

You didn’t take it literally, that you would be seeing him again. Rafe seems like the type to play with his toys and get bored before long, but true to his word, you see him days later. And to his luck, you were feeling even worse than the first time you met him.

The morning started like any other—showering in a bathroom that’s just yours, and no one else’s, and attached to your bedroom. You can hardly remember the years when your dad was alive, but after he passed, you and your mom moved into a tiny two-bed, one-bath with your mom’s best friend. You were there for the next five years, until she got married and moved out, and it was just the two of you. But even in all the years since, you’ve never had your own bathroom until now. 

You shower as long as you want, whenever you want. Your room is in a completely different hallway than the master, where Blake and your mom sleep. You blast music at night, singing along off-tune from the bathroom, and would stay on the phone for hours with your friends. If anyone answered your calls anymore. 

It’s been three weeks since you broke the news to everyone that you were moving. Two weeks since you actually moved. One week since Rafe walked you around the country club and drove you back home, like you belonged to him. In that time, you’ve driven down to the Chateau twice, walked by Kie’s house, which is now just a few blocks away, and texted multiple times—all with no responses. At first you panic, thinking something’s happened, but then you realize this was what always happened. When you’re off on an adventure, you don’t think about who’s waiting for you back at home.

That’s what’s running through your mind when you run into Rafe again that day.

You had showered without interruption, taking your time doing your hair up just because you felt like it. There was no work to be done, no chores assigned to you anymore. Breakfast was always prepared when you went downstairs, so you took your time getting ready now. 

You missed a lot of things about your old life, but the limited time and constant rushing and anxiety were not among them. 

Your clothes were picked out with the anticipation of seeing your best friends again, your favorite overalls from the thrift store—which had been bought when you were still two sizes too small for them, and had been baggy on you until last year, but they were such a steal your mother refused to let you put them back—and a yellow shirt to match your ratty, yellow converse. They had been washed so many times they were more brown than yellow, but it didn’t matter much. 

This outfit was the old you, and it brought up feelings inside you that nothing in figure eight could change. You wore it because you wouldn’t look any different to your friends in this outfit, and for maybe a few hours, you wouldn’t be the girl in the fancy house with the country club membership anymore.

“You look nice, sweetie,” your mom says, when you head downstairs. She’s drinking her coffee at the table, your step-dad nowhere to be found. It’s eleven in the morning and she’s just woken up too, in her robe and slippers, and you smile, watching her more relaxed than you’ve seen in years.

You swing by her side of the table to give her a kiss, and steal a piece of toast from her plate. You’re relieved she doesn’t mention your clothes, not when she keeps offering to take you shopping with Blake’s money, which you keep refusing, but is getting more tempting every time you step in a puddle in these shoes.

“Thanks mom, I’m going to see the boys and Kie, I’ll be back later, don’t wait up!” and with that you’re gone, before you can discern the disapproving look in her eyes. 

Your junky old car, older than you by several years and still somehow the nicest thing you own—used to own, a voice chirps in the back of your head—is hidden around several fancy cars in the driveway. It’s intentional, you’re sure, and likely your mother’s doing. Nothing embarrassed her more than you handing out constant reminders of your old life to everyone around you.

And then you’re on the way to the Chateau, windows down and no music, since there was no way to connect your phone and the radio was busted by Pope a year ago, who claims he was trying to fix it. 

But it’s what happens when you get there that embarasses you the most—no one’s there, and no one will answer your call. You wait around for a half hour, trying to see if they come back, but they don’t. 

And that’s when it hits you. They were off on their adventures, and you weren’t just down the street anymore, which meant you weren’t invited. You get back in your car and slam the door, humiliated, tears falling down your face and probably ruining the makeup you had done, stupidly, this morning, because you wanted to look nice for them, like your old self for them. You don’t realize until later, after you were done crying, and seen Rafe again, that your friends didn’t want to bother you while you were adjusting to your new life. 

You feel betrayed, and the words that John had told you rattle through your head, because he was wrong. Everything had changed, and nothing would be the same. 

You take off, heading back home. There’s a big storm brewing and your Accord gets dramatic in the rain. It’s not until you cross the border back into figure eight that you realize two things. One, that you had just thought of your new house as home for the first time. And two, that you had never felt more alone. 

There’s not much to do about either of these feelings, besides stopping for the biggest bowl of ice cream you can reasonably carry back home, and eating it in your room, crying and watching You’ve Got Mail for the hundredth time.

So that’s what you do, pulling into the ice cream shop closest to home. Your car also doesn’t have the greatest functioning air conditioner, and you don’t need any more questionable stains in your seats, considering how many times JJ had borrowed it and returned it, promising you it’s nothing and that that spot in the back seat was always there!

In line, tapping your foot, calling your mom’s cell. Your eyes are puffy and your nose is red from crying. She’s not answering, but the unspoken rule of your little family is to always, always call when you’re getting ice cream in case the other wants something. You’ve only been gone something like two hours, and you can’t imagine what she’s doing that she can’t answer your phone. You dial Blake’s number, hoping he answers instead, and while it’s ringing you realize it’s your turn to order. You haven’t even looked at the menu yet. 

You turn to the people behind you, telling them they can go in front, but when you look up from your phone, you almost drop it. 

Of course it’s Rafe Cameron behind you. Of course. Who else would it be? Who else would keep catching you at your lowest moments? He’s with a little girl, who can’t be older than four or five, with dark hair and glasses, holding his hand patiently while staring up at you, while you stare at him and he stares back.

“Rafe, she said we can go in front,” she says, tugging on the hand she’s holding. 

“Yeah, Wheeze, I heard. Let’s go order and then thank this nice girl for letting us go ahead, right?” The little girl nods, and follows him up to order. Rafe looks back at you but then your step-dad answers, so you turn away, cheeks heating up. You don’t want him to see.

“Hi, what’s going on?” you hear his voice through the phone, sort of staticky and jumbled. 

“Hi, Blake, I just wanted to ask if you and mom wanted ice cream? I’m at the place… yeah, the one near the house.”

“Oh, yes, let me ask her, one second-” You hear him put the phone down, or cover the mic, and then, “Honey! Kiddo’s asking if you want ice cream.” 

You feel yourself soften a little bit at the nickname. And then you hear your mom and Blake talking back and forth, for what feels like ages. The girl behind the counter looks at you with a glare and you try to look back at her with an apologetic smile, but you’re a little fed-up from the emotional turmoil you’ve just endured. 

“Hi, sweetie, I’m okay, I had some at the club with lunch and twice in a day is just not a good idea-”

“Just get it, who cares? We can have it later tonight too-”

“What if the power goes out? It’ll melt, and then it’s just a waste of money-” Crap. You hadn’t thought of that.

“We have generators for that.” Blake picks up the phone again. “Hey, kiddo, get your mom her usual and make sure you use the card I gave you, okay?”

You hang up the phone, smiling, and then order. It feels weird, being oddly comforted by someone other than your mom or your friends for once. In your distraction, you don’t see Rafe and the little girl hovering near the freezer window that showcases all the ice cream they offer. When you’re reaching for the shiny black Amex, you hear him again. 

“I got it, kid,” Rafe says, pressing his matching card against the reader and pushing your wrist down and away. He does it so easily, without trying, just like he did in the country club. You look up at him stupidly, brain not registering what he just did and why he did it, and you don’t move for a moment. You don’t move until he leans down a little, close enough to smell that enticing cologne again but not nearly close enough. 

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’. And you should probably get out of the way.” You blink back up at him, and he’s smirking again. You feel kind of stupid, the way he’s talking to you, but you also don’t mind as much as you thought you would. The girl behind the counter yells out Next! and that’s when Rafe takes you by the arm, just above where he had bruised you, and moves you away himself.

“You okay, kid?” he asks, and you feel yourself melt like ice cream left in your car for too long. You don’t know if he really means it, or if he really cares, but you do know Rafe Cameron needs to stop talking to you like he likes you, or you’re going to be in trouble.

“Fine, yeah. Thanks, uh, thanks for the ice cream.” You’re still blinking slowly, stupidly, stuck in a daze. You should really get it together around him. It’s a little pathetic if a strong grip and a couple of nice actions gets you acting like this. That’s a problem for another day right now.

“Is she okay, Rafe?” the little girl asks quietly from beside him. 

“No idea, Wheezie. Why don’t you sit and eat your ice cream?” he replies, and she sits down a few tables away, beginning to shovel chocolate ice cream with a tiny wooden spoon.

“Hey,” he says, and you begin to snap out of it. It’s raining outside now. You hear the pitter-patter of the drops on the roof. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yes. I am. I just had a bad morning. Sorry.” But you don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

“Well, are you gonna talk about it and shit? ‘Cause I don’t know you that well yet but you’re kinda freaking me out right now.”

“I-I…I just-”

“You, you, you just?” he mocks, and then when tears fill your pretty eyes and he sees one slip down your face, his own eyes panic briefly. “Hey, hey, I was just joking, kid-” He pulls out a colorful chair for you, and sits you down next to Wheezie, who is still eating ice cream at an alarming rate. Your ice cream is ready at the counter, and he brings it down next to you, holding his own strawberry cone in his hand. 

“Hold this for me Wheeze,” he says, not really asking, and the little girl shakes her head right away.

“How’m I gonna eat mine then?” 

“Wheezie,” Rafe says, in a voice that you haven’t heard him use before—and then you realize how stupid you sound. You’ve talked with him twice, you don’t know anything about the voices he uses or how he sounds when he’s talking to this girl who can only be his little sister. 

“Can I have some?” Wheezie propositions back, and Rafe nods. “Okay!” she says, taking a bite of the scoop with her front teeth.

“So, y’gonna tell me what’s going on or am I gonna have to guess everything?” 

“My friends, I just keep missing them, or they keep missing me, maybe. I just wanted to see them. It’s really lonely here, that’s all.” You’re staring into his eyes, his really, really blue eyes that are currently a little alarmed and concerned, and the fact that they’re that way for you is making you a little dizzy. 

“Yeah, I get that. Sorry, kid, that’s the lay of the land, right? Not a Pogue anymore, are you?” 

“I don’t know what I am.” You feel silly and embarrassed for pouring your heart out over ice cream with Rafe Cameron. He doesn’t know you, and he never will.

“Well, right now you have a choice. You can sit here and eat ice cream with us, or you can go home and cry about it alone. But if you choose the second one, Richards and Anna will see you, or hear you, and ask about it. And I’m not gonna keep asking if you don’t wanna talk. So pick one before this shi-stuff melts, okay?” 

You nod dumbly again. You’d like to turn your brain off and let Rafe decide for you. 

“I need a spoon.” He smiles, not smirks, for a second, before getting up to get you a spoon.

A few things float through your mind while you eat ice cream with the Camerons. First, Rafe remembers your mom’s name. Second, Rafe doesn’t swear in front of his kid sister. And third, and most important of all, Rafe Cameron cares about you.

“That’s a lot of ice cream,” Wheeze, or rather—as you’ve just learned—Wheezie, comments.

“I was feeling really sad,” you reply, shoving another spoonful into your mouth, watching the little girl eye your peanut and chocolate ice cream inquisitively. “You’ll understand someday.”

“Boy problems?” she asks, and you can’t help but crack a smile. Rafe looks up from his phone momentarily 

“Not really, but a good guess. This would also apply to that situation.”

“My sister’s always got boy problems.”

“Really?” you ask, and then look up Rafe. “You have another sister?”

“Yes,” he says, in between licks of strawberry ice cream. You should really look away when he does that, because your heart rate is picking up. “And she’s even more annoying than this one.”

You laugh while Wheezie frowns.

“If I’m so annoying, why do you always take me for ice cream, huh?”

“She’s got you there, Rafe,” and you resist the urge to look at him, even when you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Because you wouldn’t stop asking, dork, that’s why.” Wheezie shrugs in reply.

“I’m not gonna finish all of this. You want some, Wheezie?” you ask, offering her your spoon. She looks back at you smiling, and then at Rafe for permission, who nods.

She digs into the pile left, while you finally give into the urge to look up at her brother again. He takes another lick of his ice cream and you look away within a second. 

“Been eating that for a while, haven’t you, Rafe?”

“Yeah.” 

Somewhere in between Wheezie eating so much of the ice cream so quickly that she gets a brain freeze, and Rafe finally tossing his half-eaten cone into the trash, it’s time to go home. And as much as you hate to admit it, you don’t want to leave. The rain is coming down hard outside, a preview of the impending hurricane.

“Drive here, kid?” he asks, as your feet hesitate by the door. 

“No,” Wheezie answers, “I came here with you, dork.”

“Not talking to you, kid,” he replies, rustling the top of her hair with his hand, getting an ugh, Rafe, in response.

“Yeah. Yes, I drove here. But my car doesn’t do so good in the rain.”

“Huh?” he questions.

“It’s old, okay. Junky. The AC is broken. And the radio. Sometimes she just stops, y’know?” You gesture to your blue car parked out front, the rusty, tiny sedan two spots down from his shiny truck.

“No, I don’t know. Richards lets you drive around in that thing?”

“She.”

“It’s a car. Barely, at that.”

“She has a name, okay. HoHo. That’s her name.”

“Alright, well, you’re gonna have to ditch the hoe, because I can’t let you drive home in a hurricane in… that.” You turn to glare at him. “Her, sorry.”

That’s how you end up soaking wet in the passenger seat of Rafe’s truck, Wheezie secured in her booster seat and Rafe even wetter than you are. He drops you home and says the two of you can go pick up your car tomorrow—if it’s still there, he adds at the end, leaning over you again to open your door. You stare at him dumbly again, which has now become a bad habit, and it’s not until Wheezie says you’re getting her wet in the back that you finally climb out and close the door. You stand behind the front door with your mom’s melted ice cream in one hand, and your phone with Rafe’s contact saved in the other, wondering what exactly just happened. 

౨ৎ

The next few weeks pass through as quickly as they came. Your car—to your chagrin and your mother’s joy—does not survive the hurricane. Blake gives you a fancy, luxury car to drive around in that he just had laying around, which you don’t believe for one second. But, your mom is pleased when you actually start driving it, and you can actually listen to music from your phone and enjoy air conditioning and the most luxurious of luxuries—a backup camera. 

The night of the ice cream shop incident, Rafe texts you. You were completely ready to wallow in bed, waiting for the text from him that never comes, drowning your sorrow in more ice cream, but he does text you. First and right away. 

R: Is it wrong if I hope hoho drowns tonight?

that’s so mean. she never did anything to you.

R: She’s kinda ugly. And what was that about no ac?

so she deserves death????

R: The impound lot at the very least

if she dies, it’ll be because YOU manifested it

R: Never thought I’d believe in that manifesting shit, but here we are

did Wheezie eat dinner after how much ice cream you let her inhale?

R: No.

R: Ur fault. You gave her yours

you gave her yours too

and btw, I offered her a bite. she ate the rest. not my fault

R: She’s five, genius

R: I’ll come around noon tomorrow. Sleep tight kid

౨ৎ

Somewhere in between picking up your car—which entailed no less than stopping for lunch, even more ice cream that you can’t stand to watch him eat, and driving through town to see how bad the damage from hurricane Agatha was, and altogether three hours together ending with a wet, heated kiss in his truck with the windows fogged up—and today, you’ve been with Rafe more times than you can count. 

And you try hard to suppress the thought that it’s just because he’s available, that the availability is the reason for your attraction. And then you catch yourself trying to justify why you want to see Rafe so much, this guy that you had just been assuming was bad because your friends told you he was bad, without much in the way of an explanation. 

But Rafe is the furthest thing from bad. He’s so sweet to you it makes you delirious. He picks you up all the time, even when you tell him you’re just at home, and your car is right there. He pays for everything, he opens every door, the gentle but teasing way he is with Wheezie makes you even more head over heels.

But most important of all, he calls you first. He texts you first. He makes you feel wanted, and you definitely, definitely, want him, so you don’t think twice before saying yes to accompanying him to Midsummers. 

You actually don’t know what it really is, besides for a big party. It was always one of the worst nights at the hospital—litters of teens with alcohol poisoning and from car accidents— so your mom would be working. When you turned eighteen, your mom paid for classes to become a junior nurse, and so busy nights like the one of Midsummers usually was, you would get called in too. So before this week, you’d never spent Midsummers doing anything other than cleaning wounds and fetching suture kits.

You tell Rafe this and he looks at you strangely, another of his looks you hadn’t seen before, with furrowed brows, and you flush and apologize, regretting even opening your mouth. 

You know you’re deeper than you thought when he takes your head between his hands and kisses you—messy, with tongue and spit left glimmering over your mouth, so much so that he wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb when he’s done. 

“Go get yourself a pretty dress, and we’ll have fun, yeah?” You nod stupidly again, the way you’re prone to doing around him. He must have realized you get a kick out being told what to do by him, what to worry about and what to focus on. 

You finally take your mom up on the offer to go shopping. Her and your step-dad are going to this thing anyways, but you can tell she wasn’t completely sure you’d go to something so Kook-y, maybe not just yet, and she doesn’t want to push it since your mood finally seems to have picked up. But then you tell her Rafe asked you to go with him, and the two of you smile and jump around the living room, laughing like kids. She’s happy for you and you’re happy that the two of you are happy at the same time.

Rafe sends you money for a dress—enough money to pay for a month’s rent at your old place. Your mom says your step-dad insists on paying. You feel like things are coming together for the first time.

You wander the stores, trying on different dresses and feeling like a scene out of a movie until you finally find the perfect blue dress. Blue for Rafe’s eyes and his suit jacket, because you’re not embarrassed to admit to him that you want to match for Midsummers. It’s patterned with little flowers, ruffles and lace moving in the wind when you twirl, and for once, you stop feeling like you need to pick a side to be on—Pogue or Kook—and you decide just to be Rafe’s for now.

The night of the party, Rafe offers to pick you up, but you tell him you’ll come with your parents. They’re both wearing shades of peach and salmon, the three of you together look like you’re headed to a baby shower, which you and your mom laugh about in the car ride there. 

You text Rafe to let him know you’re there, and tell your parents you’re going to walk around to find him. When you glance back, they’re talking with some of Blake’s friends, people he had invited to the wedding.

You see, what you can only think, is a glimpse of Pope, in his usual waiter get up, but he disappears before you can see where he was. His father is still there, though, and you make your way through the crowd to get near him.

“Hi, Mr. Heyward,” you say, smiling and unsure if he’ll recognize you. You don’t think he’s ever seen you in anything but your overalls or scrubs. 

“How can I help yo-wait, is that you, well I’ll be damned. You’re blending right in, aren’t ya?”

“Well, it took long enough.” You suddenly feel embarrassed, because he knows the old you, the one who wouldn’t be here in a million years. “Do you know where Pope is? I thought I saw him, I just wanted to say hi.”

“He just went off that way, but if you see him, tell him I still need his help over here, just like I did before he walked away—”

“Can I help with anything?” you ask quickly, but he shakes his head and tells you the direction Pope went in.

You follow it generally, trying to see where he could have gone in such a short time. But then you see all of them, and you can’t stop your feet from running over. Kie, JJ, and Pope, all standing and talking about something, but you don’t really care about interrupting. Kie’s all dressed up too, and you suddenly don’t feel so embarrassed.

“You guys,” you feel yourself gushing. “It’s been so long,” and you go in for a hug with each of them. 

“Wow, god, you look so pretty,” Kie says, and you hug her again. You don’t realize how much you missed her. 

“You too, Kie,” your smile is so wide it starts to hurt. “Isn’t this so weird, all of us here at this party? Where’s John B?” you ask, looking around. 

“So weird,” JJ says, and you notice the bruise around his right eye because he’s turning to look at Kie again. 

“JJ, what the hell happened to your face?” JJ doesn’t answer, he actually doesn’t say anything at all, which should have been your first sign that something was wrong. You look at him quizzically, before turning to Pope.

“Pope, your dad’s looking for you, I just went over to say hi-”

“Oh crap,” he says, heading back in the direction you just came from. “Sorry, be right back.”

“W-what the hell is going on?” you question Kie and JJ, searching for any answer, desperately hoping that it isn’t we don’t wanna tell you. Your phone goes off, twice, and you pick it up. The look on your face must have been beyond palpable to your friends.

R🧸ྀི: Come inside the house

R🧸ྀི: Got a surprise for you

“I-I gotta go inside,” you say, looking at the confused faces of your friends.

“What’s inside? I thought-”

“No, nothing, I don’t know, Rafe just asked me to go inside, and I haven’t even seen him yet-”

“Rafe? What, Rafe Cameron?”

“Y-yeah?”

“What are you, with him, or something?” JJ asks, and you feel your heart fall into your stomach.

“I-I yeah, maybe. I’m here with him tonight, he-” Your phone goes off again. “I’m sorry, I have to go find him, but I’ll come find you guys right after, okay?”

You leave the two of them there, looking at each other confused, looking at you like they don’t recognize you. And it stings, for a moment, until you get inside the mansion and find Rafe hanging out by the entrance, nursing a glass of scotch and eyes lighting up when they see you. 

Everything with him is like that scene from that movie. Lights go dim, you walk in slow-motion, the room goes quiet. He watches you walk up to him and his eyes take in everything—your pretty hair, your dolled up face, the way your dress moves when you walk, and most of all, that you’re here with him. He reaches his hand out to grab you by the waist to bring you in for a kiss. It’s not like the others, it’s chaste and soft and romantic. 

“Hi,” you breathe out, resting your forehead against his.

“Hi, kid. You look fantastic,” and he presses another sweet kiss to your temple. 

“We’re matching,” you say with a smile, taking in his blue suit jacket and the way you feel dizzy right now, and you feel his grip tighten around your waist. 

“Yeah, we are. Now get in line with me, we’re walking out together.” Your eyes are big like coins, because you understood that you were coming here together, but this is his family’s big night, if everything your mom and Blake told you was to be taken seriously.

You don’t have time to say anything, because Rafe’s nice parents line up ahead of you, and his two sisters behind you. Wheezie tugs on your dress and you turn to greet her and Sarah quickly, because then the doors open and you’re walking out, following Rafe’s lead, lots and lots of eyes on you, but only one pair of blue ones you really care about. 

You almost want to cry, the whole thing is so magical. You have a flute of champagne and a sip of Rafe’s scotch, and you are deliciously tipsy for the next two hours. Your parents come over to talk to you and Rafe, and you can see how happy your mom is in her eyes. You and Rafe dance until your feet hurt, and it’s only then, when he leaves your sight, that things seem to get back down to how they normally are. 

You can’t find Wheezie’s parents or Sarah anywhere. The little girl spilled ice cream on her dress and is crying quietly, fat tears rolling down her chubby cheeks. You want to get her parents, because you think they can help, but you end up taking her to the bathroom yourself. With a damp paper towel, you wipe as much as you can, and you promise to get her another ice cream if she stops crying.

“It’s just a stain, honey, don’t worry.” You toss the dirty tissue and grab another one, wiping the tears and then letting her blow her nose. “It’ll come out when you wash it. And no one will notice because it’s so dark now, right?” She nods in agreement. “Do you wanna go find your big brother?” Another sad nod. “Let’s go honey,” and you take her hand and lead her back out. 

You’re not entirely sure what you missed in the last fifteen minutes. Everyone’s gone quiet, staring at what you hope is a trick of your eyes—all of your friends running from the party, hooting and hollering. Kiara’s parents look hopelessly upset, Mr. Heyward downright disappointed, and your mom scanning the crowd, trying to see where you are, until she spots you and Wheezie.

Her and Mrs. Cameron come running over, and you instinctively flinch, thinking the giant headpiece she’s wearing will poke you. You hand off Wheezie and turn to look at your friends, and you think, for a second, they’re waiting for you. They are, you realize slowly, waiting for you.

And you almost take off right then and there, until you feel Rafe’s warm hand on your shoulder, and you look up to see him bleeding.

At that moment, you turn right back around and head inside to the nearest room, sitting Rafe down on the bed and scrambling to find something to clean his wound with, and something cold to help the swelling, and in your panic, you don’t realize you’re rambling.

“I mean, what the hell was all of that? I turn around for two seconds and everyone’s running from the party like there’s a fire, and destroying things and throwing punches, I mean, I get they hate the whole Kook thing, but it was never like this before, even when I didn’t know you yet, and I-” you drop the frozen bag of peas onto the floor in your sudden realization. “I just let them leave. They waited for me. I didn’t go with them.” Your eyes fill with years. That’s a betrayal, not all the stupid stuff you thought was happening before tonight. They waited for you, and you turned right back around to go inside with Rafe.

“Hey, hey hey,” Rafe says quietly, taking your head in his hands again. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”

“You’re bleeding, Rafe,” you say, voice trembling. Your tears are ruining your makeup. 

“I’m gonna be fine. You know why?” he asks, and you feel more tears rush down. “Hey, hey, no crying.” Rafe wipes away the tears with his hand, then he brings his hands to your back and rubs soothingly. “You know why, kid?” “Why?” it comes out a whisper.

“Because you chose me. We’re gonna be fine, okay?” 

The way he says it you believe him. 

You spend the next two days at Tannyhill with Rafe, wearing nothing but his t-shirts and doing nothing but rolling around in bed. It’s been a month, maybe a little bit more, and you haven’t even had the talk yet—the sex talk. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s not ready for it, but you’re not ready for it, not yet. You’re working on it. He doesn’t make it easy for you, either. You’ve spent hours now, making out in his lap, grinding against each other until you make a mess all over his shorts and his hair is sticking up in every direction, and working your way up to telling him what you want. 

You’re almost there. You’re waiting for the perfect time. Which was almost right now.

“You like that? Shit-” he breathes into your ear, pressing a kiss to the tender skin of your neck right underneath. It makes you moan again, louder, until he clamps a hand—the one not three fingers deep inside your leaking pussy—over your mouth, barricading the noise from leaving. “Gotta be quiet, kid, you want the whole house hearin’ what a little slut you are?” 

His blue eyes, lustful and blown, stare into your own. You shake your head softly underneath the tight grip of his palm. You’re always obedient with him, but he really likes you like this. 

“Yeah? You gonna do whatever daddy tells you? Just so I keep my fingers in this tight pussy?” You nod compliantly, head falling back on to the pillow. His fingers are thick, and the cool of his ring rubs against your clit in the best way, in ways you didn’t even realize it could feel.

He keeps fucking three fingers in and out of you, moans muffled by his hand but not completely silenced. You must be making a mess, because it’s what he keeps talking about, rambling about your messy cunt, greedy and sucking him in, and how you’ve been cumming for him like a little princess for the last two days, but it’s never enough for you. 

It’s when he removes his hand and kisses you hard instead, tongue deep inside you mouth, the metal of his chain dangling on your chin, and you feel the similarly cool metal of his ring on you, you finish again, exploding around your boyfriend’s fingers and moaning into his mouth. He hears you, repeating his name over and over again, not Rafe, but rather daddy, and he swallows your chants into his mouth. When you calm down, he makes a show of licking his fingers off while locking eyes, and then you get flustered and bury your head into his neck. 

He laughs, because it’s so cute, but only for a minute. Then you two shower together and he makes another show, but this time out of you, kneeling on the floor of his tub while he paints your face with his cum, making sure to cover the necklace you’ve been wearing recently too, the silver, loopy little R hanging between your collarbone. 

Then you get dressed—a little pink dress that’s been his favorite recently, with buttons down the front and a pretty bow where your tits sit— and the two of you have lunch with his family like nothing ever happened.

Rafe drops you back at home later that day, gives you a kiss where he grabs the back of your head to bring you in, and then waves bye to your parents as he unlatches the door for you, in his usual way. 

౨ৎ

A week later, he does the same thing. Drops you off, drives away once you’re inside, and you’re starstruck walking back, so much so, you don’t realize there’s someone waiting for you.

It’s Kie, and Rafe’s sister, Sarah. You’re a little confused since you thought the two of them didn’t get

along,  but they look like they’re fine now.

“Hey, listen, we need you to help us. Can you come down to the Chateau later tonight, after sunset?” Kie asks, and you must look as confused as you feel, because Sarah speaks right away, before you can get a word out.

“You cannot tell my brother. Promise us you won’t.”

“Why are you asking me that? Why can’t I tell him?” Sarah and Kie exchange a look, and it’s clear to you that you are missing several pieces of the puzzle. “Guys! Come on, you-you can’t expect me to just be on board with lying to my boyfriend and showing up to help you guys without knowing what it even is, right? What’s going on?”

“We will explain everything, just please promise us that you’ll come,” Kie implores and you nod hesitantly. 

“And you won’t tell Rafe?” Sarah asks again.

“Come on. Pogues for life, right?” Kie says, and you get a flashback to your life two months

ago—doing anything for your friends and dreaming of how you’d end up with one of the boys someday. It all seems like a million years ago.

“Yes, yeah, yeah, I’ll be there. I won’t tell him.”

You guess that God was on your side today. 

R🧸ྀི: Hey kid. Busy with my dad today. Dinner tomorrow okay?

sounds perfect!! don’t work too hard! i'm gonna watch a movie with my mom and blake and stay in tn

R🧸ྀི: You got mail again?

you know me so well

R🧸ྀི: Have fun princess.

You set down your phone on your dresser, feeling like you could throw up your dinner. It’s just starting to get dark outside, and you’ve just lied to Rafe for the first time since you’ve met him. It feels terrible, like something’s gnawing inside you, begging you to come clean and confess, or not to go out at all. You think about it for a moment, maybe if he knows you’re with some of your old friends, it won’t be like a real lie.

Then you remember your old friends are the ones who punched him. You tell your mom you’re going to Rafe’s, and then you get in your fancy car that Rafe helped you christen the other day—in the backseat, specifically—and drive to your old life.

You park next to the Twinkie and get out, stepping into a slush of mud. Your shoes are new, and were clean, and you cringe internally at how much you started caring about these things. You don’t want Rafe to see you with dirty shoes.

The boys and Kie are sitting on the logs near the fire pit. Sarah is sitting right next to John B, looking at him how you look at Rafe, and then you realize the magnitude of just how much you’ve missed.

“Hey,” Kie says, looking up first, smiling. “You came.”

“Yeah.” You’re at a loss for words. Everyone looks the same. Everything feels so different.

A part of you wants to sink down between Pope and JJ, crack a beer, and laugh at jokes you think you would still understand. Another part wants to get into the fancy car and drive to Tannyhill. You opt for neither, standing a few yards away and letting the light from the fire cast its hazy glow over you and all your old friends.

“Did you tell him?” Sarah asks. She means it well, not in a rude way, but that’s how you feel. 

“No, no, I didn’t. He, he thinks I’m at home. With my mom and Blake.”

“Alright,” JJ says, tossing his empty beer can. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Listen,” John B says, getting up and sounding too sincere for your liking. “We all appreciate you coming. Because we need a favor from you, and it might not be easy.”

“I mean, I think it’s gonna be pretty easy. Unless Rafe is like, really, really crazy, like even crazier than we already know he is-” JJ says, but stops when Kie and Pope shake their heads. “What? She knows, she’s the one dating him.”

“Know what? I don’t even know what you want from me-”

“We need a distraction. For Rafe, okay?” John B starts.

“An hour, okay, that’s all we need, right guys?” Sarah asks, looking back at everyone. They nod, trying to convince you, except Jayj.

“Well, like, maybe a couple of hours. If he’s up to that, y’know, I don’t wanna assume shit ‘bout stamina and all that-”

“JJ,” Pope says, shoving the blond’s arm. “You’re not helping.”

“What?” you breathe out, even more confused than before. You start to get what they’re asking, you just don’t want to admit it.

“We need to distract Rafe, for an hour, or like two hours, and we figured you’re our best bet.” John B says, and you look at them with your mouth falling open a little.

“You want me to…sleep with my boyfriend, to distract him, so you guys can do something that you won’t tell me about?”

“Kind of, yeah. Pretty much.”

“And is, is this thing going to hurt him in the long run? Is he going to be upset? When he finds out what happened?”

“My Kook feelings radar is a little off, right now, but who knows, I mean hell, he might not ever find out,” JJ says, and you want to sit down, because your knees feel weak, but the ground is muddy and the logs are occupied. “If we do our job right, he won’t know for a long, long time, right guys?” A chorus of right, right rings around the fire. 

“And you’re not gonna tell me what this is about at all?” 

“Well, it might not be a good idea. Because, you’re dating him, and listen, we just need like an hour, and he never has to know you were a part of this, okay? I will never tell him, none of us will,” Sarah says, and you do believe her. But you can’t believe that they’re asking you to do this.

“And if he finds out, and he breaks up with me, then what?” 

“Yeah, I, uh, knew this was a bad idea. She’s not gonna do it, guys, so let’s just reformulate-”

“Oh, you knew I was gonna say no, JJ? Lying to my boyfriend? For the people who hurt him?”

“He hurt us too, y’know,” Pope says, and you feel your heart begin to race. 

“No, I don’t know, because no one tells me anything! No one answers their phone and no one’s here when I drive down. Kie, you live two streets away from me now. The first time I saw you all month was at Midsummers and then, today. Asking me to come here to lie to Rafe, to sleep with him to distract him.”

“No, no, we shouldn’t have asked you, because I knew you would say no, I told them-” and you can’t believe the words coming from your friend's mouth. “Look at you, you went total Kook on us.” 

And then you feel like they’re taking it all in. The R around your neck, the jewelry that sparkles in the light of the fire, all yellow citrine, for Rafe’s birth month. The pink dress that’s his favorite—you put it on this morning in case you ended up back at Tannyhill tonight. And worst of all, his white button up hanging from your shoulders, smelling like ocean and sandalwood and Rafe Cameron. 

“It’s like you belong to him now.” You feel a tear sliding down, but you wipe it away. 

“Maybe that’s because he was actually there for me, when I needed it. And I get it, maybe I should have tried harder. But you guys should have too.”

The group of you stand there in silence for a moment. Your phone goes off. You know it’s Rafe. They know it is too. It starts with Kie, and then a course of apologies from everyone. John B wipes away your tears like nothing has changed. JJ scratches his head, and then hugs you tighter than he ever has before. Pope tells you how much he’s missed you, how he had to start bandaging wounds in your absence. 

“I’ll distract him. An hour, that’s all you get. I’m not sleeping with him because you guys want me to, okay? So if he leaves, he leaves.” 

You take off for Tannyhill, leaving your old life behind and risking your new one all at once.

౨ৎ

Rafe’s phone goes off again, and he lets out a short, tight breath. 

Princess: are you still busy at home? i need you

Princess: please rafey

“I’ll be back,” he tells Ward, and before he can even respond, he’s out of the room, calling you. The line rings twice, and then you answer.

“Rafey?” you sound quiet, like you’ve been crying.

“Hey, hey kid. What’s going on? I told you I was working tonight,” and then he runs a hand through his hair, because he knows he’s fucked, if you’re crying and you need him, then he’s going.

“I know, Rafe, I just really need you, I had a really bad night-” “Woah, wait, I thought you were just with your parents?”

“I was, it just got really bad, I-I’m outside Tannyhill because I had to leave, and then I got lost and I was scared so I just came straight here.”

“Lost? Jeez, kid, it’s, like, down the street.”

“But I didn’t wanna bother you, ‘cause you were busy-” and then he hears a hiccup, and then a sob.

“Okay, okay, stay there, I’m gonna come get you,” and he hangs up the call. He darts outside, spotting your navy car and you inside, still in the same clothes from this morning, just wearing his shirt over it, like a jacket. He gets close and you climb out of the car yourself, jumping into his arms and burying your face into his neck, like you always do when you get like this. He can feel the way your body shakes under his arms, the wetness of your tears on his black polo.

“Okay, it’s okay now, come on, let’s go inside.” You make it up the stairs to his bedroom, when Rafe guides you inside and pulls his blinds, so no one peeks inside. 

He sits you up on the edge of his bed, squatting before you, hands in yours, arms resting on your knees. 

“You gonna tell me what happened?” You shake your head, another tear falling. You wish you could say you were pretending, but the tears find their own way when you think about the encounter you just had. You’re lying when you tell him it’s between you and your parents, but his reaction makes you regret it instantly. “Did they say somethin’ to you? Did they try something? I’ll go over there and sort it all out, okay, kid, don’t worry about a thing.” He stands up, running another hand through his messy hair, letting it fall in the moppy way it always does, over his forehead. “Stay here, okay, princess, I’ll be back.”

Then you realize he’s gonna go over there and talk to your perfectly happy, clueless parents, so you stand up and turn him back around.

“No, no, Rafe, don’t leave,” and then you melt into a hug, taking in everything about it. Rafe rests his chin on the top of your head, his arms tight around your back. He smells so good, and the way he’s taking care of you makes you realize a couple things. “Will you just…make me forget?”

Your boyfriend looks down at you, and you don’t shy away from his gaze like you often, when you get flustered. 

“Make you forget?” he questions. 

“I just don’t wanna think about anything else,” you start, undoing the bow of your dress, more cleavage revealing itself. “I just wanna think about you,” and then your fingers undo the buttons trailing down the front of your dress. It falls off your shoulders, and you stand before him, naked, certainly not for the first time but what feels like the most intimate it’s ever been. 

There’s a pretty lingerie set hidden in the back of your closet, what you had actually put aside for this moment, but you had no time to run home and get it, so you opted for the next best thing, taking your bra and panties off in the car ride here, shoving them into your purse, and hoping that Rafe was as tempted as you were.

“Just about me?” he questions, and you take his hand into yours, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his lips.

“Just you, Rafe. I’m ready, Rafey, I want you to fuck me,” and it seems like that’s all it takes. Rafe crushes his lips against yours, kissing you how he always does, tongue in your mouth and spit everywhere. He holds you by the back of your head and your hands run through his hair. You want him closer, even closer than he already is, than he possibly could be.

His hands leave your head and go down to your ass, grabbing both cheeks roughly and wrapping your legs around his waist. He drops you on his bed, head hitting the pillow, and you pull away for a second, to catch your breath. Rafe doesn’t let it happen, gripping your cheeks between his hand and bringing you back in for another kiss. You’re naked, and he’s still completely dressed, but you don’t miss the obvious way his hardened dick presses against your bare cunt.

You can’t breathe, and all your senses are overpowered by Rafe, but you also don’t really care. You keep kissing, moaning into each other’s mouths and gripping hair and skin that’s sure to leave a bruise tomorrow, until you feel him finally pull away for a second. You catch your breath, open-mouthed and heaving, eyes locked.

“‘M only gonna ask this once, kid,” he breathes, leaving another hot kiss on your neck, which makes you spread your legs further open with instinct. “Y’sure you want this? ‘Cause there’s no going back.”

You nod in that way you always have with him, telling him everything with no words at all. 

“That’s my girl,” he breathes against your neck, and you feel him bite down into the soft skin of the flesh there. You yell out, but it turns into a moan when Rafe licks his tongue over the wound. “That’s just so you can remember this night, okay baby?” You look back up at him, wet eyes, swollen lips, and flushed, sweaty skin. 

“Thank you, daddy.” He smiles, because you’re in for it now.

“You’re welcome, kid. Shit,” he breathes out, “I knew you’d like it, little freak.” He starts with more hot kisses, all the way down your neck, down your sternum, and stopping to press a kiss to each side of your ribs, before continuing down to your stomach. You whine from your position below him, one huge hand holding your hip in place and the other tracing the pattern of the kisses down, until he finally reaches where you want him to be.

“Gotta be quiet, kid, everyone’s home. You gonna let them all hear how much of a whore you are for me? Huh?” he mocks, and you shake your head fervently. “Good girl. You’re being so good, you’re gonna get a treat, okay?” You nod stupidly.

His breath catches for a second, when he gets down to your glistening cunt. He looks up at you from his position there, your chest heaving, tits bouncing with how much you’re squirming, how much you want him to do something. He moves his hands, one resting on your breast, pinching the nipple with his finger, and the other running a line down your pussy. Your whole body twitches up when he runs the metal of his ring over your clit, because he knows you really like it. 

“Rafe, please,” you cry, sounding stupid and fucked out, even though he hasn’t started yet. “Please, please,” and your hips jerk up. He pushes them down. 

“Be patient, kid. Gotta admire this virgin pussy for the last time before I ruin it, ‘kay?” You feel your walls tighten at his words, and you hope he missed the way everything just clenched, but it’s Rafe, and he didn’t miss a thing. “Like that, huh? You like being my little slut?”

You shake your head, trying to deny it, but the damage is done.

Rafe dives in, and you let out a moan that you didn’t realize you were capable of producing. You clamp your own hand over your mouth, because you know he’ll stop if you get too loud. His tongue licks you up and down, and true to what you had always thought, he does know what he’s doing.

The hand pinching your nipples doesn’t relent, and the weight of his arm holds you down when you buck up as he pushes two fingers inside you, scissoring them to stretch your walls out. It hurts, in the best way, and before you know it, he’s added a third.

His mouth stays focused on your clit, and your legs tremble, even though it’s barely been a few minutes. It’s all of it, all at once. Being naked in Rafe’s bed, his hand groping your tits, the way he holds you down without trying, the smell of his cologne and his skin and his sweat, making you lightheaded.

His fingers push in and out, and when he hits that sweet spot inside you, the one your own fingers have never been able to reach but somehow, Rafe’s have become well acquainted with, you can’t help the noises you make.

You repeat his name over and over again, and you think you’ve felt the height of this pleasure, that nothing could surpass this feeling, until your stomach tightens in an entirely new way. Your fucked out brain gets it together for a minute, to feel the overwhelming, ecstatic pressure of Rafe’s tongue on your clit, spelling out his own name. Your stomach tightens, unbearably so, that coil winding up, but before he even finishes the F, it snaps all at once. 

You let out a scream—which you think is so stupid of you. But it feels so good, there was no way around it. Rafe reacts instantly, grabbing your hand that’s pulling his hair and using it to snap over your mouth, all while he rides you through it. 

His nose presses against your clit while he slides his fingers out, your pussy walls clamping around nothing, missing him already. He laps up the mess you just made with his tongue, the noise being so overwhelming, you want to scream again. 

You use your other hand to yank his hair, pulling him up to look at you, because you know you want to see this. Rafe, your Rafe, your boyfriend, with blown, wide eyes and the entire lower half of his face glistening with your juices, with the mess you just made, and then you collapse back down onto the bed. 

Your breathing is heavy. You aren’t sure it’ll ever go back to normal.

Rafe pulls his shirt off by grabbing it from the back, yanking it over his head. Your hand floats up to

touch his chest, to make sure he’s still real and not just a vivid sex dream, but he slaps it out of the way.

“What did I say, hm?” he asks, leaning over you. His face is just an inch too far to kiss. Your limbs feel numb, and you can’t pull him down yourself. You want to cry, because you want to kiss him so badly. “I said you had to be quiet, or everyone’s gonna know what a little whore you are.”

“I tried, daddy, I did-”

“I don’t think you tried at all, kid.”

“No, I did, I swear-”

“You’re lucky that I-” and before he finishes his sentence, you pull him down into another kiss. He tastes like you and scotch, and the combination is so intoxicating, you can’t pull away. “Hey, hey,” he breathes. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?” and the soothing way he says it, you believe him.

“I’m lucky that you what?” you ask, unbuckling his belt and snaking it off the loops.

“That I love you, and I’m not gonna punish you tonight for not listening to me.” You drop the belt over your stomach, the melt part hitting with a little clink. You look back up at him, your eyes wide, you imagine, your cheeks flushed. 

“You love me?” you ask, quietly. You can barely hear yourself over the thud of your heart pounding in your chest.

“I do,” Rafe replies, running his hand to smooth over your hair, which you’re sure is a mess now. “Enough that I’m gonna fuck you now, but I had to say it first, because I’m gonna fuck you until you break.”

You’re speechless, watching Rafe unbutton his pants and kick them off, boxers going with them. He strokes himself once, twice, and you’re still staring up at his face, even though normally you would get distracted. 

He looks up again. 

“You ready, kid?” 

“I love you, Rafey,” you say, twisting your hands around to the back of his neck, pushing him into yet another kiss. You can’t pull away, even if you want to, you want him so close that you forget everything else in the world for now. While you’re kissing, he lines himself up with your leaking pussy, which has probably ruined these sheets, and pushes in the tip.

You pull back from the kiss, just to moan, but Rafe silences you with his mouth again. He pushes in more, and more, until you’re sure he’s bottomed out. Your cunt is so, so stretched, you can’t fathom this is what you’ve been missing out on, and it feels so good, like nothing has ever felt before, not his fingers, not his tongue, not any other part of him. 

“That’s halfway, kid, you doin’ okay?” and your eyes jolt up to his in a second.

“H-half?” you breathe out. “I can’t, I can’t take any more, s’not gonna fit Rafe, not gonna fit-”

“Hey,” he repeats, which always has that calming effect on you. “You let me worry about that, okay? Just relax this pussy f’me, okay?” and the way he says it, you do, because you have no other choice. He pushes in again, fast, hard, and then pulls all the way out. You’re too scared to look anywhere but his eyes, so you stay locked in on them, until he pushes all the way in again, and your eyes clasp shut.

“Oh, oh my god, Rafe-” And you don’t care who hears you this time. He pulls out again, just his lip still inside you.

“Look, princess, look down,” he urges, and you follow his instructions, because you always do. “Look where we’re connected, yeah?” He fucks in and out of you, slowly but then faster, and you do look, entranced at the way your pussy sucks him in, the way your cum is coating his dick, at the brutal pace he’s set. 

You look until you can’t anymore, leaning back against the pillow and watching Rafe above you, his face twisted in pleasure, eyebrows furrowed, mouth panting. He buries his face into your neck, and you grip the top of his shoulders, nails digging in, because you just need to hold onto something.

He told the truth, you think, in your fucked out, blissful state, that he was going to fuck you like he hated you, battering into your sore pussy over and over again. 

You repeat his name—daddy, not Rafe—until he shuts you up with a kiss, and he watches the strings of spit connecting your mouths when he pulls away.

“Just needed this dick, didn’ya princess? Just needed daddy to think for ya?” You moan in reply. “You got it then, kid, because m’never gonna stop fucking you. Y’never gonna think about anything else again.”

And then he finally does you in, because he presses down, right below your stomach, while he slams in, and you feel something inside you break, like a flood breaking through a dam. It washes out to every part of you, from your ears to your fingers to your toes. White hot pleasure runs its course through your body, cunt tightening and shaking, eyes rolling back, your spine arching forward. Through all of it, Rafe pins you down, and fucks you through it. And finally, deliriously, you open your fucked-out eyes, looking up at him.

“I love you, daddy,” and he cums before he can even pull out, messy rivulets shooting inside you, leaking out onto his expensive sheets. He moans into your neck, and his entire body slumps forward, and you giggle under the weight.

A few minutes pass by.

“Rafey, you’re gonna crush me,” you say quietly, sing-songy. You’re so happy, you’ve forgotten everything else that’s happened.

Rafe presses a kiss to your forehead and rolls off, slumping next to you. Your head lands on his chest not a second later, his arm around your shoulder and another kiss to your hair.

“Feel better, kid?” 

“So much better, Rafey.” 

You don’t know when you fall asleep, only that you woke up to the sound of your phone going on. You pick it up, trying to turn down the light so Rafe doesn’t wake up too. There’s one message.

JJ: I thought you said you weren’t gonna sleep with him?

౨ৎ

[natsswife]

dating nat hcs!! (pre crash tl)

cw: brief cigs n drugs mention, fluffy

notes: kinda self indulgent in the cigs n drugs part cuz i dont do any of those and i know nat wont do it around you<33 also i wanna write something inspired in california from chappell but idk what plot or what to write ksolcisafujkfjkdjfjm HELP

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆˚

༘⋆ i def see nat as the one who fell first and harder, always being the tough one, but under all that she had a soft spot for you

༘⋆ type of girlfriend who LOVES being taken care of, inside door, in the privacy of your rooms there's nothing she loves more than you playing with her hair<33

༘⋆ she is def touch starved, not having a good relation with her mom, everything that happened with that dickhead of a dad made her build a cold shell to avoid getting hurt all over again, but everything changed when you came to her life, first as a friend and now as her secret lover<3

༘⋆ thats why she loves when came with whatever that involves you taking care of her, wanna paint her nails and do a whole manicure un her? hell yeah, wanna try your hair stylist skills on her which means she will get you playing and messing with her hairs for a good hour? she’s all in, you read in one of your moms magazines a little tutorial on how to make back massages like a professional? she will gladly be ur guinea pig, especially because this kind of massages always ends up in a hot make out session<3

༘⋆ loves complimenting you after a match, doesnt matter if u didnt try hard enough just know nat will be there telling you how good you did in this one, she never got someone being all proud for her and knows how it feels, so if theres an opportunity she will let her inner cheerleader out just for you

༘⋆ fast makeout sessions in the locker room after a match, cuz the adrenaline and her being all sweaty, with a messy ponytail, manspreading in the bleachers while drinking water does wonders inside you!!

༘⋆ loves taking you out either for eat or to some parties, will save enough money for it because you’re not paying anything on her watch!! ofc if she sees that u start to get annoyed because you want to invite her she wont stop you! anything but see you angry because that would ruin her night

༘⋆ if you’re not into cigs (and drugs) Nat would do her best to not do it in front of you, she can't promise that she will stop it for good because at the end they’re are a little escape of her reality at home, but if she knows it makes you uncomfy she’ll try her best<3

༘⋆ loves when your invite her over to sleep, you know about her situation and the less she spends at home the better, so sleepovers that turns into horror movies night and being awake till 4 a.m arent uncommon, because for nat you are her favorite person, and a night with you with means a lot of heal for her heart

༘⋆ in your anniversaries she’ll gift you anything you want, no matter how dumb ur request is, your wish is her command. got problems with some maths exercises and the due date is near? no problem! nat is there to ask the smart person of the class (more like force them) to  do it for u, she will pay for it (gives them a price n they have to run with it cuz either way there will be problems)

༘⋆ and last but not least, will always reassure you that she's there for you, no matter how rough things get Nat is there to help you with anything, and won't let you make stupid decisions, because if there’s something that hurts her more than anything is seeing you feeling trapped and would do anything to brush that feeling away, because only Nat knows how many times you’ve been there for her, when her mom, when her dad, when life gave her the worst time and you’ve been there to wipe her tears, and the least she can do is do the same for you<3

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆˚

Do not translate w/o permission, copy or use for ai training, train your useless brain instead<3

[jude457]

OKAY i have finally decided on the premise for the jude fix-it fic™

- the officer betrays inho. like he’s just shot jung-bae, he’s on his way back to his rooms for a much needed shower, probably already replaying gihun’s face in his head, thinking about getting blackout drunk on whiskey—and then he gets ambushed. rifle to the skull. goes down hard. he doesn’t even get the chance to fight.

- inho is brought into the dorm room in a coffin alongside gihun. he wakes up stripped of everything—his rank, his immunity, his power. and when he sits up, gihun is already there. kneeling beside him, stunned. “young-il?” he says, and there’s this flicker of hope on his face, like he’s just been given something back. and then—relief. real relief. he pulls inho into a hug before he can protest. tells him he thought he was dead. says he prayed he was alive. inho can’t even speak. he just nods and lies and lets gihun believe it.

- and the worst part? the ptsd comes back like a curse. there’s no mask to hide behind now. no control room. no black mask to keep him untouchable. he’s just another number in a green tracksuit, helpless and terrified. every gunshot makes him flinch. every announcement triggers something deep and ugly. he forgets how to breathe sometimes. he also has to grapple with the fact that he is powerless to ensure gihun’s safety. gihun doesn’t get it at first—he remembers young-il as composed. cool. not warm, exactly, but always calm. and now he’s watching that same man fold in on himself. something is deeply wrong, and gihun can’t figure out what.

key things you will see in this fic:

- inho in a blue bib. gihun in a red one, full protective boyfriend mode. says he’s gonna keep inho safe no matter what. and inho’s just sitting there like 🙂🔫 because he’s the last person worth protecting. the guilt is chewing through his stomach lining. because he doesn’t deserve gihun’s care. but god, does inho want it.

- inho gets hurt. his leg gives out (yes i am putting inho in a position to have a fracture set without pain relief)—maybe he takes a bad fall, maybe he hesitates for one second too long—and suddenly it’s gihun yelling at him to get on—but not onto his back. no, gi-hun drops down and scoops him up, arms under his knees, one hand gripping his back. carrying him through jump rope like he weighs nothing. swearing the whole time while holding inho tight. and inho’s shaking with pain and shame and something deeper, his face pressed into gihun’s neck, trying not to sob. it’s humiliating. it’s tender. it’s the closest he’s felt to safe in years. (side note: in my ideal version of canon, junhee survives and gives birth at the end. i do not care. it’s what she deserves.)

- identity reveal happens after jump rope. they make it through. just barely. and then: the finalist suits. the dagger. champagne flutes clinking somewhere far away. it all hits inho like a truck. he completely spirals. panic, disassociation, hands shaking. gihun’s trying to calm him down and inho—he just breaks. tells him everything. confesses in the most pathetic way possible. “i’m the frontman. you should kill me” and gihun goes silent. their beds end up being pressed together. their backs against the wall. they don’t sleep. an ideological war is waged between them in whispers and glances and the brutal quiet of “you let this happen” vs “i didn’t know how to stop it.” (they may or may not fuck)

- inho and gihun stop the final game and reunite with junho. they live happily ever after. THE END. (junhee and hyunju are finalists too and they jump myung-gi’s ass and survive).

[gatsby-20]

I Know I Was Wrong

When all was said and done, Lando Norris was left with just one question.  Where did it all go wrong?

Part 1: I Will Survive But I'll Never Recover

(a/n: Not sure if anyone will read this...or if anyone will like it, but who knows. It's a seven part series that I just finished writing, so posts once per week. Wrote this all because I heard Sparks (Dakota Version) and folded so incredibly fast. Major hurt/comfort vibes folks - and only happy endings so not to worry. Chapter title is from Franklin House. Spotify Playlist can be found here. 🌼)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Series Masterlist

I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. 

Lando had never known a world without you in it. 

Your Mum’s had been best friends, so when Cisca had moved to the UK, your mum had gone with her. They got married together. And when they realised that they were going to have kids together, the joy only multiplied. 

They hadn’t planned to get pregnant together, but as luck would have it, you and Lando were just a month apart in age. The two women took full advantage of it, always putting the two of you into the same activities, play groups, schools. And thus, the two of you were inexplicably linked. 

Summers were spent playing together in the garden, all of the Norris siblings alongside you and your brother as you all ran around, tumbling over one another. Winters were spent with aggressive snowball fights and whining about doing your schoolwork in between Christmas’ spent together. 

When Lando thought of his childhood, you were the first thing he thought of. 

He remembered when his Mum forced him to try horseback riding, and you announced that you were going with him. Everyone had raised their eyebrows in surprise, because you had never once shown any indication that you wanted to go. But where Lando went, you followed. Didn’t matter if you were even smaller than he was as a kid. If he was small as a child, then you were positively tiny. 

But lord, you never let that stop you. Lando had hated horseback riding, but he’d never laughed harder in his life than watching you sit in the saddle, your feet barely hitting the end of the saddle flaps. The look on your face was pure determination, as though you could will the horse into walking just by thinking about it hard enough. 

When Lando traded horses for horsepower, you dragged yourself along with him. Not to race in the karts, but just to be there. 

You weren’t a fan of the karting scene. You hated the smell and how noisy it was, the chaos of it all. But you showed up with a smile on your face for Lando, just as he did at your horseback riding competitions. You supported one another. It was all you two had ever known. 

You would sit on the outskirts of the track while Lando would race and pick daisies. When you had collected a sufficient amount, you would plop down near Lando’s set up and get to work. You’d split the base of the stem with your finger nail, and carefully thread another flower through the hole you had created. 

Your forehead would crease with concentration, your tongue poking out with that quiet determination that Lando had grown to easily associate with you. It didn’t matter if it was a school assignment, a flower bracelet, or riding a horse - you approached everything the same. You gave it your all, one hundred percent concentration. 

He had always loved that about you. 

When he was finished with his races, he would tug his helmet off and run over to you, where you would proudly produce daisy chain bracelets to him. 

It didn’t matter if he came in first place or last place, you were always there with a smile so wide it seemed to split half of your face open. You never cared about the karting, but you cared about him. 

You were two peas in a pod, as your Mums loved to say. 

Lando couldn’t entirely remember when it went from something strictly platonic to something…more. 

He recalled the way that his friends would seem so confused by his friendship with you. 

To their credit, on paper it didn’t make much sense. You loved school, prided yourself on being well put together. Not in a pretentious way, but just clean and coordinated. You never tried too hard to be something you weren’t. You didn’t care much about sports outside of horses, you didn’t like video games or anything that might create some sort of common thread in a friendship. 

But all Lando knew was that when you became animated you talked with your hands, you listened more patiently than anyone he knew, and that you placed your hand on his knee when you knew he was nervous but too embarrassed to say anything about it. You could take one look at him and just…know. You’d grown up together, could read one another like the back of your hands. 

He knew that when he wanted to play a dumb prank, you were the first one he would go to. You’d roll your eyes at least seven times, but by the end you would be giggling so hard you’d have to lean into him to stay upright. Even when you both went through the gangly, awkward teenage years, there wasn’t anyone he thought was more beautiful than you when you laughed like that. 

It hadn’t hit him all at once, the realisation that he loved you. He didn’t understand why people called it ‘falling’ in love. The idea that he fell - something unintentional - was a connotation he never understood. There was nothing accidental about his love for you. It was conscious and overwhelming and warm - never inadvertent. 

All he knew was that he felt warm when you looked at him with that smile that seemed to be reserved just for him, and his stomach did flips when you leaned into him to help him correct his maths homework. 

There was no surprise in your expression when he first kissed you for the first time. Your cheeks instantly flushed, giving away your nerves and excitement. Lando loved that about you, how you would blush furiously around him, whenever he held you, whenever he said something romantic. It felt like physical proof that he had the same effect on you that you had on him. 

He was sixteen, unsure of everything about himself except for the fact that it was always going to be you. 

And as he grew into himself, as he grew in his karting career, people began to take notice. There was pressure and expectations, sponsors and money being thrown around. 

But in the middle of all of it, there you were. Grounding in a way that other people didn’t really understand but worked for Lando. You weren’t calm, not exactly, but you were bright. Positive in a way that didn’t feel patronizing. 

Then he made it into Formula 1. And there you were, just as you always had been. When he finished his first race, there were a million things he needed to do. He had meetings and debriefs and so much to do it nearly threatened to overwhelm him. But in between a debrief on tyre temperatures and a meeting with Will about corner four, you found him in the hallways of Mclaren. You caught him by the wrist, and when he turned to face you, he found that you had a sly smile on your face. 

He could see the pride in your eyes, and when he looked down he found that you were holding onto a daisy chain. All of the tension within his body snapped in an instant as a laugh bubbled out of him, and your smile grew tenfold. 

He tugged you into his arms, crushing you in a hug that you tried to wriggle out of half-heartedly. 

“You’re sweaty,” you scolded, scrunching your nose. 

“And I love you,” he replied just as easily. Not a question. Just a quiet fact, as though it were as simple as asking him the color of the sky or what day of the week it was. You melted into his arms in response. 

He pulled back, taking the daisy chain from you and slipping it carefully over his wrist. If anyone noticed the delicate flower bracelet in the rest of his meetings for the day, they didn’t mention it. 

“Thank you Daisy,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as you let out a soft sigh. 

Daisy. 

He’d called you that ever since you first appeared with a flower bracelet in your hand. 

And in the years that followed, he called you that so often that people sometimes forgot your real name. 

When Lando first landed in Formula 1, you were in university. You had always said you were uninterested in completely giving up your life to follow Lando around, though sometimes in the dark you would admit to him how much you wanted to. 

But he would always press a gentle kiss to your lips and remind you that you were too brilliant to simply follow him around. 

So the two of you created a carefully balanced life. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t without its disagreements and arguments. Neither of you would change it for the world, though. 

You spent most of your time in your apartment in London going to school. Lando had bought a house in the suburbs of the city, just a touch too far from Woking to be practical, but he didn’t care if it meant he got to be closer to you when he was home. 

Whenever you could, you would fly out to race weekends to spend them with him. You became a commonplace in the paddock in just a few short months. 

Lando loved how you managed to endear yourself to everyone. Not just the staff at Mclaren, but everyone around. You were the person who stopped to appreciate the small things, the person who asked someone their name and how their day was going and really meant it. 

You charmed the other WAGs, not by an overly impressive fashion sense or modeling career, but by your quick wit and kindness. You were real, nonjudgmental in the best way. You treated Lewis Hamilton and the cafe staff with the same level of respect, and it showed in the way others treated you. 

Lando always thought you were a piece of real life in an area of the world where people lost themselves in the glamour and money. 

You kept him grounded, refusing to let him get a big ego just because he had a job that was seen as prestigious. You cared about the cars because he cared, and you committed yourself to understanding tyre degradation despite how boring you found it. But in reality, you cared about him. 

It didn’t matter if he came in second or sixteenth, as long as he got out of the car safely you were proud of him. You were the one to remind him that when he made a mistake, it was just that. A mistake. 

A failure on his part didn’t mean that he was a failure, you reminded him. It meant that he was learning. And when the media threatened to drown him, you dragged him to the surface with you. 

There was so much pressure on him at all times, but you never asked him to be someone who he was not. You wanted him long before he was important to the rest of the world, and he found respite in the life the two of you had created together. 

You never cared about the glitz or the glam. He had just been Lando to you all along, the same little boy who ran around in the garden with you jumping over the flower beds in the English sun. 

He had been right there when you lost your mother in your third year at university, not unexpected but still just as painful. He watched as Cisca tucked you and your brother under her, promising that she was still there for you. 

He was lucky to be surrounded by a family that loved you as deeply as he loved you, so even though you knew deep seated grief, you also knew what it was like to be loved wholly and completely. 

And god, he didn’t realise it was possible to love a person in the way he loved you. Every single day he woke up was a good one because you were in it. He loved getting to walk into the paddock with you, watching as you smiled and greeted what felt like every person who the two of you passed. 

He loved watching as everyone erupted in excitement when they saw you. How you settled peoples nerves, speaking to the new drivers in a gentle tone and an understanding expression. How the older drivers went to you when they needed a laugh and their ego knocked down a peg. How the other girls came to sit with you, laughing at your running commentary during qualifying. How people seemed relieved to see you, knowing that you would have the bandaid or tide pen they desperately needed. 

Lando had been sitting with you and Max Fewtrell once in the empty Mclaren hospitality when a girl slipped into the room. She clutched a clipboard in her hand as though it were an anchor, her eyes darting around the room with anxiety. She was clearly an intern, and shuffled toward the group of you as though you were going to swallow her whole. 

“Uh…Daisy?” She called out nervously, and that got all of your attention. 

Lando, out of pure surprise at hearing someone else call you that with full seriousness. You, because you responded to the name out of pure habit. And Max, because he couldn’t believe someone actually called you that. 

The latter let out a loud snort, and under the table Lando watched as you slammed your kitten heel down on his foot, causing him to nearly bite his tongue off.  

“Be nice you knobhead, she’s an intern,” you hissed under your breath as you turned in the same breath, sliding to get out of the booth and toward the girl. 

“Yes, what can I help with love?” You asked as you moved toward her, and Lando was left to chuckle under his breath as Max moaned about you having broken his foot. 

You were energetic and full of life, and Lando thought you were the most beautiful thing on this earth. He could care less about being surrounded by models or whatever, not when he had everything he could have ever wanted right in front of him. 

Sure, he loved to party, loved to dance and feel the taste of liquor on his tongue, but only when it meant he got to come home to you. You trusted him completely because he’d never given you any reason to doubt him, not when he was surrounded by the most gorgeous of women and still chose you over and over again. 

Never once did you try to change him or to pass judgement on his lifestyle. You made your opinions known, but never faulted him for when he chose differently. You might have been a bit quick to say ‘I told you so,’ but the driver honestly couldn’t fault you for that. 

He was the kind of person who loved with everything in him. He sat front row at your uni graduation, bought a cake when you got your first job, and flew for 26 hours just to see you for 8 hours on your birthday. He was hopelessly devoted to you in every way he knew how to be. 

It was a constant game of musical chairs with your schedules, but Lando couldn’t imagine it any other way. He loved you infinitely more at twenty four than he did at sixteen. He couldn’t imagine a life without you in it. 

Until he did have to imagine it. 

I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. 

It’s complicated, but this isn’t working. 

I think it’s for the best if we break up. 

I’m sorry. 

And when all was said and done, Lando Norris was left with just one question.  

Where did it all go wrong? 

It was ridiculous. 

You and Lando had always worked hard to remain healthy in leading separate lives, never to get co-dependent. Sure, there was a lot of overlap in your lives, but you both had your own friends, your own homes, your own time. It wasn’t as though you spent every single second together. Neither of you were strangers to spending time alone. 

So how did he manage to find remnants of you everywhere? 

It had been four months since you had broken things off with him just before the 2024 season had started, and still it stole his breath away to remember that you were gone. 

He was a racing driver. 

He had some of the fastest reflexes in the world. 

But they never seemed to outrace the realisation that you no longer occupied the same space that you once did in his life. 

Waking up felt impossible, because for a moment everything would feel alright. 

And then he would remember. 

Without fail, it felt like a train had hit him straight in the chest. 

He wanted to be angry, to scream and yell and throw things and let himself be so incredibly mad at you. 

But the reality of it was that he was just sad. He seemed to measure time by you - that there was a time during you and the time after you. 

You’d never officially lived in his flat in London, always adamant that he be allowed to decorate his space. That didn’t mean that there weren’t reminders of you everywhere. A jumper thrown over a chair, a bottle of perfume in the bathroom, a pair of your shoes tucked in a closet he hadn’t opened in awhile. 

You disappeared from the paddock, and at first nobody noticed. You worked full time, and couldn’t always travel to races. But when March bled into April, and then May, the whispers started. 

Wondering where you were. Wondering why Lando seemed off. Wondering what had happened. 

Only one person had dared to ask him about it directly - an engineer for Williams. You had promised to get her a coffee this season, she had told Lando with a hopeful look in her eyes. It was something of an honor to spend time with you, considering your reputation was founded in compassion and humor. 

But he could only offer back a smile that didn’t even begin to reach his eyes, saying that he wasn’t sure when you’d be able to follow through on that promise. The question stung more than he cared to admit, but to be forced to answer it felt like he was being split in half.

Everyone had abstained from asking about you since. Reporters skirted around the issue, never exactly pressing directly onto the wound but prodding around it as if they hoped to make it bleed for their own personal gain. 

“How has life off the track been for you this season?” 

“Any changes in your personal life that have affected your racing?” 

“What are your plans for the break after the weekend?” 

All he could do was answer with polite smiles and half truths. 

He couldn’t very well explain to Sky Sports that half of his heart had been ripped out of his chest and walked away. 

Honestly, he wished it was as simple as that. 

You lived in the pauses of his thoughts, as though nestled in the quiet corners of his soul. The breakup wasn’t clean cut. It felt as though someone was slowly pulling the roots of his heart away. Every single day there seemed to be something that caused his chest to collapse all over again. 

Even the stupid media questions that got into his head. He knew that if it were about something else, you’d be there to give him a hug and remind him that it wasn’t his responsibility to feed their headlines. That he was allowed to protect himself. He couldn’t very well stop the questions, you’d said, but he could control how he handled them. 

But now you weren’t there, and he was left with nothing but space for reporters to rub salt into a never ending wound. 

There was a space you occupied in the depths of his heart that no one else had. That perhaps nobody else ever could. 

You showed up in all his unfinished thoughts, like a sentence he was never quite able to properly end. 

He tried, oh god did he try. 

His siblings had no idea where you were, or what you were doing. None of them dared to ask your brother Oliver what was going on. After your mothers passing, your father had remained distant and was no longer really a part of your life. Your social media was dead. He even went onto your LinkedIn, and aside from seeing that you hadn’t left your job, there was nothing. 

It was, by all accounts, a clean break. 

It didn’t feel like that for Lando. 

Whenever Lily accompanied Oscar to the paddock, Lando turned away. Max started showing up at more races, rearranging his schedule as though he knew that his best friend needed someone there. It wasn’t you, but it was something. 

He still raced. He raced well, in fact. The car was good this year, and he was on the top of his game. No more partying. No more drinking. He thought at first that it would help him forget, but all it made him do was remember. 

Lando wondered why you had even left in the first place. 

He thought maybe it was because of the racing. He knew that his life and schedule was a lot to work around. You had seemed a little more reserved in the weeks and months before the breakup, but nothing that indicated to him that it was something drastic or related to him. Maybe a bit more depressed. A little more sedentary. But you had always said it was work or that you were just tired. 

Did it mean you were tired of him? Tired of the lifestyle? Tired of the schedule? 

Tired of what? 

Christ, if he was going to lose you over his career, he was going to make it worthwhile. He drove like his life depended on it, always hungry for more. In his mind, he really had nothing left to lose. 

He won in Miami, and the high was incredible. But the crash was completely desolating. 

The season was a blur of victories that turned sour so quickly he almost started wishing that the success would vanish. At least the losses were aligned with his masochistic thoughts. 

By the time Belgium had arrived on the calendar, he was ready for the summer break. He was ready for the chance to go on vacation with his friends, to a place that was untouched by reminders of you everywhere he looked. 

He felt ragged, trying to recover from Hungary and the disaster with Oscar on top of everything. On top of the fact that no matter where he went in the paddock, disappointment at the loss of you seemed to follow him everywhere. He wasn’t the only one who felt your absence acutely. 

He missed the stupid edits people would make of the two of you together. People had always said you were soulmates, the class clowns of the paddock, the pair that people respected. 

Neither of you had a poker face, always pulling a face when something silly or ridiculous happened. He missed how you laughed at his stupid shit so hard that you told him your stomach ached. How he made dumb jokes just so that you would roll your eyes at him. How you would lay out on his massage table, stretching your limbs like a sleepy cat as he told you a story about whatever was happening that weekend. 

So yeah, as he walked around the paddock in Belgium, he wasn’t paying very good attention to his surroundings. 

Sometimes, it felt like the only way to get through the day. 

That was, until someone grabbed his wrist as he walked down the hallway on Saturday after qualifying. Delicate fingers wrapping just around the base of his hand, trying insistently to get his attention. 

For just a second, he was transported back to a time when that meant you were there for him. That he would turn, and find a flower crown in your hands, ready to be put atop his curls. 

He shook his head at the thought and turned around, though he had to admit he was unprepared for who he would find when he looked up. 

“Kayla?” The shock was clear if not on his face then in his tone. It was one of your best friends from university. Lando had always liked her, gentle and responsible in a very sweet way. The two of you were still close, Lando was sure of that, and he was wildly thrown to see her here. Standing in the Mclaren hallway in Belgium. She was wearing a VIP badge with his name on it, though he hadn’t a clue how she had acquired it. 

Or why she was here. 

“Lando…I–” she paused, swallowing thickly. It seemed like she was almost short circuiting, struggling to find the words. The racing driver fully stopped for a second, turning toward her as his eyebrows threaded together in confusion at her presence. 

“What are you doing here?” He questioned, and that finally seemed to be the thing that helped her along. 

“I need to talk to you tomorrow. After the race. It’s…important,” she said the words gently, as though they would be the thing to break him. Lando cocked his head to the side, trying to understand why Kayla was here. 

What were the implications of this? What did it mean for you? What did it mean for him? 

When he said nothing, Kayla let out a short sigh. There was desperation clearly twinged in it, and for a second Lando felt like the knife in his heart was being shoved in, just a little bit harder. 

“Lando…I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” she implored, and that certainly caught his attention. He held eye contact with her for several more seconds before he slowly began to nod. 

“Okay…okay. I’ll find you after the race, stay in the area when we’re done,” he finally acquiesced, watching as her shoulders slumped in relief. 

“Thank you,” she breathed out, sparing him one last glance before she turned around and left him standing there in the hallway, confused out of his mind. 

When he thought back on it, he knew that finding Kayla in the hallway, in that moment, is the start of when he realised that something was really, really wrong. 

Lando finished the race in fifth. Nothing to write home about, but he wasn’t about to complain. 

He’s fighting for a championship, supposedly. 

He’s not entirely sure he cares. 

Not when he walked out of his driver room and found Kayla standing outside inside the Mclaren hospitality, wringing her hands together. 

Lando couldn’t say he had the privilege of knowing Kayla exceptionally well. The brunette woman was lovely and had always been very kind to him. She had come with you to a few races, and he had spent time with her in London whenever he was there to see you. But she had always been your friend, and it had been months since he had seen her at all. 

When she noticed him walking toward her, she seemed equal parts relieved and somehow even more nervous. 

He’s fresh from the shower, clean clothes with his curls damp and messy, as though he hurried rather carelessly to dry them. Kayla looked around, and though the Mclaren hallways are rapidly emptying, there are still several people milling about. 

“Is there somewhere more…private that we could talk?” Kayla breathed out, and Lando studied her for a second before he nodded. The brunette trailed after the racing driver through the Mclaren garage, hospitality, outside and toward some benches out the back that appeared deserted. 

Lando sat across from Kayla, and he watched as she fidgeted for a moment. It seemed as though she was working up the courage to say something. 

“Kayl–” he began to speak only for her to cut him off abruptly. 

“Do you still love her?” She blurted out suddenly. The brunette paused for a moment, almost as though she couldn’t believe she had just asked the question. She didn’t take it back, though. 

It hung in the air, and Lando felt like all the oxygen had been stolen from his lungs. 

His eyes narrowed, and he stared at Kayla. 

Hard. 

“What?” His voice was low, and hated the way it wobbled despite his best attempts to stop it. 

But your friend had lost the timidness she had started the conversation with. 

“Answer the question,” she demanded. He was distinctly reminded of you as she spoke. You rarely held back from asking the hard questions. Didn’t matter who the person was. Very few people felt as though they could demand something of Lando Norris, the F1 driver. 

But in the same vein as you, Kayla didn’t care who he was or what his job was. 

“Yes, I still love her. I never stopped,” Lando’s voice was audibly softer when he answered. He was unprepared for the way Kayla closed her eyes tightly at his words. When she opened them, he noticed that there were tears springing to her eyes. 

“She made me promise not to come, but I can’t watch her waste away like this,” Kayla whispered as though it pained her to speak any louder, and Lando pitched forward with renewed urgency. 

“What?” He asked, no longer following what she was saying but all the more concerned at her words. 

Wasting away? 

If there was even a chance that you felt as heart broken as he did, maybe you could fix this. 

“She thought it was just shin splints,” Kayla admitted, her jaw tightly set. The statement held in the air, confusing and stagnant. 

“I don’t understand,” Lando quickly commented, rapidly losing sight of where this conversation was heading. 

“Just…let me explain for a second. Back in January, she thought she had shin splints. Said that her right leg really hurt when she ran. And then when she walked. And then just…all the time,” Kayla explained, and Lando remembered suddenly hearing you complain of the annoyance of it once, but you waved him off when he expressed concern. 

“She went to the doctor and they thought it was shin splints. Then when it didn’t go away, a vitamin D deficiency. It wasn’t until March that they finally did a scan, but she already knew,” Kayla admitted, clearly struggling to speak. 

Lando felt his heart plummet into his stomach. He had a fair idea of what was coming, and still he felt like he was reeling, completely and totally unprepared for it. 

“She broke up with you before the biopsy. Said that she was terrified you would be forced to do the season with her being sick, that she didn’t want you to have to deal with it. She didn’t want you to have to deal with her,” Kayla forced on, but there were genuine tears flowing down her cheeks now, and Lando felt tears burning in the back of his own eyes. 

The implication that you would ever be something for him to “deal” with made him want to throw up. 

“They did the biopsy in late March. It came back the week after the Japanese Grand Prix. Osteosarcoma. Stage Two.” 

It felt like Lando had been punched in the gut. LIke his soul slipped out of his body for a second, realisation dawning over his entire body. He had somewhat known where this was going, but it didn’t make hearing it any easier. 

“I…she didn’t want you to find out. Didn’t want you to be held back. But there has been delay after delay with her case. They put her on chemo to prepare her for limb salvage surgery, but even after a few rounds, it's not working. There are more experimental private treatments she could try, but they are expensive and have huge waiting lists. She just stuck at Royal Marsden, sitting in a room with seven other patients being administered their chemotherapy and watching as nothing changes because of how much of a mess the NHS is,” Kayla described, letting out a sigh as though explaining the whole thing had aged her beyond years. 

“She was determined not to burden you with it. But I can’t watch her like this knowing that maybe…I don’t know. That maybe you could do something. And even if you can’t do that…I see how much it kills her not to be with you. She misses you so much, I can just tell. She never says anything, but she hasn’t been the same since she did it,” Kayla revealed, finally looking at Lando to see his reaction. 

There wasn’t an ounce of emotion on his face. Nothing. 

He looked back at her with a gaze so intense she couldn’t find herself to look away, but she also didn’t have a clue where his head was at. 

“Lando? Please, say something,” she finally begged after a second, her voice edging on desperate. He tore his eyes away from hers, reaching down into his pocket. 

“Royal Marsden,” he muttered as Kayla’s eyes widened, her hands gripped together. It looked like he was done with the conversation, and she wasn’t going down without fighting for her friend. He was tapping away at his phone, not even sparing her a glance. 

“Lando, please, she really needs he–” 

“You said it was Royal Marsden Hospital, correct?” He asked as he placed the phone to his ear. Surprised, Kayla nodded wordlessly. She watched in complete silence as Lando began talking. 

“Hi Tom, it’s Lando. I have a favor I need to ask for. I have a member of the family in hospital and was hoping to get her moved to a more private room, if possible?” He explained, and Kayla felt relief rush over her. 

She leaned forward on the table, no longer listening to the conversation as she placed her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. 

Help. 

You were getting help. 

She had gone back and forth on whether or not this was the right decision, but she knew at that moment that she had made the right one. Lando came around to wrap his arm around her shoulder when he finished his phone call. 

He leaned into her, offering his support silently but with presence. 

“You did the right thing,” he whispered softly to her and she looked up to make eye contact with him before she sniffed loudly, nodding her head. 

“Right, yes, okay,” she said, swiping the tears from her eyes. She allowed herself the next second to collect herself as Lando went back to his phone, typing furiously. She chanced a glance over at his screen, noting that he had a text thread with Max Verstappen pulled up. 

When she finally took a deep breath, Lando squeezed her bicep softly and tried to smile as encouragingly as he could manage on top of his own panic. 

“I’ve got us a ride back to London,” he stated without any other explanation. 

“Right now?” She exclaimed, surprise erupting in her expression. He nodded with security, standing and offering his hand to help her up. 

“Come on, we’ll pick up your luggage on the way. We have somewhere we need to be.”

[blossomcola]

hello! can i request all g!p aespa x sub fem!reader please? thank you so much! :]

pairing. school gang!gp aespa x sub!student fem reader

content warnings. dubcon.

the concept that aespa is using for ‘dirty work’ makes me think of a gang!aespa or them as the problematic group of high school... that typical group of unruly students who don't seem to care about the rules and are always in the principal’s office for causing more than one scandal a day.

karina would be the leader or the one in charge of the group, this doesn’t mean that she is the most problematic but she is the one who gives the orders or commands. she would be the first to notice your existence, always looking at you in the hallways when she and her group are leaning against the walls and talking about stupid things, talking to the girls but having their gaze fixed on you with a gleam that you can’t clearly decipher what it is. i feel like she would also be the first to make a move, taking advantage of her beauty and popularity to talk to you because no one can resist her, except you who seems to refuse to have a conversation with her??? the good thing is that karina is stubborn and it doesn’t take long for her to push you into an empty classroom, cornering you against the teacher’s desk and managing to climb onto it thanks to the fact that she is stronger than you. and well, no matter how hard you try to fight, you end up giving in one way or another when one of her hands holds your wrists above your head while the other goes down to reach the waistband of your pants and practically rip them off your legs along with your underwear, exposing your dripping pussy to karina’s gaze <3 of course she gets cocky and it wouldn’t take long for her to tease you, saying “awww, this wet for me?” with a stupid smile on her pretty face... although you can’t complain either because she is quick to slide her cock inside your warm sex, making you whimper pathetically and having to cover your mouth with her palm because karina can be problematic, but getting a report for fucking in a classroom is the last thing she wants! so you just have to lie there and be good to her while she breds you.

the real baddie, giselle. i feel like she wouldn’t be that interested in you because honestly she doesn’t care that much about you but she’s had her eye on you since you always looked at her badly and apparently talked bad about her behind her back about meaningless things or even go so far as to invent things and let yourself be carried away by rumors that other people told you with the purpose of getting you to spread them further. giselle isn’t an idiot and she knows this, but giving you what you deserve for being a loudmouth is the best thing she can come up with. she would ask you out in the parking lot so you could confront her and tell her in the face everything you say behind her back, but you both know it’s too much for you that you’d probably pee your pants trying to be smart with her... so she would have no problem taking you to the backseat of her car and fucking the bad attitude out of you <3 giselle wouldn’t even bother to lift a finger because she would leave all the work to you, so watching you struggle to take her cock completely without complaining or saying anything about it’s something she loves. riding her while she just lies back and pats your ass every now and then seems to be the best way to calm your attitude.

the calmest of all is winter but because she spends so much time drooling over you that she doesn’t have any other thoughts in that little head. i picture her as the type who when you walk past her in the hallway would probably give you a blatant look or she would probably whistle softly but at the same time she would do it in a tone high enough for you to hear it because she wants to get your attention, besides her thoughts are not as depraved as those of karina and giselle. winter is more like... a shameless pervert who can’t be bothered to hide her clear attraction to you, of course. this would lead her to have her eyes on you all the time, practically undressing you with her gaze and making you uncomfortable to a certain extent, but she doesn’t care! and it’s noticeable when one day you’re alone washing your hands in the school bathroom sinks and she just happens to come out of one of the stalls... winter’s presence is more than uncomfortable by nature and it is worse when you cross glances with her through the mirror, but you don’t have time to think much because she is faster and soon corners you against the sink ceramic, pressing her erection against your ass and making you feel the outline of her cock even through the thick fabric of her school uniform jogging pants — winter also takes advantage of this to start groping your body freely, not caring that you try to stop her and move away from her touch :( one hand closes over your mouth to silence you while the other slides between your thighs, pushing your panties aside so winter can finally slide her cock inside you and give you the good fucking you deserve <3 she would even hold your face so you could look at your reflection in the mirror in front of you and see how pathetic you look when you were fucked from behind, not even caring how your legs shake from her rudeness because she would end up bending you over the sink and fucking you until lunch.

and ningning... a mixture of all of them together. your meeting with her is more casual because it’s in the middle of a party, where the place is so crowded that you don’t realize you’re dancing and grinding against it because the lights are colored or flashing, realizing it’s her when you hear her whisper in your ear and let out a soft giggle. at this point you’ve been so used by her group of friends that you don’t know what to expect from her anymore... and well, drunk and silly sex with ningning is <3 she would be so cute, whimpering against your lips as her thrusts become messy and uneven in pace, trying to be tough like her friends but ending up being a cute baby who seems in love with you :( it’s thanks to her that you know that being with the whole group means you’re screwed...

[act-nat-ural]

Classroom Crush

It had been a few weeks since Kiyoomi first noticed you. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi didn’t get crushes. He was meticulous, focused, and, in his mind, too busy with volleyball and his personal space to indulge in such frivolities. But there was something about you that caught his attention—a girl two seats in front of him, always scribbling in a notebook or staring absentmindedly out the window during class.

He didn’t know when it started—maybe it was how you carried yourself, or how your eyes seemed to light up when you talked about something you loved, even if it was just a passing comment. 

But no matter the reason, it was undeniable now: Kiyoomi had a ridiculous, inexplicable crush on you.

It was a typical Monday morning, the sunlight streaming through the golden slats of the classroom windows. Kiyoomi sat in his usual seat near the back, his posture stiff, trying to avoid any kind of attention. His fingers were drumming on his desk absentmindedly as his gaze kept flicking toward you. You were two rows ahead, sitting by the window, completely engrossed in a book.

He knew nothing about you—well, nothing beyond the fact that you always sat in that seat, and you were quietly kind. He’d overheard you laugh once or twice when talking to your friends, but most of the time, you were serene, focused, and almost always reading or writing. 

It was a little tragic, how his crush had never even had the chance to be something real. He had barely spoken to you—maybe three words at most: “Excuse me” when you accidentally bumped into him on your way to class last week, and “Can I have a piece of paper?” when you forgot your notebook. It was painfully insignificant, but his heart still beat faster whenever he saw you. 

Today, however, he couldn’t concentrate. Your scent—the same perfume you always wore—drifted toward him as you shifted in your seat. You had just opened your notebook to write something. He found himself absentmindedly staring at the way your hand moved, the grace in every line you drew, even how you bit your lip in concentration. 

“Kiyoomi?”

His head snapped up, his gaze snapping back to his desk before he realized it. His eyes met the professor’s, who was now standing at the front of the room, waiting for his answer.

“Sorry, what?” Kiyoomi muttered, wiping his hand across his face in frustration.

The professor raised an eyebrow, but before Kiyoomi could dig himself into a deeper hole, you spoke up, a soft but audible voice from the row in front of him.

“He was probably just distracted,” you said with a smile that almost made him lose track of everything around him.

Kiyoomi froze.

You had spoken to him. His heart did a strange little flip in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t think of anything except the warm, easy way your words had come. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

“Uh, yeah,” Kiyoomi muttered, trying not to make a bigger fool of himself. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

You shrugged, a small smile still on your lips. “It happens,” you said casually and then turned back to your notebook, the conversation seeming to end as quickly as it had begun.

Kiyoomi’s mind raced. That was it? That was the only conversation he’d had with you in weeks? But it felt like something more. His heart couldn’t help but keep replaying the way you’d spoken to him—so effortlessly, so kindly.

The next day, you weren’t in class.

Kiyoomi tried to ignore the knot of disappointment in his chest, but it was hard. He spent the entire class time distracted, glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting you to walk in any moment. But you never did. By the time the lecture was over, and he packed his things, he was already overthinking. Maybe you were sick. Maybe you had dropped out of the class entirely. Maybe you weren’t even interested in… whatever this feeling was.

He was halfway out the door when a voice stopped him.

"Sakusa!"

His heart stuttered in his chest, and he turned around so quickly that his bag swung awkwardly at his side.

There you were, standing near the door, your book bag slung over your shoulder, eyes scanning the room for him. You were alone, and you looked a little hesitant.

Kiyoomi swallowed hard. "You... you missed class yesterday."

"Yeah, I was feeling sick," you said, offering a small smile. "I didn’t want to bother anyone with it."

Kiyoomi found himself nodding, even though he wasn’t sure what to say. The silence between you two stretched for a beat, and then, impulsively, he blurted out:

“Do you want to... maybe study together sometime?”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh?”

He had barely said anything to you in all this time, and now this?

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know... I just thought... Maybe we could,” he stammered, feeling heat creep into his face. “Like, you know, if you ever wanted to, or whatever...”

You laughed—a soft, genuine sound that made Kiyoomi freeze, staring at you in shock. 

“I’d like that,” you said, your voice warm. “Actually, I’m always looking for a good study buddy. You don’t mind math, right?”

"Not really," he replied, the edges of his lips curling into a shy smile.

"Great," you said, the smile now fully blossoming on your face, “I’ll text you the details later?”

Kiyoomi nodded, though he could hardly contain the flood of excitement rushing through him. This was real. This was happening.

As you turned to leave, you glanced back over your shoulder.

"See you tomorrow, Kiyoomi."

—

You walked into class a little earlier than usual, glancing around for an empty seat. Your eyes instinctively fell on the spot where you usually sat by the window, but today, there was a different kind of pull in your chest. The seat next to Kiyoomi was open.

You hesitated for a split second before shaking off the uncertainty. It’s just a seat. Just sit down, you told yourself. You’d spent the entire night thinking about the conversation from yesterday, about the way he’d looked at you with those piercing, quiet eyes, and how he’d blurted out that invitation to study together. You had to admit that his awkwardness was kind of endearing.

Taking a deep breath, you made your way over and sat down, silently hoping you weren’t making a mistake. But when you settled into the seat, the quiet thrum of the room didn’t feel so uncomfortable. There was something calming about being close to him, even if you hadn’t exactly exchanged much in the past weeks. 

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Kiyoomi glance toward you, but when you looked directly at him, he quickly shifted his gaze down to his desk, his posture as stiff as ever. You couldn’t help but smile. Even when he was trying to hide it, he was still so obvious. You wondered if he was nervous, too. 

Class started and you opened your notebook, pretending to focus on the lesson, but your mind kept wandering back to Kiyoomi. He was beside you, his gaze drifting toward the window as the professor launched into the lecture. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention—his pen tapping rhythmically on the desk in a pattern you could almost set your watch to. 

Your heart skipped a beat. Why did he want to study with you? You barely knew each other, and now you were supposed to spend time together after class? He’d barely said anything outside of casual requests or off-hand comments in passing. But somehow, yesterday, when you’d spoken, it felt easy. As if it wasn’t strange at all. 

The professor’s voice faded into the background as you stole another glance at him. His eyes were still distant, but his lips were curved slightly, like he was lost in thought. 

You wondered if he was nervous, too. It was a silly thought, really—Kiyoomi Sakusa, nervous? He was one of the best players on his volleyball team, he was smart, and composed, and everyone knew how intensely focused he was. But you couldn’t help but notice how out of place he looked when his gaze flickered to yours for just a moment before he shifted uncomfortably.

The class continued, but you couldn’t keep your focus. You did catch Kiyoomi looking your way a couple more times. Each time, his gaze would dart back to his desk like he hadn’t meant to. You couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up inside. 

It wasn’t like you had any more experience with these things than he did, but for some reason, today, things felt a little different between you two. You could feel the change, even if it was small. 

The bell rang again, signaling the end of class. You packed up your things slowly, unsure of how to move forward. The conversation from yesterday was still fresh in your mind, and now that the moment had arrived, you weren’t sure what to do next. 

You couldn’t help but steal another glance at him. He was already standing, stretching his arms above his head with a casual air about him. His face was still serious, but there was something softer about the way he carried himself today.

You stood up and made your way toward the door, your heart hammering in your chest. When you reached the threshold, you turned back, catching his gaze. For a moment, neither of you said anything, just locking eyes for a few seconds that stretched longer than they should’ve.

“Um... Kiyoomi?” you said, voice a little quieter than usual.

His gaze snapped to you, but instead of the usual guardedness, there was something almost... warm in his eyes, like he was waiting for you to say something. 

"Yeah?" he responded, his voice surprisingly soft. It made you pause, and your stomach did a little flip.

You took a step toward him, feeling a little less confident than you had intended. "I... um, I guess we can meet up later? If you're still up for it?" You looked down at your shoes for a moment, feeling a little awkward, but you couldn’t help but notice that the heat in your cheeks was starting to build up. 

He didn’t respond right away, but when you looked back up, you found his usual stiff demeanor had softened, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He nodded, his expression still slightly unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in the air between you.

“Yeah. I’ll see you after practice, then,” he said, the words coming out smoother than you expected. His voice was still quiet, but it held a certain finality to it that made you think that, yes, this was real. This was happening.

“Okay,” you smiled, and this time, it was easier to meet his eyes. 

You walked out of the room, your heart racing, a mixture of excitement and nerves bubbling up in your chest. You weren’t sure where this would go, but for the first time in weeks, you couldn’t wait to find out.

note: i wrote this instead of sleeping 😕

[misticatarot]

🌙 What You’re Not Seeing Yet – Extended Tarot Reading

Pick an Image (1-2-3)

1) 🔄 Eight of Pentacles (Reversed)

❓ “What am I working for—and why?”

This card reveals a truth that may be hard to admit: you’re putting in effort, showing up, doing the work... but it may not actually be aligned with who you are. There’s a chance you’ve been following a path because it seemed right, or safe, or expected—rather than because it truly feels yours.

What you’re not seeing yet is that hard work isn’t always meaningful work. Sometimes, we end up investing our time and energy into building someone else’s idea of success, chasing rewards that don't really nourish us. The reversed Eight of Pentacles advises you to let go of what you are currently doing. All attempts to move forward will not lead to success. In the chosen area, you will not be able to grow or understand new things. You must quickly decide to abandon your goals. If you don't stop, there is a high risk of losing yourself and being disappointed by life.

🔹 Reflection prompt:

“If I stopped doing this—would I feel relieved or guilty?” "What is the meaning of my actions?"

There’s no shame in letting go of something that no longer supports your growth. Walking away isn’t always quitting. Sometimes, it’s the most self-honoring choice you can make.

2) ⚖️ Two of Pentacles (Upright)

❓ “How can I hold it all together—without losing myself?”

You’re balancing a lot right now—tasks, feelings, relationships, expectations. And on the surface, it might look like you’re managing. But deep down, are you thriving or just surviving?

This card reminds you that balance isn't the same as harmony. Sometimes, it’s just controlled chaos.

What you're not seeing yet is that not everything deserves to be kept in motion. Some things you're holding onto might be draining you more than supporting you.

🔹 Reflection prompt:

“What part of this is for me, and what part is just to keep others happy?” “Where am I sacrificing myself just to keep things from falling apart?” "Where is my center?" "How can I avoid losing my balance?"

True balance doesn’t mean juggling everything. It means choosing wisely where to place your energy. You’re allowed to drop the things that no longer serve your center. To solve the problem, you need to take many factors into account. You must try to combine different processes, take care of yourself and others. One process completely depends on another. If something is overlooked, the entire system could collapse.

3) ✨ Knight of Pentacles (Upright)

❓ “Where am I going—and what am I willing to give in return?”

This card speaks to your potential, your long-term vision, and your ability to build something lasting and grounded.The Knight of Pentacles is steady, focused, and patient. He doesn’t rush—but he always moves forward.

What you're not seeing yet is how much power there is in slow, intentional progress. You don’t need to hustle to prove your worth. You just need to keep showing up—with care.

But there’s a warning too: don’t get stuck in overthinking, and don’t try to skip steps out of impatience. Both hesitation and haste can sabotage your journey.

This road will not be short, but in the end it will lead to a well-deserved reward. The Knight of Pentacles card warns of the danger of stopping, or conversely, of rushing. To reach a new peak, you need to study and work even harder, and gain practical experience. Now is the best time to realize all the possibilities and talents of the seeker. If you take on a task that is too small or too large, there is a high risk of failure.

🔹 Reflection prompt:

“Am I respecting my natural pace—or trying to push or shrink myself to fit someone else’s timeline?” "What do I want to achieve?"

This card tells you: your efforts matter, even when no one sees them. The road may be long—but if it’s aligned with your truth, it will be worth every step. You need to find a middle way and avoid going to extremes. In this sense, the card symbolizes a confident movement toward high goals.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash Photo by Jessica Smith on Unsplash Photo by Dave Ruck on Unsplash

[lil-quinnie]

About walls and whispers

warnings: alcohol use implied, weed and toxic family dynamics.

+18 minors get out.

Summary: They promised it meant nothing but secrets have a way of unraveling.

Eddie x Rick reefer's little sister!Reader

The final year of high school always drags a little more than it should. Classes stop mattering the way they used to. The scratched-up desks, the endless hallways that once felt like mazes... now they’re just worn paths, walked too many times.

It’s a strange sort of limbo. Not quite the end, not quite freedom. You’d been counting the days until you could leave. Not out of eagerness, but exhaustion. Tired of being watched. Measured. Whispered about. Sister of Rick Reefer.Everyone knew ,e veryone feared. And you had learned to wear that fear like armor.

Eddie was leaving too, and this time, for real.

Two extra years in the same building, drifting through classrooms like he didn’t belong anywhere. The kind of guy who failed the tests but never missed the conversations that mattered. He knew too much of what was never written on the blackboards and yet, there he always was, sitting in the back of the room.

You had crossed paths forever. You already knew the sound of his footsteps. The faint scent of cigarettes clinging to his jacket, not by choice, but because of the orbit you both shared.

Eddie worked for your brother. He was always around, ghosting through the house with that silent, sharp presence. He never talked much, especially not to you.

At home, he barely looked anyone in the eye. He stayed quiet, on edge, like he couldn’t wait to leave. Sometimes it felt like he hated being there.

But at school, he was different, louder! Unapologetically present. He filled the space without trying. His voice always carried, cracking jokes, calling people out, talking like he didn’t care who was listening. It made you wonder how someone could flick so easily between silence and fire.

Still, you noticed everything.

You weren’t friends. But you weren’t strangers either. Just two people bound by proximity, separated by silence.

The gym was stifling, as always. But this time, the ceiling fans had been replaced with weak spotlights strung between crooked banners that read “CONGRATS, GRADUATES” in faded gold letters.

There was something almost beautiful in how pathetic it all looked. Like the school was trying too hard to matter one last time.

You walked in with no urgency, thin black dress, hair down, eyes lined too dark to be casual. The lipstick didn’t match the occasion, and maybe that was the point. You’d had enough of handshakes and half-hugs, of fake laughs or people congratulating you for something that didn’t feel like an accomplishment.

And then he showed up.

Eddie showed up the way he always did; Late.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, dragging the weight of too many bad choices behind him. Gray shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos inked like old confessions on his skin. He didn’t look like he belonged, but when he saw you he stopped like the world had stuttered. You looked at each other like something had already been said, like recognition had arrived long before words ever could.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, trying to sound lighter than you felt.

“I came for the diploma,” he said with a smirk.

“Two years late.”

“Yeah. I was waiting on you.”

You almost smiled, but swallowed it before it could show.

Your gaze flicked to the lights, the exits, anything to soften the ache curling under your ribs.

“Are you going to Steve’s after?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes still on you. “Got business to handle.”

“Guess I’ll see you later, then.”

He nodded once before some friends shouted his name, pulling him away. But even as he left, you caught him watching you again, and again and again.

Not in an obvious way, Eddie never did anything obvious. But the glance he gave before turning away was slow and reluctant, like it cost him something. You weren’t sure when it started, that loaded silence between you but a look across the hallway began to burn more than a conversation ever could.

There were always people around. Rick’s friends. The noise of your house. Teachers. Strangers. But somehow, the air between you and Eddie always felt different. Tuned to some quieter frequency only the two of you could hear.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He passed by the drink table, his shoulder brushing close to yours. Too close. You felt the warmth of his skin. Your fingers twitched. His jaw flexed.

"It was nothing" you repeat in your head a million times.

Steve’s house was packed. Sweat, weed, perfume, cheap vodka, It all blended into the kind of chaos people called fun. The hallway was a mess of limbs and laughter. You took a drink someone handed you, didn’t ask what it was. It burned going down, and that was what you want.

Eddie leaned against the wall like he wasn’t part of the party, just tolerating it. Same rolled-up sleeves. Same tattoos. Same tired eyes.

But this time, he wasn't alone.

He was talking to some girl with a fake tan and a voice like syrup. She leaned in, hand on his arm like she’d done it a thousand times. Laughing too loud at whatever bullshit he was feeding her.

He wasn’t laughing. But he wasn’t moving either.

You stood across the room, half in shadow, half in smoke. Sipped your drink like it didn’t matter but your eyes stayed on him too long.

And he found you anyway. This time, you didn’t look away. You raised your cup. Tilted your head.

Really? Her?

Then you turned and walked off before he could answer.

You ended up on the back porch. Arms resting on the railing, the night air cooler than expected. A cigarette held loose between your fingers, smoke curling toward the sky. You weren’t even smoking it. Just holding it for the wind.

And of course, he came.

He walked out like it was a coincidence. It wasn’t.

He stood beside you. Close, but not touching. Silent, for a beat too long.

“You saw,” he said finally. His hands were in his pockets. Voice low. Like he’d been caught.

You kept your eyes on the yard. “It’s not my business, Eddie.”

“She meant nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing to me,” you snapped.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he muttered, quieter now.

You gave a slow, ironic smile. “What you do is none of my business, Munson. I just thought you had better taste.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Damn. If that’s you not caring, I wonder what it’d be like if you did.”

“I never said I didn’t care.”

Your eyes met his for the first time that night. His big brown ones burned like they had something to say.

“I said it was none of my business.”

You whispered the last part.

The silence sharpened. Pulled tight like a wire.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Whether it was your hand threading into his curls, or his fingers gripping your waist. His mouth met yours like a warning; You kissed him back like a dare.

It wasn’t sweet nor romantic.

It was all teeth, hot hands and breathless mouths. Fingers tugging your hair hard enough to sting, his grip on your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

You kissed him like you’d promised yourself you never would, your tongue explored Eddie's mouth, he tasted like smoke, beer and mints.

You knew it was forbidden, that no one could see but the only thing that went through your head was the comfort that his hands brought to your body while he devoured your kiss as if it were the last time, and maybe it was..

The kiss slammed into you, stealing your your balance and Eddie didn’t hesitate. He shoved you back against the wall, lips still crushing yours, hands already on your thigh. He gripped it hard, hauled your leg around his waist, forcing your core down onto the solid pressure of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled into your mouth, the word ragged. His control was fraying, you could feel it in the way his hands started grinding your hips against him, rough and hungry.

His mouth tore from yours and dragged down your neck, all tongue and teeth and heat, licking a line to the edge of your now twisted, wrinkled dress.

You squeezed the bulge in his pants — hard. He groaned, low and filthy, and it was your turn to attack. Your mouth found his neck, teeth scraping against his warm skin, leaving your mark while his fingers carved bruises into your hips.

You wanted to keep going, to explore every inch of him, but the pressure he was grinding against your center was suddenly too much — too good.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you whispered, your voice ragged, surrendering to whatever he wanted to do with you. His crooked, wicked smile made you throb, eyes burning into you with so much hunger it made your skin prickle.

His lips crashed back into yours, the kiss deep, messy, laced with something desperate. The fingers that had been tracing slow circles on your thigh slipped beneath your panties without warning.

“So wet for me,” he purred against your ear. “Poor thing... let me take care of you.”

Then his thumb found your clit, teasing it with feather-light circles,so gentle it felt unreal, like one of your late-night fantasies bleeding into life. He whispered sweet nothings while his fingers worked you with the precision of a musician, deliberate and skilled.

It didn’t take long before your body betrayed your hips stuttered, and you left a shameless, soaking mark on his pants.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips were swollen. Your heart was racing. Your cheeks burned and he looked at you with that look again.

You ignored it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you said fixing your lipstick

He nodded once.

“I wasn’t planning on falling in love.”

“Good,” you replied, stepping back. Smoothing your dress like nothing had happened.

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

No feelings,no mess.

Just silence. And secrets.

Hi guys, it's been a while (a long time) since I wrote so be nice to me, ok? let me know if you like it. <3

Dividers by @cursed-carmine

[lunarxcity]

Why Hide? (Part XII to Why Me?)

Azriel x rhys sister! reader!

angst/eventual comfort (This got really scary real fast! We love some good plot! Also sorry for the short chapter it's been a minute since I've written...)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, and XI if you missed them!

-

Azriel was yanked out of sleep by a horrifying nightmare, the fourth one this week. They always ended the same, with a dark figure holding an onyx blade emanating an evil magic to your neck and no matter how hard he tries you're always either stabbed, poisoned, or some combination of the two.

For Azriel may have beaten death, but he may have paid the price with his soul. The Mother fought to save his life but the unknown darkness fought harder to claim his soul.

After Eris purged all the darkness from his chest with his fire and he had his outburst, Azriel passed out. You monitored him while he slept and he woke up nearly 2 days later screaming.

You guys have barely spoken, cordial small talk and tense silence filling the gap between you now that everything was out in the open. Azriel can't bear your rejection, so for now he will take your silence.

Footsteps in the hallway snap him out of his trance, everytime he wakes from a nightmare he can hear you hovering by his door. He had had gone from feeling a dull trickle of your feelings to now a roaring waterfall as the bond was formally acknowledged.

He knew he woke you up every night and he could feel your hesitation and desperation in his own chest, the same way you felt his fear.

The first night you had been pacing in your room and had ultimately gone to bed after he had lightly tugged on the bond to let you know he was okay.

The second night you had made it out of the hallway after hearing a crash and pretended to get water and do other mundane tasks until you couldn't hear any movement from his room anymore.

The night after that you slipped one of his shadows a sleeping potion so he could go back to bed without being plagued by nightmares.

This was the fourth night and you had made it to his door. The shadows were telling him that your hand was up, ready to knock, but you had been standing there for nearly 5 minutes and yet nothing.

He decided to put you out of your misery and he opened the door to your shocked figure.

"Can I help you? You're hovering like a vulture." Your expression shifted from surprise to embarrassment.

"I just- I didn't- " You stammered out.

Azriel raised a brow and you took a deep breath, steadying your voice.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright, I could uhm feel your terror." You mumbled the last part out.

You were tired of beating around the bush with him, he already knew that you knew and you had been dancing around each other for days. It didn't feel right, but again nothing did these days.

Azriel did not expect you to acknowledge the bond so openly. You said nothing about acceptance or rejection, just acknowledged it's existence. Maybe after everything is done with you guys would have that conversation, but for now there were more pressing matters at hand.

"I'm fine." An answer so short and unrevealing, how Azriel.

"You've been different since your return." You were trying to get him to talk about it, everyone else was blinded by the joy of having him back but you felt the scars that his soul now beared.

You felt the darkness emanating off of him when he was contaminated with that black magic.

"Yes that tends to happen when you come back from the dead." His response came out a bit harsher than intended, but Azriel's facade has been crumbling.

He has tried these past few days to put on a mask and put away his suffering from his family, but he hasn't slept in days he was exhausted.

You flinched slightly, but you just looked at him and waited patiently. The look in your eyes let him told that you were listening and his resolve was finally crumbling.

"I feel the scars of the darkness on my soul. It was slowly taking over me, eroding who I was until all I knew was pain and the only thing I yearned for was power and revenge."

He took a breath and you grabbed his hand and dragged him to sit down on his bed.

He reached for his chest, where the darkness used to be like he could still feel it eating away at himself and everything he knew the world to be.

"I almost lost myself and if I did, I knew that whatever dark master I would serve would use me and that twisted magic to defeat Prythian so I brought myself to the one person who could save me."

He looked at you with vulnerability and pain and as you looked into his eyes, the same hazel eyes that have plagued your mind for Mother's known how long, you started to feel a seed of fear being planted in your stomach.

The golden flecks in Azriel's eyes, the eyes you knew better than your own, were gone. They were replaced by a darker green, the warmth consumed by this unfamiliar darkness.

Something is wrong with Azriel.

"I swear to the Mother or whatever gods will listen to me, we will get answers and find a way to fix this, Azriel."

You hold both of his hands in your own and look him in the eyes, determination coating your features.

"It makes no difference if the gods turn their backs on us, for you are the only deity that I answer to. For I would forsake all of them and eternally damn myself just to be by your side, whatever you give me will be enough for me. "

Almost dying really changes your priorities, well in Azriel's case at least. He would rather leave knowing that he told you how he was feeling, instead of leaving without telling you once.

He has already died with regrets once and he would worse than a fool to do it again.

You dragged him to the library and started to research.

-

The dark figure was out again, the night freed him he could ebb and flow through the darkness as he pleased. The sun was a hideous thing that he abhorred, for light reveals all in its presence. There was no hiding in the light and no room for his sinister schemes in the light of day.

He had been trying to get through to the shadowsinger all week, but the most he could do was plague him with measly nightmares.

Pathetic.

He had once started plagues that took down civilisations, started wars that had broken apart nations, and now he was no more than the boogeyman.

He had corrupted a few others, watching as they gave into madness and took others down with them but it didn't give him the satisfaction he craved.

What he craved was power. He wanted to bring Prythian down to it's knees and mere fae could not do that.

He needed the shadowsinger or the high lord, but Rhysand was so heavily guarded he couldn't even make it within a hundred feet without being slaughtered.

He'd had the shadowsinger in his clutches and he lost him along with is plan to take down Prythian.

First it was Prythian, then Hybern, and finally the mainland until the entire world was consumed by terror and chaos and he would be standing on the ruins.

He hears a song over the horizon. It's a song of enchantment and one that beckons to him, which is strange since he cannot stand the screech of music.

He follows the sound and is met with a white strand of twisted magic that flows through the woods. A trap of some sort, a normal fae would be ensnared, but he is not fae and the magic of this world doesn't effect him the way it should.

He follows the magical strand to the source like it's a stray piece of yarn.

He weaves through the forest until he feels the world slip away from him temporarily. When he comes back he notices that the trees were much taller than they just were and the trunks a deep shade of red as if trying to warn him from coming any closer.

The yarn ball ends up being a lake. While it looks like it should be picturesque with towering trees along the shoreline, there was something eerie that could only be explained by a sinister type of magic.

It's pitch black, even though there was a full moon and the only light source is the unnatural blue glow of the lake.

Welcome follower

The lake whispers to him in a voice that sounds like tar.

He walks up to the lake to see the source of this voice.

"I am no follower of yours."

My how interesting and I was told you had left this world long ago

"You are a child compared to me. I am as old as the dust of this universe."

It appears that your age has caused you to grow weak

Anger roared in him. "I WILL-"

Calm down, I am not trying to insult you, but rather convince you to take a deal of sorts

"I do not make deals with those beneath me."

I have the power you need, and my price is low. I only ask for one simple thing.

The scowl that is normally plastered on his face shifts to intrigue.

When we have the world on it's knees, you give me Prythian once you are finished ravaging it.

That was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things and while he did not work well with others from the power of this being alone he knew that he could deliver what he was promising.

All you have to do is free me from this lake and we can destroy everything together

He pluges his shadowed arm into the lake and pulls this being through whatever enchantments were holding him there until he breaches the lakes surface.

He now stands in front of him, an evil grin on his face, laughing to himself relishing in his freedom.

"My name is Koschei, it's lovely to meet you in person."

-

The winds cry and the shadows retreat back in fear.

It's the middle of the night and you and Azriel, are researching in the library when Azriel's shadows begin to scream.

He falls to the ground, clutching his head screaming out in pain.

You fall to the ground with him, trying to figure out whats wrong when Rhys and Feyre winnow in.

Rhys was in the same state as Azriel, clutching his head and on the floor.

Feyre was running through the stacks, urgently looking for a book.

This continued on for 10 minutes until they both snapped out of it. You looked out the window to see the first light of dawn.

Feyre was adamantly flipping through the large book she had and Rhys and Azriel were catching their breath.

You looked at both of them, "What happened?"

Rhys shuddered. Azriel replied, "I'm not sure it was almost as if Night itself was screaming, my shadows were terrified."

Cassian and Nesta burst through the door.

"He's out." That's all Nesta managed to say.

Rhys and Azriel froze and you saw a look in their eyes that you haven't seen since the first war. It was fear. Pure, icy fear.

"Who's out?"

Eris came running through the door followed by Lucien and Elain.

"Koschei! He's free, he's trying-" She started swaying on her feet.

"He's trying-" Elain immediately falls unconscious and Lucien catches her.

"She had a vision, she was screaming about Koschei and the lake." Lucien slowly says.

The room was silent,all the air sucked out. The threat to Prythian was greater than they could have imagined.

They say death always has a price and Azriel prayed to the Mother that Prythian was not about to pay it.

-

note: Hello my loves long time no see life got pretty chaotic and has prevented me from escaping back to my stories(i know i know). I hope everyone is well and the story has not slipped from anyones mind in the meantime, but personally I believe that suspense only makes the story that much impactful (that's what im using as an excuse for my lack of activity). This chapter is short and a bit darker than usual which I hope is not too out of the blue for anyone but it is pure plot which we have not really seen yet. I'm excited to dust off this story and get right back to it so enjoy and like always until next time my darlings!

note note: One day I will get a beta reader, but until then in the spirit of magic and make believe lets pretend like my grammatical errors and typos don't exist!

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