#things always get worse before they get better

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - NINE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of leukemia; death; pregnancy; abortion.

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe had been through a ton of traumatic bullshit by the age of fourteen. 

His mom had been battling leukemia since he was ten, it started off as an infection—but it turned into one of those long, drawn-out wars that tricks you into thinking there’s hope when there isn’t.

It would go away for a bit, just enough to make everyone think the fight was over, and then it’d come slamming back worse every time.

When he was fourteen, it finally took her for good, when he’d been silly enough to believe she might pull through. 

To be fair, he was only a little kid waiting on a miracle, praying she’d wake up one day magically cured.

Now, when he looked back on it, he hated himself for being so naive. The signs had been there all along, the nurses whispering in the hallways, Ward turning into this void of a human, who looked at him like he didn’t know how to fix it anymore. The talks his mom would have with him about how “no matter what happens, you’ll be okay.”

That phrase haunted him for years.

Her death didn’t wreck him; it tore him apart and left him in tiny pieces that didn’t fit together the same way. He wasn’t the same kid afterward, not even close.

He got angrier, distant. 

He didn’t recognize who he’d been before it all—some kid who really believed in happy endings.

He didn’t believe in much after she died, people let you down, life ripped everything good out of your hands. Why bother holding on to anything at all?

It wasn’t just the grief; it was the guilt.

He’d get mad at her, sometimes, for being sick. He’d slam his door and cry into his pillow because he just wanted a normal life, a mom who wasn’t always tired or in pain or hooked up to some machine.

He hated himself for that. 

The day of her funeral, he remembered everything, even though he wished he didn’t. The church smelled like old wood and lilies, that smell that never left you once it sank in.

People kept coming up to him, patting his shoulder, saying things like, “She’s in a better place now,” or “Stay strong, buddy.” 

He wanted to yell at them, shake them, make them shut up. She wasn’t in a better place. A better place would’ve been here, alive, laughing at his dumb jokes, or rolling her eyes at him for leaving his shoes in the hallway. It wouldn’t be six feet under, locked in a box, shoved into a hole in the ground like she never existed.

He didn’t cry, not when they opened the casket for everyone to say their final goodbyes, not when his dad stood up and choked through some half-assed speech that was mostly apologies and memories, not when they lowered her into the ground, the ropes creaking as her casket disappeared into the earth. 

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead, as if he wasn’t even present. Inside, though?

His his chest was on fire. 

He refused to let even a single tear fall, it felt pointless, it wasn’t going to bring her back. It wasn’t going to fix anything. And deep down, he thought he didn’t deserve to cry, if he’d been stronger if he’d prayed harder, or been a better son, she’d still be alive.

The sound he remembered the most was the thud of dirt hitting the coffin after the service. It was final, loud, the earth itself mocking him. People around him sniffled, hugged each other, wiped at their eyes, but Rafe just stood there, staring down into the hole, fists buried in his pockets until his nails dug into his palms. 

He kept thinking about how wrong this all was, this wasn’t where she was supposed to end up, and none of this was fair.

She should’ve been there.

She should’ve been standing next to him, arm around his shoulder, telling him to stop slouching, whispering something to make him laugh in the middle of all this sadness. Instead, she was in there, soon the dirt would cover it up, and that’d be it. 

Gone. Just like that.

After the service, Rafe didn’t try to stick around for the house gathering, he wasn’t going to survive that. All those people crowding the living room, balancing paper plates of casserole, acting like they gave a fuck about his mom. It was fake, all of it. 

They’d forget about her in a week.

He slipped out when no one was paying attention, cutting through the side yard and heading to the only place that felt halfway normal—the old skate park behind the rec center. It was run-down as fuck, but he and his friends used to hang out there all the time, sitting on the busted ramps, talking trash, or just doing nothing.

When he got there, it was empty, which was exactly what he wanted. He climbed up on the old half-pipe, sitting cross-legged with his elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked pavement below. 

He couldn’t stop replaying the day in his head, the casket, the dirt, the stupid better place comments. His chest felt like it was breaking in a million tiny pieces, but he still couldn’t cry, his body just wouldn’t let him. 

Instead, he just sat there, wishing the world would leave him alone for five minutes.

That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.

He thought about running—didn’t need anyone seeing him like this, especially not now. But then you spoke.

“Figured I’d find you here.”

He didn’t look at you right away, just exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah? Well, congrats. You win the prize.” 

He wasn’t in the mood to be nice, even to you.

But you didn’t flinch, you never did. That’s one of the things he liked about you—you didn’t get scared off when he got like this. You just climbed up next to him and sat down. 

You didn’t try to say all that comforting bullshit people had been feeding him all day, and he was grateful for that.

“You okay?” you asked eventually.

He snorted. “Do I look okay?”

"Sorry, stupid question."

He sighed, hating that he was being asshole to his best friend, "It's fine."

When he finally glanced at you, you were watching him, trying to figure out what to say. It made him nervous, the way you looked at him. You always did that—you cared about what was going on in his head, you saw more than what he let people see.

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I know what you’re feeling,” you said finally. “But you don’t have to do this alone, Rafe. You know that, right?”

If only you knew what you would be going through just three short years later.

He wanted to snap at you, tell you to leave, he was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just stared down at the pavement again, “Feels like I do.”

You didn’t say anything, just moved closer, close enough that your arm brushed against his. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him feel…something, less alone.

Rafe didn’t know how long you both sat there, could’ve been ten minutes, could’ve been an hour. Time didn’t feel real anymore, you didn’t push him to talk, which he appreciated more than he’d ever admit, you didn’t throw out any of those awkward “it’ll get better” lines. You just sat with him. 

“You can talk to me, you know.” 

He shook his head without looking at you. “There’s nothing to say.” His voice was rough, flat. “She’s gone. That’s it.”

“You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t suck."

He clenched his jaw, staring at the pavement like if he looked at you, everything would break.

“What’s the point?” he muttered. “Crying’s not gonna change anything. It’s not gonna—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying to force it back.

“Rafe.” You sighed, and this time “You don’t have to hold it together for anyone, okay? It’s me.”

That broke him, actually broke him. His chest felt tight, suddenly he couldn’t keep it in.

His breath hitched, his shoulders shook, and before he knew it, tears were sliding down his face. He tried to stop it, to hide it, scrubbing his hands over his face, but it was no use.

“Shit,” he choked out, his voice cracking once more.

“Hey, hey,” you said quickly, and before he could pull away or do something stupid like tell you to leave, you scooted over.

He froze for a second, unsure what to do, but then he remembered the funeral, the whispers, the dirt hitting the casket, all the things he couldn’t stop thinking about—he just let it all out.

The first sob ripped out of him so suddenly it startled him, he hunched over, elbows on his knees, hands gripping his hair, as if he could physically stop himself from breaking. But it didn’t work.

Another sob followed, and then another, and soon they were pouring out of him—loud, messy, completely out of his control. He couldn’t stop it, and he hated it.

He leaned into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, and just cried. When he felt your arms instantly wrap around him, pulling him into a hug as if you’d been waiting for his permission, he shattered completely.

“She’s—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to stop, gasping for air as the tears kept coming. “She’s gone. She’s gone, and I—” He broke off.

It was ugly and loud and nothing like how he’d pictured himself breaking down, but he didn’t care. You didn’t tell him it’d be okay or try to make him stop, just held him, your arms tight around him. 

“I miss her,” he whispered, his voice so small it barely sounded like him. “I miss her so much, and I—I don’t know what to do.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this, and part of him hated how exposed it made him feel. He hated crying in front of people—anyone. But right now, with you, he didn’t feel embarrassed. 

“I know,” you nodded, your hand moving in small circles on his back. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I—” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I can’t—this isn’t—it’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” you didn’t want to scare away the fragile pieces of him that were finally surfacing. “It’s not fair. None of it is.”

He couldn’t stop shaking or gasping for breaths that hitched in his chest. The more he tried to push it all backdown, the harder it fought to claw its way out. For years, he’d kept it buried—buried so deep he thought he’d never have to deal with it.

“I hate it,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a jagged mess. “I hate that she’s gone. I hate that I didn’t—” He stopped, gripping his hair harder. “I didn’t do enough. I should’ve been better, done something—anything.”

“Stop. You can’t do that to yourself.”

He shook his head violently, “But I did. I gave up on her. I stopped believing she’d get better, I—I got mad at her for being sick. What kind of son does that? I didn’t even say goodbye the way I should’ve. I just—I left the hospital because I couldn’t take it anymore, and then she—” His voice cracked again, and his hands dropped from his hair to his lap, clenched into fists “She’s gone, and I left. I wasn’t there when she—” His breath hitched, and he buried his face in his hands.

“You’re a kid. It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is.”

“But it feels like it is,” he shot back, “I should’ve done something, anything. I just feel so—” He stopped, letting out a shaky exhale. “Empty. Like nothing I do matters anymore.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way you said it, so certain—He didn’t know why, but it cut through the noise in his head just enough to let him breathe again.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” he admitted, “I don’t know how t-to live without her.”

Growing up, Rafe had always been a momma’s boy. 

She was his safe place—the one person who didn’t make him feel like he had to be someone else. With her, he didn’t have to try so damn hard to be tough, or perfect, or whatever the hell his dad wanted him to be. 

Ward wasn’t the kind of dad who let his kids cry on his shoulder or told them he loved them every day. No, Ward was the kind of dad who believed in rules.

Men didn’t cry. Men didn’t show weakness. Men didn’t mess up—or, if they did, they sure as hell didn’t admit it.

He expected Rafe to follow those rules like they were gospel.

The worst part? His rules about what it meant to be a man stuck with Rafe, even when he didn’t want them to. When his mom got sick, he found himself choking back tears in the hospital bathroom, staring at his reflection and hearing Ward’s voice in his head: “Crying doesn’t solve anything. You’ve gotta be strong, for her, for your sisters.”

He had this idea in his head of what Rafe was supposed to be—strong, dependable, successful. He didn’t yell or lose his temper like some dads back then, he just made him feel like shit in this fucked up way.

Rafe tried, shit, he’d tried, but it felt impossible.

Every time he looked at his mom, pale and tired but still managing to smile at him like he was her whole world, he felt like he was dying too, then he’d feel guilty—for being so weak, for wanting to break down when she was the one fighting for her life.

It didn’t help that Ward had always had a soft spot for Sarah. Everyone could see it, even Rafe. She was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, the one Ward went out of his way to protect. 

If Rafe screwed up, it was a lecture or a punishment, but if Sarah did? Ward would just shake his head and say, “She’s still young. She’ll learn.”

It used to piss him off more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he hated her—she was his sister, and he loved her. But how could he not resent her? He felt invisible when she got all the attention and the understanding, while he was expected to man up and deal with it.

After her funeral, things changed.

Rafe became quicker to snap, to walk away from anything that felt too hard. He was only himself around you, behind closed doors, never for preying eyes. Sarah grew colder, retreating into her own world where everything was controlled and distant.

Every time they spoke, it ended in shouting matches, slamming doors, or long stretches of silence that neither of them attempted to solve.

Except when you were there.

Ward got even colder, the grief had frozen whatever part of him used to care. He threw himself into work, making sure Sarah was okay, and barely even looked at his son. When he did, it was usually to tell him to pull it together, or to stop being so “moody.”

Rafe started to wonder if he even cared that he was falling apart, if he ever noticed the nights Rafe stayed out too late or came home smelling like booze. If he saw the way he avoided talking to him, how he flinched whenever Ward brought up his mom. But if his dad noticed, he never said anything. 

He thought it was just Rafe being Rafe—angry, unpredictable, a disappointment.

Fast forward to the present, and he hadn’t felt this helpless since that day at the funeral, not even when Ward’s died four months ago. 

You weren’t in his life anymore—hadn’t been for a while and you were possibly pregnant. 

He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but it made sense, everything lined up with that possibility. He thought back to everything you’d been through together, the times you’d been there for him when no one else was, how you’d seen the pieces of him no one else cared to.

Now, you were having his kid—and he was hearing about it from Topper?

Rafe spent the first hour after Topper dropped the news pacing his bedroom like a caged animal, his heart wouldn’t stop racing and he felt like a ticking time bomb. 

The Rafe—the one who flew off the handle, yelled, broke things, and pushed people away—was begging to get out. But Topper’s voice kept replaying in his head, he had to act right, be calm, for your sake. To prove himself.

The problem was, that staying calm wasn’t his strong suit. 

He’d spent years burying every emotion he couldn’t control under layers of anger, and now he was supposed to sit with the hurricane in his chest and figure out how to make things right. 

For the first time in a long time, he realized he didn’t even know where to start.

That night, he locked himself in his room, ignoring his phone, his friends, everyone. None of it mattered anymore, the only thing he could think about was you—and the baby. 

He spent hours pacing, running his hands through his hair, trying to think of what the fuck he was going to say.

What was he gonna say after everything he’d put you through? After the fight, the distance, the way he’d shut you out when you’d been nothing but good to him until that point?

He sat down on the edge of his bed, head still in his hands, and let himself feel everything he’d been avoiding. The fear, the regret, the anger at himself. He thought about you—how you used to look at him like he wasn’t just a mess of a person, you’d stuck by him even when he’d given you every reason to leave.

You weren’t here anymore.

He’d pushed you so far away you hadn’t even told him about the situation yourself. Why would you anyway? He ghosted you and the next time you saw him he was with someone else. He could still see the look on your face when you saw him that night—arms slung casually around Sofia, while you sat in your car, eyes wild, you hadn’t tried to step outside, hadn’t yelled or made a scene, you simply drove off. 

It wasn’t until an hour later and terrible text message to you, that drunk and pissed at himself, he realized just how badly he’d screwed up. But by then, the damage was done, and he’d been too much of a coward to fix it. What followed was a sea of bad decisions and nights he couldn’t remember, trying to drown out the ache of losing you. 

He’d been drinking for Ward’s death until that point, now he did it for you.

Everything was catching up to him—the way he let his dad’s voice in his head drown out his own, making him let you slip through his fingers.

He didn’t deserve you—he knew that.

By sunrise, Rafe was still wide awake, sitting on the floor of his room surrounded by half-crumpled pieces of paper. He’d been trying to write down what he wanted to say to you, but everything sounded wrong. He’d never been good with words, not the kind that mattered.

He wasn’t a dad, wasn’t even close to being the kind of guy who could be a dad. 

What the fuck did he know about raising a kid? Changing diapers? Teaching someone right from wrong? Being patient? But the thought of you—of you carrying his kid—hit him differently.

At first, it had been pure panic. You hated him, what if you didn’t want him involved? What if he was just like Ward—cold, distant, always expecting too much? What if he screwed the kid up the same way he felt like he’d been screwed up? 

He pictured it without meaning to: you holding a tiny bundle in your arms, your face soft in a way he hadn’t seen in so long. A kid with your smile, your laugh—but his eyes. Or his messy hair. It scared the shit out of him.

What if she doesn’t even want to keep it?

Rafe hadn’t let himself go there at first, it was a lot to wrap his head around, the idea that there might not even be a child to fight for. 

The thought of you going through this, struggling to make a choice that he couldn’t help with, made him feel useless. 

Frustrated, he grabbed his keys and headed out, needing to clear his head. The island was silent this early, the kind of calm that used to make him feel trapped, but now, though, it was a relief. He drove aimlessly for a while, the salty air whipping through the open windows, until he found himself parked at the beach.

He didn’t know why he’d come here—well, you’d always bring him here when he spiraled. He sat there, watching the waves crash against the shore, feeling a weird sort of clarity that he hadn’t felt in months. 

Perhaps it was the silence, or the way the ocean didn’t care about all the fucking mess in his head, but something about it made him stop spiraling for a second.

He started to think about what Topper had said—not just about staying calm, but about proving to you that he still cared. That wasn’t something he could do with words alone, not after everything. He’d have to show you, he’d have to be the version of himself you used to believe in, the one who wasn’t ruled by his worst impulses.

Rafe knew the first step before he could even think about talking to you: he had to end things with Sofia. They weren’t official, but they might as well have been. 

People talked, made assumptions, and sure, he’d let them. It was easier that way—less explaining, less having to deal with the uncomfortable truth that he’d only been with her to fill the empty space you left behind. It was cruel, but at the time, he hadn’t cared. 

Sofia wasn’t you, but she was there, and more importantly, she didn’t expect anything from him. Keeping things going with her wasn’t just a bad idea; it was disrespectful. To you, to her, to himself. He couldn’t pretend he cared about her like that—not when his heart had never really left your orbit.

When he showed up at her place that morning before work, she didn’t seem surprised—not even a little. She’d seen the writing on the wall for weeks now, but tonight, seeing him standing there, just confirmed what she already knew.

She watched him like she was waiting for him to get to the point, but not impatiently—just resigned, she already knew what he was about to say.

“Can I come in?” 

She let him in without a word, she wasn’t mad, not really. If anything, she felt sad—mostly for him, a little for herself. How the fuck was he supposed to explain this without sounding like the worst person alive?

“You okay?” she asked quietly, she wasn’t being polite—she was trying to read him, figure out where this was going.

Rafe didn’t sit, didn’t take off his jacket. He stayed standing, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to find the words that wouldn’t make this worse. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you about something. 

She raised an eyebrow, her lips pressing together in a tight line. “Be honest.”

“This...this isn’t fair to you,” he started, his words tumbling out fast, “I should’ve been real with you from the start, but I wasn't," He swallowed hard, “You deserve better than me using you to forget someone else.”

Sofia didn’t say anything at first, just crossed her arms loosely, not making it easy for him, but she wasn’t making it harder, either.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” he continued, forcing himself to look at her. “It feels wrong and it’s not because of you. You’re great. You’ve been...you’ve been more patient with me than I deserve.”

Her lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that wasn’t quite happy but wasn’t cruel either. “But you’re still in love with her.”

He didn’t know why it shocked him—Sofia had always been perceptive—but hearing her say it out loud made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“I—” He hesitated, but there was no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I knew,” She nodded like she’d been waiting for that confirmation. “I figured. I told myself it didn’t matter because—because I thought maybe you’d move on. Maybe I could help you move on. But you didn’t, and I—” She pressed her lips together, shaking her head as her arms tightened around herself.

Rafe’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged, the movement almost casual. 

“Because I really like you,” she admitted, “I knew. The party? When you got blackout drunk after seeing her leave? Or the country club, when you nearly started a fight defending her? I know you drove her to the hospital too. I kept hoping—God, I kept hoping you’d see me, that you’d let me be enough.”

He’d known she cared—he wasn’t blind—but hearing her saying like that made him realize just how he fucked up. She wasn’t wrong. He had been trying to numb himself, to drown out the reality of losing you, and she had been the collateral damage.

He looked away, guilt twisting in his chest. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this. That wasn’t fair to you.”

“No,” she agreed, her tone firm but not unkind. “It wasn’t, but I don’t think you meant to hurt me either, you were trying to hurt yourself. It's still stupid of me to try, knowing you need to figure your shit out, but you don’t have to end things. I know what I signed up for, Rafe. I’m not asking you to choose me over her—I’m just asking you to try."

There was no anger in her voice, no bitterness—just exhaustion. It made him feel like a piece of shit because she deserved to feel angry, to lash out at him. But instead, she was still trying to give him a way out, a way to make this easier on himself.

“I’ll take whatever part of you I can get.”

It wasn’t desperate or pleading—it was resigned. She already knew the answer, but she couldn’t help saying it out loud.

Rafe shook his head, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his composure. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You deserve someone who can give you everything. That’s not me.”

“Why not?” she pressed, her tone insistent.

“Because all of me already belongs to her,” Rafe admitted, his voice breaking at the end. “It always has, it always will.”

Sofia blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise, but she didn’t look hurt—just...sad. She nodded slowly, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

“I hope she knows what she has, and I pray you show her," She stood up and motioning toward the door. “We both deserve better than a guy who drinks himself to death after seeing her at a party. So do you.”

Rafe didn’t move right away, unsure if he should say something more, apologize again, explain himself better. 

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

“Don’t thank me,” she replied, “Just do better.”

“I shouldn’t have let it go on this long,” he confessed, “I just—I didn’t know how to stop.”

Her expression softened just enough to show the tiniest sliver of empathy. “For what is worth, I think she still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now.” She paused, her hand resting on the doorknob, but she didn’t turn around, “Next time, please don’t do this to someone else, and don’t do it to her again, either.”

She still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now. He wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. The faint possibility, that you might still love him, it meant he had a chance but it also meant he could screw them up even worse.

He stood slowly, “Thank you,” he repeated,“For...everything.”

She didn’t look at him, but she nodded, opening the door and holding it for him. “Take care of yourself,” she said, and it wasn’t cold or angry—just sad.

By the time he got back to his car, he knew she wasn’t wrong, about any of it. 

She hadn’t screamed or cried or made him feel like the asshole he knew he was, that made it worse. If his mom was here, she would’ve smacked him across he head for hurting two amazing women at the same time. 

He hadn’t been ready to deal with his feelings for you—not when he started whatever the fuck it was with Sofia, not when he ran into you at that party, not when he defended you at the country club.

He’d been running, hiding, trying to bury everything under distractions that only made him feel emptier.

He leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes, and for a moment, it was like he was fourteen again, sitting on the edge of his mom’s hospital bed while his mom teased him.

“Come on, sweetheart” she’d said, her voice playful, even through the weariness. “You’ve been talking about her birthday for weeks. I think you like her more than you’re letting on.”

Rafe’s head shot up, and his ears burned red. “Mooomm,” he groaned, dragging out the word, “it’s not like that, she’s my best friend.”

“She’s your pretty best friend,” she’d corrected, smiling at him in that knowing way only she could. “You’re gonna pick out something nice for her, right?”

“I already did,” he mumbled, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and holding it out like it was some great secret. Inside was a delicate bracelet he’d saved up for, something special, something he thought you’d like.

His mom’s smile had softened, the teasing fading into something more tender. 

“She’s lucky to have you,” she’d said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Even if you are a little knucklehead sometimes.”

He’d ducked away, embarrassed but secretly pleased, tucking the box back into his pocket.

“M’m not a knucklehead,” he complained, but she just laughed, and it was one of the last times he remembered hearing her laugh like that—free, unburdened, just his mom.

“She’s a good one. You’ve got good taste.” Her smile softened, and the teasing faded into something gentler. “I hope I’m still around when you get married. I’d love to see you happy like that.”

The words were a punch he hadn’t expected. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he even say to that? He wanted to argue, to tell her she would be, but the look in her eyes stopped him.

She knew. She always knew.

He just nodded, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Me too.”

She squeezed his hand. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he said without thinking because he meant it.

“When you find that person—really find them—don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

He nodded again.

Years later, standing in a stupid fucking car alone, those words haunted him. He’d found that person, he’d had her and he’d let her go.

“God,” he muttered, the self-loathing reaching a new high, “I’m so sorry, mom.”

As terrifying as it was to think about being a dad, to think about raising a kid when he was still trying to figure out his own life… the idea of losing this chance—of losing you, or the baby, or both, for good —scared him even more.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron felt something close to hope, but it was tainted in so much fear and uncertainty, that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The rest of the day, he forced himself to slow down. 

He went back home, cleaned up the disaster of a room he’d been holed up in, and tried to think like a normal guy instead of a walking disaster. He even let Topper come over, though his patience for his relentless commentary wore thin fast.

“You’ve got one shot at this, dude,” Topper said, perched on Rafe’s desk like he owned the place. “If you go in there guns blazing, she’s just gonna think you’re the same old Rafe. And honestly? You can’t blame her.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue, Topper was right, as annoying as it was to admit.

He spent the evening coming up with a plan—just enough to make sure he didn’t go in blind. He practiced what he’d say in his head, pacing the kitchen while the sun sank below the horizon. Every time he started to panic, he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was doing this.

By the time 24 hours had passed, he didn’t feel ready, but he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. The thought of you sitting somewhere, thinking he really didn’t care or that he wouldn’t step up?

That was worse than any fear he had about facing you. So he grabbed his keys, and headed out, this time, he wasn’t running away.

Rafe stood by your door, he’d gotten in the property using the gate’s code, one he’d hoped you had changed to keep him out, but you hadn’t.

He’d never been good at patience, never needed to be—not when he could push his way into anything. But this was different, you were different, always had been.

The wood under his hand was cool, in a way that pissed him off because it reminded him that there was a barrier between you and him, again, always.

He wanted to scream, kick the fucking thing down like the old Rafe would’ve, or instead use the keys you’d given him years ago. Instead, he stood there, swallowing his pride because you were worth it, even if it was tearing himself in half.

His knuckles dragged down the frame, fist clenching as if the pressure would ground him, keep him from losing his shit. He wasn’t here to fight, wasn’t here to make your life harder, no matter how much you thought he was. 

The door rattled slightly when he pressed his forehead against it, eyes squeezing shut. “Five minutes. Please.”

Nothing.

His jaw worked, teeth grinding against the words he wanted to say but couldn’t, not if he wanted you to open the door. He couldn’t do this anymore—the back-and-forth, the lies. He wasn’t sure what broke first—your resolve or the knot in his throat. 

When you didn’t answer again, he sank to sit on the porch, back against the door like he could still feel you on the other side. You were there—close enough to touch if there wasn’t this fucking door between you.

That was his fault.

He used to be the guy you’d let in without thinking twice, shit, there was a time when he didn’t need to knock.

He was in, part of your life, part of you.

Now, you were holed up, scared of him. Yeah, that ate him alive. He’d earned that fear—every cold shoulder, the slammed door, he deserved it.

He should’ve been different, been better, been someone you didn’t have to lock out. You were scared, and it killed him because it wasn’t just fear, it was him. He was the reason you didn’t feel safe enough to let the secret out, the reason your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

He had put that look in your eyes, the one he couldn’t unsee, no matter how hard he tried.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He could almost hear you breathing, shakily, like you were preparing yourself to outlast him.

He wanted to push. Fuck, he wanted to shove the door open, make you look at him, make you tell him everything—but that was the old Rafe, he took what he wanted, and bulldozed through whatever stood in his way.

Where had that ever gotten him? Nowhere but here: on the wrong side of a door, the wrong side of you.

He exhaled, long and slow, hand falling limp to his side.

What the hell was he doing? Forcing his way in, forcing answers—that wasn’t going to fix this. It never did. You’d push harder, build the walls higher, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of you hating him more than you already did.

“Okay,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “I get it.”

He didn’t know if you could still hear him, perhaps you were blocking him out completely. Maybe you were curled up with your hands over your ears. He hoped you weren’t crying, though the thought twisted and turned something deep in him.

“I’m not gonna push you,” he said, hating how defeated he sounded. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He ran a hand down his face, swallowing hard, trying to keep it together.

“I just... I just want you to be okay.” He hesitated, then pressed his palm flat against the door, wishing he could reach you somehow, without scaring you, “Baby or not.”

He waited, hoping for something—a sound, a movement, anything, but the silence was absolute.

His heart clenched as he pushed off the door and took a step back, his shoes scraping against the porch. He didn’t want to leave, he never wanted to leave, but this wasn’t about what he wanted. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, almost to himself, "I'm so sorry. I’m sorry it took me this long, okay?”

He stopped halfway, looking back, hoping—praying—for some sign. A light flicking on, the sound of the door creaking open, your voice calling his name, anything.

But the house stayed still, it had already moved on from him. 

He didn’t remember deciding to drive to Poguelandia; he felt it in his gut, in the pit of his chest, this pounding certainty that Sarah knew something he didn’t. You wouldn’t tell him—but Sarah? You’d chosen her to drive you home from the hospital just a few days ago.

She was the only person that could lie to his face properly, he couldn’t fucking figure her out, she was always deflecting shit wherever they talked.

By the time he pulled up to the pogues’ little hideaway, the sky had darkened, the place lit only by the glow of string lights and the hum of voices inside. He sat in the truck for a second, staring at the house, willing himself to calm down.

Barging in—loud, pissed, impulsive—wasn’t going to get him what he needed. But fuck, it was hard not to.

He climbed out, slamming the door behind him with just enough force to feel better for half a second. The screen door creaked as he stepped up to the porch, and he could already hear them inside—Sarah’s laugh, JJ cracking some dumbass joke, the rest of them chiming in like they didn’t have a care in the world.

He hated this, hated how they all looked at him, as if he was some ticking time bomb ready to explode. They weren’t wrong.

Rafe knocked, hard and sharp, the laughter inside cut off instantly. Footsteps approached the door, hesitant. A second later, it swung open, and there she was, his sister, looking at him like he was the last person she wanted to see.

“Rafe,” she said, one hand still gripping the door. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”

Her brows pulled together, suspicion creeping into her expression. “Now? Seriously?”

“Yeah, now,” he snapped, stepping closer, his voice low enough to keep from drawing the others’ attention. “Don’t make me say it in front of them.”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder toward the voices in the living room. “Rafe, I don’t think—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, his tone sharper than he meant. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to soften, to keep it together. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

She glanced back again, then sighed, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her. He was already pacing, hands twitching at his sides, hardly able to contain the energy inside him. 

The way she looked at him—wary, guarded—only made it worse.

“What the hell is your problem?” she asked, crossing her arms, like she was already bracing for a fight.

“My problem?” he barked out a laugh, sharp. “You really wanna play dumb right now? You’ve been keeping something from me, Sarah. I know you have.”

Her brows knit together, feigning confusion, “Dude. What’s this about? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” he hissed, stepping closer, “Don’t lie to me. I already know, okay? I know about the baby.”

She didn’t say a word, didn’t confirm a thing, just stared at him like he was some wild animal.

“Where did you get the idea that she’s pregnant?”

His mouth opened, then closed. It felt wrong to snitch on Topper when he’d been one making him pry a little more.

“Well?” she pressed, “Answer me. How did you come up with that?”

Saying it out loud felt like admitting he’d been just as reckless and intrusive as everyone expected him to be. His hand ran over his face, trying to stall.

“I didn’t just make it up.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her patience waning. “No shit. So where, Rafe?”

He glanced away, then back, his voice defensive. “Topper said something, okay? He heard—he thought—” Rafe stopped, knowing how weak it sounded.

 “Topper? You’re taking life advice from Topper now?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it!” Rafe was quick to defend him, “He just... he mentioned some things, and it got me thinking. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Sarah repeated, “You barged over there because Topper mentioned ‘some things’ ? Jesus Christ.”

His hands flew up in frustration. “What was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t hear it? Ignore it and hope it went away? I needed to know!”

“No, you didn’t,” Sarah shot back. “You wanted to know. There’s a difference, and it’s the difference that keeps getting you into this shit.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rafe pointed a finger in his direction, “Like I’m crazy or something. I’m not stupid.”

"You’re just not worth the energy right now."

Instead of crying like he wanted to, he let out a dry laugh, pacing back and forth in front of her.

"Right. Sure. I can see it all over you, just say it."

She shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. Neither does Topper.”

“Stop lying!” His voice rose, loud enough to echo into the dark yard. “Just stop. You know something.”

Sarah’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Rafe thought he’d finally cracked her. Except instead of giving him what he wanted, she just let out a slow breath, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that made him feel like a child fighting for his favorite toy.

“You want to know the truth?” 

“Yes,” he bit out, his chest heaving.

She stepped forward so they were only inches apart. “The truth is, you don’t deserve to know. Not yet.”

Everyone kept telling him the same thing, couldn’t they see he was already trying?

He staggered back a step. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means, that whatever you’re looking for, whatever answers you think you deserve, they’re not yours to take. Not until you can handle them without breaking everything you touch."

He flinched, her words striking something inside him, “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he said, almost desperate.

“I’m not deciding anything,” she replied, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ve spent these last few months making everything about you. Your pain, your anger, your needs.”

He glanced away, “So, what? You don’t trust me?”

Her silence was louder than anything she could have said.

“You don’t,” he murmured, the realization bitter in his mouth.

"I don’t," she agreed, “You’re still not the person she needs you to be, and until you can prove you can do that—without me, without anyone holding your hand—you’re better off not knowing.”

“I’m trying. I swear to fucking God, I’m trying. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“She’s scared you’re going to hurt her again—whether you mean to or not. You’re dating someone else, for god’s sake.”

“I ended it. This morning.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “Doesn’t change the past, Rafe. And it sure as hell doesn’t make everything better overnight.”

Rafe flinched, the words sinking into him like stones. "Why the fuck do you think I’m here? I don’t want to hurt her—I can’t do anything if she won’t even talk to me."

Topper still had that number. 

You hadn’t hidden it well enough, he hadn’t done anything with it, but it was tempting. All he had to do was call, just to confirm, he told himself. Not to pry, simply to know for sure.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. This isn’t something you can force your way into. She would never forgive you, please be smart.”

His first instinct was to lash out, fire back some venom-laced retort that would sting as much as her tone. He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Okay,” He dragged a hand through his head, “I know that, I know. But I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I need to... I need to show her I can do better. That I am better.”

“You need to crawl through hell to understand a fraction of what she’s going through; you need to stop thinking about what you want and start thinking about her.”

His hands fell to his sides, limp, the fight suck out of him. She was right—he hated that she was. This wasn’t about him anymore; it never had been.

 “What can I do?”

Her expression softened, not with forgiveness but something sadder—she wanted to believe he could. “You start by fixing yourself, then you wait. Until she’s ready, if she’s ready. You’ve got to mean that, Rafe, you screw this up again..."

"I won’t," he said firmly, cutting her off. "I can’t."

“Okay.”

“What if she’s not ready?”

He had no right to demand more.

“You keep going, keep trying. Not for her, not for anyone else—just for you.”

By the time he got back in his truck, the hurt in his body hadn’t lifted. His mom’s words echoed in his mind one more, “When you find that person, don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

Maybe that started with learning to be the person who deserved to hold on.

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[syoddeye]

cut me down, level me | ghoap x reader | 3.2k cw: alcohol, jealous reader, nasty+mean ghost, harassment, nonconsensual touching/manhandling, masturbation a/n: title from i wish i was you by creux lies.

it’s johnny’s birthday.

you grouse the entire time you get ready. mood utterly unsalvageable even with the right playlist. the emergency bottle of prosecco in your refrigerator can’t rescue you either—it’s turned sour and vinegary, probably like the evening ahead.

johnny texts, his message asking for your eta littered with typos. he’s sent it not in your private chat, but the one with his worse half. 

he promised, repeatedly, that simon, the principal pain in your ass that—“he’ll be on his best behavior. hand on heart, i swear.”

you’ve heard that one before.

it doesn’t matter what you do. by the time the rideshare pulls up outside their flat, you half-consider staying in the car and heading straight back home. cozying up in bed with your laptop feels infinitely better than the prospect of enduring lousy company.

because for all johnny’s reassurances, you know simon. he’s the thorn in your side. the wedge between you and your best friend.

you were practically raised together after your family moved in next door. you spent as many holidays at the mactavish house as your own. even after johnny enlisted, nothing changed—you were still the first person he’d call with news, and he was still the one you trusted to share things you wouldn’t tell anyone else. 

and then, two christmases ago, simon arrived. six-foot-something stupid, he muscled his way in, taking up more space than he had any right to, crowding into johnny’s life like he’d always been there. 

“simon? it’s good to finally meet you. johnny talks about you all the time.” you’d said, hand extended, trying to make a good impression. neck craned to the man filling the doorframe. simon smirked, something flat and condescending in his voice as he replied, hand already hinging possessively around johnny’s nape.

“i thought only i could call you ‘johnny’. not ‘ow you make a man feel special, is it.”

you remember how he shouldered around you without another word, greeting the rest of the mactavishes with bourbon and presents like some drab mancunian santa claus.

johnny found you seething later that evening and delivered the first of a thousand apologies. said he was embarrassed by simon’s cold shoulder, and you forgave him—not because you believed him, but because you felt sorry that his boyfriend was a territorial buffoon.

a mistake.

you know couples spend most of their time together. you’re not stupid or naive enough to think they’d be any different, but somehow it’s worse. you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve spent with johnny one-on-one since they got together. simon’s always there, lurking. there’s no sharing with him.

you’ve tried to bring it up with johnny quietly, mostly over text, since phone calls and video chats are never private, but it’s like he can’t see his velcro boyfriend at his side. he doesn’t question it, not really. he’ll admit simon’s a bit rough around the edges, that his jokes cross the line or that his comments make your skin crawl, but he brushes them off. there’s always an excuse, some reason to overlook it. you just hope it’s only a matter of time before johnny sees simon for what he really is and breaks it off.

a no-good interloper, pissing on everything–

when you knock, it’s simon who answers the door. music spills out around him, voices rising and falling in the glow of light behind his broad shoulders. he looks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes dragging from your shoes to your face, as if you’re a stranger. then he tilts his head in a silent well?

you’ve learned that it is you who must move around him, in all contexts. you are the invader. he doesn’t flinch when you cram under his thick arm braced against the door. he mutters a snide comment about the cut of your shirt—can see straight down that—breath fanning over your head. your face burns instantly, blistering hot. as you pass, the bottle of wine in your hand “accidentally” finds his ribs, and for a second, you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“oops!” 

you flee beeline for johnny.

he’s already tipsy, the lush, but he’s at least happy to see you. 

“there she is.” his face is flushed from drink, and he pulls you into a bear hug, pressing a few sloppy kisses against your cheek. “i was just tellin’ simon it’s no’ my birthday without ye.”

you lean into him, briefly nuzzling his chest, breathing in his grounding scent. asshole boyfriend or not, how could you consider abandoning your boy?

“shameless flirt.”

“dinnae i ken it.”

he pouts when you peel away and excuse yourself, promising to find him after making the rounds.

you count maybe two dozen people spread through the house, a mix of old classmates, distant acquaintances, and soldiers. more arrive in waves, and you’re glad for the buffer. enough bodies between you and simon to keep him at a comfortable distance.

time moves in fits and starts. you drink enough to feel a buzz and resolve, half-heartedly, to enjoy yourself and mingle. there’s no shortage of good-looking men in johnny’s circle, and you might as well flirt a little. it seems like the kind of thing you should be doing, though your heart isn’t really in it.

you meet another john, polite but pointed about the ring on his finger. then kyle, who seems interested until he asks your name and then suddenly isn’t. after a couple more dead ends, you give up entirely, feeling more lousy than when you arrived. but it’s johnny’s birthday, and it’s bad form to leave before midnight. so, instead, you decide to keep to yourself and wait it out.

problem is, you start bumping into simon.

wherever you go—the den, the kitchen, the front steps for air—simon appears. he doesn’t make a show of following you, but you feel it all the same. his gaze finds you like a searchlight, dissecting you piece by piece. just waiting to say shit. his expression doesn’t shift when you glance his way, no shame in being caught staring. it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but whatever it is, it doesn’t feel particularly benign. his presence settles like a weight on your back. 

he doesn’t let you find any refuge with johnny, either. of course not. birthday boy is blissfully unaware, wrapped up in his own celebration, probably thinking simon’s sudden surge of public affection and attention are gifts. from across the room, simon’s gaze is heavy on you, his arm draped possessively around johnny’s waist, hand settling unashamedly on his ass for a grope. you catch his eye once, and without missing a beat, he leans in, planting a kiss behind johnny’s ear, making him squirm mid-conversation. 

it pisses you off. curdles your bad mood into a rotten one.

with an hour left until midnight, you try to avoid simon as much as possible. it probably seems petty to slip away the moment he walks into a room or to retreat into silence when he lingers too close, but you don’t care. he’s stifling and unbearable—like he’s decided to babysit you to make sure you’re on your best behavior. and there’s no telling johnny. you won’t ruin the night for him by stirring up trouble.

at one point, you take too long at the makeshift bar in the kitchen, and he corners you mid-pour.

simon clicks his tongue, shifting his weight just enough to box you in with his chest and shoulders. “what’s that now, your fourth? fifth?” his voice is low, a rough-edged drawl, head dipping and chasing your ear when you try to duck away. “keep this up, sweet’eart, and you’ll be sleepin’ it off between us.” the grin that stretches his mouth feels too sharp, his eyes glinting as he leans in, the heat of him unnervingly close, his bulk a deliberate intrusion into your space.

the image his words conjure arrives unbidden, sending a disorienting jolt down your spine. you see yourself there, curled against johnny’s chest, while another, hulking body melding to your back, presence suffocating and unwanted. the thought lingers for a heartbeat before it vanishes in a rush of disgust, leaving you like a dog with its hackles raised, bristling with the instinct to flee.

you shove past, wine sloshing perilously close to the rim as you go, his rasping chuckle drifting after you.

another hour passes in a blur, but you salute yourself—only a quarter-hour to freedom. problem is, all that wine’s caught up, and the door to the downstairs toilet has been locked for a stretch. you cast a casual glance around, your eyes tracking the shape of your persistent shadow, and find him finally occupied with the other john, his back turned to you for the first time all evening. it’s a quick, maybe ill-advised decision to slip upstairs, but you really have no choice. you have to pee before you leave, and besides, it’s a teensy fuck you to the man who’s followed you all night.

the music from downstairs hums through the floor, covering your movements just enough that you don’t bother to tiptoe.

their bedroom is unfamiliar, but johnny’s presence clings to the space in bits and pieces. a framed photo of johnny in his first uniform, his mother leaning against his arm. an old rugby medal, propped against a stack of books, a few of which you gifted him. on the wall beside the bed, a collage of photos: summers at the mactavish cottage, christmas dinners with both your families, johnny mid-laugh with his arm slung casually around your shoulders in more than one.

you spot an old toy soldier from the same set johnny used to make elaborate battles with when you were kids. it sits next to a half-empty bottle of expensive bourbon you don’t recognize, probably something simon probably picked out. the mixture of old and new, of johnny and simon, is dizzying. jealousy wells up in your chest. you were there for all those moments. you knew him when he played soldier in the garden, when he rolled his eyes through family holidays and snuck you out at dessert. you were the constant, long before simon’s shadow overtook everything.

you slink into the bathroom, eyes stinging and chest tightening. it’s the wine.

washing your hands, your eyes land on a half-empty bottle of cologne you don’t recognize. while the rideshare app spins uselessly, you take a whiff and hum. it’s johnny’s. you rub a fingertip over the atomizer, too paranoid to take even a quarter-spray. the residual will have to do. instead, you press a fingertip to the atomizer, then smear a trace behind your ear just as the app pings. finally.

you pull the door open, eyes trained on the app’s countdown and mind tangling with how to say goodbye to johnny. you don’t notice the figure outside until you step straight into it, a solid wall of muscle. you stagger, caught off guard, but before you can register what’s happening, he presses forward, steering you back inside the bathroom. your phone drops to the counter with a clatter. a hand smelling of smoke and salt clamps over your mouth.

“stop fussin’,” simon mutters, clipped with irritation. his fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your jaw tight as he leans back just far enough to shut the door. you batter his chest with your fists, which he swiftly captures when he swivels back. “i said stop. need to chat.” 

your phone buzzes against the counter, the soft vibration loud against the marble. simon glances down, his expression darkening as he spots the car on the screen. with a tap of his thumb, he cancels the ride, lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “sneakin’ out already? night’s young.”

your words are lost under his palm, protests garbled into nothing. heat flushes your face, humiliation prickling your skin as you try to twist free. glaring, you tell him how creepy he’s being, how weird he is, voice rising even though it’s barely audible. for a moment, his expression doesn’t shift, then something flickers behind his eyes, like a shark finding chum in the water. he leans in, his hips pinning yours, and his nose drags over where you’d rubbed the scent.

“you little thief,” he murmurs, voice thick with disdain. his hand eases just enough to let you speak.

“i thought it was johnny’s.” you finally say, throat tight, pulse fluttering at its base.

“it’s ours,” he sneers. “we share. everything.”

you scoff, the sound bitter in the small space between you. “you? don’t make me laugh.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

for a second, you stare in disbelief, chest heaving in shallow breaths. he still has you held against the counter, and you realize you smell it on him, too. 

you can’t have just this one thing.

word vomit comes out in a rush, spliced with the fury and frustration that’s been building all night, no, for months, mixed with the tang of cheap pinot. “you fucking stole johnny from me. he was my best friend, my johnny, before you. i’ve called him that my whole life. and then you—you show up, sap up all of his attention, and now he never has time for me. it’s never just me and him, you’re always fucking there.” the confession hangs in the air. it is more honest than you meant, but there is no going back.

simon tilts his head, looking down at you like he’s trying to figure something out, his hand firm under your jaw. his fingers press in, not quite hard, just enough to keep you there, and then he leans in close, his forehead nearly touching yours. you try to look away, eyes darting to the side, but he won’t let you.

“’s that what you need? johnny’s attention?” his thumb drags over the curve of your cheek, pressing until it hooks inside your mouth. “my attention?”

“no-awh! no’ yoursth!” 

your tongue brushes the pad of his thumb, a shudder rolling through you before you remember your teeth. he remembers too, yanking his thumb away just as your bite snaps shut, catching your tongue instead. you yelp, the sting immediate and hot.

he coos, low and mocking, his hand sealing over your mouth again. his weight presses you against the counter, pinning you effortlessly in place. your hands, useless against the unyielding plane of his chest, clutch at his forearm instead, desperate to free your face. then his knee jabs forward, knocking a muffled cry from your throat. the impact drives you onto your toes, the cupboard beneath you taking the blow and holding his knee steady, leaving you no choice but to remain perched, precarious and trembling, to avoid putting your weight on him.

“this ‘as been my problem with you since day one. you’re a dishonest and jealous woman. can’t be ‘appy for johnny. can’t be polite to me–”

you hiss and spit at that, outrage starting and stalling. he’s done nothing—as if he’s—unbelievable—but you’re wasting your breath, not merely because his stupid, meaty paw’s lodged over your mouth, but because it’s simon. two years in, and you know better. arguing with him is like shouting into the void. useless, exhausting. your calves burn from holding yourself up, thighs trembling under the strain, but he doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease an inch.

“always whining, always makin’ our boy feel like shit with your desperate, depressing texts–” his knee slides and nudges between your legs, finding the seam of your jeans. “–always runnin’ away from us, not letting it happen, be easy...”

your face finally turns, but he only leans in further, his forehead skimming yours, settling heavily against your temple. chapped lips graze your cheek, words spilling straight into your skin, warm air puffing through his nostrils like a beast. “trying to sneak out, makin’ me keep an eye on you all night…” you squeeze your eyes shut, heat crawling up your neck and over your scalp. this is bad. very bad. it’s johnny’s birthday, and his boyfriend has you cornered in the bathroom. your thoughts snarl in panic and guilt. you hardly register simon’s voice anymore, his lecture breaking into shards your brain can’t piece together.

until he says something that pierces the fog. growls it into your ear, close enough his tongue needlessly flicks the shell.

“i’m not ‘aving it anymore. you understand? you ain’t leavin’ tonight.”

simon unhurriedly tilts your head back, then presses you down onto his knee. you swallow hard, a noise catching somewhere deep and undignified. if he notices, he doesn’t let on.

“i’m gonna let go, and you’re gonna keep quiet. you’re gonna be a good girl, come back downstairs, and not go makin’ a scene. or do i need to spell out what ‘appens if ya don’t, or are ya as sharp as ‘e’s always makin’ out?”

you don’t need him to say it. the threat is there, in between your legs, and if you looked down, you’d see it between his, too. it doesn’t matter what you want. 

it doesn’t matter what simon wants, either, you think. if it did, you’d probably still be in the bathroom with him. 

he’s been abundantly clear. the only thing that matters is what johnny wants.

from where he sat you on the end of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap, you glimpse movement through the cracked door. grunting. he told you to spit in his palm before he sent you out, and now you know why. his hand sounds slick and furious over his length. your stomach clenches, eyes watering from staring unblinkingly at the rug beneath your feet. you wonder if it’s not punishment but a prelude. or worse, his idea of a favor. a demonstration. as long as you’re good and quiet. as long as you stay.

when he comes, he’s nearly silent. a word or two gnashed between teeth in a whisper. a couple more pumps. then, the flush of the toilet and his zipper.

he doesn’t wash his hands. the animal.

simon lifts an eyebrow, and you scurry toward the door, though the snap of his tongue slows you. he stays a breath behind you as the warmth and noise of the party swallow you both whole, no one any wiser. instinctively, you angle left, toward the door, but his finger hooks through the back loop of your jeans, steering you elsewhere.

johnny’s in a merry state, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, caught somewhere between shock and delight at seeing both of you settle beside him. you’re wedged in the middle on the couch, their solid thighs pressing yours. across the coffee table, the men you met earlier nod in your direction, and you return a stiff smile, pretending nothing’s amiss. johnny’s hand lands on your knee with a familiar squeeze, his grin boyish and lopsided. behind you, a heavier arm stretches across the back of the couch, simon’s fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. the scent of the cologne mingles with simon’s musk, wrinkling your nose.

johnny leans in, his voice an exaggerated whisper slurred at the edges. his eyes, wide and glassy, flit between the two of you with an almost childlike excitement.

“nice to see ye gettin’ along. just for me?”

simon chuckles. “told ya i’d be good, didn’t i?” his fingers curl beneath your collar, resting there. an ultimatum. “it’s a joint gift. ain’t that right?”

your eyebrows lift in a wider, strained smile.

“yep. happy birthday, johnny.”

[pfaugh]

From "They Thought They Were Free" by Milton Mayer (1966)

A chemical engineer by profession, he was a man of whom, before I knew him, I had been told, “He is one of those rare birds among Germans—a European.” One day, when we had become very friendly, I said to him, “Tell me now—how was the world lost?”

“That,” he said, “is easy to tell, much easier than you may suppose. The world was lost one day in 1935, here in Germany. It was I who lost it, and I will tell you how.

“I was employed in a defense plant (a war plant, of course, but they were always called defense plants). That was the year of the National Defense Law, the law of ‘total conscription.’ Under the law I was required to take the oath of fidelity. I said I would not; I opposed it in conscience. I was given twenty-four hours to ‘think it over.’ In those twenty-four hours I lost the world.”

“Yes?” I said.

“You see, refusal would have meant the loss of my job, of course, not prison or anything like that. (Later on, the penalty was worse, but this was only 1935.) But losing my job would have meant that I could not get another. Wherever I went I should be asked why I left the job I had, and, when I said why, I should certainly have been refused employment. Nobody would hire a ‘Bolshevik.’ Of course I was not a Bolshevik, but you understand what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I tried not to think of myself or my family. We might have got out of the country, in any case, and I could have got a job in industry or education somewhere else.

“What I tried to think of was the people to whom I might be of some help later on, if things got worse (as I believed they would). I had a wide friendship in scientific and academic circles, including many Jews, and ‘Aryans,’ too, who might be in trouble. If I took the oath and held my job, I might be of help, somehow, as things went on. If I refused to take the oath, I would certainly be useless to my friends, even if I remained in the country. I myself would be in their situation.

“The next day, after ‘thinking it over,’ I said I would take the oath with the mental reservation that, by the words with which the oath began, ‘Ich schwöre bei Gott, I swear by God,’ I understood that no human being and no government had the right to override my conscience. My mental reservations did not interest the official who administered the oath. He said, ‘Do you take the oath?’ and I took it. That day the world was lost, and it was I who lost it”

That feels like a good, self-contained thing. But if I haven't lost you yet, there's some more afterwards that I think is about as relevant.

“Do I understand,” I said, “that you think that you should not have taken the oath?”

“Yes.”

“But,” I said, “you did save many lives later on. You were of greater use to your friends than you ever dreamed you might be.” (My friend’s apartment was, until his arrest and imprisonment in 1943, a hideout for fugitives.

...

“Of course I must explain. First of all, there is the problem of the lesser evil. Taking the oath was not so evil as being unable to help my friends later on would have been. But the evil of the oath was certain and immediate, and the helping of my friends was in the future and therefore uncertain. I had to commit a positive evil, there and then, in the hope of a possible good later on. The good outweighed the evil; but the good was only a hope, the evil a fact.”

“But,” I said, “the hope was realized. You were able to help your friends.”

“Yes,” he said, “but you must concede that the hope might not have been realized—either for reasons beyond my control or because I became afraid later on or even because I was afraid all the time and was simply fooling myself when I took the oath in the first place.

...

Shall we say, just to be safe, that three million innocent people were killed all together?”

I nodded.

“And how many innocent lives would you like to say I saved?”

“You would know better than I,” I said.

“Well,” said he, “perhaps five, or ten, one doesn’t know. But shall we say a hundred, or a thousand, just to be safe?”

I nodded.

“And it would be better to have saved all three million, instead of only a hundred, or a thousand?” “Of course.” “There, then, is my point. If I had refused to take the oath of fidelity, I would have saved all three million.”

..

“I don’t understand.”

“You are an American,” he said again, smiling. “I will explain. There I was, in 1935, a perfect example of the kind of person who, with all his advantages in birth, in education, and in position, rules (or might easily rule) in any country. If I had refused to take the oath in 1935, it would have meant that thousands and thousands like me, all over Germany, were refusing to take it. Their refusal would have heartened millions. Thus the regime would have been overthrown, or, indeed, would never have come to power in the first place. The fact that I was not prepared to resist, in 1935, meant that all the thousands, hundreds of thousands, like me in Germany were also unprepared, and each one of these hundreds of thousands was, like me, a man of great influence or of great potential influence. Thus the world was lost.”

[klausysworld]

Apart of the Family

Loving Elijah Mikaelson wasn't an easy thing.

He pushed me away the entirety of the start of our relationship, he wouldn't talk about his feelings or his thoughts. Sometimes he thought breaking up would protect me from him and his family.

If I hadn't loved him so much then I would have left but I couldn't help but stay. We met in Mystic Falls when he was there to deal with Klaus and avenge his family. I had thought he'd left when Klaus daggered him so I was so happy when Damon woke him back up.

He came to my house even before getting his haircut to see me and he ended up staying the night before having to leave with plans to wake his family.

Rebekah didn't like me much to start out, none of them trusted me or wanted me in their house but that didn't stop Elijah from coming to mine. But if he wasn't with them, looking after them 24/7 like a father figure then they all started to fall apart.

He started to pull away again, so I had to confront the Mikaelsons myself, which was admittedly terrifying but overall worth it when Klaus's eyes shimmered with respect and I got to shove past Rebekah and up the stairs of the mansion. Elijah was practically feral after listening to me stand up to his siblings.

His mother liked me, although I'm not really sure if that should be taken as a compliment or an insult. Elijah liked it though. I think he's always sought approval from his parents.

He was distraught when he found out his mother planned to kill them. More broken then any of his siblings could ever know. He made me promise not to tell them that he'd been sobbing into my chest for over two hours that night.

We left for a little while, Elijah needed some time and I jumped at the chance of having him alone for a little while before he was inevitably called back.

We'd been living such a domesticated life We had our own house, yard, stupid white-picket fence.

Even though I knew it was impossible, I started to dream of having his child. I knew he'd been the perfect father, he had a thousand years worth of practice.

I could imagine if we had a son, he'd be all dressed in his little suit with his hair combed neatly. Elijah was just perfect, but he couldn't have children so I wouldn’t either.

I thought I was happy with that, until I found out that Klaus was having a baby.

It wasn't fair. He didn't even want a child and neither did Hayley. Elijah was the only reason the child stayed alive and Klaus still daggered him.

"I promise you, I'll bring him home." He told me when I'd found out he wasn't even in the house somewhere but under Marcels mercy.

"Klaus." I whispered, I could feel my eyes getting wet with tears and he sighed.

"I wouldn't let him get hurt. I know you think I'm selfish and I use my brother...to an extent that's true, but I do love him and I know that you do. He'll come back and I'll undagger him before the baby is even born." He promised and I didn't have much room to argue. Instead I just went back upstairs.

Even Rebekah came which was a nightmare. I don't know what her problem was for me but somehow my favourite Mikaelson in that house was Klaus.

Until Klaus finally brought him back.

I didn't care that Rebekah was pissed that I got to hug him first, I refused to let him go and he didn't seem to be budging much either. I could feel his face nuzzling my neck as I breathed in his scent.

"He made us stop at a suit shop on the way over, he refused for you to see him all dusty and-"

"That's enough, Niklaus. Just leave us be." Elijah muttered and I sighed in relief at the sound of his voice.

By evening I was snuggled up to his bare chest, his hands on my back as he pressed a series of kisses to the top of my head.

"I love you." He mumbled and I smiled, he didn't like saying it often. He worried it would lose it's meaning.

"I love you too." I whispered, wanting nothing more than to lay with him forever.

Things got better and worse from then.

Everything was Klaus centred again of course. When wasn't it?

But I did feel bad for him, to have to go as far to fake his child's death. It was the first time I'd ever hugged him, I could feel his tears on my neck as he tried to sniff them back. Elijah was looking at me from across the room, a slight nod to his head as he finished the phone call with Rebekah.

Things were quiet after that.

But then everything went wrong again, Esther and Mikael came back. Elijah's 'Red Door' opened and he almost suffocated me in his sleep.

He wouldn't touch be for almost a month, not even hold my hand, it was torture. It took a very hash breakdown and a really long cry for him to finally wrap his arms around me and apologise.

It was really hard for a while, but seeing him with Hope in his arms did something to me. It broke me.

That was when Rebekah finally realised we weren't that different. She sat with me on the bathroom floor whilst I sobbed over not being able to have his child and we stayed there until Elijah came in and found us. I wouldn't tell him what was wrong and ended up leaving for a a few hours but it was obvious that Rebekah had spoken to him about it by the time I got home.

He welcomed be back into his arms and he held me tight, caressing my arms and my back before finally breaking the silence.

"I truly refuse to believe that with the amount of magic in this world, that there is no possible chance of me being able to give you a baby." He whispered and I sniffed.

"You're dead Elijah, your sperm is dead." I mumbled and he ran his fingers through my hair.

"Witches bring people back from the dead, I think they can revive a couple of my swimmers." He chuckled and I let out a half cry/half laugh.

"You really think that?" I whispered and he kissed the side of my face.

"I'm at least going to try." He murmured.

It wasn't really mentioned again for a while so I assumed that it had just been a fleeting idea to calm me down.

That was until I walked into our room and found it covered in candles and rose petals. Elijah was stood in a fresh suit, his hands clasped together with a rose between them.

"What..." I mumbled and he let out a shaky breath.

"I found a witch." He stated and my brows pulled together for a second before the realisation washed over me.

"You did?" I whispered and he nodded. I dropped my bag down and made my way inside, standing in front of him and taking the rose from his hands, placing it down on the vanity. "Are you sure that it'll work?" I asked and his lips twitched.

"There's only one way to find that out." He murmured lowly, his umber eyes bleeding into obsidian.

I reached up to carefully undo his tie, my fingers unloosing the fabric in the way he liked to do it so that it wouldn't stretch or 'fold funny'. I pushed his blazer down his shoulders and rest it over the chair before reaching up to undo each button one by one. I made sure my fingertips brushed over the firm muscle of his chest before pulling the shirt off his arms and onto the chair as well.

My eyes glanced up to his as I loosened his belt, slipping it away from his hips and popping the button on his trousers. He let out a soft sigh through his nose as they dropped down to his ankles and he stepped out of them. I let him take his boxers off whilst I unbuttoned my dress all the way down and slipped my panties off and reached back to get my bra off.

His hand was round my waist, pulling me to bed in a second making me smile and lean back into the mattress as he hovered over me.

"I promise I'll give you a baby, Y/N." He uttered and I felt my heart and lower stomach flutter.

His hands stroked down the length of my body before my thighs were gripped and pushed open. I bit my lip to hold back my grin as his lips worked their way down from the top of my neck to my navel.

"Does this help make the baby?" I whispered with a breathy laugh as his hot breath stimulated my clitoris.

"It might." He murmured with a grin before his tongue licked a strip through my folds before focusing on my clit. My head went back, resting against the pillows and my legs fell open against his hands that gripped my thighs firmly. I looked up at the ceiling through heavy eyes as his tongue swirled perfectly. Heat stroked me so precisely that I was a trembling mess in a matter of seconds. It always amazed me how easily he broke me.

It never took long before my fingers were latched into his hair, ruining the neat appearance he always held and forcing groans to vibrate through my lower body and set fire to my core.

I never received any time to recover before he was cupping my face and lifting my legs, hushing my whine as my leg was stretched over his shoulder.

"Look at me, darling." He murmured but his voice was somehow always clear. I did as he said, my eyes locking with his as I felt him push inside me; stretching and filling me inch my inch until all the air was gone from my lungs.

His lips pushed to mine, filling my mouth with his tongue and teasing mine. "Elijah..." I moaned quietly against him and he pulled away with a groan, looking down at me and kissing my forehead as his hips drew back before pushing forward with force. I let out a sharp breath as he did so, my hands cupping his neck and my nails scratching the back of his head. "Gods..." I whispered and he let out a low hum as he build a steady rhythm to move against me.

"I can't wait to pump you full of my child." He uttered, his eyes swirling with that familiar darkness. I panted with a smile on my lips, feeling my leg strain as he pushed be deeper into the bed and moved quicker. "Feel you milk me of my last drop." He breathed out as his mouth now hovered back over mine, making my skin hotter and hotter. "See you round and swollen..." He grunted, his body stuttering before getting a little rougher.

His grip started to get tighter, his fingertips pressing bruises into the skin of my thigh and hip. The veins starting to scatter beneath his eyes and down his stubbled cheeks. My hands slid round from his neck to feel how they raised against the pads of my thumbs.

"I need you." I whispered and his brows furrowed.

"You have me." He muttered, thrusting particularly hard as if to make a point. "All of me."

"Prove it." I breathed and his blunt nails dug in a little before one of his hands let go and slid down my body to massage my clit so well that I knew that was it for me.

His other hand was round my throat, forcing me to look back at him as his warmth started to fill more and more, one thrust at a time until he stayed completely still above me. His forehead rest against mine, his skin warm on mine as he shifted to kiss my lips.

"I promise you, by the end of the year, you'll be carrying our child and I'll be massaging you until you're perfectly sated." He smiled and I mirrored it as he shifted so that I was laid on top of his firm body. "We should lay for a while...so that it can take." He whispered and I hummed.

"I'd lay with you forever."

"Always, and forever." He corrected softly.

[red-doll-face]

Getting caught in the rain with Arthur leads to him finding creative ways to warm you up.

(high honor) arthur morgan x fem. reader

I love this trope! prob been done before but I cant resist... 😔Can you believe I wanted this to be a short head canon post?? LMAO it ended up way longer than that. That's why it has a more casual thing going on despite being super long 🥲Happy thanksgiving! This is for the girlies who are stuck with family and need something absolutely filthy to read !!! 💕💕💕💕💕

Warnings: NSFW content, vaginal sex, while honor isn't too relevant, arthur is very sweet and hes kind of a weenie here, in a good way! arthur does not have bad intentions here, he's genuinely a sweet little man...

-

Thinking of begging Arthur to take you away from camp for a while. Maybe you haven't had a bath in a bit or you're sick of hearing Swanson drunkenly parade around camp. But you've decided to ask Arthur, he's always so sweet to you and you know he won't say no. And Arthur and his stupid bleeding heart (the one that bleeds so much more for you) grumbles and pretends he's thinking about it but really he'd probably say yes to anything that came from your lips. He has no regrets when he sees the smile you give him. You're hoisted up onto the back of his horse, holding onto his waist so you don't fall. Arthur is desperately trying to play it cool. 

Then the rain starts coming down, you're soaked through very quickly and Arthur, such a gentleman, sheds his coat to give it to you, except now he is soaked through as well. The both of you are freezing and he tells you that you have to stop until the weather clears. He’s cussing up a storm worse than the one you're in. You nod, just wanting to be warm, wracked by shivers. He comes up on an abandoned shack and guides you inside, shutting the rain out. You're standing in the center of the room, looking like a wet cat after a miserable bath, Arthur is kind enough to take his coat off of you, giving you a ratty old, moth bitten blanket but it doesn't do much of anything for the cold. Trying to get a fire going proves fruitful but it's a small one and the wind blowing in from the flue almost puts it out several times.

Arthur feels so helpless, sitting there watching your teeth start to chatter as you sit in front of the pathetic little fire. He's trying to apologize (Ah, I’m sorry, I didn't know it was gonna come down like that,) but you only tell him it's not his fault. He has to help, all he wants to do is help. Things aren't getting any better and he doesn't want you to come down with something on account of him being an idiot. And then he gets an idea. He’s red all over flushed at the thought but he knows taking your soaking clothes off would help. And he's standing there, awkwardly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck while he tries to hide under his hat. He’s gently clearing his throat, trying to get your attention. 

“Maybe we could try… I…could…” he's nervously stumbling through his words and he's looking at you, sitting on the floor, desperately trying to warm your hands by the fire. You look up to him but he can hardly speak, so enraptured by the look of utter trust, reliance on him. His mouth hangs open but he swallows the lump of spit in his mouth. He tries to shake off these boyish jitters he gets around you. “Uhhh- I mean, it would be better if we weren't sittin’ round in these clothes, I guess, can’t be doin’ you any good...”  

“Really, you think so…?” Your voice is quiet and meek, struggling to say anything past the clicking of your teeth and the shivers. “Well then, turn around, Arthur,” at your obvious attempt to be modest, he nods stiffly and turns towards the wall, listening to you take your dress and your underskirts off, landing in a wet plop on the floor. You whine, peeling yourself out of your undergarments before a quiet ok leaves your lips. He turns and you're desperately covering yourself with that dusty blanket, legs bare, fabric hardly long enough to cover the soft mound between your legs, the fat of your inner thighs squished together. Arthur has a hard time keeping his gaze from locking onto any of the inviting bits of skin you show him. You're embarrassed, biting your lip, squeezing your arms around yourself. 

“Aren't you gonna- Arthur, you're gonna do it too, right?” Arthur has a hesitant nod and a course even though he just now thought he should probably follow along to help make you more comfortable. He’s removing his hat first, nothing to hide under now and he notices that you watch him take his gun belt off, unfastening his suspenders from his pants. You finally look away, his boots and his pants are peeled off and his shirt is unbuttoned. He’s breathing heavily now, naked as the day he was born. But you won't stop shivering. Your hair is still wet. And the fire is struggling to warm you from the bitter cold that clings to the dusty air. There isn't much left to burn for the fire. 

“You want me to hold you?” It's out of his mouth before he can stop it, trying to smack away these thoughts about the glimpses he’s getting of your naked figure underneath the blanket. He swears it's only out of necessity, that you're just not warming up fast enough. “Don’t want you gettin’ sick on me,” He really does only want you comfortable. Unrealistically hoping this won't change what you most likely consider a friendship. You nod, vigorously. 

“I think it would be ok, maybe if you just didn’t- didn’t look. Just- don’t look,” and you're desperate, curling up in his lap in front of the wavering fire. You're unable to look at him, but you still rub into him, enjoying how his body warms up a lot faster than yours. And both of you make some excuse that things would be better without that old blanket between you two. And suddenly you're pressed into him, his arms tight around you while he looks at the ceiling to avoid staring at things he shouldn't. Arthur struggles hard to keep from rubbing upwards into you, trying to keep you from sitting directly between his legs, afraid the way his body reacts to the feel of your body will scare you, scandalize you. But you only seem to want to be there more, getting comfortable with him. His chest hair tickles you, the hair creeps all the way down his torso. You giggle softly as it tickles you. His heart beats fast at the feel of you, so soft compared to the roughness of him.

As if all of the blood hasn't already rushed down to the very center of him, you just have to sit squarely on his lap. He tries to readjust you but it's too late and you've felt him, hard as a rock, pushing at you. He's so embarrassed, stumbling over an apology, “Shit-I-I’m sorry, I-” in that surly voice, all rough and low. you gasp and look over your shoulder. You see how he can hardly stand to look at you with his pretty blue gem-toned eyes. Instead he shows you his profile as he turns away. 

“It's ok”, Arthur has no idea how he's supposed to look at you after this, he can't see himself looking you in the eyes for a long while after you've felt his cock nudging the swell of your ass, unable to deny his own reaction to you. Hopefully he’ll be able to dismiss it as a fluke and not a devastating hope that you’d be interested in him that he's been crushing down for months now. He's trying to will away the burgeoning desire just under his skin, tamping down fires that rage on. And you look up at him again with that look of trust in your eyes, too ashamed to continue touching you, wholeheartedly convinced you don't like him. 

But then you're only closer than you were, looking up at him, so close, he's breathing in your scent, sweet and like fresh summer rain. His eyes search yours for any inclination and all you have to do is put your hand on his prickly cheek for him to lean and kiss you, hands on his broad chest, rushing over the warmth you can feel. How he ends up with you on his lap, tits pressed up against his hairy chest, his big hands squeezing at your hips, he's not too sure. Your arms are over his shoulders, playing with his light brown hair sweetly, rubbing the sore muscles in his back. And the glide of his tongue over yours is heaven, he swears. You whine into his kisses, the heat between the both of you licks over your skin, noses clumsily bumping into each other. 

Then he’s on top of you, tucking you over the blanket. “You gotta tell me you want this, want me,” and all you can do is say “Yes, please, Arthur, please,” features showing your ecstasy, anticipating his hands on you.

His hands are rough; petting down your sides. Any worries he had about being too old, too ugly and too brutish for you are forgotten when you kiss him, spread your legs for him to fit between them. When you push your breasts in his hands when he goes to touch them. Your nipples are hard from the cold but his hands start to warm them up when he gropes at them, squeezing languidly at your breasts, grabbing handfuls.

It's not long before he’s pinning your thighs up with his hands, spreading you and licking eagerly between your legs, so selfless. Letting you moan as loud as you like, telling you how good you taste, the roughened pads of his fingers circling at the sensitive button at the top of your slit. And he's so strong, doesn't put much effort into keeping your legs up. He has dulcet praises for you, “Such a pretty girl, darlin’, jus’ beautiful,” making you soften and ease.

He’s so warm, holding you, like you wanted him to, messy kisses that taste like you. The very tip of him catches on you, dipping softly between your folds. Your nails dig into him, thighs clench tight. He's sweet talking to you, shushing you, rubbing hard at the delicate little nub, getting you as wet as possible. Saying how good you look. How he must be dreaming. That’s my girl is what he says when you soak his fingers with your own arousal, heat rising to the apples of your cheeks. Even more when he's working his cock inside of you, panting, he seems overwhelmed, mumbling and groaning praises to you, his sweet girl, perfect in that slow easy voice of his. You feel him carefully easing you open, hissing at the feel of you wrapped tight on him and leaking down his shaft. You can't say much but his name, begging him not to stop, feeling his fingers almost bruise the tender softness of your hips. 

Arthur pushes so deep, a growl of pleasure leaking from his lips. You didn't think he would feel so big. Telling him how big he is and feels; “You're so big, Arthur,” in a wispy moan, makes him groan. He just wants to hear how much you like him. The rhythm he was trying to keep slow and careful speeds up. And he doesn't last very long, poor thing. It's been a while for him and he's flushed bright red, embarrassed and feeling a tad emasculated. The disappointed son of a bitch he lets out has you petting his hair back tenderly.

But all you have to do is give him a minute, kiss and nip gently, lock your legs around him so he can't pull away, until he's pushing his own seed deeper, mindlessly pinning you under his weight. He loves feeling so close to you, so small underneath him. 

The way you feel clenching down on him, moaning for him, begging him to keep going has him rutting into you, following his instincts, brain feeling like it's melting. He's harder than he has ever been, listening to the sound of your wetness slide on him, the mess he’s left between your thighs sounding dirty and sticky. You don't have to tell him to keep rubbing you, grinding your hips into his so he can press into the perfect spot. 

His thumb is rubbing at the very center of you, that tender bud, so sensitive, has you pushed to the edge and falling over, legs locking up behind him, bucking and moaning much too loud. You sink your fingers into the layer of fat over his broad muscles, arching your back, feeling so complete. Seeing you so relaxed, feeling so good because of him makes him push as deep as he can, making your toes curl, forcing more of his cum even deeper, a sloppy wet mess that drips out of you when he pulls out. But he revels in those few moments where he's catching his breath, still so deep inside of you, feeling you pulse on him. 

Arthur can’t not hold you afterwards, unsure what to say. He thinks it might be too soon for I love you, maybe you’ll be scared away by his raw sentiments and his lovesick words. But you stare into his eyes; his heart jumps when he blurts it out in the silence, too late to shut his damn mouth. But you only smile and say you love him too. You're the farthest thing from cold, tucked into his chest, not even noticing that the rain has stopped.

Thank you for reading! SO sorry this ended up being so long. Excited to write more for high honor arthur, this was more fun than i thought... I love him 😔😳

[dreamscapeee222]

could you do reader trying to take care of sick! arcane characters??

A/n: This is cute :3

Vi

Vi rarely lets herself slow down, so admitting she’s sick feels like weakness to her. She brushes off your concern at first, claiming, “It’s just a headache. Nothing I can’t handle.” But her pale face and shaky hands betray her.

When she tries to leave the bed to “get some air,” you step in front of her, arms crossed. “Vi, sit down. Please.” It’s the “please” that gets her—she can hear the worry in your voice.

She sighs, flopping back onto the mattress dramatically. “Fine, but only because you look cuter when you’re bossy.”

You smile despite yourself, sitting beside her and brushing the damp strands of hair off her forehead. She leans into your touch, her walls cracking just enough to let you in.

When she finally starts to relax, her voice softens. “Thanks for putting up with me. I don’t deserve you.”

Jinx

Jinx is the worst patient. She whines, flails, and makes every symptom a catastrophe. “I’m dying! Tell my story!” she cries, throwing herself across your lap dramatically.

You press a cold compress to her forehead, rolling your eyes. “You’re not dying, Jinx. You have a fever.”

She groans loudly. “Same thing!” But when you stroke her hair or hum softly, she quiets, watching you with a mix of curiosity and contentment.

Later, when she thinks you’re not looking, she murmurs, “You’re better than any medicine.” It’s so soft, almost vulnerable, but it stays with you.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn is stubbornly professional even when sick. She insists on working through it, saying, “The city doesn’t rest, so neither can I.” But the slight tremor in her hands as she grips her badge makes you step in.

“Cait, you need rest. You’re not helping anyone like this.” Your words are firm but gentle, and she hesitates before finally sitting down.

When you brew her tea and settle in beside her, she lets out a soft sigh, leaning her head on your shoulder. “I suppose I can take one day off… if you’ll stay.”

Her gratitude is silent but clear in the way she presses a kiss to your temple.

Ekko

Ekko hates being idle, so being sick frustrates him more than anything. He tries to act like nothing’s wrong, but you catch him stumbling while tinkering with the Firelights' gear.

“You’re going to make yourself worse,” you scold, guiding him to sit down. He grumbles but doesn’t fight you, too exhausted to argue.

You hand him water and sit beside him, your arm brushing his. He glances at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “Guess I owe you, huh?”

“You already do,” you tease, and he laughs, the sound light despite his fatigue.

Jayce

Jayce turns into an overgrown puppy when he’s sick—needy, whiny, and extra. He calls for you from the couch, voice pitiful. “Babe, I think I’m dying.”

You laugh, sitting beside him with a bowl of soup. “You’re not dying, Jayce. You have a cold.”

He pouts dramatically but takes the soup, making you promise to stay with him while he eats. Later, as he drifts off with his head on your lap, he mumbles, “You’re too good to me.”

You press a kiss to his forehead, your fingers threading through his hair. “Always.”

Viktor

Viktor tries to push through his illness like it’s a minor inconvenience, working tirelessly until you physically take his tools away.

“Enough,” you say firmly, guiding him to bed. He protests weakly but lets you lead him, his steps unsteady.

When you sit beside him, your hand gently brushing through his hair, he finally relaxes, his breathing evening out. “You’re relentless,” he murmurs, though there’s a smile in his voice.

“Someone has to be,” you reply, kissing his temple. His hand finds yours, holding it tightly as sleep overtakes him.

Mel

Mel rarely lets anyone see her vulnerable, so being sick feels like a betrayal of her carefully crafted image. But with you, she doesn’t have to pretend.

She sits gracefully even while ill, her back against a pile of pillows as you bring her tea. “You don’t have to fuss,” she says softly, though she takes the tea without protest.

Sitting beside her, you stroke her hand, feeling the tension melt away. “You deserve to be cared for too, Mel.”

She looks at you, her eyes softer than you’ve ever seen. “And you do it so well,” she whispers, leaning into your touch.

See pinned.

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

You people are actually funny. No. Really.

1. Trump was convicted for "sexual abuse" not rape. "How's that better" because rape is worse. But also because it was a NY jury. Way way past the statute of limitations, only opened up to file charges against Trump. But at least he'll do his best to get rid of killers like that if Lakin Reilly's killer. So I'm that regard he's very much protecting women. From actual rapists and killers. (Btw if you think I mean 'all illegals' when I say this you're just stupid)

2. Trump is not a "convicted felon" unless he's sentenced. And sentencing has been dropped. He was also charged with things that were not specified. Which is illegal under the Constitution. And for all the yammering you ask do claiming he's doing to 'rip up the Constitution' you all sure have zero respect for it.

3. I don't understand wtf you're on about for this one. I really don't. Because the only people Trump had promised to "make life a living hell" or otherwise it's the deep state.

4. Trump didn't promise to tear up families any more than literally any other sitting politician in history. And "separations" were very much active and VAST under the "Omega liberal hero" Democrat Obama. Who mind you "built those cages" you all scream about. He's going to deport illegals. Because they are here illegally. They broke the law. We've ALWAYS separated parents from kids when the parents break the law and go to jail. That's always been a thing.

And with no borders there is no country. So to "liberalsarecool" you're not even a liberal. You're a socialist. None of you give a damn about any of what was in your post. Literally none of you. Because if Dems did all the same shit you'd be cheering for it probably. None of you actually have morals. But because the right does, that's how you attack them.

Also stop claiming you care about spirituality. You never have before, you certainly don't now. If anything you and others like you only care about one faith and that's Islam. Every other faith group you all hate. Christians AND Jews.

Also, I wish Trump was the bastard everyone claimed. Because if he was, he'd sue you so for defamation.

The Trump voter will now own their decision to betray all decent people.

#cowards

[brbsoulnomming]

Heart On Your Sleeve Part 6

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

written for steddiebigbang2024 and belatedly posting here!

-----

Steve keeps dropping his heart.

Somewhere buried deep inside him there's an edge of terror that he's going to damage it even worse - but it also makes a muffled schloop sound every time it hits the ground that is, objectively, the funniest sound he's heard all night.

Robin thinks so too, because she keeps giggling every time it happens - first these tiny little snorts, then somewhat hysterical giggles, then a full on bark of laughter, and then he's dropping it again because he's laughing, too, and she's so cute, how is he supposed to not be a little in love with her?

Dustin and Erica don't seem to find it that funny, though.

"Oh my God, Steve, put your heart in your chest!" Dustin hisses at him the next time they have to slow down to wait for him to scoop it back up.

The very idea sends a chill through him, and he makes a face at Dustin.

"No!" he retorts.

"No? Are you serious? It took me weeks to get you comfortable taking it out around me and now you want to wave it around? No, that's not what I - stop that," Dustin scolds him.

Which is rude, considering Dustin is the one who told him to wave it around in the first place.

But maybe he also has a point, because Steve's grip on his heart slips on a downward wave and this time he doesn't so much drop it as toss it, sending it skittering over the floor.

"Oops," Steve says.

Robin bursts into a sharp bray of laughter.

He loves her so much.

Dustin's gone chasing after his heart, and he flinches when the kid picks it up, expecting it to hurt, to feel wrong the way it had when -

But no.

It feels nice.

"Huh," Steve says, watching Dustin bring it back over.

"Why is it all wrapped up?" Erica asks, wrinkling her nose at it.

"So it doesn't explode," Steve replies, then giggles when Robin nods solemnly and mimes an explosion with her hands.

Dustin rolls his eyes, trying to shove it at him. "Put it away!"

Steve twists away. "Nooo," he protests. "I can't breathe."

Dustin's expression goes from frustrated to concerned so quickly it gives Steve whiplash. "Your ribs? Did they break something? Shit, Erica, can you-"

Erica's already at Steve's side, tugging up his uniform shirt and squinting at his ribs. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Can't breathe with my heart inside," Steve clarifies, even though he's actually pretty sure he does have a broken rib or two. It doesn't hurt, so it's a way lower priority. "I hate it, it feels like it's trapped and hollow and alone."

Dustin and Erica look at each other. Steve doesn't think they look irritated, but he can't really tell.

"Steve," Dustin says softly. "Since when?"

"Since always," Steve replies.

There's silence in response, and he worries briefly that he's said the wrong thing. But then Dustin sighs and pops open his chest, nudging his own heart aside so he can drop Steve's next to it. He closes it up again before Steve's even managed to get a fully formed thought, let alone words, and -

His heart gives a little stutter, and it's weird to feel the emotion that causes it without feeling the corresponding pounding against his own chest.

Dustin apparently feels it, though, because he squints at Steve. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Steve returns.

“You felt something!” Dustin retorts.

“Wait, you can feel what I'm feeling?” Steve demands.

“Of course I can,” Dustin scoffs, like it should be obvious. “I have your heart, don't I?”

He looks over at Robin, to see if she knew that, too, but she's too busy snickering at something the light is doing in the fountain, and -

Oh.

Wow.

Okay, that's much better.

He feels so much better, and even when he's handed his heart again after he and Robin are deposited in the movie theater -

The feeling lingers.

—

In a too bright bathroom that smells like bleach and vomit, Robin holds out her hands for his heart.

“Let me see,” she insists, and Steve doesn't think twice about handing it over.

She might as well have just put her own heart in his hands, after what she just shared with him.

Still, he feels trepidation when she unwraps it, even more when she blanches at the sight of it. But -

“Hey,” Steve says, leaning in to look more closely at it. “It looks better.”

“Better?” she demands. “This is better?”

“I guess I should put it back in my chest if it makes it better,” he says reluctantly.

Robin frowns. “But it hasn't been in your chest. Just Dustin's.”

Wait.

That's right.

“I learned about this!” Steve snaps his fingers, trying to place it. “Science class. People survive things they shouldn't if they give away their hearts?”

Robin, bless her, either remembers it better or has figured out what he's trying to say. “Your heart heals better if someone's keeping it safe for you?”

There's barely a second before she's opening her own chest, taking out her heart and putting his in instead.

“Here,” she says, handing her heart to him almost carelessly. “Watch this for me.”

The moment it's settled in his chest, though, he can feel - how scared she is, how terrifying this all seems. The edges of it are still dulled by the drugs in both their systems, but it's there.

“I'm sorry,” he tells her quietly, guilt twisting from him to his heart in her chest.

“I'm not,” she replies, sharp and stubborn.

And the thing is -

She isn't.

—

The paramedics don't insist on keeping him.

Steve thinks they might, if they could hear his own heart, but it's Robin's heart beating strong and steady in his chest, so they assume that no matter how bad he looks, he must not be in any danger.

He doesn't know what his heart sounds like, but judging by the look on the guy checking over Robin - it's not good.

But she's physically unharmed, so they must assume it's more emotional damage than anything else. He and Robin are two halves, right now, but put them together and they make a somewhat stable whole.

God, he loves her.

She must pick up the echo of his love, because she looks up, meeting his gaze. Her smile is a little sad, and he feels a rush of affection so strong that it almost takes his breath away, even if it's a little bittersweet.

"It's not like that," he tells her, as soon as she and him can huddle together away from the paramedics.

She frowns at him, a clear prompt to continue.

"I don't know if I know how to love someone this much, if it's not like that," he admits. "But I'm learning. I'm going to learn."

For Robin, he'll learn how to love someone so much he doesn't want to know what life is like without them, in a way that isn't romantic at all.

—

Robin comes home with him that night, their hearts still in each other's chests.

Steve almost can't bear the thought of taking his back at this point, and what he can pick up from Robin tells him she feels the same way.

There's a blinking light on the answering machine, and when he presses play, he smiles a little at hearing Eddie's voice.

“Hey, Steve, it's, uh, Eddie. Know I haven't stopped by in a while, but I saw the news tonight about the mall, and - can you just let me know you're okay? Okay. Yeah, okay, bye.”

He sounds a little like he's trying not to panic, and Steve feels himself go soft and fond.

“...huh,” Robin says, clearly getting an echo of what he's feeling. “Steve?”

Steve shrugs, a little helpless. “I don't know,” he admits.

She considers for a moment. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“You don't have to know,” she tells him.

“Okay,” he agrees.

He calls Eddie back while she showers, propped up against the bathroom door with the cordless phone in his hand.

“Hey,” Steve says when Eddie picks up. “It's Steve. Sorry, I know it's late.”

“No!” Eddie rushes to say. “No, it's okay, I was up. I saw - are you okay?”

“I've been better,” Steve admits. “There was some explosions, some rubble from the building collapsing. I've got cracked ribs and a concussion.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters. “If you could stop getting beat up, it would really give my heart a break.”

Steve grins a little. “You worried about me? Thought it was my job to look out for you.”

He can't see him, but he's pretty sure Eddie's rolling his eyes. “Yeah, and who looks out for you, huh, asshole?”

Steve hums. “It's good to hear your voice. I missed you.”

Eddie's quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want - do you need someone to come keep an eye on you, make sure you wake up every hour?”

He kind of wishes Eddie'd finished what he started to say, because yeah, he does want him, but that's not the question Eddie ended up asking.

“Robin's here,” Steve says. “She was caught in it, too, but she didn't get too injured. She's going to stay over tonight.”

There's a moment of silence.

“Right, of course,” Eddie mutters.

“Can you come over tomorrow?” Steve finds himself asking without really thinking about it. Eddie's never been over - he's technically never hung out with Eddie outside of school or work - but shit, he wants it. “I think the drugs'll be out of my system by then, so I won't be too annoying. You can meet Robin.”

“You do know I've met her, right?”

Steve makes a tsk noise. “You've met Robin from band, just like she's met Eddie from the lunch tables. But you don't really know each other, not like I-”

He cuts off, because he's not really sure he has the right to say that. Does he really know either of them like that?

Whatever. If he doesn't, he wants to.

“You do better as part of a trio, huh?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Well, yeah,” Steve agrees. “But this is different, this is better.”

Eddie snorts. “Sure, you're not the third wheel anymore.”

“It's not that,” Steve protests. It feels important for him to get this right, though he's not sure why. “I don’t care about being a third wheel, it never bothered me. But Tommy and Carol… there were always conditions, with their friendship. The older we got, the more there were. And I love Nancy and Jonathan-”

His heart spasms. He can't feel it, but he feels the emotions, and Robin's heartbeat in his own chest kicks up. He mutes the phone, for a moment, knocks on the bathroom door. “I’m okay!” he calls through it, feels a wave of relief coming from her, and lets himself feel simple, uncomplicated affection.

“But things are complicated with them,” he continues after he unmutes the phone. “I think they always will be.”

“And what, I'm uncomplicated?” Eddie asks, but he sounds more amused than anything else.

“You're something,” Steve agrees, not bothering to try not to sound warm and fond.

Eddie blows out a puff of air. “I have band practice tomorrow,” he says. “But I'll call you sometime later, okay?”

No, that doesn't sound okay.

“Is this one of those things where you're not really asking me if it's okay, you're just saying it so it sounds better?” Steve asks. “What would you do if I said it wasn't okay? If I said I really wanted you to come over?”

Eddie's quiet again. “Do you want me to come over?”

“Yes,” Steve replies immediately, because he's had it saved up since Eddie didn't finish asking him it in the first place.

If his heart were in his own chest, he's pretty sure it would be thumping in anticipation.

“Not tonight,” Eddie says finally. “But I do want to be friends with you, okay? I'll call you.”

He hangs up after that, and Steve stares at the phone until Robin comes out of the bathroom and finds him like that.

She doesn't have to ask what happened - probably because she felt what happened - she just sits next to him a while.

This is already written, and my plan is to post one part a day until it's all up here!

-----

Part 7

Taglist (always happy to add more to this if anyone wants): @fairytalesreality @lostonceandneverfound @wheneverfeasible @awkwardgravity1 @theintrovertedintrovert @thewickedkat @ravenfrog @scarlet-malfoy @missmagillicuddy @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @ollyxar @cringe-culture-is-dead-99 @thedragonsaunt @makewavesandwar @cryptid-system @ajeff855 @mae-liz @the-fantastical-asexual @jettestar @warlordess @persnicketysquares @samsoble @my-love-of-books @mydysfunctionallife @dreamercec @holyangelstudentuniverse @breealtair @shunna @xtraordinarally

[writersdare]

You Should Always Come First | Bang Chan 방찬 Drabble

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader (she/her)

Summary: Chan could no longer watch Y/N exhausting herself.

Warning: fluff

Word Count: 688 (drubble)

Author’s Note:  For those who are worried about an upcoming exam, test or a job interview. You can do it, don't doubt yourself ♡

“Baby, what is it?” 

Chan has noticed Y/N being rather tense that evening, yet, he didn’t want to get on her nerves with the same questions, as he pretty much knew the main reason of his girlfriend’s mood — the upcoming exams. Even though Bang Chan was sure that Y/N would pass them well, he could understand Y/N’s concerns. It’s never easy to be confident in your own abilities in general, and being under a stress it felt  almost impossible at all. The idol learnt it from his own experience. 

Chan understood that words such as "it’ll be alright" and "you know the material well, don’t worry" wouldn’t help much. Of course, support was important, yet, in the moments, when everything felt like a bare wire, each phrase should have been chosen very carefully. He didn’t want to give Y/N even more pressure — she was giving it enough herself. Chan tried his best just by saying small "don’t be harsh on yourself", "don’t forget to rest" and "I know you work hard, and it’s way more important than the result". 

Yet, when he saw that Y/N was getting angry at herself for not being able to learn important terms once again, the guy decided it was time to interfere. Her brain simply refused to accept new information, as it simply had enough today. And yesterday, and the day before yesterday… His girl needed a break. 

“It’s nothing, just can’t memorise it. I don’t know how I’m going to pass it,” Y/N sighed and closed the eyes, trying to keep herself together. 

“Let’s get some rest, it’s been a while," Chan said softly. “I’ll help you to learn it after a break, okay?” he promised and stood up from his place to take a seat next to the girl. They were in his studio, but while Y/N was studying, the idol couldn’t  really concentrate on music the last thirty minutes, being too worried for the girl. She’s been exhausting herself lately, and all Bang Chan cared about was Y/N’s well-being.

“You’re doing great, I promise,” the guy gently cuddled Y/N, trying to soothe her. Finally relaxing a bit, she went a little numb in his embrace and placed a head on Chan’s shoulder. 

“I know rest is important. It’s just… I don’t have time. The exams are in few days, and it seems like I still don’t know anything,” Y/N admitted quietly, at the same time hating herself for the recent complaining.

“Learn as much as you can, but don’t exhaust yourself. It’ll make things only worse, Y/N," Chan reminded and patted her head lightly. "And just a lunch break isn’t enough. Let’s spend this evening together, not thinking of anything, okay? Tomorrow will be a new day, and you can start again," the idol pecked her cheek tenderly.

The girl sighed and nodded,

"Channie? I’m sorry I was a bit gloomy lately. I didn’t mean it like this. It’s just… the exams–" after a moment of silence she quietly mumbled, but Bang Chan didn’t let her finish.

"I know. Don’t worry about it, Y/N. And I know it’s not easy to get distracted, when all you can think about is your exam. I don’t mean to say it’s not important, you put value on it for a reason, yet, I don’t want you to forget that it’s not the only thing that matters. You should always come first," he smiled and lightly tickled her, so the girl shivered, and a quiet giggle left her lips – she was extremely bad when it came to tickling. However, Chan was no better. "Got it?"

"Mhm. I like how you can be serious for only few minutes, and then you are back to your normal self" Y/N joked and shrieked, when the idol tickled her side once again.

"Yah! I can be very serious, when it’s needed! Do you doubt me?!" the guy jokingly outraged, feeling a warmth spreading all over his body. He missed her sincere smile and silly little giggles. After all, it’s all what he needed now.

– photos and a gif aren’t mine and belong to the rightful owner, gif found here @chanstopher –

taglist: @yukichan67, @laylasbunbunny, @skz-streamer

© writersdare | all rights reserved

All stories are original and written by me. Do not copy, trace and post anywhere without permission and credit. The stories are fictional, they do not correspond to reality and written just for fun ♡

Main Masterlist | K-pop Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

[archiveofvirtue]

CASUAL , TWO ⸻ dean winchester

content / dean winchester x fem!reader, unrequited love, fwb, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, praise, explicit language, angst, arguing, dean being a scared lil bitch, nsfw, 18+

summary / when dean calls you up one night for the usual comfort, neither of you expected it to end that way. torn between desire and the pain of unrequited love, you finally confront the truth: you deserve more than being his escape

Dean knew he was asking for a lot the moment he hit the call button. He leaned against the creaky wall of the random, rundown motel room he had booked. His mind was racing, though he wasn't really sure why. He just needed a distraction, something to pull him out of the mess inside his head, and you—well, you always knew how to make him feel better.

He'd heard that you were on a case nearby, and now, here he was. Again. Calling you like it was nothing, like your last time together didn't feel... different.

While on the other end you had stared at your phone for what felt like an eternity, your thumb hovering over Dean's name. You knew what he wanted. You always did. It wasn't a mystery why Dean was calling you up out of the blue at 1am.

Your first instinct was to ignore him. You didn't need this—didn't need to be his go-to when he needed an escape. Lately, every time you thought of him, it felt like your heart cracked a little more. And despite his emotional distance you couldn’t help yourself.

"Dean?" You voice crackled through the phone as you picked up the call.

"Hey, uh... You still in the area?" he asked, trying to sound casual. You sighed on the other end, and Dean could already feel your hesitation. "Yeah, I'm around.”

"Good. There's this motel a few miles off the highway. Thought maybe you could, I don't know, come ‘round?"

"I don't think I can," you said, your voice softer now, but firm. "I'm busy."

Dean frowned, pushing off the wall and pacing. "C'mon, y/n. Just a couple of hours. It's not like we haven't done this before."

A sarcastic chuckle left your lips, sounding almost bitter. "Exactly, Dean. We've done this before. Too many times."

"Yeah, but—" Dean started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't sure what the hell he was supposed to say to that. It wasn't like he could argue with you. You both knew what the deal was. Casual, no strings, no messy emotions.

But still, he found himself pushing. "I just need you, okay? For tonight. Just to get out of my head." Dean could feel his heart thudding against his ribcage.

It wasn't supposed to be that complicated.

You wanted to say no. You should say no. You knew that you’d leave feeling emptier than when you came, like you always did, yet the thought of not seeing him at all—that was even worse. You hated it. Hated yourself for it. It was ridiculous, really, how you kept giving in, knowing how things would end.

"Fine," you finally said. "I'll be there."

When you arrived at the motel, the familiar sight of Dean's black Impala parked outside brought a lump to your throat. You’d convinced yourself on the way over that you’d keep your guard up this time, that you wouldn't let him get under your skin. But the moment you walked into that damn room and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, all your defenses began to crumble.

He stood up, giving you that same tired smile you’d seen a hundred times before. "Hey."

"Hi," you echoed, crossing your arms over your chest, trying not to let your frustration show. You weren’t here to fight—not yet, anyway. But the weight of everything unsaid was suffocating you.

But Dean wasted no time, stepping toward you and pulling you into his arms, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both urgent and needy. You wanted to push him away, tell him this wasn't what you wanted anymore, but damn it, your body betrayed you. You kissed him back, letting yourself get lost in him for a moment, because it was easier than dealing with the truth.

You two fell back onto the bed, lost in each other like you had countless times before. For a little while, you could forget. You could pretend that this wasn't just about the physical, that maybe, just maybe, there was something more between the two of you. But deep down, you knew better.

Dean’s body pressed more firmly against yours, his chest solid and warm as it met yours, adjusting himself just enough so that he was hovering above you. His tongue pushed gently against your lower lip before slipping into your mouth, deepening the kiss.

You moaned quietly, hands finding his hair, tugging lightly at the nape of his neck as his hands traveled down your sides, leaving goosebumps all over your body.

You could feel his growing erection pressing against you, slowly grinding himself back and forth on your core. The urgency in his movements made you feel wanted, desired, but at the same time you felt empty, just wanting it to be over.

Dean tugged at the waistband of your jeans, pulling them off within a matter of seconds before he freed himself from his own clothes, leaving you both bare.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He mumbled, the words leaving his lips almost unconsciously. Of course he thought that you were stunning, but maybe it meant a lot more to you than he realized.

You inhaled sharply as you felt Dean’s finger teasing your entrance, smirking as he felt how wet you’ve gotten over the course of a few seconds. You surely couldn’t deny the fact that he turned you on.

“Soaked already?” He chuckled, making you nod hastily.

Grabbing your hips he secured you onto the mattress, pressing you down gently before he pushed his aching tip past your entrance, a loud moan escaping your lips. Your walls clenched around him almost immediately, making him groan.

“Fuck sweetheart, that tight cunt ‘s sucking me right in.”

You let out another moan, eyes fluttering shut as you felt his cock filling you up to the brim, a perfect fit. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he almost pulled himself out completely before slamming right back in, hitting your sweet spot over and over again.

“Hngh..shit—“ you hissed, your nails digging into his back, skin slapping against skin echoing through the motel room.

Dean's hand moved to cup your ass, his fingers digging in slightly as he pulled you closer with each thrust, craving every single inch of your body. As he continued to fuck you at a steady pace you felt yourself getting closer, clenching around his thick cock.

Dean was quick to redirect his hand in between your bodys, finding your clit, and circling the sensitive nub to drive you completely over the edge. You could feel your body tensing up, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level.

“Dean, I’m gonna—“ you whined out before the band in your stomach snapped, cumming hard all over his cock.

"That's it, baby.” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, not even noticing the little petname that had slipped past his lips.

He gave you a few more hard thrusts before letting out a loud groan himself, feeling his dick twitch as he came deep inside of you, painting your walls white with his cum, and leaving both of you breathless.

Dean fell down beside you in the quiet aftermath, the soft glow from the motel's flickering light casting shadows on the walls, staring up at the ceiling like he always did. It was so routine by now that you could almost predict his every move.

But tonight, something felt different. The silence between you was heavier than usual, and you felt a knot forming in your chest. You waited for him to say something, anything, but when he finally spoke, his words cut through you like a knife.

"You’re so good at this stuff. It’s like you were made for it.”

You froze. Made for it? Your heart sank. The casualness of his words, the thoughtless way he dismissed whatever connection you two had, made you feel sick. You sat up quickly, eyes burning with anger and hurt. "That's all I am to you? A fucking hooker?”

Dean turned to you, clearly confused. "What? That’s not- Why are you suddenly acting like this?"

Your anger was burning up, but so was your pain. It wasn't just this moment; it was all of it. Everything you’d been holding back for so long, everything you’d swallowed down, was bubbling to the surface. "Why wouldn't I act like this, Dean? Last time we met, we literally had dinner with your brother, and you fucked me in the bathroom like some random slut who’s hopping on anyone’s dick. And now you wonder why I'm bitter?"

Dean blinked, caught off guard. "That was just... it wasn’t—You know how it is with us."

"No, Dean," you shot back, voice shaking. "I thought I knew how it was. But apparently, I've been fooling myself this whole time. I hate that I let this drag on so long, and now, I hate myself for it."

Dean sat up, running a hand through his hair. This was exactly what he was afraid of. "I thought we were on the same page here, y/n.”

This was just how things were, right? Casual. No complications.

"I'm not just someone you can call when you're bored or need to get out of your head," you continued, voice breaking. "I deserve more than that, and the fact that I've let this go on for so long—it kills me. Because I hate that I've let myself care about someone who clearly doesn't care about me."

Dean's heart sank at your words. He'd always known you were more than just a quick fix for his demons, but hearing it laid out like that? It stung. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't know how to fix this.

"y/n...I-" Dean began, his voice soft, almost pleading. "I didn't mean to make you feel like that. I didn't—"

You cut him off, shaking your head as tears welled up in your eyes. "It doesn't matter, Dean. What's done is done. I just... I can't keep doing this. Not like this."

The room fell silent again, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. Dean stared at you, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to wrap his head around what was happening. He wanted to say something, anything to make it right, but the truth was, he didn't know how.

But what he knew was that the thing between you two wasn’t as casual as he pretended it to be, and that scared the shit out of him. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

You stood up, heart pounding in your chest as you began putting on your clothes. You couldn't stay here—not when everything felt so raw, so exposed. Dean watched you, the guilt etched on his face, but he didn't say anything to stop you.

"I need to go," you said quietly, pulling on your jacket and heading for the door. You could feel his eyes on you.

"y/n.." Dean called after you, his voice almost too faint to hear.

You paused at the door, your hand resting on the knob, and for a brief second, you thought about turning back, thought about giving him one more chance. But you didn't. Instead, you opened the door and walked out, leaving Dean alone in that empty motel room.

He sat there, staring at the door long after it had closed, the weight of everything he hadn't said pressing down on him like heavy rain. He had no idea if you’d come back. And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he wanted you to. Because you deserved better than what he had to offer.

coming from first hand experience 😁 anyways..

feedback and requests are greatly appreciated !!

tags 🏷️ @gibson-g1rl @beausling @angelicjackles @deansbite @figthoughts @deansenvy @chevroletdean @rubyvhs @sugardean @figurantedefilme @cosmicanakin @sammyluvr @nuemanfilms @titsout4nicholas

[al0velyuniverse]

IDiVIDUAL HEADCANONS ABT THE LAST ASK😓😓😓

I think this is the same anon as the one who asked about the drunk 141 x reader😭😭

Coming home drunk

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish

Johnny is a mess when he comes home from drinking with the boys. Hands and lips all over you while you try to help him get undressed and into some sort of pajamas. Your face is being covered in kissed while you try to help him get his shirt off, whispers of “I luv ya my bonnie lass” when his lips are close enough to your ear. He never fails to make you a flustered mess

When you finally get him into bed with you he’s sprawled on top of you like a dog. Johnny tries to undress you but falls asleep halfway through. His grip is inescapable too, good luck trying to wiggle out of it until he’s properly awake.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

Kyle hates coming home drunk. He’s usually just as much of a mess, if not worse, than Johnny. He usually doesn’t make it home until after you’re fast asleep. He doesn’t want to wake you up so he’s doing his best to be quiet. The thing about Kyle is, he’s one of those people who only thinks he’s being quiet. In reality you’re being stirred awake by the sound of the door slamming shut and his boots clattering to the floor as he clumsily makes his way to the couch.

Your sleepy voice asking him what he’s doing startles him halfway off of the couch. You’re given a profuse apology for being so loud as Kyle drags you onto the couch with him, you curling up in his lap like a cat. When you both wake up in the morning he’s keeping you trapped with him for at least an hour. “you’re the best hangover cure there is” is the only excuse he’s got.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

When Simon gets too drunk out with the boys you end up having to drive out to pick him up. You’re summoned on the phone by Soap, you can hear your boyfriend yelling in the background about wanting his Dovie. He’s insistent on demanding your presence, complaining that his lovie isn’t there. However when you show up at the bar and try to give him a kiss he gently pushes you away. “you’re a pretty bird but I got a missus at home, wife won’t be too happy to see you trynna kiss me like this” This would have been sweet except you weren’t married. Johnny helps you escort Simon to your car and buckled in without much protest, he’s muttering something about ‘ruining the surprise’ as he helps.

When you finally get home Simon locks you out of the bedroom “can’t have the wife finding you in bed with me when she gets home” he yells from the other side of the door. You end up on the couch with a huff, you can’t even really be that mad though, at least he’s dedicated to you. Simon finds you the next morning and scoops you up to bring you back to your bedroom “hell you doin out there dove?”

One embarrassing explanation later Simon is hiding his face and swearing off drinking.

John Price

John holds his liquor better than any of his teammates so he doesn’t get too drunk when he’s out with the boys. However when he gets home and pours himself a glass of scotch you know you’re going to be there for a while. He always pulls you onto his lap when he drinks, enjoying the way your skin serves as a sweet chaser on his lips as he sips his drink. His beard always tickles you and makes you giggle and squirm. You’re stuck there as he pours glass after glass, giving you little sips occasionally until you’ve got a small buzz.

John caries to you to bed, the scotch making you oh so sleepy. He helps you slip into his favorite nightgown and strips to his boxers before getting nice and comfy with you in bed. His big hands grip and grope you, not in a sexual way, he just likes feeling your soft skin under his cracked and calloused fingers. Not matter how drunk he was the night before you’re always the one to wake up to a full breakfast with all your favorites.

[yanderedrabbles]

Hi, I love your drabbles. May I ask how would the yanderes react if the reader tries to escape or leave them?

'Til Death Do Us Part - yandere boys when you try and leave them

Yandere! Soldier is high strung and suspicious of everything. It just comes with the job. He isn't cruel, and he doesn't like hurting you, but if you make a run for it he won't hold back. Calloused hand crushing your windpipe as he drags you back, he'll remind you that nowhere in this godforsaken city is safer than with him. If he has to keep your hands tied for a few days, he will. Even if the ropes rub your skin raw. If your promise to behave, maybe he'll kiss it better.

Yandere! Cowboy is careful to always keep an eye on you. He ain't a fool - he knows that he frightens you. He knows you deserve a better man than him. But he's too selfish to let you go. He'll grab you jaw and glare at you with those coyote eyes. Whiskey and cigarettes on his breath as he pulls you up onto your tip toes and let's his lips just hover over yours. "Come hell or judgement, you ain't ever leavin' me. You got that sugar?"

Yandere! Boyfriend does not take it well when you tell him you want to take a break, that you need some space. He looks you dead in the eye and simply says, "No." He's the type to stand in front of the door and demand a detailed list of reasons you want to break up. And if he doesn't agree with them- and he never does - he simply will not accept things are over. If you insist on it and nothing he says can sway you, then you'll find out just how cozy he's made the basement.

Yandere! Cop's stalker persona is the exact thing he'll use to get you back into his arms. He knows the way you think, he knows the addresses of all your friends and family, he can track your bank purchases and card swipes. And on top of that, people are more than willing to talk to a cop about a poor, missing girl. And when he catches you, he'll make sure you're so terrified of your stalker that you'll never leave him, ever again.

Yandere! Gangster is helpless to stop you if you want to go anywhere without him. You're his boss afterall, and you'll put a bullet in his head the second he steps out of line. That doesn't stop him from begging to come with you. He's practically on his knees for you and looking every bit the kicked puppy. "Fine," you sigh, running your hands through his hair and letting your nails scrape against his neck, "But only if you promise to behave."

Yandere! Incubus feels his composure slipping the second you ask the abbot to let you leave for another abbey. He'll grab your arm and struggle to hide his claws, trying to reason with you. You're needed here, he'll remind you, and if the Holy Spirit guided you to this place, who are you to go against it? At night, he'll slip into your bed and trace his claws across your belly. He'll nip at your ear with his sharp, sharp teeth and hiss, "Whetever you go, I will always follow."

Yandere! Desert Bandit is the son of the dunes and sand. He knows every oasis, every well, every hidden mountain path. Even if you could make it out of his arms and past his men, the desert itself will lead him to you. He'll laugh when he finds you and boast to his men that his woman is smarter than them all, to have made it this far on her own. But when night comes, you'll find his grip tighter than ever before.

Yandere! Apocalypse Survivor knows you'll never leave him. The infected are terrifying and the other survivors are even worse. Still, he always keeps a close eye on you when you visit trading settlements - just because you won't leave, it doesn't mean someone else won't try and steal you for themselves.

[melodyanqel]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 ── ★ k.js (i. new girl in town)

a freshly new face enters the world of karate who is shy and spineless yet becomes everyone’s favorite fighter. even her stern and tough rival has a soft spot. and possibly more than that.

↬ pairing: kwon jae-sung x fem!oc

↬ genre/tags: romance, fluff, angst, developing relationship, friendship, team bonding, family, shy!!sunshine!oc, possessive!kwon

↬ warnings: bullying, mean girls

↬ word count: 2k words

↬ note: first chapter! i thought about starting with a prologue but i decided to jump right into the story and write a chapter. but i hope you all enjoy!

↬ melodyanqel taglist: @pa1nfullyalive @captainquake42 @padmemi @carrotjuicepdf @sebastianstansblog @thebrightest4r

USA

Summer fades, but memories remain. 

Miyagi-Do students and the senseis can finally take a deep breath after the Cobra Kai mayhem. It felt like hell for all of them—chain reactions, betrayals, and so on caused a war. But now, the sweet air of tranquility has wrapped them in a warm embrace. 

The first day of school is bittersweet because it’s time to move on from summer and continue to explore what life has to offer. Miguel and Sam have their hands intertwined while Anthony follows them into the building. West Valley High School welcomes back the students. 

“I can’t believe this is our last year here.” Sam feels a bit sentimental about how the time has passed. Even though not-so-great moments happened here, there will always be happy ones. Miguel nodded, “I’m surprised as well. College is our next stop. I hope my mom and dad will be satisfied with my major.” He talked with his family about what he’d do after high school. Plus, a new sibling will get welcome to the world around the time he graduates with Robby.

Sam reassures him. “They’ll be happy about whatever decision you’ll make. The worst thing you can do is become a lousy dropout.” She chuckles and doubts he will ever do that. Miguel exhales because he feels a little better. “My mom and grandma would’ve whooped my ass. And thanks, girlfriend.” He pecks her forehead sweetly. “You’re welcome, boyfriend.” The LaRusso daughter smiles at the boy.

Abruptly, her brother notices something. “Uh-oh. Already a scrap is happening.” Anthony points his finger at the upcoming fight. Miguel and Sam follow his finger to spot a group of girls ganging up on a petite redhead girl with glasses and dressed in pastel pink clothes. The mean girl who looks like the typical leader yells at the scared girl. 

“You bitch! You could’ve hurt me!”

“I-I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

“An accident?! Why don’t you redhead freak-looking ass watch where you were going!”

The mean girl pushes the redhead to the floor and lands on her bottom. She drops her materials and groans at the painful impact. 

After watching enough of it, Sam didn’t hesitate to let things get worse. She parts from Miguel to go up to the bullies. “Hey! Back off! It was an accident!” Sam stands in front of the poor girl with a glare. The mean girl smirks, “Oh yeah. What are you going to do about it? Defend a freak.” She retorts and her friends laugh at the insult. The students in the area all watch the situation unravel. 

Miguel and Anthony would’ve stopped Sam, but they knew what she was doing. 

The female Karate fighter jabs the mean girl effortlessly in the stomach, knocking her to the ground. “Next time, think before who you are messing with.” Sam makes a comeback with a slight threat. She watches the mean girls and her friends scurry away in fear. Then the tension clears, and everything is all normal. 

Sam turns around to face the victim. She kindly helps gather her school supplies. “Here you go.” She hands over the girl’s books and binders. 

“T-Thank you so much.” The redhead gladly appreciates the eldest LaRusso child and takes her stuff. Sam has a cordial smile. She offers a helping hand to the bullied girl. Their hands grabbed each other and Sam brought the girl to her feet. Miguel and Anthony began approaching the girls. “Hey, are you okay?” Miguel asked the redhead. She answers, “Yes, I’m fine.” Her voice was mousy, almost like she was whispering.

Sam tries to lighten up the mood. “Now that you’re okay, we can introduce ourselves. I’m Sam. This is my boyfriend, Miguel, and my little brother, Anthony.” She greets herself, Miguel sends a cordial smile, and Anthony does a small wave. 

The trio becomes mesmerized by the petite redhead. She is super pretty and cute, like a royal princess. She has fair skin, small facial features, and stunning hazel eyes with glasses. Her style is adorable too. She greets the LaRusso siblings and Miguel. “It’s nice to meet you all. My name is Sophia and I’m not from here. I came from Portland, Oregon. So, you can call me the ‘New girl in Town’ and not the other one.” She still feels hurt by the insult. 

Sam reads the discomfort on her face—she is playing the hero today. The female fighter tells Sophia, “Hey, you are not a freak. Those girls just wanted to make you feel bad about yourself. Your hair is so beautiful it reminds me of Princess Ariel.” She compliments Sophia’s copper ginger hair. 

“It’s also cool like Scarlet Witch!” Anthony adds, which makes his sister and Miguel chuckle. Sophia blushes at their comments. “I appreciate your lovely words.” She responded, delightedly. Then the bell rings. Before class, Sam invites Sophia for lunch with her and her friends. Sophia happily accepts because she needs to start breaking out of her shell. She is a shy girl who is a pink addict and doesn’t have thick skin. 

Despite the ugly start, Sophia believes things will get better. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

SOUTH KOREA

When the night comes, look heavenward and be willing to see that the stars still shine; for the dawn will come. 

A young man sighs with relief once entering the studio apartment. He takes off his gi and black belt to have a relaxing shower. He feels rejuvenated when the water hits his long spiky hair. He had a long day of training, sparring, and getting punished by his sensei. Of course, he wouldn’t be disrespectful towards his comrades and mentor, but the anger keeps rising. 

Kwon turns off the shower, wipes himself dry, and puts on comfortable clothes. The quiet apartment may look lonely, but he feels like he is in a haven. After making instant noodles with a boiled egg, Kwon grabs his dinner and sits at the dining table. He goes through his text messages while slurping on the delicious noodles. They’re mainly from his family. 

After turning eighteen, Kwon moved out of his parent’s place when he successfully became one of Kim Dae-un’s pupils. Ever since he was a young boy, his passion was martial arts. He gets enthralled by the beauty of martial arts; courage, strength, confidence, respect, honor, and personal growth. Not to mention, being able to defend himself. 

However, Sensei Kim may not show it but Kwon is her least favorite student.

She has favorites which is no surprise because she does for his teammate, Yoon Do-jin—the best student who wears that damn geum baeji. Kwon does get envious whenever Yoon receives more praise than him. One day, he will prove he is a better fighter than him with a special combination of skill and will, power and finesse, and an unmatched physical and mental toughness. 

In the group chat, his parents would ask if he was doing well, had eaten, and so forth. Kwon deeply loves them. At first, he expected them to roll their eyes or be disappointed by his pathway in life. But they knew they couldn’t change what brings him joy. Kwon is grateful for his parents. Underneath his rebellious self, he does have a heart. 

Kwon finishes his dinner and responds to the text messages, 

Thank you for asking. I’m doing good, yes I’ve eaten, and my training sessions were tiring yet I got through them. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

USA

“Yo, dude! Did Sam punch a girl?!”

During the day, it’s now lunchtime. Miguel, Hawk, and Demetri are in the hallway to head for the cafeteria. Hawk asked Miguel about what happened earlier. Miguel speaks, “Yes. Wait, how did you know?” He looks at one of his best friends quizzically. Instead, Demetri tells him, “That’s what Devon said in math class. I thought we agreed about not doing karate in school.” He is stating that they shouldn’t repeat history. 

Miguel clarifies to the guys. “Sam did it because a girl was getting bullied. She is also new here.” He gives a brief explanation. Hawk shakes his head. “Some people, man.” He knows what it’s like to get bullied. He and Demetri have gone to hell and back when Kyler and goons would pick on them. Nowadays, it’s different—all thanks to karate. 

Demetri shrugs, “Well, at least no beef started. I’m pretty sure we’ve had enough.” He doesn’t want to get part of the drama ever again. Miguel replies, “Who knows? But I’m positive everything will be alright.” He is optimistic yet tries to face reality. Let’s see how this last year of high school plays out. 

Once they enter the cafeteria and get their slices of pizza, drink, and snacks, the boys notice Sam sitting with Sophia. 

“Heyo, Sam! What’s poppin?!” Hawk greets his teammate and one of his greatest friends while taking a seat. Sam looks around the table and sees her boyfriend and friends joining. She says, “I’m doing good! Also, Hawk, Demetri. This is Sophia. She is new so try to be nice and patient with her.” Their loud and hyper energy can sometimes get out of control. Demetri grins, “We will. It’s not like we’re the bad guys.” He tries to state the truth and convince Sophia. 

Hawk speaks enthusiastically, “We’re the cool, good guys. And badasses.” His over-the-top behavior makes Sophia giggle. They seem like hilarious yet friendly people. The pretty redhead speaks, “It’s nice to meet you all. And Miguel. I hope we’ll get along.” She has them smiling in adoration, and the guys blushing. Her sweet charm affected the Miyagi-Do students. 

Miguel then asks Sophia, “What made you move to California?” He and the others want to get to know her. She explains to the karate fighters, “I have relatives living out here and I’m the only one in Oregon. My parents saved enough to buy a house so we could be much closer to our relatives. At first, we thought it was absurd, but whatever can make my parents happy. I must follow them until I graduate.” Truthfully, Sophia didn’t want to move to California because she’d miss the breathtaking forest, the people, and her best friend. But a glimmer of hope is slowly happening. 

Demetri starts expressing his thoughts. “Well, it’s not all that bad. Sure, it’s expensive, but we do our best to survive. And should I tell her what we do?” He looks at Sam, Miguel, and Hawk for permission. He wants to be careful before saying it. Sophia doesn’t know what they do together, but Demetri makes it sound like it’s a sin. 

Sam tells the tall boy, “Go ahead.” 

She turns her attention to Sophia. “By the way, it’s not illegal.” She spoke with humor and sincerity. The shy redhead just nods. 

Demetri continues, “We have a hobby and it’s karate. It started with Sam then Miguel then Hawk and I joined last because I felt like it was more than fighting.” And he has zero regrets because he never thought he could kick and punch. 

Sophia put a merry smile on her coral-pink lips. “Wow! So you guys are cool! I love that and it’s precious to know you all are inseparable.” She comprehends how they act, talk, and see each other it’s more than a regular friendship. They’re like a family. 

Hawk shouts with no care, “Hell yeah, we are!” He smiles proudly at the people around the table, who are willing to get through highs and lows with him. Hawk then goes back to being gentle. He tells Sophia, “You don’t need to know karate just to be our friend. We want you to feel loved, and protected, and share wonderful moments with us.” Hawk was once a loner, a bully victim, and an asshole. But he eventually learned to never forget about the real people in his life and still be a tough fighter. 

His genuine and considerate words touched Sophia’s heart. Well, it’s better than suffering as an outcast. 

She answers candidly, “Sure. I’ll join the group.” 

back to masterlist

[davinawritings]

Hi, i found your blog and see you open request so I'll try my luck here. Please if you wouldn't mind writing an alien x human (f! Reader) with forced kiss/forced makeout (or literally just the alien tongue-fucking reader's mouth) it doesn't have to be smut or having sexual intercourse but if you want to add it that'll be up to you.

Thanks ✨

Hello! Thank you so much for the request ❤️ I hope you enjoy 💕🖤❤️

Warning: Forced makeout, cheating

Aliens made contact with Earth four years ago, and the two different species have made a vow of peace. Over the last few years, many aliens and humans have participated in an exchange program of sorts. The alien and human will exchange lives for six months, giving each species the opportunity to learn more about the other. Your boyfriend decided to sign up, and within a month, the arrangements had been made.

It has been just over 2 months since your boyfriend left Earth, and Eltath has come to live with you in your boyfriend’s place. You have come to really enjoy Eltath’s company. He was always kind and loved when you taught or showed him new things about the earth. He also happily answered any of your questions as well.

Today was like many others. You took him exploring around the city. Most of the days were spent just walking and talking with each other. You had decided on a quiet night in with some movies, something Eltath had come to enjoy very much in his time on earth.

You had previously stuck to history and nature documentaries, wanting to give Eltath all the knowledge you could, but you wanted to give you both a break from learning. After flipping through your options, you finally landed on a romantic comedy, one of your favorites.

You both watched in silence, with the occasional laugh, until the end, when the two main characters finally got together and shared a passionate kiss.

You could hear the innocent curiosity in Eltath’s voice when he asked, “What are they doing? They are pressing their mouths together”. The questions catch you off guard. You had not considered the fact that aliens may have alternative courting rituals and displays of affection. Your cheeks warm with slight embarrassment as you attempt to straighten your thoughts and provide him with an answer.

“Well, Eltath, they are kissing. On earth, it is a way to show someone you like them, a form of affection that humans show each other,” you replied, trying to give a more simple answer.

He nods before asking, “So when humans want to show another human they like them, then just press their mouths together? And all humans do that”.

You fiddle with your hands as you attempt to explain better, feeling slightly awkward with the conversation. “Not all humans kiss each other. It is only with others that you like and one may give different types of kisses. A small kiss on the cheek can signify love or care, while a kiss on the mouth signifies much deeper care and likeness for someone. Then with the people you really like, you may have a deeper kiss using tongues”.

Within seconds, he has moved next to you on your couch and has your face cradled in his large hands. You open your mouth to question him, but before you get a single word out, his long tongue enters your mouth. His tongue is much longer and thicker than a human’s, and he uses it to explore the entirety of your mouth.

You whimper and try to get his attention by pushing on his body, but he just keeps you held firmly in place. You work on breathing through your nose as Eltath seems to have no intentions of pulling out to let you breathe.

Tears spring to your eyes as he moves further back, using the tip of his tongue to start exploring your throat. He pushes forward and pulls it back rapidly, essentially fucking your mouth with his large tongue. You whimper helplessly, knowing this is wrong. You have a boyfriend, and yet here you are getting tongue fucked by an alien. And worse, you can’t help but get turned on by his actions, feeling your pussy start to get wet from him using your mouth.

Suddenly, Eltath pulls away, and you gasp for breath. You stay still as you watch him smile and say, “I like you very much, so that is how we will show each other from now on. Good night. I will see you in the morning for breakfast, and perhaps I will show you how we show our affection on my planet,” he says before walking to the guest bedroom.

As you lay in bed trying to sleep hours later, you wonder how you will explain to him that it is only your boyfriend who should be kissing you like that, though kisses with your boyfriend had never felt so intense or gotten you wet as Eltath did. Eltath also said he would show you how his kind shows affection. You don’t want to confuse him even more on human affection before he can show you alien affection. It just makes sense to wait for now. Right?

🖤💕❤️❤️💕🖤

[devonpink]

A Thanksgiving Story

Arrogant, ignorant, and stupid, no three words could better describe my dad. I didn't always see him like that, though. Growing up, we were best buds—I admired and looked up to him as a role model. I truly felt like I could tell him anything, I could trust him. So, you could imagine my shock when after coming out as gay to him, he turned on me. He ignited into a homophobic rage, disowning me as his son. He couldn't stand the sight of me. The unpleasant feeling was mutual and I moved out as quickly as possible.

For almost a decade, there was nothing but radio silence between us. Until one day, I randomly got an email from him, inviting me to a one-on-one Thanksgiving. I read it over and over, completely stunned. As mad and hurt as I still felt, I knew I'd regret not accepting his olive branch. So, I accepted.

A few days later, in the early afternoon of Thanksgiving, I drove over to my dad's place, my childhood home. As nervous as I was, driving up the old driveway and parking in my old spot felt good. As I stepped out of my car, I was reminded of how sweltering it was for November, even for Florida. As much as dressing up sounded fun, wearing a white tank top, dark tan loose shorts, and flip-flops only made sense. My balls would have melted in a pair of underwear, so I freeballed.

My heart was racing, as I flip-flopped to the front door. I was expecting the worst but hoping for the best. I could smell the turkey cooking through the front door as I knocked, its mouth-watering scent calming me slightly. A few seconds later, my dad opened the door. Unsurprisingly, he was exactly as I had left him: bulky beyond belief, obviously my leaving had no effect on his serious workout routine. Then again, maybe he exercised to escape the pain, I know I did that. He was wearing nearly the same thing, the only difference being his loose shorts were black. His pit stains were just as bad as mine—like father, like son, I guess. To my relief, his nervous expression pleasantly told me was just as anxious as I was.

Stepping inside, I got a good whiff of him as I passed him, that oh-so-familiar scent of cologne failing to mask the intense pit reek. The house, like my father's manly stench, was exactly how I'd remembered it, nothing had changed—it was nice. As my dad led me to the kitchen, with his back to me, I gave my hairy sweaty pits a sniff. They reeked, even worse than my dad's. Unlike him, I'd forgotten to put on deodorant or cologne. We both stunk, in slightly different ways, but that similarity was comforting—like father, like son.

I was expecting things to be insanely awkward, but it was like the good old days. We sat out on the porch, drinking beer and shooting the shit as we waited for the turkey to finish cooking on the barbecue. I forgot how much I loved talking with him, for an arrogant douch bag, he sure could make me laugh. Neither of us had brought up my leaving yet, I assume to not break the good flow we had going. In truth, I didn't want to bring it up. It felt good to pretend everything was as it was in the old days.

When the turkey was done, we brought it inside and gobbled it down like too starving beasts. Obviously, our nerves had calmed down quite a bit. Everything was fantastic, I forgot how good of a cook my dad is. We didn't say much to each other while eating, too distracted by our hunger to converse—like father, like son. Before we dove into dessert, he offered me another beer. As much as the pumpkin pie was calling my name, I couldn't decline.

Instead of the usual beer we were drinking, he brought a brand I'd never seen before, "Obedience." I didn't question why he only brought out a single can, I was too distracted by the pumpkin pie to care. I cracked it open and swigged it down, anxious to get to the pie. However, after I finished, I felt funny. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt different. I silently stared at my dad, watching an evil grin form across his face.

My dad spoke, dropping his nice-guy demeanor. "Now listen up, boy. It's time we finally get to the point of our happy reunion." My heart was racing, I knew something terrible was about to happen. Flashbacks of before I left flooded my mind. Strangely, as much as I wanted to move, I couldn't. My body was frozen like it was waiting for something. "Take another swig of your beer, down every last drop." What happened next shocked me to my core, my body moved on its own! It was like I was a bystander in my own body, only able to watch. I robotically brought the can up to my mouth and downed every last drop, doing exactly what he commanded. At that moment, I horrifily knew exactly why it was called, "Obedience," and why he only brought out a single can of it.

"Belch, boy. Like a man." My dad arrogantly commanded, knowing I'd helplessly comply.

"bbbbbbBBBBUUUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPpppppppppp!!!" Just as he commanded, the biggest manliest belch came out of me. I hated how good it felt to obey him, an obvious effect of the beer.

"Belch again, boy. Except this time, additionally, let out all that stress and worry. Also, uncross your legs and manspread! Sit like a man!" He commanded.

I wanted to resist but was helpless to his commands. "bbbbBBBBBBBuuuUUUUUUrrrPPPPPPPPPpppppp!!!" Like he commanded, all stress and worry had left my body. I then uncrossed my legs and manspreaded, just like my dad. Sitting that way felt so much better.

My dad laughed, like a cocky bastard. "Such a good and obedient son I have." I wanted to get up, scream, anything but just sit there. Except I couldn't move. No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't move. "Now, let's get to the good stuff," My dad excitedly proclaimed, unnerving me even more. "Let out all the useless liberalism! Become a rigid conservative, just like dear old dad! Like father, like son! Belch, boy!"

I tried as hard as I could to keep it down, but it was useless. "BBBBBBUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPpppppppp!!!! With that, all liberalism and open-mindedness had left me. My mind was assaulted and reprogrammed to believe all sorts of small-minded conservative ideas and beliefs. It was overwhelming, yet electrifying. With conservatism comes stupidity, so my mind had become completely moldable, exactly what he wanted.

"Real men vote red, don't they, boy?" My dad asked, every word dripping with superiority.

"Sir, yes, Sir! Real men Vote-BBBBBBBbbbuuurrrrPPPPPPPPpppp!!!" Before I could finish, another manly burp escaped from me, making my dad bust out laughing. I couldn't help but laugh too, being more stupider now. It felt good to make my dad laugh. I felt like… a good son.

"Now, before we continue, I want to make sure you have no remaining resistance. So, let it all out! Give yourself to me completely! Belch, boy!" My dad commanded.

"BbbbbuuuuuuuUUUUUURRRRPPPPppppppp!" I did as he commanded, like a good son. It felt good, right, to obey him. Why would I want to resist him? He's my dad! He made me, I must obey him!

My dad was grinning like a king, as he should. "Belch again, boy! Belch as loud as you can!"

"BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" I was more than happy to obey.

"Fuck yeah, son! You sound just like your old man!" My dad enthusiastically congratulated me.

Having him praise me felt good, so fucking good. More, I wanted so much more!

My dad then got serious, obviously, this next one would be important. "Belch, boy, and erase all gayness from yourself. Become the straight man I've always wanted you to be! No man wants a faggot for a son! Blech, boy! Belch and become straight!!!"

"BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" Like a good son, I obeyed. "BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" And just like that, all my gayness was gone. I'm now as straight as a freshly bought nail. I like women, only women, like a normal man. Who'd want to be fag, anyway? Fags are sick freaks!! Thank god I'm not one of them anymore. Thank god I'm straight, just like my dad! Like father, like son!

We celebrated my much-needed transformation over two massive slices of pumpkin pie. Afterward, we returned to the porch and smoked cigars, some of his finest. I feel so much better now that I'm following in my dad's footsteps. I want to be exactly like him, in every single way. I want to be completely interchangeable with him. He gave me a matching pair of sunglasses and a red cap, to protect me from the blistering sun. I obviously wore my cap backward to match him. I'm so thankful for my dad. Without him, I'd be lost.

[letstrip13]

💐 - stood up

summary: when you get stood up on your first date, you call your best friend to come pick you up. but instead of taking you home, he has a better plan.

warnings: none, just fluff!

word count: 1,571

author's note: reupload!! also new acc theme!! + don't forget to read the very end bc i have a couple things to say! enjoy the fic <3

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you bring your phone up to your ear, listening to it ring and waiting for him to pick up. you pace around a little in the parking lot of a small italian restaurant. the cold breeze makes you shiver in your dress and heels, and you regret even wanting to go on this date. you took the time applying your makeup and styling your hair to perfection.

but the date never happened. you got stood up. you waited around for almost twenty minutes before you got the text from your date. all it said was, “sorry, can't make it. something came up.” but you knew nothing came up. just a few minutes ago, he posted on his snapchat story. he was with another girl. he not only stood you up, but he stood you up for someone else.

one ring, two rings, three rings. finally, you hear chris’ voice on the other end. “hello?” he says in a confused tone. “i thought you were on your date.”

“not anymore,” you tell him, holding back tears. “can you come get me?” “yeah, of course. i'm on my way.” he hangs up and you send him your location.

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chris’ pov: i grab my keys and wallet before rushing out of the house, ignoring my brothers calling after me, asking why i’m leaving in such a hurry. you’re the only thing on my mind right now. it sounded like you were fighting tears. you’re my best friend and i want to do everything in my power to make you happy.

i drive to the location you sent me as fast as i can and i pull into the deserted parking lot. the only one there is you, sitting on the curb in your dress and heels, looking so sad yet so beautiful at the same time. i park and get out of the car, quickly coming over to sit next to you. i wrap my arm around you, gently rubbing your arm and shoulder. “hey, what happened?” the way you look up at me, your eyes glossing over with tears, makes my heart ache.

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you look up at him, trying your best not to cry. you know he hates to see you upset like this. you unlock your phone and open it to the “sorry, can't make it” text. he takes the phone from you, eyebrows furrowing as he reads it. “really? he didn't even give you a reason?” you take your phone back. “oh, it gets worse.” you go onto snapchat and open his story before passing it to chris. you watch as his jaw clenches, a subtle but clear sign that he's mad.

“i can't fucking believe this guy,” he exclaims as he hands your phone back to you. “i don't understand how he could do that to you. it's his loss though, you look beautiful.” you smile at chris, a genuine smile, he always knows how to cheer you up. “thank you. and you're right, i can do better.”

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chris’ pov: there's a few moments of silence before i take a deep breath and speak up again. “listen, i have an idea. i know that neither of us have ever been on a real date, but i want to take you out on one.”

i watch as you shake your head. “no, it's okay. i think i should just go home. i just wasn't meant to go on a date tonight.” i run my hand through my hair. “please? you deserve to be taken out on a real date.”

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you think it over for a moment before you end up agreeing. he takes your hand as the both of you stand up and he holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you. you both get in and get comfortable. “so, where are we going, princess?”

the nickname catches you off guard a little, but it's sweet that he's calling you that. “honestly, i kind of feel like just going to a drive-thru.” he chuckles as he starts the car, not expecting that to be your answer. “alright, whatever you want.” he starts the car and starts driving around the city.

he pulls into a drive-thru lineup of a place you both agreed on. the line moves fast and before you know it, you're holding the bag of food while he's driving to some sort of mystery spot.

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chris’ pov: i know the perfect spot to take you. i like coming here to have a moment alone with my thoughts, and it has an amazing view. by the time we get there, the sun has just started to set. it's completely deserted, not far from the beach. we eat our food, talking and laughing between bites. it seems like you completely forgot about the other guy and it puts me at ease to see that.

after we finish eating, we watch the sun go down, enjoying the comfortable silence between us. you check your phone and i don't pay any mind to it, deciding to check mine too. i glance over and notice that you're on snap, more specifically, his snap. i snatch your phone out of your hand before you can check his story. “nope, you're not doing that. forget about him. he's not good enough for you.”

“i wasn't even going to-” “shhh, i know what you were doing.” you're silent for a moment. “what if i get back at him?” “and how would we do that?” i ask with an amused smirk.

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“i could post us on my story. he doesn't know who you are, so he'd think i'm on a real date.” he scoffs, pretending to be offended, “wow, not a real date, huh? i thought we had something, princess.” you nudge his shoulder with yours, causing him to smile after trying to hold it back.

you take your phone back from him and go onto snapchat to take the picture for your story. he leans in close to you as you get the camera angle just right. suddenly, he turns his head and plants a wet kiss on your cheek, just as you hit the button. you weren't expecting it, but it came out perfectly. “ew, chris, it's slobbery!” you giggle. he laughs too and posts the picture to your story for you.

“wanna go for a walk on the beach?” he asks. “sure, sounds fun.” he gets out of the car first and as he shuts his door, he notices your hand on the door handle. “wait!” he climbs over the hood of his car, almost falling in the process as you laugh at his ridiculous gesture. he opens the car door for you, a goofy grin on his face. you step out of the car, thanking him between fits of laughter. “you could've just went around, you know.” “i didn’t think of that.. it was more fun that way anyways.”

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chris’ pov: we make our way down to the beach and we walk along the shoreline, stopping every now and then to admire the clusters of stars that are appearing in the sky. as night falls, i notice you begin to shiver in your dress. i unzip my gray hoodie*, shrugging it off and draping it across your shoulders. “here, take this.” “thank you.” you slip your arms in and zip it up about three quarters of the way as we continue to walk.

*yes, that gray hoodie.

you suddenly stop, giving my arm a gentle tug as you do so to get my attention. i always thought it was so cute when you did that. “can we get ice cream?” i look to where you're pointing and there's a small ice cream shop. it's hidden, kind of tucked away but it looks open. “mhmm, whatever you want.”

we go in, ordering a bowl with two scoops, each getting a scoop of our favourite flavour. we sit across from each other in a booth and share the ice cream. we stay until the last workers are practically shoving us out the door so they can close up.

we walk along the beach together, back the way we came, hand in hand. it's nice to take our time, not having a worry or care in the world as we enjoy each other's company and the sounds of the waves.

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you eventually get to the parking lot and once we're in the car, he lets you pick the music. it's about a twenty minute drive to your house. when you're about five minutes away, he notices you starting to drift off a little. he places his hand on your knee, giving it a gentle shake to wake you up. “hey, don't fall asleep on me now,” he murmurs, “we're almost there.”

he parks in your driveway and turns the car off so you can both get out. you shoot him a confused look. “you don't have to walk me to the door, it's like 30 steps away,” you say with a light smile. “i know but i wanted to.” he walks to your door with you and you start to unzip his sweater. “no, it's fine. i'll get it another time.” he holds you tightly as you pull him into a hug. “thank you, chris. this was the best date ever.” you pull away and give him one last goodbye before going inside, shutting the door behind you.

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author's note 2: follow my bestie pinkfilipowicz on instagram, i'm trying to help her with her goal of getting 100 followers by the end of 2024!! she's also doing a new thing called "madi monthly recap" i'm not fully sure what it is but don't miss it bc i know it's gonna be good!!

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