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beloveds-embrace · 2 months ago

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Quotation marks around worshippers because they’ve lived long, brutal lives, constantly in war and fights and skirmishes and tearing others apart in a bid to simply survive and keep a malicious god content enough it doesn’t kill them and destroy what little they’ve fought hard to win.

John is the oldest. He’s lived long enough to know hope is just a word made by those already deafeated. It doesn’t exist. He has fought bloody and dirty to have his own spot. It’s all his, his only source of safety and isolation from the rest of the god’s violent domain. It should be just his, because trust should also not exist.

Yet he still took in Ghost. His old name burnt away in the ashes of the crumbling arena, more scars than clear skin, face hidden with a mask and all his opponents dead, John still took him in.

He also takes in Johnny. Bright Johnny, with blood coating his teeth and who laughs in the face of death, as if the chaos only strengthens him. Johnny, with his wild grin and reckless spirit, has survived every fight, every slaughter, not by brute force alone but by sheer audacity. He revels in the violence, thriving in the blood-soaked madness that their war god delights in. Despite John’s reluctance, Johnny becomes part of his world- part of the strange, brutal family they’ve formed under the watchful eye of a cruel god.

But John doesn’t stop there. He takes in Kyle, too. Kyle, quick and resourceful, with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. He’s newer to this war, but no less hardened. He knows how to fight, how to survive. He has to, in order to endure the hellish existence demanded by their god. Like the others, he’s marked by the battles he’s fought, by the lives he’s taken, the blood that stains his hands. There’s no room for softness here, no room for weakness.

Together, the four of them are bound by the violence they’ve endured and the desperate struggle to appease a god who feeds on their suffering. They don’t question it. They don’t dare. It’s all they’ve ever known. It’s all they’ll ever know.

Then, you arrive.

But you’re not just some strange outsider, not just another fragile soul lost in the wasteland of their god’s domain. You are another god- a goddess. The goddess of fertility, of harvest, of life itself. The opposite of everything they know. Where they come from a world of blood and fire, you bring growth, peace, and something they can’t name- something they’ve long forgotten.

John is the first to notice the change. It’s subtle at first. The small patch of ground he’s claimed for himself, once barren and dead, begins to show signs of life beyond the very little moss that has made itself home on the rocks and cracks of his area. Tiny sprigs of green push up through the cracked earth, the soil somehow softer, richer. He doesn’t understand it, but he feels it- something shifting, something outside of his control. It leaves him with his hackles raised, eyes narrowed and shoulders often tense.

(He doesn’t shove you out. Doesn’t fight, or attack, or kill you. He doesn’t know why he lets you stay, like that moss that lingers.)

Ghost remains quiet, watchful as always. He doesn’t speak of it, but he, too, notices the strange calm that seems to settle around them when you’re near. The land seems less hostile, the sky a less oppressive red and more of a deep orange. It’s unsettling in a way that makes him wary, but he’s drawn to you nonetheless. There’s something about you that soothes the storm inside him, something that makes the endless violence seem… far away.

Johnny, in contrast, is the first to approach you openly, grinning through bloodstained teeth. “Yer naw like the rest of us, bonnie.” he says with a laugh, almost in awe. He doesn’t know why he feels at ease around you, why the chaos in his mind quiets when you’re near, but he doesn’t question it. You smile at him, your touch soft as you brush dirt from your hands, tending to the small garden you’ve coaxed from the dead soil.

Kyle watches from a distance, suspicious at first. He’s seen enough in this brutal world to know nothing good comes without a cost. But as the days pass, he, too, begins to feel the shift. There’s a strange sense of peace when you’re around, a warmth that feels foreign but not unwelcome.

They don’t realize it at first, but you’re pulling them out of the war god’s grasp, slowly, gently, without them even knowing. With every seed you plant, with every gentle touch, you weave them further into your domain the same way your hands weave flower crowns for each of them. They don’t know that the violent god they served is weakening, that his power is crumbling as you pull the earth itself away from him, reclaiming it for yourself.

The land around them begins to change. The once-scorched earth softens beneath their feet. Where the air was once thick with ash and smoke, it now carries the scent of growing things, of rain, of life. They don’t understand how it’s happening, why the violence that once defined their world seems to be fading, but they can feel it.

And you, always quiet, always gentle, never tell them the truth.

They don’t know that you’ve been dismantling the war god’s domain piece by piece, tearing down the walls of blood and fire that have kept them trapped for so long. They don’t know that with every moment they spend in your presence, they’re moving further from the god they once served, deeper into your realm of peace and growth.

Their trust for you starts small.

You offer them food, but not the scavenged scraps they’re used to- fresh bread, warm and soft, made from the grain you’ve grown in the earth that once seemed too dead to nourish anything. “Eat,” you tell them with a soft smile, your voice a balm against the harshness of their world. “You’ve fought enough for now.”

John eyes you warily at first, his mistrust of softness deeply ingrained. He hesitates, but the hunger gnaws at him, and he finds himself taking a piece. It’s better than anything he’s tasted in years. The others follow suit, their suspicion momentarily forgotten in the simple act of sharing a meal.

When Ghost returns from another brutal skirmish, bloodied and bruised, you’re there. Quietly, without a word, you kneel beside him and start tending to his wounds. His body tenses at first and he is almost read to push you away- he’s used to pain, used to enduring it alone. But your touch is gentle, your hands soft and careful as you clean his cuts and wrap his injuries. He doesn’t speak. When this simple act becomes a routine, something begins to flicker in his eyes, something he hasn’t felt in a long time: relief. Safety.

“You don’t have to fight alone, not anymore.” you murmur, and though Ghost doesn’t reply, he doesn’t pull away either. The next time he’s hurt, he seeks you out before anyone else.

Johnny, always bold, is the first to embrace your presence without hesitation. He grins when you touch his arm, your fingers brushing away dirt from his skin. “You’re soft,” he says quietly, as if he can’t quite believe someone like you exists in their world. You only laugh gently and tousle his messy mohawk, unfazed by his wildness. “Maybe,” you reply, “You deserve it. All of you.”

Johnny’s grin widens, and soon, he’s lingering around you more often, like a star drawn to the sun’s orbit. He chatters about nothing and everything- battles he’s won, places he’s seen, jokes that make no sense. And you listen, never once judging the darkness behind his stories, always meeting his reckless energy with calm kindness.

And Kyle… Kyle is the last to trust. He watches you from a distance, wary and skeptical. He’s been burned too many times, lost too much to believe in something as simple as kindness. But even he can’t deny the peace that settles over him when you’re near. One evening, after a particularly grueling fight, you sit beside him, your presence quiet and soothing. You don’t push, don’t ask him to open up. You just sit there, offering him a slice of bread and a cup of fresh water.

“Why are you helping us?” Kyle asks, his voice low, guarded.

You smile, your eyes warm. Your face is always so open, so welcoming. Kyle does not know how you do it. “Because you’ve fought enough. You deserve rest. Peace.”

He doesn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little. He still watches you from the corner of his eye, but slowly, he begins to let down his guard.

As the days pass, you continue to tend to them- feeding them, healing them, offering warmth in a world where warmth is rare. They don’t understand it at first, but they begin to feel the shift. The land around them is changing, softening. The earth that was once barren begins to bloom with life. Where there was only death and destruction, now there are signs of growth- flowers, crops, greenery creeping up through the cracks in the wasteland.

John, who has spent his entire life guarding himself, feels it most of all. He watches you with something like confusion, like a man seeing the sun for the first time after years of darkness. He doesn’t understand why he feels calmer, why the constant tension in his body is easing. But despite his better judgment, he finds himself drawn to you- drawn to the softness he’s fought so hard to keep out.

You smile at him, always gentle, always kind, even when he’s rough around the edges. “You don’t have to fight anymore, John,” you tell him one evening as you hand him a fresh scone, drizzled with sweet honey and cream. “There’s more to life than just surviving. Let me show it to you.”

Ghost remains distant, but even he starts to let his guard down around you. The mask he wears, both literal and figurative, feels less necessary when you’re near. The weight of the violence he’s carried for so long feels lighter, though he doesn’t know why. It helps that he comes to you for every injury, your hands gentle and tender on his scarred skin.

Johnny is the most at ease with you, laughing more, fighting less, as though the fire that once consumed him is finally starting to burn out. And Kyle, ever watchful, finds himself relaxing for the first time in a long while, though he’s still unsure why he feels so drawn to you, so at peace in your presence.

Little by little, without them even realizing it, you’re pulling them away from the war god who has held them captive for so long. You’re bringing them into your world, a world of life and peace, where they can be more than just warriors, more than just tools of violence.

And the war god, once so powerful, is fading. His domain is crumbling, and soon, he will be nothing more than a memory.

But they don’t know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

There is no need to drag them into what happens between gods, you reason to yourself, humming a sweet melody. Catching John’s gaze- they are working on your ever-expanding garden, tending to the soil- you smile and wave at him, delighted by the way his shoulders untense.

Yes. There is no need to ruin this little haven you’ve created.

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uraveragelonelysapphic · 2 months ago

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Lavender

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Nature had always been your life. How fitting that it could now cause your death.

Warnings: angst (with a happy ending!), mentions of vomiting and blood.

a/n: Hello hello! This is perhaps definitely ass, but I really wanted to write for these two because I'm hopelessly in love with them both. Please enjoy!

Hanahaki Disease 花吐き病 (Japanese) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

The natural world had always brought you peace. The softness of the grass under your feet, the gentle breeze blowing against your skin, the tender feeling of a flower blooming by your hand. You were a green witch, after all.

That was what had driven your family away. You had been 12 when you first sprouted a lily from your hand. You were more curious than scared; you had always sensed there was something that separated you from the rest of your family. Something about the earth’s treasures had always called to you.

But even at your young age, you knew who you were living with. Sharing your abilities was a recipe for disaster; a sure fire way to have you outcast from your family.

So you did your best to keep your powers a secret, honing them in private, away from the watchful eye of your parents.

When you were 20, the inevitable happened. You were meant to be collecting berries for dinner when you had spotted a Willow Tree. It was worse for wear; you could feel it pleading for help as you approached it with a soft smile.

“It’s alright,” you soothed the tree as you gently placed your palms against the soil where its roots rested, “You’ll be alright.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on strengthening the roots as green magic pulsed out from your hands, through the soil, and into the tree itself, which began to heal instantly.

The snapping of a twig broke you out from your trance, turning your head to see your mother fleeing the scene. Your heart dropped as you quickly stood, moving to follow her.

She was too fast. By the time you had returned to your cabin, everyone and everything was gone. Your entire family had left you.

You fell to your knees in the middle of what was once your home, tears rolling down your face as you stared at the ground. Numb, broken, grieving.

You don’t know how long you stayed in that spot. You didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep, you just sat, staring, longing.

It wasn’t until a cold hand lifted your chin that you realized you weren’t alone anymore.

“Hello, darling,” a voice said softly, and you locked eyes with one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen. Her brown eyes were intoxicating, drawing you in. You tilted your head at her in confusion and intrigue. Who was she? What was she doing here?

“You’ve been sat here for a week, darling. No food, no water, no sleep. You’ll kill yourself if you keep up like this,” she said as she looked at you curiously.

Your eyes widened in realization. Death.

She shook her head at you gently, sensing your fear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not taking you. It’s not your time,” she said, stroking your hair gently.

“Thank you, Lady Death,” you stuttered out, in awe of her soft nature, directly contrasting the connotation of her very existence.

She smiled at you in response. “You can call me Rio, sweet girl.”

There was a moment where you two merely looked at one another before she looked away, taking on a rather stern expression. “But I feel the need to tell you, sitting here and mourning your abandonment will only hurt you. It’s not your time. So don’t let it be. Get up, you’re coming with me.”

You stumble away from her in confusion. “I thought you weren’t taking me?”

She shook her head. “I’m not taking you to the afterlife. I am, however, taking you in. You’ll be staying with Agatha and I.”

You knew that name. You had read about it during your private studies.

“Agatha? Like…’The Witch Killer’ Agatha? That Agatha?” you asked cautiously.

Rio cackled, extending her hand to you.

You took it.

And so began the years you spent with Death and her lover, Agatha Harkness. The two women were vastly different to their reputations that had preceded them. Sure, they both had a fierceness to them. They had to, in order to survive their daily lives filled with corpses and taking souls.

But, with each other, they held such a softness. Rio often came back from a long day exhausted and drained. Death didn’t tend to be a fan favorite, and people made it evident, shouting at her and berating her as she escorted the souls of their loved ones to the afterlife. But Agatha greeted her at the door each evening with a hug, simply holding her for minutes on end, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as Rio visibly relaxed into her hold.

And Rio returned the favor, treating Agatha with a love full of tenderness and warmth. Comforting her after each nightmare, preventing her from overworking herself, giving her soft apology kisses after any arguments.

Before long, you knew almost everything about the pair. You learned about Agatha and her son, and his loss which nearly tore Agatha and Rio apart. How Agatha was only a ‘Witch Killer’ to keep Nicky alive as long as she could. How Rio held such anguish and guilt at having to take Nicky’s soul. How Agatha once held it against her but now loved her as fiercely as ever.

The two were made for each other, and though they welcomed you with a similar softness to that which they showed each other, you chalked it up to them taking pity on a girl who was abandoned by her family. You knew they could never love you like they loved each other.

But that didn’t stop you from falling for them. It happened subconsciously; you never meant for it to happen. But when your heart panged in longing at seeing Agatha and Rio curled up in each other’s arms in the living room, you knew it had happened. It panged even further as you looked down, noticing a red carnation that had bloomed in your palm against your will.

You were determined to ignore it. Surely you could enjoy their presence without focusing on the way your stomach flipped when Rio smiled at you, or how your heart seemed to triple in size whenever Agatha would stroke your hair in affectionate greeting. But what you had to do became evident one morning.

“We’re headed out for a bit, doll,” Agatha said as you sat at the table eating the breakfast she had made for you.

You nodded. “Okay! Don’t stay out too late, I’m making your favorite for dinner, Ags.”

She beamed at you, making butterflies flare up in your stomach so violently they made you uneasy. “You’re a gem. Isn’t she just?” She turned to Rio, squeezing her hand gently.

“Oh, yeah, she’s the sweetest,” Rio replied, winking at you as you feel your heart beat faster.

The two bid you a final farewell before leaving for the day. As soon as they left, you began to feel an uncomfortable itch in your throat. You furrowed your brows, attempting to clear your throat to ease the discomfort, but to no avail. Eventually you began coughing. It was a cough that made you feel sick, made you feel like something was really wrong.

And when you coughed into your palm and saw the petals of daffodils, your suspicions were confirmed.

You had heard of Hanahaki disease but had always believed it to be a myth. Your heart dropped at the realization that your love for these women was going to kill you.

You had to leave.

So you did. You packed up that day and left, traveling solo for centuries as you studied the disease you suffered from.

Luckily, it impacted witches differently than humans. As your lifespan tended to be a lot longer, the disease was longer lasting; escalating at a slower pace before killing you altogether.

For the first hundred years, it had mostly been a consistent burning in your throat and coughing up various flower petals. Miserable, but bearable nonetheless.

After those hundred years, it began to escalate at a quicker pace as the flowers bloomed quicker and sharper. After 200 years of this disease, you were weaker than ever before. Coughing constantly, a never ending sensation of your insides burning, vomiting flower petals and blood.

Yes, there was the option of surgery, but you couldn’t bring yourself to allow that option to become a reality. You didn’t want to forget the love you held for Rio and Agatha. They had shown you kindness and softness like none other. You would die before you let yourself remove the memory of them from your very soul.

And you were getting close. You knew your time was running out.

And so, after another long day of slowly dying, you stared up at the sky, longing for your loves, even though you knew it could never be.

It was then that you felt yourself being sucked into the ground beneath you, and you let out a yelp at the shock.

Before you knew it, you were clawing your way out of the ground, now in a completely unfamiliar place. You were on a path in a strange, dystopian-looking forest. You could feel the magic buzzing around you as you pulled yourself up from the ground.

“Who is that?”

“I thought we already got a green witch?”

You heard a gasp and looked up to meet a pair of blue eyes you had longed for night after night for the past 200 years.

“Agatha,” you said quietly, tears welling in your eyes before you could stop them.

A familiar voice said your name and you shuddered at the sound.

“Rio.”

The two women stared at you and you stared back, unsure of what to say.

“So, are you gonna introduce us to the new girl, or…” a witch in a pink dress asked and you broke your intense stare-down to introduce yourself by name to the coven of witches.

“I’m a green witch,” you explained.

“We’ve already got one,” a teenage boy said, pointing at Rio awkwardly.

You knew well and good that Rio wasn’t here as a green witch, she was here on work business, but you didn’t want to blow what seemed to be a cover, and you also didn’t have a damn clue where you were, so you played along.

“Well, you know summoning spells, you never know how many you’re gonna get…” you tried cautiously, still feeling the gaze of your former housemates burning into the side of your head.

“Y/N, a word?” Agatha finally asked, and you gulp before nodding and following her and Rio to a secluded part of the forest.

“Hey guys…what’s up?” you asked with an awkward smile, trying to ease the tension.

Rio narrowed her eyes at you, crossing her arms. “What’s up is that you up and left 200 years ago without so much as a word to either of us. Care to explain?”

You tried to look to Agatha for support, but she wouldn’t meet your eyes. Your stomach turned at the thought that you had upset these women you loved so deeply.

You took a deep breath, staring at the ground. “I had some business to attend to. I didn’t want either of you to get wrapped up in it.”

“Was your business ‘killing yourself?’ You look rough,” Rio said, a teasing smirk hiding her worry.

“Thanks,” you rolled your eyes, some tension releasing from your shoulders at the knowledge that Rio wasn’t angry enough to ignore you.

“You left without so much as saying goodbye,” Agatha said quietly. She sounded so hurt, and you couldn’t believe you had brought this on the pair, but you knew they deserved to love each other in peace, not be burdened at being the cause of your death.

“Ags, I’m really sorry, I should’ve said goodbye, I just-“ you were cut off as a violent coughing fit shook you, causing both women to raise their eyebrows at you.

You turned away from them as you coughed a plumeria flower out of your throat. You quickly slipped the flower into your pocket and wiped a bit of blood from the corner of your mouth before turning to face the two witches again.

The eyes on you were soft and concerned, but you shook your head at them, shutting down their questions before they even asked. “I’m fine, just a cough.”

Rio opened her mouth to protest when a witch sporting orange streaks in her hair interrupted.

“I’m sorry to get in the middle of whatever this reunion is, but I think it’s time for our next trial.”

You furrowed your brows. “Trial?” You began to realize that you had no idea where you actually were.

“Duh, we are on the Witches Road, after all!” The teenage boy exclaimed, leaving you even more confused.

The road isn’t real. You knew all about the song that Agatha had used to lure her victims in.

“Wait, but-“ you stopped yourself from questioning any further when you saw Rio subtly shake her head at you, a silent plea to not reveal the truth of the road to the group.

You nodded in understanding, deciding to save your questions for later. “Alright, where’s the next trial?”

You looked up to see the group staring at something behind you. Agatha and Rio were particularly fascinated by it.

You turned around and your stomach dropped. You saw a cottage. It’s covered in vines and moss, making it appear worn down. But you thought it was beautiful. Perhaps that’s because it was yours. And Agatha’s. and Rio’s.

You looked at the path leading to the cottage. It was covered in flowers. You took a deep breath.

You just got here and already you were being given a trial.

As you and the rest of the coven approached the cottage, you couldn’t help but turn to the women you desire the most for comfort.

Rio had an arm wrapped around Agatha’s waist, her thumb gently stroking the witch’s hip bone. Agatha looked up at her, smiling in gratitude, and Rio pressed a soft kiss to Agatha’s forehead.

Your stomach churned at the sight, and you felt bile rising in your throat. You painfully swallowed it back down, cringing at the effect it had on your throat, already raw from the thorns slowly tearing it to shreds.

“You good?” The witch in the pink dress asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah. Let’s just get this over with.”

The inside of the cottage looked just like you thought it would.

Home.

The same furniture, same pillows and blankets, same decor on the walls.

Your eyes filled with tears as you remembered all the time you had spent here with the women you loved more than anything.

“Doll,” a gentle voice said, and you turned to see Agatha looking at you softly. She approached you slowly, holding a hand out for you, but you took a step back.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your face and continuing to move through the house.

“This is new,” you heard Rio’s voice from the room resembling your bedroom.

You entered and were greeted with a tapestry on your wall. It showed 5 flowers. Below the woven flowers was a message:

The words she never spoke will slowly begin to choke. For if they never cared, a life cannot be spared.

“It’s my life,” you breathed out, staring in horror at the plants on the tapestry.

Rio nodded, running her fingers along the tapestry as she identified the plants.

“Lily. Rebirth,” she began.

“The birth of your powers, the birth of you as a witch,” Agatha identified.

“Willow Tree. Loss.”

“The loss of your kin. Being abandoned by those you called family,” Agatha continued.

“Red Carnations. Deep, affectionate love.”

Agatha went silent at this, her brows furrowing.

“Daffodil. Unrequited love.”

Rio and Agatha were visibly shaken by this point. What hadn’t you told them? You were in love? With who?

Rio snapped her head to look at you upon seeing the last flower.

“Plumeria,” she said grimly.

Agatha’s eyes were wide. “What does that mean?”

Rio only continued to look at you.

“Rio, what does that mean???”

Her question was answered as you began to cough violently again, the sheer force of it bringing you to your knees.

Agatha rushed over to you in a panic. She looked at the rest of the coven in terror. “What’s happening to her?” she cried as you began to choke.

“The words she never spoke will slowly begin to choke,” the teenager said.

“Hanahaki disease,” the witch in pink breathed out.

“What the hell is that?” Agatha was crying now, watching as petals and thorns made their way out of your mouth covered in blood.

“A disease that affects someone facing unrequited love,” Rio said in realization.

As she put the pieces together she knelt in front of you in an instant, anger coursing through her.

“You left because of this,” she said, her voice low, “You thought we didn’t love you, so you left?” she asked incredulously.

“Didn’t want—you to—-see me die,” you gasped out, fighting for air as you began to cough up more and more blood.

“You’re not dying, Y/N. I won’t take you,” Rio choked out, her sorrow getting the best of her.

“Better this way,” you managed, and Agatha choked out a sob.

“It’s not, doll, we love you, we love you,” she cried helplessly.

The whole coven stood in shock. The two women they feared the most were in the most pain they had seen since they began to walk the road.

Both women hold you tight, desperately trying to convince you of their love.

Rio grabbed your face to look at her. “There’s a reason I took you in that day, mi vida,” she whispered as tears fell down her face, “I felt pulled to you. I knew you would be special to me. Aggie and I love you so much, please believe me.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips to yours, ignoring the blood and petals and thorns and focusing on you. Just you.

When she pulled away you gasped, finally able to gather air into your lungs.

Relief was visible throughout the entire coven. They had only just met you, but seeing how your existence being threatened had brought absolute devastation to two of the most intimidating women on earth had shaken them.

As you began to breathe again, you sagged against Agatha.

“You’re okay, doll, you’re okay now,” she assured you as she gently ran a hand through your hair.

The door to the cottage slammed open, and the rest of the coven took it as their cue to leave, giving you three a moment to recover.

As you laid against Agatha, you looked at Rio with tired eyes. “Sorry for getting blood on you,” you rasped, causing the woman to roll her eyes at you.

“You’re such an idiot, you know that?” She scolded before taking both of your hands in hers. “I. Love. You.”

Tears filled your eyes at her earnest confession. “I’m so sorry I ran,” you began, your body shaking, “I saw the love you had for each other, and how much you had healed each other, and I couldn’t hurt that. I didn’t want you to see me die. It wouldn’t have been your fault,” you said brokenly.

Agatha shushed you, kissing the top of your head. “You shouldn’t have run. It would’ve saved us all 200 years of agony,” she said, and you hang your head in guilt.

But then you felt a cold hand lifting your chin. And suddenly you were 20 years old again, looking into the eyes of Lady Death herself.

But this time, instead of looking at you with curiosity, she looked at you with something much stronger. She looked at you with love.

“But we’ve got you back now,” she said, smiling tearfully at you, “so we’re taking you in. Is that okay?”

Your body wracked with sobs as you nodded, and both women were holding you in an instant. Your back was against Agatha’s front as her arms wrapped around your waist. Rio straddled you, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you close.

And out of the cracked wooden floor of that cottage, something bloomed.

Lavender. Healing. Love.

#agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #rio vidal #rio vidal x reader #agathario x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader

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ddarker-dreams · 5 months ago

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Hugging Preferences.

Chrollo is a deeply possessive man. His destitute upbringing taught him that anything valuable would be eyed, coveted, and potentially stolen. While he doesn’t view you as an object, suppressing this belief system doesn’t come naturally. You’ll notice his demeanor is softer in private but more handsy in public. Specifically, he likes pulling you into a side hug. This amorous display makes it clear to everyone that you’re unavailable. Depending on the situation, it isn’t always a full-blown hug; he’s content with having his hand on your waist when walking together. This serves the additional purpose of granting him peace of mind. It’ll be easier to move you out of harm’s way should his many enemies ever strike.

Satoru couldn’t be normal about you if he tried. If you’ve been separated for any length of time, the instant he lays eyes on you, you’re getting scooped up and spun around. You’re held hostage until his demands are met (the ransom ranging from kisses to mushy declarations of your undying love). And yes, he will do this in front of others. Little Megumi once started walking himself home after witnessing Satoru’s flagrant disregard for public decency. Theatrical as his actions may come across, there’s a real sense of relief on his part. He doesn’t have to be the strongest, the pride of the Gojo clan, or anything else around you. You’re truly the closest thing to heaven on earth.

Despite his vehement denial, physical affection flusters Scaramouche. He isn’t used to it. Being around you makes him feel all weird and warm, like his cognition’s malfunctioning. This doesn’t mean he’s opposed to your touch, but it’s a struggle. Insecurities and doubts plague him. Attachment is a frightening thing, especially after the abandonment he’s experienced. He’s most honest with his desires when asleep. He reaches out subconsciously, his countenance contorting in displeasure until you’re securely in his grasp. Scaramouche clings to you throughout the night. Come morning, mortification settles in. You’re quite literally caged in his embrace. He’ll rapidly shoot out excuses, his face red as a cherry, failing to realize he still hasn’t released you. This doesn’t help strengthen his arguments.

Blade is more touchy-feely than one might expect. He’d gone so long without positive emotions, but that changed with your debut into his life. If you’re both in the same area, there’s a 90% chance he’s fighting the urge to just… squeeze you. It’s akin to cute aggression. You enter his line of sight and his dopamine skyrockets. The first few times this happened, he mistook the rush for an onset of mara, it’s that intense. There’s little indication of this inner battle from his body language — he appears as apathetic as ever. When you turn your back to him though, he pounces, hugging you from behind and resting his chin on your head. Good luck getting anything done because he’s here to stay.

#i love feral men..............................#chrollo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #scaramouche x reader #blade x reader #hxh x reader #jjk x reader #genshin impact x reader #hsr x reader #chrollo brainrot #scaramouche brainrot #gojo brainrot #blade brainrot #my stuff #concepts

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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Suddenly, an idea got to me when I read one comic. So, basically, Yuu sits on bench, looking down and all depressed, then Ace and Deuce see them like this and ask what's wrong, Yuu tells them to sit down, so they can tell them, they sit down, then Yuu says to them: "Guys... A bench is freshly painted..." Idk I just felt like it suits them very well. Cue as they proceed to go through 5 states of grief

First Year Trio vs Freshly Painted Bench

sorry for the wait, I hope you like it <3

Ace and Deuce were minding their own business, strolling through the campus courtyard, when they spotted you sitting on a bench. But it wasn’t just the usual “hey, there’s our friend chilling on a bench” type of sitting. No, you were hunched over, elbows on your knees, staring at the ground like life had personally punched you in the gut and stolen your lunch money.

“Hey, are you okay?” Deuce asked, his brow furrowing in concern. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could recognize a sad face when he saw one.

Ace snorted, nudging Deuce. “Pfft, maybe they just lost at UNO again. Come on, it’s not the end of the world.”

You lifted your gaze ever so slightly, giving them both the most soul-crushing, mournful look. A look that said you’d just seen the darkest depths of human existence. It was the kind of expression usually reserved for people in tragic Shakespearean plays, not normal students in the middle of the afternoon.

“What happened?” Deuce asked, his voice soft, like he was bracing himself for some life-altering news. “Did something really bad happen?”

You motioned for them to come closer. “Sit down,” you said quietly, like someone on the verge of revealing the meaning of life itself.

Deuce’s concern deepened. Without hesitation, he plopped himself down on the bench beside you. Ace, less certain but intrigued by the sheer drama of it all, sat on your other side. The three of you formed a solemn row on the bench, like mourners at the world’s saddest funeral.

There was a long, weighted pause. Both Ace and Deuce waited, eyes wide, as if you were about to drop the most earth-shattering truth bomb of all time.

Finally, Ace broke the silence, his curiosity getting the better of him. “So, uh… what’s wrong?”

You sighed. It was a deep, theatrical sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand years of suffering. Slowly, you turned your head toward them and said, in a voice so grave it could’ve been narrating a tragic documentary:

“The bench… is freshly painted.”

There was a beat. A moment of absolute, deafening silence.

Then:

“WHAT?!” Ace yelped, his face immediately scrunching up in horror. He bolted upright like he’d just sat on a beehive, but it was too late. He glanced down, eyes wide, at the back of his pants, and sure enough—a vibrant, shiny streak of wet paint was smeared across his clothes.

Deuce’s reaction was slower, but only because he was in denial. “No, no, no, wait, it can’t be—” He reached a hand back to touch his pants, and the moment his fingers brushed the sticky surface, his face fell into the deepest despair. “Oh no… nooooooo!”

You stayed seated, as calm as a monk who had achieved inner peace. “Yep,” you said softly. “Just freshly painted.”

Ace, now pacing in front of the bench like a man possessed, threw his hands up in disbelief. “WHY DID YOU TELL US TO SIT DOWN?!” His voice cracked somewhere between fury and absolute confusion.

You shrugged, not even looking at him, your voice still deadpan. “I needed you to understand my pain.”

Deuce, still frozen on the bench like a statue, glanced back at his pants, horrified by the neon streak decorating his backside. “But… but why didn’t you just tell us?” His voice was faint, like he’d just witnessed a crime against humanity.

You finally stood up, stretching a little as if your emotional weight had lifted now that you’d successfully shared your burden. “Because misery loves company,” you said, a tiny smirk playing on your lips. “And now… you get it.”

Ace stared at you, hands in his hair, mouth hanging open. “That’s… that’s messed up, man!”

Deuce, however, was too far gone. He wasn’t even mad anymore. His face was a portrait of pure, unfiltered sadness. “I’m gonna have to wash these, aren’t I? Like, scrub them for hours…”

You nodded solemnly, patting him on the back—though you made sure to avoid touching his pants. “Welcome to the club. It’s going to take at least three washes, minimum.”

Deuce whimpered.

Ace, however, wasn’t done venting. “You couldn’t have just given us a heads-up?! ‘Hey guys, don’t sit here, the bench is painted,’ or something?” He waved his arms wildly as if demonstrating the hypothetical conversation.

You just shrugged. “You looked like you needed to sit.”

“And now I’ll never sit again,” Ace groaned, dramatically flopping back down on the other side of the bench in defeat—only to shoot back up in horror, realizing there was even more paint he hadn’t noticed.

You couldn’t help it. You chuckled.

Ace pointed a finger at you accusingly. “You—this was a trap! A setup! You’re a paint terrorist!”

Deuce, still sitting in quiet despair, muttered, “This is worse than losing at UNO…”

The three of you stood there for a moment in shared misery. Well, you stood. Ace and Deuce just fidgeted around awkwardly, trying to figure out how to move without getting more paint on themselves.

Finally, Deuce sighed. “I guess we’re going to the laundry room, huh?”

Ace groaned, giving you one last betrayed look before shuffling off with Deuce. “This isn’t over. You owe us.”

“Yeah,” Deuce added, still staring forlornly at his pants. “You owe us big time…”

You waved after them, feeling surprisingly lighthearted now that your suffering was mutual. “I’ll buy you guys lunch later!” you called, though you weren’t sure if they even heard you over their grumbling.

As they disappeared into the distance, you sat back down on the cursed bench, content with the knowledge that, while your pants were ruined… at least you weren’t alone.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #reader #ace trappola x reader #ace x reader #deuce spade x reader #deuce x reader #ace trappola #deuce spade

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thewatcher727 · 7 months ago

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Writing Description Notes: Mental Pain

Updated 3rd June 2024 More description notes

The hallucinations were the same as being tortured for real, all of the emotions, all of the trauma, and none of the empathy that would come with such a real life ordeal.

There was something in that shout, a pain behind it. John watched. He watched Jane’s eyes. Then he knew. The anger was nothing but a shield for pain, like a cornered soldier randomly throwing out grenades, scared for his life, lonely, desperate. He breathed in real slowly. What if nothing blew up? What if there were no consequences? Wouldn't John have to calm down? Wouldn't the shield clatter to the ground and let the pain tumble out?

John sees Jane. He does. He sees pain in her eyes. It has sat there for her lifetime, trapped in the confusion we all carry. He sees love too, the love she would have given were it not for the scars. It's still there, and one day he will set her free. John is not perfect, yet he loves her, and he knows what love means. He asks for a chance to find his feet, to stop his own head from spinning, and he will prove it. There is so much of her life that is a hell for her soul, and she stays there from strength rather than weakness, he knows. So he wants to join her in that pain, walk with her, feel the same torture he knows she bears. And one day, he will find just the right way to bring her home, his love.

Jane's emotional pain seeps out in her words, and it hurts John to hear them, hurts to read them. He senses what is inside that troubles her, yet also there is so much goodness there too—bravery, tenacity. She holds on like a fighter, every morning rising at the ringing of "the bell." All he can offer her is a brighter horizon, a hope that one day she will be free of all this. One day there will be choice, freedom, and security of food, shelter on a healthy Earth.

Emotional pain leaves invisible scars, yet they can be traced by the most gentle of touch.

Nobody wants to hurt, yet if John's pains can be used to help others, he feels blessed. Anyhow, perhaps his scars are his road-map; maybe he would be lost without them.

He turned towards him, a pained expression plastered across his face, teeth clenched as he tried to steady his breathing.

Gripping the ground as hard as he could to take some of the pain away.

It was as if a thousand needles of doubt and self-loathing were piercing her heart with each passing moment, leaving behind a tapestry of scars that only she could see.

It was as though a veil of sadness had been draped over her eyes, distorting her perception of the world and casting everything in shades of gray.

The weight of sorrow was a constant companion, pressing down on his shoulders until he felt he might collapse under its burden.

Her mind was a battlefield, each thought a landmine ready to explode with memories she wished she could forget.

The storm inside his head raged on, a relentless barrage of thoughts and fears that left him feeling exhausted and defeated.

It was as if a dark cloud had settled over his soul.

Her chest felt hollow, a yawning emptiness where joy and peace once resided, now replaced by a gnawing ache.

His mind was a prison denying him the freedom to live fully.

She felt like she was drowning in an ocean of despair, every attempt to surface met with another wave of hopelessness.

Every laugh felt hollow, every smile forced, as if she were playing a role in a play she didn't want to be in.

She felt like a ghost, wandering through life unnoticed, her pain invisible to everyone but herself.

The nights were the worst, when the darkness outside matched the darkness within, and sleep was a distant dream.

It was like a fire burning within, consuming all that was good and leaving behind nothing but ashes of what used to be.

The pain was a silent scream, a cry for help that no one could hear.

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gogobootz1 · 6 months ago

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Dog Day Afternoon

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: New to town but oh-so sought after, a few stumbles might just lead you to love

Word Count: 3k

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Today, I write with news from the North. The reclusive Duke of Devonshire has come to London. It seems that after the death of his younger brother some time back, he is determined to find his eldest daughter, the new heir, a husband. The lady is supposedly very beautiful and will no doubt consume all of the attention of eligible young bachelors. I only bid good luck to her competition, as they will surely need it.

The fluffy tails of your two best friends could not keep still. The black Newfoundlands you had trained from puppyhood loved carriage rides, mostly because they loved meeting the horses before and after. You were sure they'd grow even more excited when you arrived at the park.

As the carriage slowed, you smiled, eager to get them some exercise. Your maid stepped out first, and you momentarily handed her both dogs' leads. Accepting a hand down from a footman, you turned to take them back when they broke free of her grasp entirely. Worse yet, they took off at a run.

You called after them, then whistled, but they were determined. Usually, they didn't give you any trouble with recall. Reaching for the dog whistle you kept on your person, you found nothing.

Without a second thought, you took off after them.

"My Lady!" Your maid called from behind you, panicked. You paid her little heed, anxious to have your babies back safe.

Park patrons stood as your dogs, followed by yourself, ran past. They gawked openly at the strange scene put on by an unknown young lady.

You were relieved when they slowed, but it didn't take long for them to sprint off again. They rounded a corner, quick as lighting. You kept after them, unable to see the obstacle around the bend.

Crashing right into someone's back, the two of you stumbled. The poor gentleman in front of you took the brunt of the impact, but you didn't have time to stay and make a formal apology. Staggering a bit, you resumed your chase.

"Sorry!" You yelled over your shoulder.

"Wait! Miss," the man called after you but gave up as you ran further away.

When your dogs ran off the path and into a clearing where people were picnicking, you grew really worried. Chasing after them on a trail was one thing, but ruining the outings of fellow nobility would be an altogether worse embarrassment.

You stopped in your tracks when you realized who the boys were scampering up to: your little sister. Abigail sat on a blanket with a girl who looked to be about her age. In her mouth was the dog whistle. You tended only to use that whistle when you took them out in the woods, and you'd trained them to run back to you at the sound of it. It gave you peace of mind knowing that you could call them back at any time if they went too far off in the forest or on one of your walks.

Abigail seemed pleased to see the two of them. A surprised grin graced her face as she patted them. They were even happier to see her, showering her in kisses. "Hoo-y? Moo? What are you doing here?" She giggled.

Her laughter stopped when she saw you stalking over. Thoroughly out of breath, you crossed your arms when you reached them. The three of them looked guiltily up at you. With a snap, your dogs came to sit on either side of you. Although your countenance was thoroughly enraged, scratching behind both dogs' ears decreased your intimidation factor.

"Why on Earth did you steal that?" You nodded toward your whistle.

"I think it makes for a chic necklace," Abigail said defensively. You stuck a hand out, and she reluctantly placed the whistle she'd put on a chain in it.

"And why on Earth were you using it?" You asked expectantly.

She held her hands up in surrender, "Miss Hyacinth was skeptical that the whistle could not be heard with human ears. I was simply showing her how it worked." Abigail was clever- you'd give her that. You could hardly scold her in front of her companion, and you wouldn't dream of scolding the other young girl for something so clearly not her fault. Using her as a human shield was a cowardly tactic by your sister, however. "And I thought you weren't arriving until later!"

"They were antsy. I figured I could abandon the harp in favor of allowing them some exercise," you explained, then glared at her, "This was not the type of exercise I had in mind."

"But Hoo-y and Moo love running free," she pouted at you.

"They are not allowed to run free in public spaces where I must chase after them!" You snapped at her. Crouching to get closer, you reached into your purse and gave both dogs a scrap of jerky. "Huginn and Muninn are both well-behaved gentlemen, and you may have tarnished their good names by causing this wild romp!"

"Huginn and Muninn? Does that make you Odin?" A deep voice called from behind you. You rose and turned to see a tall, handsome gentleman with dark hair.

His question took you by surprise. Most people did not understand their names. You blinked for a second before collecting yourself, "No." It was hardly a smart reply, but it was the most you could manage after chasing your dogs a few hundred meters. You shook your head a little, vaguely embarrassed by your answer, before turning back to the girls.

"Would you please excuse Lady Abigail, Miss Hyacinth?" The bright young lady nodded at you with a pleasant smile before you even finished speaking, "The least she can do after causing such trouble is help me walk the dogs." You directed the last part toward your sister, who reluctantly stood. Taking one of the leads from your hand, she bid goodbye to her companion before walking off. You nodded at the young lady and the handsome stranger before following after her.

Benedict watched you walk away from his sister's picnic spot, only slightly removed from the rest of the family's. He collapsed down next to Hyacinth and stole a grape from her plate, "Who was that?"

"My new friend, Abigail," she replied, smacking his wrist. He ate the grape anyway.

"And the older one?"

"Her sister," Hyacinth looked at him skeptically, "why do you ask?"

Benedict thought of how you'd practically pushed him to the ground in the middle of the walkway, then ran from the scene. "No reason," he shrugged.

——————————————

The first ball you'd be attending was later that evening, and you were incredibly nervous. Sat on the floor of the library, you brushed through Muninn's coat in an attempt to calm your nerves. Waiting for your father to finish changing was making you even more anxious, the dread just building up in your body.

"Why are you on the floor?" His voice finally came from the doorway.

"His coat needed brushing," you shrugged innocently. The Duke waved at you to come join him, and you stood, brushing some fur off yourself. Muninn stood, too, and closely followed as you joined your father.

"You're only lucky he didn't slobber on you," your father shook his head at you fondly, offering his arm.

Taking it, you made one last bid to skip the event, "Remind me why we are attending this?"

"A future Duchess needs a husband," he said simply.

"Does she really?" You asked wryly.

"No," your father answered seriously, causing you to stop. "Well, only if she should like a Duke or Duchess of her blood to follow in her footsteps," he tugged on your arm to keep you walking.

That only made you feel worse. While before you felt nervous, guilt was now in the mix. What if that didn't happen?

"If you never marry, I will not love you any less," he revealed. "I only ask that you try," your father asserted, "but if there is nary a man up to snuff, I would have you die a spinster." You laughed at that, feeling some pressure relieved. He joked with you for the duration of the carriage ride and up until you were announced at the ball.

"Now presenting; His Grace Daniel, Duke of Devonshire, and his daughter Lady-"

The entire company of the room turned to watch the two of you descend the stairs.

"What? Is there something on my face?" Your father whispered to you jokingly.

"Oh, only that awful mustache," you whispered back playfully. You caught the corner of his lip twitching as he tried not to laugh at the jab at his expense.

A few more seconds of staring had you whispering to him again, "I see now why you never leave the house." That earned a huff of a laugh from him.

"Let us thank our host, then visit the refreshments," he relayed the plan.

"Excellent idea," you replied quietly as he dragged you toward a finely dressed older woman.

"Lady Danbury," your father nodded at her in greeting.

"Lovely to see you again, Your Grace. It's been quite some time," she smiled at him knowingly.

"Indeed it has," he laughed, "may I present my daughter?" You smiled then, giving her a polite nod as well.

"My, how you've grown, my lady. The last time I saw you, you were far shorter than me," she chuckled, and you laughed politely with her. Unfortunately, you had no memory of that meeting. It must have been a long time ago, and she must have visited your home at Chatsworth House.

It was only a few more moments of small talk before your father excused the two of you, under the guise of not impeding her from talking to other guests.

He fixed you both a glass of lemonade at the refreshments table before he was pulled away. As much as he hated socializing, people loved him. He sent you an apologetic glance as he left. You only shook your head at him, smiling.

You took a brief glance around the room, noticing a few debutantes conversing near you. You sent them a smile, but they sneered in reply and closed ranks. Stunned at their response, you didn't quite know what to do.

"They can be rather mean," you turned to find a young red-headed woman beside you. "Not to mention jealous," she said helpfully.

"Jealous?" You were confused. They hadn't even met you. "Of me?"

"Oh, yes," she laughed a bit. "Haven't you read Lady Whistledown?"

You were embarrassed to have no idea of what she spoke, "I haven't met her. Is she in attendance?" That got an even greater laugh from your companion.

"Lady Whistledown is a gossip columnist and a rather popular one at that," she informed you, and you felt foolish for your last comment. "She wrote about you in her latest issue."

"Really?" You were stunned, as you'd only recently arrived in London.

"She predicted you'd steal the attentions of every available gentleman away from your fellow debutants," she nodded.

"No wonder they hate me," you sighed, sorry to have made a bad impression on the debutants before making their acquaintance. "Oh, I'm sorry, I still haven't introduced myself!" You were eager to make at least one good first impression.

"I'm Penelope Featherington," she said with a smile.

"I must admit, Miss Featherington," you shook your head, "I think Lady Whistledown's prediction will prove incorrect." She tilted her head and gestured for you to go on, "I've not been approached by a single gentleman."

Penelope took a quick look around the room, accidentally meeting a few pairs of eyes. Plenty of people had already been looking in your direction. She smiled a bit at your obliviousness, "I think perhaps they're just intimidated."

"Oh no," your eyes widened, "have I done something wrong?"

"Not at all," she assured you, "I think it's just... no one wants to take the first shot at a great stag and miss."

"I'm not sure I like being prey in this metaphor," you deadpanned, causing her to laugh once again.

It seemed one young gentleman mustered the courage to be the first to approach, and he really was young. "Good evening, ladies," he greeted you both, then offered you his hand, "would you care to dance?"

You placed your hand lightly in his but sent Penelope a look as he led you off. She giggled as you went. From there, you were off to the races. Dance after dance, gentleman after gentleman, you were exhausted.

"Please excuse me, sir, I'm feeling rather parched," you did not even recall this one's name.

"Oh no, please, my lady, I shall fetch a beverage for you," he nodded, "stay right there! Don't move!" He kept eye contact with you as he walked backward a few paces. You couldn't help but walk backward away from him, and you continued to do so even after he'd scurried off.

In fact, you retreated so far back that you retreated right into someone else's back. You both turned.

“You rather love bumping into me,” the gentleman you’d seen earlier said.

“Excuse me?” You certainly hadn’t seen him before this morning, so you had no idea what he meant by that smart comment. Your offense at his statement outweighed the sway of his good looks, unlike earlier.

“This makes twice,” he insisted, “once chasing after your ravens and once just now.”

It took you a second to catch up, “It was you I knocked over in the park earlier?!” Embarrassment rolled over you like a wave. “Oh God,” this was awful, “I am so incredibly sorry. Truly, I am mortified. And I would have apologized earlier, I-“

He only laughed a bit, “It’s quite alright. I got the sense you were in a rush.” His teasing tone brought a smile to your face.

“They’re usually so well-behaved,” you assured him, “I’m afraid my sister was behind the debacle.”

“Oh, yes, she was sitting with Hyacinth, was she not?”

“You know Miss Hyacinth?”

The gentleman grinned and bowed, “Benedict Bridgerton, her brother.”

“Very nice to meet you,” you smiled, “officially.”

“I’m not sure I caught your name,” right as he asked, you heard it being called.

“My lady?” You whipped around, and spotted the gentleman you’d abandoned searching for you. Wincing, you scuttled toward the closest pillar and ducked behind it. Benedict stayed put, but watched you run off with great amusement. After a moment, he chose to follow you.

“Are you hiding?” He teasingly asked.

You peered around the pillar, hoping the man had walked away. When you saw he hadn’t, you ducked away again, “yes!”

Benedict blinked at you, smiling, “Why?”

“My feet hurt,” you confessed, “I have danced every dance. I haven’t sat down in hours. Frankly, I’m surprised so many are interested after my jaunt through the park.”

“Perhaps they were impressed by your display of athleticism,” a crooked grin crossed his face. You leveled him with a look.

“There you are, my lady,” you jolted at the foreign voice, and Benedict had to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. “I could not find you, so I’m afraid I drank your lemonade as well,” you could see Benedict’s shoulders shake with laughter, “Are you ready for our next dance?”

A look of pure horror must have crossed your face, because Benedict finally intervened, “I’m afraid she’s promised the next dance to me.” He pulled a pencil from a pocket in his jacket and outstretched one hand to you. You held out the arm your dance card was attached to, “In fact, I’ve very generously been granted all her remaining dances.” He winked at you as he filled in the four remaining spots. You fought off a grin.

“I see,” the man you interrupted you said sourly. He turned on his heel and marched away. Neither you nor Benedict could stop your laughter at his reaction.

“It is not my intention to further burden your feet,” he assured you after a moment, “I only hoped to dissuade him.”

“You did a fine job,” you grinned at him, “you have my gratitude.”

“I think I rather scandalized him,” Benedict chuckled, and you shook your head.

“It seems rather easy to scandalize this lot,” you said.

“Well, you’re right about that,” he nodded.

You sighed, “I think they’re all so concerned with presenting themselves as proper and important they forget to consider anyone else. Not one man I danced with asked me about myself.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Benedict shook his head, “I hope the rest of your evening is more relaxing.”

“Thank you,” you nodded at him, “at the very least, I know my dogs will listen to me when I return to them.”

Benedict laughed at that and slightly bowed towards you again, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, my lady. I hope to bump into you again soon.”

Your eyes widened, “Maybe not bump.”

“Goodnight,” he smiled at you and nodded before leaving you free to go find somewhere to sit.

Soon enough, you father found you relaxing on a chaise lounge in a nearby study. He only shook his head, and offered you his arm to depart.

——————————————

The next morning brought with it house calls. You’d been hoping to spend a quiet morning working on a new piece for the harp, as you’d forgone practice the day before. But, much to your chagrin, you were forced to dress and be presentable within only ten minutes of your waking.

It didn’t take long for the sitting room to be bombarded with interested parties, though none were interested enough to truly speak with you. Each brought with him a new bouquet of flowers, and you soon grew worried you’d start sneezing uncontrollably. Eventually, you became so overwhelmed that you bribed poor Abigail to keep them occupied while you disappeared.

The only question she had for you was if you cared what she did to them. You’d given her free rein. With one look at her wicked grin, you fled the room.

Quickly turning the corner to another hallway, you quite nearly crashed into someone.

“That was almost three,” Benedict joked with you.

“Almost,” you highlighted, “but only a close call.”

“True,” he nodded.

"What brings you here?"

Benedict smiled, "I had hoped to call on you. Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"Not at all," you shook your head jovially.

"Excellent! I brought a gift," he produced a brown paper bag. You were slightly confused but glad for something other than flowers.

"Thank you," you reached for it, but he pulled it back.

"Not for you," he shook his head. You blinked back at him, wide-eyed. "Unless you have a proclivity for raw steak." Benedict laughed at the shock on your face, "I thought Huginn and Muninn might enjoy a treat."

A surprised smile eased onto your face. Your eyes sparkled as you looked at him, "I'm sure they'll appreciate it."

"Do you think they might also appreciate a walk in the park?" He asked, "A chance at redemption?"

"I think they'd like that," you grinned widely as Benedict smiled and offered you his arm.

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

He didn't ask a single question! And he was wearing these- FUGLY jeans

Lol I've been toying with this idea since S3 part 1 came out, hope you liked it! I let her live in 2005 Mr. Darcy's luxurious mansion so you're welcome

(sorry for obscure norse mythology references)

#benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton

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goldfades · 2 months ago

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WHO DID THIS TO YOU?──RAFE CAMERON

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for this request, for my lovely jo! @wanderlusturous

─ summary | you and rafe are consumed by an obsessive love, where their madness is fueled by each other. you find exhilaration in pushing boundaries, testing each other’s limits, and the deeper you fall into your shared insanity, the tighter your bond becomes. when rafe finds you crying in your bedroom one day, he loses his shit and is thrown into a silent rage, seeking revenge. and you don't mind, not one bit.

─ pairing | rafe cameron x fem!reader

─ warnings | oh my god, where do i even begin?? obsessive rafe, like insane but reader reciprocates it. a few kisses but mostly just insane stuff. mention of drugging (not to reader), hacking (?), idk what else but this is lowkey insane...

─ ev's notes | im gonna be honest, i don't know if i like this... but lmk if yall enjoyed it. it's a little too dark-themed for me and i got into it until i reread it and realized that it was lowkey insane but hey!!! whatever!!! anyway, pls lmk if this was too dark.. or if you enjoyed it. also, sorry to any becca's out there, it was just the first name that popped up. any feedback is always very appreciated!

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

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The night is suffocating, thick with tension that mirrors the pulse racing in your veins. Every sound, every breath, seems amplified, as if the world knows what’s coming. You stand by the dock, your eyes on the dark water ahead, but your thoughts are elsewhere—on him.

Rafe.

You can already feel him, even when he’s not here. The way your skin hums when you think of him, the way your pulse skips in sync with his name. No one gets you like Rafe does. No one makes you feel like the world is spinning off its axis just by looking at you. He’s chaos, destruction wrapped in a pretty face, and you... you crave it.

The roar of an engine breaks through the night. You don’t turn, but a slow smile curls on your lips. You feel the heat of his presence before you even hear his footsteps.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Rafe’s voice is a low drawl, but there’s something manic beneath it, something that sparks against the madness in you.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. There’s that look again. That wild, possessive look that sets your blood on fire. He’s close now, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him, feel the tension in the air tighten like a noose around your neck.

“Neither could you,” you reply, your voice low, daring.

He grins, a sharp, dangerous thing. “You’re right. I can’t.”

His fingers brush your arm, just a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to ignite something violent between you. This—this is what you live for. The thrill. The madness. The way Rafe looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane, and maybe that’s what scares you the most.

Because you’re not sane.

Not anymore.

You can’t even remember why you broke up with him a few months ago, but all you know is that it got overwhelming. There was something suffocating about it—about him. The way he always knew where you were, who you were with, what you were thinking before you even said it. At first, it was intoxicating, the way he could read you like no one else ever could, like you were the only two people on earth and no one else mattered. But then… it was too much. His intensity felt like drowning in quicksand, slow but relentless. And for a moment, just a moment, you thought maybe you needed air.

But standing here now, with the salt stinging your nostrils and the wind howling like some kind of omen, you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave him.

Because there he is—Rafe Cameron, walking toward you like the world is his and you’re his prize, eyes locked on you in a way that makes your chest tighten, your stomach coil in knots. He’s dangerous in all the ways that matter. Not just because he’s reckless and violent (though God knows he is), but because of how he makes you feel. Alive, in a way that hurts. Like the rush you get standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing one wrong step and it’s all over, but you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward, just to feel the thrill of almost falling.

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s so close you can smell the gasoline and smoke on his clothes, the wild energy pouring off him in waves. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters, like you’re the oxygen he’s been deprived of for too long, and suddenly it all makes sense again. The madness. The break-up. The inevitable pull back to him.

“Why’d you leave me?” His voice is low, rough like gravel. His eyes burn with something fierce, and you can feel it sinking into you, clawing its way under your skin. He’s not asking because he doesn’t know. He’s asking because he wants to hear you say it.

You stare at him, heart pounding, pulse thrumming in your ears like a warning. But instead of stepping back, you step forward, closing the small gap between you two. Your breath mingles with his, the night air thick with unsaid things, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something irreversible. Like if you take one more step, there’s no going back.

But isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? The danger. The thrill. The sick, twisted excitement of being so intertwined with him that you forget where he ends and you begin.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, even though that’s not the full truth. You do know. You left because you were scared. Scared of how much you wanted him, needed him, even when it hurt. Scared of the fact that the line between love and obsession blurred so fast with him that you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His jaw tightens, and his hands, those rough, calloused hands that have touched you in ways no one else ever has, reach out. He grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you swear you can see the wild, unhinged thing lurking just behind his eyes. It’s the same thing you see in yourself when you look in the mirror. The madness that ties you to him, binds you like a curse.

“You do know,” he says, voice dark and demanding. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, slow, like he’s testing how far he can push you before you break. “You just won’t say it.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but it’s not fear. It’s something else, something deeper. Something that feels like surrender and power all at once. You lean into his touch, letting his hand curl around the side of your face, the heat of him soaking into your skin like a drug.

“I couldn’t handle it,” you admit, the words thick and heavy in your throat. “You. Us. It was too much.”

Rafe’s lips curl into a smirk, but it’s not a kind one. It’s dark, possessive. “Too much? You know you liked it. You loved it.” His hand tightens slightly on your jaw, just enough for you to feel the edge of his control, like he’s reminding you who he is. What he is. “You loved me because of how fucked up we are. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

You swallow hard, heart thundering in your chest, because deep down, you know he’s right. You’ve never felt more alive than when you were with him, caught up in the madness of it all. The fights, the passion, the way you both pushed each other to the edge and then pulled each other back, only to do it all over again. It was twisted, dangerous, and wrong in every way, but that’s what made it irresistible.

“I did,” you confess, and it’s like a weight lifts off your chest, even as you feel yourself falling back into him, back into the chaos. “I do.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something darker, hungrier. His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of hesitation, any crack in your resolve. But there’s nothing. You’re not the same person who left him. Maybe you never really left at all.

Rafe’s hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until his lips hover just inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, and before you can respond, his mouth crashes into yours, hard and demanding.

It’s not gentle. It’s never been gentle with Rafe. His kiss is all teeth and tongue, like he’s trying to devour you, claim you all over again. And you let him, because deep down, you crave it just as much as he does. The fire, the chaos, the way he makes you feel like you’re spinning out of control but somehow exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, your lips swollen, your pulse racing like you’ve just run a marathon. His hands grip your waist now, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the heat of his body searing into yours.

“Tell me,” he says, voice low and dangerous, his eyes boring into yours. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you don’t hesitate. “I’m yours.” And you are, completely, utterly, unashamedly his.

And just like that, you’re back where you started.

───MONTHS LATER . . .

“God fucking damn it, if you don't tell me right now, I'm gonna lose my shit!” Rafe shouts, his voice cracking like thunder in the small living room as he throws the beer bottle against the wall.

Glass shatters everywhere, scattering across the floor, but you don’t even flinch. You’ve seen this before. Hell, you’ve lived it. The rage, the temper, the chaos—it's like a script you’ve both memorized by heart.

You lean back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him like you would a caged animal—wild and unpredictable. He’s pacing now, his movements sharp and erratic, the muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly you wonder if they might snap. His eyes are wild, blue like ice but burning with something untamable, something dangerous. He’s teetering on the edge, that fine line between fury and desperation, and you know it won’t take much to push him over.

But you don’t care. Not right now.

“Rafe, calm the fuck down,” you say, your voice steady, almost bored. You know that’ll get to him. It always does. Nothing makes him crazier than when you don’t give him the reaction he’s fishing for.

His head snaps in your direction, eyes narrowing as he stalks toward you like a predator honing in on prey. He stops just inches away, towering over you, his chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He’s so close now that you can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his skin. But you don’t move. You stand your ground, looking up at him with a calm that borders on defiance.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he spits, voice laced with venom. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. “I’m sick of your bullshit! You think you can just stand there like you’re better than me, like you’re not a part of this, but guess what, baby? You are. You always have been.”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing as a slow smile creeps across your lips. “You’re being dramatic, Rafe,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, you gonna break something else? Or are you actually gonna say what’s bothering you for once?”

That does it.

He slams his hands down on the counter behind you, trapping you between his arms, his face just inches from yours. His eyes blaze with fury, but beneath it, you see something else—something raw, something that makes your stomach twist in knots.

“Don’t play games with me,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “I know what you’re doing. You think you can just push me around, mess with my head, and I’ll keep coming back like a fucking dog, huh?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking, heart racing in your chest but refusing to show it. You can feel the tension crackling between you like electricity, the air thick with it, suffocating. This is what it always comes down to with Rafe—this toxic push and pull, this need to break each other just to see what’s left after the pieces fall apart.

“You think I’m the one messing with your head?” you say, your voice low, challenging. “Maybe you should take a look in the mirror, Rafe. You’re not exactly innocent in this, are you?”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he’s going to explode. But instead, he just stares at you, eyes flickering with something dark, something primal. Then, slowly, he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Innocent?” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Baby, I’ve never claimed to be innocent. You knew exactly who I was when you got into this.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your lips grazing the corner of his jaw as you whisper back, “Yeah, and that’s why I’m not scared of you.”

His breath hitches, just for a second, and you feel a surge of satisfaction. You’ve always known how to push his buttons, how to throw him off balance, even when he’s at his most dangerous. It’s a game you’ve played a thousand times before, and you both know how it ends—chaotic, messy, with both of you circling back to the same place.

But this time feels different.

There’s something darker in the way he’s looking at you, something that feels more like possession than anger. Like he’s not just mad because you’re fighting—he’s mad because he can’t stand the thought of you slipping away. Because he knows, deep down, that no matter how hard you push him, he’ll always want you. Need you.

“You don’t get to walk away from me,” Rafe says, his voice low, deadly. “Not this time.”

You feel his grip tighten on the counter behind you, his body pressing against yours as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together, like if he holds on tight enough, you won’t be able to escape. But he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that you’re already too far gone. That the very thing he’s holding on to is slipping through his fingers, and there’s nothing either of you can do about it.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you say softly, a cold smile on your lips. “I can walk away whenever I want. I just choose not to.”

And with that, you duck under his arm, slipping out from between him and the counter. His eyes follow you, wide with disbelief, rage bubbling just beneath the surface. You know he’s about to lose it, to completely unravel. But you don’t turn back. Not yet.

Because this time, you want him to come after you.

And he always does.

Rafe’s eyes darken as you slip past him, and for a moment, the room goes deadly silent. The tension is thick, heavy like a storm cloud waiting to burst. You know exactly what’s coming, and it sends a thrill down your spine. You can almost feel it—the moment he snaps, the second his control shatters. It’s a twisted game, one you’ve played too many times before, and every time, you push him a little harder, a little further, just to see how far he’ll go for you.

You take slow, deliberate steps toward the door, your back turned to him, feeling the heat of his gaze sear into you. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching, every muscle in his body tensed like a predator stalking its prey. The air feels electric, charged with a violence that’s always been just beneath the surface between you two.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp and biting. You stop, but you don’t turn around. Not yet.

“Does it matter?” you ask, voice calm, almost teasing. “I thought I could walk away whenever I wanted, remember?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You know you’ve hit a nerve. He hates when you challenge him, hates when you act like you have the upper hand. But that’s what makes it so addictive—pushing him to his limit, watching him unravel in front of you, knowing that no matter how hard he fights it, he’ll always come back to you.

Because he can’t help it. Neither of you can.

Suddenly, you hear his footsteps behind you, fast and heavy, and before you can react, his hand grips your arm, yanking you back toward him with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you. He spins you around, his face inches from yours, eyes blazing with fury.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. His grip tightens on your arm, fingers digging into your skin, but the pain only makes your pulse quicken, your breath hitch in your throat. There’s something about the way he looks at you—like he’s on the verge of losing control, like he’s barely holding himself together—that sends a thrill through you.

“Let go of me, Rafe,” you say, your voice daring him, even though you know you don’t really want him to.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you closer, his other hand gripping the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at him. His chest is heaving, his eyes wild, but there’s something else there, too—something desperate, like he’s terrified of losing you, like he’s clinging to you with everything he has left.

“You think you can just walk away?” he snarls, his breath hot against your face. “After everything? After all the shit we’ve been through? You really think I’m just gonna let you go?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking, your heart racing, but there’s no fear. Not with him. There never is. Instead, you feel the pull again—the twisted, sick need to see how far you can push him, how deep his obsession goes.

“I think you don’t have a choice,” you say, your voice steady, even though your pulse is hammering in your ears.

His grip tightens, his jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscles twitching beneath his skin. For a second, you think he’s going to snap—really snap—but then, just as quickly, something shifts in his expression. The anger doesn’t fade, but it’s joined by something darker, something raw and consuming.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers, his voice barely audible but laced with danger. “You don’t get to decide when this ends. I do.”

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours, rough and demanding, as if he’s trying to prove a point. It’s not a kiss; it’s a claim, a reminder that you belong to him, whether you want to admit it or not. His hands tighten on you, pulling you impossibly closer, and you can feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained violence simmering just beneath the surface.

But instead of pulling away, you kiss him back with just as much fire, matching his intensity. It’s always been like this between you two—this chaotic, messy whirlwind of emotion that neither of you can control. You push, he pulls, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you find something that feels like love, even though you both know it’s something darker, something more dangerous.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, your lips swollen and bruised. His hand stays on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that’s both possessive and tender, like he’s reminding himself that you’re still here, still his.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough, eyes blazing as he stares down at you. “You’ve always been mine.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to push him away and run as far as you can. But there’s a bigger part of you, a darker part, that knows he’s right.

You’re his. You always have been.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m yours.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick and heavy, and for a moment, everything else falls away. The anger, the tension, the broken glass on the floor—it’s all background noise now. All that matters is the two of you, standing here in this twisted, fucked-up mess of a relationship, knowing that no matter how many times you try to break free, you’ll always end up right back here.

With him.

Rafe’s grip on you softens, just slightly, and for the first time in what feels like hours, the intensity in his eyes eases. But it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next time one of you decides to test the limits again. Because there will be a next time. There always is.

“You’re not leaving me again,” he says, his voice softer now, but no less serious. “Not ever.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Because deep down, you know that no matter how much you might want to, no matter how many times you tell yourself you can walk away, you won’t.

You never could.

And Rafe knows it, too.

───

You don’t usually cry. Not ever. Tears are something you’ve learned to bury deep down, hidden under layers of indifference and biting sarcasm. But tonight, they come, hot and angry, streaming down your face as you sit curled up on the edge of the bed, hands trembling in your lap. The weight of the evening presses down on you, your mind reeling from everything that happened.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not tonight.

Your phone buzzes again on the nightstand, but you ignore it. You can’t deal with it right now. You don’t want to see the messages or hear the apologies. You don’t want to relive what just went down.

You wipe at your face roughly, trying to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. The shaky breath you let out only betrays you further, and you feel the tears well up again. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound, not wanting him to hear you.

But, of course, Rafe hears everything.

The door swings open, and Rafe steps inside, his broad frame filling the doorway. He looks at you, really looks at you, and in an instant, his expression darkens. His blue eyes narrow as they sweep over you, taking in the tear-streaked face, the hunched shoulders, the way your body is wound tight like a coiled spring, ready to snap. His jaw tightens, and you can practically feel the shift in the air around him.

“What happened?” His voice is low, dangerous, barely restrained. It’s not a question—it’s a demand.

You shake your head, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing, Rafe. Just forget it.”

But you know better than to think he’ll let it go. The second you met him, you realized Rafe Cameron isn’t the kind of guy who “forgets” anything.

He moves closer, the tension in his body palpable. He’s not pacing like he usually does when he’s angry. This is different. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s honing in on the source of your pain, ready to eliminate it. He crouches down in front of you, one hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch is firm, possessive, but not rough—not yet.

“Tell me what happened,” he says again, his eyes boring into yours. “Who did this to you?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should even bring it up. You know how Rafe gets—how he reacts when someone hurts you. And this time, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone close. Someone you thought was your friend.

“It’s—” You start, but your voice cracks, and you quickly bite down, trying to steady yourself. “It was…Becca.”

“Becca?” The name drops like a lead weight between you two, and you can see the recognition flare in his eyes. Becca, your friend for years, the one person outside of him you’ve always trusted. The one person he’s always been wary of.

Rafe’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb brushing over your jaw in a way that makes your pulse race. His voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper. “What did she do?”

You hesitate, but the words spill out before you can stop them. “She—she said some things. At the party tonight. She called me out in front of everyone, said I was using you, that I only stuck around for the money, the attention. She tried to turn everyone against me, Rafe. She made me look… weak.”

His face hardens instantly, and for a split second, you see something flash in his eyes—something dark and lethal. The kind of rage that makes your breath catch in your throat, even though you know it’s not directed at you.

“She said what?” His voice is so low now, it’s almost a growl.

You nod, swallowing hard, feeling the burn of humiliation all over again. “I don’t know why she did it. I thought she was my friend.”

Rafe lets out a slow breath, and the air around him feels like it’s vibrating with the intensity of his anger. He stands up abruptly, pacing the room, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from completely losing it. But you know it’s too late for that.

“I’ll fucking kill her,” he mutters under his breath, but you hear every word. “I’ll ruin her life.”

“Rafe—” You start to protest, but he cuts you off with a sharp look.

“No. No one talks to you like that. Not her, not anyone.” His voice is clipped, sharp, like he’s barely holding back the full force of what he’s feeling. “You don’t deserve this shit. Not from her, not from anyone.”

His protectiveness borders on obsession, but you can’t help but feel a strange comfort in it. It’s twisted, but there’s something about the way Rafe reacts to these things—like the whole world can burn as long as you’re safe—that makes you feel… seen. Important.

“I’m going to fix this,” he says, more to himself than to you, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “She thinks she can talk shit about you? In front of everyone? Humiliate you? Nah. She’s going to regret it. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Rafe,” you say softly, trying to reach for him, but he’s too far gone. You can see it in the way his eyes have glazed over, already plotting, already deciding exactly how he’s going to destroy Becca.

And part of you wants to stop him. Part of you knows that this isn’t the answer, that maybe you should handle it differently, like a normal person would.

But you’re not normal. Not anymore.

“I’m serious,” he says, turning to face you again, his expression deadly serious. “No one fucks with you. Ever.”

His intensity washes over you, and for a second, you feel like you can’t breathe. But at the same time, it fills you with a sense of power, knowing that he’s willing to go to these lengths for you. That he’ll protect you at all costs, no matter how destructive it gets.

You stand up slowly, crossing the room until you’re in front of him, your hand resting on his chest. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Rafe’s eyes flicker down to you, and for a brief moment, you see a softness there, a flicker of the boy beneath all the rage and chaos. “I won’t. But I’m not letting this go.”

You nod, knowing there’s no point in arguing with him. This is who he is—who you both are. Twisted, obsessive, reckless. But it works. Somehow, it works. And deep down, you don’t really want him to let it go.

A few months later, and somehow everything goes to shit for Becca.

It starts small—things that could almost pass as bad luck. First, her new car gets keyed, deep scratches across the side that no amount of buffing can fix. Then her social media accounts get hacked, posts disappearing, weird comments being left on other people’s pages, like someone is deliberately screwing with her life piece by piece. She brushes it off at first, because Becca’s tough. She’s the type of girl who bounces back quickly, who doesn’t let things get under her skin.

But then things escalate. Quickly.

She gets benched during a big volleyball game when her coach suddenly pulls her aside and questions her attitude. The team captain claims Becca’s been talking shit about the coach behind her back, stirring up drama with teammates. The problem is, Becca never said any of it. But now, she’s got a reputation, and people are starting to look at her differently.

Still, she fights through it, determined not to let it get to her. Becca’s always had her eye on the prize: her full ride to UC Berkeley, where she’s set to play volleyball at the college level. That’s her future. Her escape. Nothing can touch that.

Until it does.

The call comes one morning, out of nowhere. Becca’s shaking as she listens to the voice on the other end of the line, her heart plummeting as her coach tells her the news.

“We’ve received the results of your recent drug test, Becca,” the coach says, his voice stern but somehow apologetic. “I’m sorry, but you’ve tested positive for a banned substance.”

Becca’s head spins, her mouth going dry. “That’s impossible,” she blurts out, panic rising in her chest. “I don’t do drugs. I don’t—”

“I know this is hard to hear,” the coach cuts her off, his voice firm. “But the results are what they are. This disqualifies you from the scholarship and the team. UC Berkeley has revoked your offer.”

The words hit her like a sledgehammer. She feels the ground tilt beneath her, everything she’s worked for slipping through her fingers in an instant. She argues, pleads, tries to explain, but the decision is final. There’s nothing she can do.

And that’s when she starts to see it, to feel the weight of something much bigger pressing down on her. This isn’t just bad luck. It’s not a coincidence that her life is unraveling at the seams. No, this feels orchestrated, like someone’s been pulling the strings behind the scenes, watching her fall apart.

That someone is Rafe Cameron.

Rafe can be physical—he wouldn’t hesitate to swing on anyone he deems a threat. But Rafe isn’t a dumbass. He knows that not everything should be dealt with by violence. Some things are better handled with precision, with patience, with slow, deliberate destruction. He knew that punching Becca in the face wouldn’t satisfy him, wouldn’t give him the kind of control he wanted over the situation.

So instead, he used his connections, his money, his influence, all of the tools at his disposal to dismantle her life bit by bit. A hacked account here, a few whispers to the right people there. He didn’t need to lay a finger on her to destroy her. He just needed to plant the seeds of doubt, to set off a chain reaction, and then watch it all come crumbling down.

The drug test? Easy. A little slip of something into her drink at a party when she wasn’t paying attention, followed by a tip-off to the testing agency. The rumors about her trash-talking her coach? Carefully spread by a few well-placed texts to her teammates, pretending to be her. Her social media? That was just for fun, a way to throw her off balance and make her feel like her world was spiraling.

And it worked.

You know all of this, of course. Rafe never bothers to hide things from you. In fact, he’s proud of it, proud of the way he’s dismantled Becca’s life without so much as breaking a sweat. He tells you about it one night while you’re lying together, his arm draped lazily over your waist as he whispers in your ear.

“She thought she could fuck with you,” he murmurs, his voice dark, satisfied. “But now she knows. No one touches what’s mine.”

You should feel guilty. You should feel something for Becca, after all those years of friendship, of thinking she had your back. But all you can feel is a sick sense of satisfaction, like the universe has finally corrected itself. Becca messed with the wrong person, and now she’s paying the price. And as twisted as it is, you can’t help but feel a little thrill at how far Rafe was willing to go for you, how meticulously he destroyed her without you even asking him to.

“You really did all that?” you ask, your voice low, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Rafe shifts beside you, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your neck. “I told you, baby. No one fucks with you and gets away with it.”

You turn your head to meet his gaze, and there’s something dangerous in the way he looks at you, something possessive and wild. It should scare you, but it doesn’t. Not anymore.

Because the truth is, you like it. You like how far he’s willing to go for you, how far he’s willing to take it. There’s something intoxicating about the way he loves you—twisted, obsessive, and all-consuming. It’s not healthy, not normal, but it’s yours. And that’s enough.

You press your lips to his, kissing him fiercely, feeling the heat between you two ignite once again. Rafe kisses you back just as hard, his hands gripping you tightly, like he’s reminding you that you’re his and no one else’s.

As you pull back, your breath ragged, you glance at him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“She won’t come near me again.”

“No,” Rafe says, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. “She won’t.”

And in that moment, you both know it’s true. Becca’s done.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron smut #obx smut #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x you #obx 4 #outer banks 4

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moeitsu · 4 months ago

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Logan Howlett (Wolverine) Headcanons -`♡´-

This is my first time making head canons, and I wanted to keep them sweet and endearing since our boy has been through too much in his very-very long life. As someone who's read a majority of the X-Men comics, I hope you find these true to his character! Enjoy :)

(I got so carried away with this)

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Logan may not say "I love you" often, but he shows it through small, constant touches—a hand on the back, a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, or simply holding hands.

Not a fan of explicit PDA, but will always touch you/stay close in public.

Tough exterior, but when it comes to his partner, he’s an overprotective softie. He’ll insist on walking them home, even if they can take care of themselves.

He can be extremely chivalrous too, always holding open the door for you.

Expresses his love through acts of service. He’ll fix things around the house without being asked, make breakfast before his partner wakes up, or leave a steaming cup of coffee on the counter with a note.

He's always leaving you little love notes if when leaves the house before you or knows he won't be home till late.

Though he pretends to hate it, Logan is a sucker for slow dancing in the kitchen at night, especially if it’s to an old blues or country song.

Any excuse to hold you close to him.

Logan values trust more than anything. Given how many times he’s been betrayed or manipulated, knowing someone trusts him, and that he can trust them in return, is what makes him feel truly loved and secure.

When sharing a bed, Logan always sleeps closest to the door—just in case someone comes through it. It’s a subconscious protective habit.

Always gets better rest with he's sleeping with his partner. The nightmares become less frequent when he's in their arms.

Heaven on earth is when you fall asleep on top of him. Your weight is extremely comforting.

He is incredibly careful with his strength, especially in intimate moments. He’s always conscious of not hurting his partner, and his gentleness with you is something he prides himself on.

I think it would take some convincing for him to be a rough with you. He's a dominant lover for sure, but he doesn't take pleasure in harming his partner.

Logan is an old soul and loves traditional romantic gestures—writing letters, giving flowers, and going for long walks. He may not be vocal about it, but his sincerity shines through.

Actually writes really beautiful poetry but NOBODY will ever read it. The words will die with him...if he ever dies.

God, I just know he is a secret romantic. This is so canon to me.

Tends to murmur endearments in his partner’s ear when they’re alone, things like "darlin’" or "sweetheart," in a tone so low and rough it gives them goosebumps.

Heavy on whispered praises in bed, so low its like he's speaking directly into your mind.

Never, ever forgets a birthday or an anniversary. This goes for all his friends.

Logan is the person everyone goes to when they need to spill their secrets. He never judges, just listens, and gives advice when it’s needed. His friends know their secrets are safe with him.

He's secretly a huge gossip and loves to hear about the young mutants drama. He'll act annoyed but he's listening to every word.

He may not be the most social, but he’s fiercely loyal to his friends. If they’re in trouble, he’s the first to show up, no questions asked.

Incredible memory for his friends’ favorite drinks. When they meet up at a bar, he’ll have everyone’s order ready before they even sit down.

Logan knows when someone needs to talk and when they just need company. He’s the type to sit quietly beside a friend, sharing a drink or a cigar, letting them know they’re not alone.

Perfectly content with sitting in companionable silence for hours.

He’s surprisingly good at cooking, and loves to feed his friends. It’s one of the few domestic things he takes pride in, and he finds peace in the routine of it.

Never breaks a promise, no matter how small. If he says he’ll do it, whether it’s fixing something for you or showing up for a drink, he does it.

Logan brings back small souvenirs from missions for his partner, whether it's a pretty rock he found in a river bed, a flower pressed into his notebook, or a feather tucked into his jacket.

It's his way of saying "I was thinking of you while I was away"

Has a shoebox full of old polaroid's of his long-gone friends. He rarely looks at them, but keeps them to feel connected to those he's lost.

Also writes letters to his dead friends and keeps them in the box as well. It helps him process his grief.

Loves the smell and feel of old books. He can often be found in second-hand bookstores (or Xavier's library), running his fingers over the spines and flipping through the pages just to take in the scent.

Old!Logan needs reading glasses but is too stubborn to admit it. He’ll wear them when he’s alone, grumbling about how small the print is getting these days.

Has a soft spot for classic cartoons like "Looney Tunes." If he’s flipping channels and catches one, he’ll stop and watch, chuckling at the slapstick humor.

Logan is not a morning person. He’s grumpy before his first cup of coffee, and everyone knows to give him space until he’s had it.

"I CAN'T GIRLBOSS WITHOUT MY COFFEE"

He is a creature of habit, and he always orders the same meal at his favorite diners—usually steak, eggs, and a black coffee. The waitstaff know his order by heart.

Logan has a way with animals, even the ones that are usually skittish or aggressive. It’s like they sense he’s one of them, and they naturally trust him.

Modern day disney princess lookin' ass

Logan pretends to hate puns, but deep down, he finds them hilarious. If someone cracks a particularly bad one, he’ll groan, but there’s always a hint of a smile on his face.

*cough cough* I'm looking at you Wade

Ridiculously competitive at board games. Especially Monopoly and Scrabble. He’ll argue over the rules and demand a rematch if he loses.

When Logan is working on something mechanical, like fixing a motorcycle or sharpening his claws, he has a habit of whistling old tunes from the 1940s.

Guilty pleasure for musicals.

I had to put that in I'm sorry...

Has a small collection of vintage lighters from all the places he’s traveled. He likes the look and feel of a good lighter in his hand.

Keeps a collection of old dog tags from the wars he’s fought in. He doesn’t wear them but keeps them as a reminder.

Also has a small but growing collection of "World’s Best" mugs—like "World’s Best Dad," "World’s Best Boss," etc. He picks them up when traveling.

He likes the irony of it, because he would never describe himself as the "World's Best" of anything.

Logan loves the sound of old vinyl records. He has a small collection of blues, jazz, and country albums that he listens to when he wants to unwind.

Secretly believes in superstitions. Like always knocking on wood or avoiding walking under ladders. He knows it’s irrational, but after living as long as he has, he figures it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Hopeless with modern technology. He’s constantly asking for help with his phone, and he’s convinced that A.I. is out to get him.

He’s also been known to tap the screen harder when it doesn’t work, as if that will fix the problem.

Despite everything he’s been through, Logan believes in giving people a second chance. He knows what it’s like to be lost, to make mistakes, and to want to start over. He’s patient with those who are trying to better themselves and is willing to help them find their way.

Logan is a natural born leader.

And he deserves a life full of peace, love, and happiness

Thanks for coming to my TEDtalk!!

#james logan howlett #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #hugh jackman #logan howlett headcanon #logan xmen #xmen comics #deadpool and wolverine #poolverine #marvel #deadpool

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