#what if they end up going to more than one place...........

[agxxb]

Prettier Than a Star (pt2) .𖥔 ݁ ˖

rafe cameron x f!reader

summary: after you and rafe hooked up, he couldn’t stop thinking about you… good thing you couldn’t get him out of your mind either.

warnings: smut. fluff. rafe is a sweetheart & lowkey whipped for reader. possessive!rafe. unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), vaginal fingering. use of pet names (baby, babe, sweetheart). praise. best friend’s brother. one mention of y/n. [3k]

read part one here!

Rafe had spent the past few days thinking about you. He couldn’t get you out of his head, couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked, the way you felt, the way you sounded. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face, every time he touched his skin, he felt your hands.

But it wasn’t just lust. He tried to ignore it, tried to tell himself that it was just a fling, that it was nothing more than physical, but there was something about you that he just couldn’t get out of his head, that he couldn’t shake off.

He had tried to stay away, to put some distance between you, but he couldn’t get you out of his mind. You were like a drug: addictive, intoxicating, all-consuming — and he needed another hit. He tried to distract himself, tried to keep himself busy, but it was no use. You were under his skin, invading his thoughts, making him feel things he didn't even know he could feel. He had never felt this way about anyone before, a need so intense it was like you were a narcotic.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Sarah asked her brother as she entered the kitchen, heading towards the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.

Her voice startled Rafe, the boy looking up from his laptop with wide eyes. He relaxed after seeing who it was, scowling and moving his attention back to the bright screen in front of him.

“Nothin’,” he muttered gruffly, but the tension in his body betrayed him, his jaw tight.

He didn't want to talk, didn't want to explain why he was in such a bad mood, because she still didn’t know about what had happened between the both of you. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to appear indifferent, but he couldn't hide his irritability.

Sarah knew not to push Rafe’s buttons, knowing she could be on the receiving end if he snapped, but she also knew him well enough to know that ‘nothing’ was almost always something. She simply hummed in response, taking a sip of her water and looking at him over the bottle.

Rafe shot his sister a glare, his irritation growing. "I'm not in the mood for your bullshit."

Before Sarah could reply, his phone buzzed. Glancing down at the device, his finger hovered over the new message.

𝙉𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪. 𝘽𝙚 𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙚𝙣?

Rafe’s eyes widened once again, though this time it was in surprise. He hadn’t expected to hear from you, let alone receive a message asking to meet up. He clicked on the notification, thumbs tapping away at the screen as he quickly wrote out a reply and sent it.

Shutting his laptop – and not bothering to turn it off – he stood from his place at the kitchen island and put his phone in the front pocket of his jeans.

Rafe's reaction to the text message did not go unnoticed by Sarah, she couldn't help but feel intrigued, tilting her head slightly in curiosity. "Who was that?"

“None of your business,” he said, tone somewhat harsh. However, he knew that was a lie. With you being her best friend, Sarah had every right to know… but he couldn’t tell her.

Your hands shook as you typed out the message. You hadn’t stopped thinking about Rafe since his party: the way he looked, the way he felt, the way he sounded… You knew you shouldn’t be feeling the way you did, but you couldn’t help it — and that only added to the guilt you felt.

Your heart raced as you awaited his response. You couldn't shake the feeling that clawed at hour stomach, couldn't ignore the little voice in your head telling you that what you was doing was wrong. The guilt you felt when you thought about Sarah, his sister, your best friend, only made everything worse. You knew that you were crossing a line that you shouldn’t, that you were betraying her, but you couldn’t help it.

You felt something for him, and you needed to know if it was reciprocated.

A few moments went by without any word from him, and you began to regret sending the message. Just as you went to delete it, your phone dinged — a new message. You picked it up, seeing Rafe’s name on your screen with his response below it.

𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣.

When you read his reply, a flutter of excitement washed over you, and you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. You put your phone down and took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. You knew you should be feeling penitent, but all you could feel was excitement at the prospect of seeing him again.

Ten minutes felt like ten hours as you waited anxiously, tapping your fingers against your thigh out of habit. You didn’t know what to expect, what to say, how to act, but you knew that you needed to see him, needed to talk to him.

About fifteen minutes went by before you heard a knock at your door, your heart leaping into your throat. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, and stood up slowly. Every step you took towards the door felt like an eternity, your legs feeling weak, your knees like jelly. You reached for the handle, taking a deep breath before opening the door.

You could feel the tension in the air, the electricity between you. For a moment, neither of you said anything, you just stood there, looking at each other. Finally, he spoke up, breaking the silence.

"Hey.” His voice was low and rough, though simultaneously soft and affectionate.

"Hi," you replied, doing your best to keep your voice steady. "Come in."

Rafe gave you a small smile as he stepped through the doorway, his body moving with confident grace. You closed the door behind him, feeling his presence fill the small space, consuming you completely.

He stood there with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything, just watched you with an intensity that made your heart race.

You lead him up to your bedroom, not wanting a million and one questions if your parents ended up coming back whilst he was at yours. As soon as you walked through the door, he closed it behind him, almost trapping you in with him. The space suddenly felt small and intimate, filled with the tension that crackled between you.

You walked over to sit on your bed, watching him glance around your bedroom. It was the first time a boy had ever seen your room, and you were somehow comfortable with it, despite knowing your parents would freak out.

Rafe took in every detail of your room: the soft, floral-patterned duvet on the bed, the fluffy pillows, the framed photos of you and your family… He couldn’t explain the feeling in his chest as he looked around, a strange mixture of possessiveness and belonging.

“It’s very you,” he said as he turned around, his gaze finally landing on you, sitting on the bed, your legs crossed in front of you. A small smile found home on his lips as he spoke, and you blushed a little at his words, his observation.

"You think so?" you asked, your voice soft as your eyes met his. You couldn’t help but return the gesture, a gentle smile of your own curving your lips. Rafe nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep himself from reaching out and touching you.

He walked over to you, sitting down on the side of the bed, in front of you. He took a deep breath before he spoke. "Why’d you ask me to come over?"

The question he ask brought back the nervousness you were feeling earlier, and you hesitated for a moment before responding. "I… I needed to talk to you," you said, your voice quiet but steady.

“So talk.”

You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. You’d wanted to talk to him, but now that he was here, sitting in front of you, waiting for you to say something, you felt a little unsure of yourself.

“I think…” you began, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. You took another deep breath before your rambling started. “I think I like you. Well, I’m pretty sure I do, but I’m scared because I overthink a lot. I can’t stop thinking about how I’m basically betraying Sarah and if you didn’t feel the same way, I could ruin two friendships that I really cherish all because I-”

Before you could continue, you felt his lips on yours, cutting off your endless string of words.

Rafe had watched as you rambled, his expression softening ever so slightly. He had expected a lot of things when you asked him to come over, but admitting to liking him hadn’t been one of them.

The moment his lips touched yours, all your thoughts vanished, replaced by the intense sensations flooding through you. You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, all you could do was feel. His palms were against your cheek, his thumbs gently stroking your jaw, whilst your hands found their place on his wrists.

He pulled away just enough to speak, his voice a rough whisper. “You need to stop talking, babe.” The nickname, coupled with his gravelly voice and intense gaze, sent a shiver of pleasure through your body. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the party.”

His eyes were full of affection as he looked at you, a gentle smile on his face that held nothing but adoration. He ran his fingers along your jawline, tracing your features like they were delicate, something to be treasured.

“Really?” you asked, voice but a whisper and laced with surprise and curiosity.

Rafe slowly dragged his thumb over your lower lip, his touch gentle. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he said, voice softer than you had ever heard it. “Can’t think straight when I’m around you. Can’t concentrate on anything else but you.”

Your made him feel strangely vulnerable, a feeling he wasn't used to, but at the same time, he found that he didn't mind it that much. He was so used to being used, being treated like a prize to be won or an accessory to be flaunted. But now, with you, he found that he actually wanted more than just a meaningless fling.bHe didn't know how to handle these new feelings, but one thing was sure — he wasn't going to mess it up.

You suddenly leaned down and captured his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. You didn’t verbally agree on what this meant for you both, but you didn’t need to. You deserved so much more than someone like him, but he wanted you, and he didn't want to let you go.

Rafe Cameron wanted to be selfish — an action he was used to.

He moaned against your mouth, one of his hands leaving your face and moving down to your waist, gently squeezing. His body twisted round slightly, his front now facing you as he leaned closer to you and deepening the kiss.

The sound of his moan sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt a sense of pride that you could make him feel something. His hand on your waist was firm, almost possessive as he squeezed, the heat of his body seeping through your clothes.

His tongue ran along your lower lip, silently asking for access, and you parted your lips for him, allowing him to explore your mouth. The kiss grew more urgent, more desperate, and you soon found yourself with your head on your pillow, Rafe hovering above you.

Rafe groaned against your lips as your leg brushed against his hardening cock, the feeling sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he looked down at you, his voice low and guttural as he spoke. "You feel that? You feel what you do to me?"

Rafe’s lips trailed down over your jawline, down to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and small love bites as he went. “You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled, breath hot against her skin. “And I’d tell you every day… if you’ll have me.”

You nodded, filled with emotion at his sweet way of asking. “Every day sounds good to me.” Placing your hands against his cheeks and bringing his face back to yours, you captured his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. You let out a soft moan against Rafe’s lips.

He loved the sounds that escaped your lips and the way you arched into his touch. It fueled his desire for you even more, knowing that he was the one making you feel this way.

He kisses across your cheek before he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips trailing kisses down your sensitive flesh, his free hand roaming down your body. You giggled as he did so, bringing your hands up to rest on his back. "That tickles!"

He continued his assault on your neck, his lips leaving a trail of kisses and love bites across your sensitive skin. A low, gravelly chuckle vibrated from his throat as he heard you giggle, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his rough, deep voice low in your ear as his lips moved to another sensitive spot, his tongue darting out to tease your skin.

Your giggles turned into a soft moan, your eyes closing as you relished in the pleasure Rafe was giving you. He licked and sucked on you skin, leaving his mark on your neck — letting every one know who you belong to: Rafe Cameron.

Rafe lowered his hand from your waist, his fingers working deftly against the buttons of your shirts before his hand reached in. You moaned as his thumb came into contact with your puffy clit, biting your lip as your head tilted back.

Rafe moved away from your neck, eyes flickering down your lips. “Nuh uh, Sweetheart. Wanna hear you.” You let your lip go, letting it bounce softly back into place. “Good girl.”

Your eyes rolled back when you felt two of his fingers enter you, stretching you out. You were so wet, they slid in easily, not a sting of pain in sight. “Fuck!” you moaned when he curled them, his fingertips rubbing against that spot inside you.

Rafe suddenly reached up and cupped your face in one hand, his thumb stroking gently over your cheek, "Look at me,” he ordered, though his voice held no bitterness. You did as was told, looking up into his blue eyes whilst yours watered in pleasured. “That’s it, baby. Feel good?”

“So good,” you whispered, hand squeezing his bicep.

Rafe’s movements suddenly stopped and you whined in disappointment. “When I ask you a question, I expect to hear the answer.”

“Feels so good, Rafe,” you spoke louder, a moan quickly following as he started fucking you with his fingers. “So fucking good…”

“You belong to me,” Rafe mumbled, seemingly to himself despite also talking to you. He wasn't used to ever being possessive, especially over a person, but the thought of you belonging to anyone else pissed him off. “Say it. Say you belong to me.”

“I belong to you, Rafe,” you cried out, looking up at the man above you and his fingers moved faster. “I’m yours.”

“Damn fucking right you are.”

Rafe suddenly removed his fingers and got off your bed to unbuckle his belt. The clanging caught your attention, and your mouth watered as you watched him pull it from the loops of his jeans — which were next to leave, his shirt following after.

He crawled back over you, claiming your mouth with his as he kissed you deeply. His hand moved to your bottoms, hooking his fingers on the edge and pulling both your shorts and underwear down at the same time. He pressed his forehead to yours. “You want this?”

“So badly,” you begged, nodding against him. Your hands came back up to his back — touching the bare skin this time. “Please, baby.”

"Yeah?” Rafe placed his hands on your stomach, pushing your top up as his hands went higher. He cupped your tits, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. You nodded again, reaching a hand down to stroke his cock, thumb rubbing over the head to collect the pre-cum. His eyes fluttered closed, a moan leaving him. “Fuck.”

He gently slapped your hand away, replacing it with his own and guiding himself to your entrance. Your eyes rolled back when he pushed forward, sinking into your warmth. Your nails dug into his biceps as he pulled back, only to thrust back into you.

“Damn," he groaned. "You feel so good, baby. So damn good.” He rested his forehead on yours again, watching himself disappear into you with every movement of his hips, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he felt you, all of you.

One of his hands moved to your throat, adding just enough pressure — the way you like. “Just like that,” you moaned, your legs wrapped around his waist so he could go deeper, ankles crossed at his lower back.

Rafe wanted to see your face while he was inside you, wanted to see the look on your face as he made you feel nothing but pleasure. He used the hand around your throat to nudge your chin upwards, you getting the hint. You did as he wanted, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. He groaned as he looked at your face, his eyes roaming over your features, taking in every little expression, every little sound that escaped your lips.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hips speeding up, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. He suddenly pressed his lips to your neck as he mumbled against your skin, "God, I can't get enough of you."

He could feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, the sensations mounting as he continued to move with you, his force gradually increasing. He nipped at your skin, his teeth sinking in just enough to leave a small mark. He wanted to claim you, to mark you as his, to leave a physical reminder that you belonged to him.

"Need you to fill me up," you moaned, pleading with him. It was a need, not a want. You loved feeling him cum inside you last time, and you didn’t know how you went so long without it. "Please."

His breath caught in his throat as he heard your words, his body reacting immediately. He pinned you down onto the bed, his voice low and guttural, "You want that?"

"Need it," you cried, tears welling in your eyes from the pleasure Rafe was giving you. He could sense you were on the edge, and he knew exactly what you needed, what you craved.

He started moving faster, his hips snapping against the backs of your thighs in a firm, steady rhythm. He was so close to the edge, he just needed to hear you say it one more time...

"You're mine, baby. Say it."

"I'm yours, Rafe," you clung onto him, letting out a loud moan as his thumb found your clit again — the little bundle of nerves swollen and begging for attention. “All yours.”

He felt a primal satisfaction surge through him as he listened to you speak, and his thrusts got faster, less controlled. Your legs started to shake, so close to the edge, and your fingernails dug into the skin of his back, scratching down it once again and leaving bright red marks in their wake.

"You're all mine," he grunted against your skin.

"Yes, yes, yes!"

A loud moan ripped through your throat as you came undone around him, head thrown back against your pillow and eyes squeezed closed.

Rafe felt you squeeze him, the sensations sending him over the edge. He let out a guttural groan as he came, pushing himself as deep as he could go and burying his face in the crook of your neck as he shuddered. He couldn't speak for a few moments, his body going boneless as he collapsed on top of you. He was completely shaken, his body quivering from the force of his orgasm.

He lay like that for a moment, trying to catch his breath as it left him in ragged gasps. He eventually spoke, his voice low and gravelly, "Damn, baby. That was..."

"Incredible."

The two of you basked in each other’s arms, sweat dripping down your bodies. You were feeling relaxed, content in Rafe’s arms… until you heard the front door open.

“Y/N, we’re back!”

[ellecdc]

James' Love & the Adventures of Padvix

poly!marauders x fem!reader who is very foxy [1.2k words]

CW: animagus reader, modern AU but still magical, they're staying at an airBNB, padfoot and vixen are out of control and James [+ Remus] are smitten

Remus looked so pretty; his cheeks and nose kissed pink by the cold, a soft, satisfied smile on his face, and the snowflakes landing on his hat and tawny curls poking out from under it that took their sweet time to melt under his effervescent warmth. 

James was in love. 

“Are you going to help me here or are you just going to keep staring?” Remus commented then, not bothering to look up at his boyfriend whilst a cheeky smirk danced on his lips. 

James wanted to kiss him senseless. 

So he did. 

Remus tasted like the peppermint hot chocolate he enjoyed earlier, the peppermint hot chocolate he’d probably enjoy when they got back inside, the cold winter air, and happiness. 

James was in love. 

“Sorry Moons.” He murmured against his lips before pressing one more, two more, let’s make it three more kisses to his lips before he did indeed help load the chopped wood into the strong IKEA bags.

The two of them stepped into the steamy warm cabin. No, it wasn’t actually steamy, that was just James’ glasses. But before James' bag of firewood even hit the ground, gentle fingers were pulling them from his face before Remus pressed a kiss to his nose. 

James was in love. 

De-fog-ified, James’ glasses made themselves back home on his face as he looked around the living space of the small cabin the four of you had rented for the week. 

“Where’d they go?” He inquired aloud, hearing a canine ‘oomph’ in response. 

Remus and James both moved to stand behind the sofa to find you and Sirius - or, rather, Pads and Vix - on the rug in front of the fire. Padfoot appeared to be laying casually (which told James and Remus that he was very much up to something) whilst Vix performed dramatic “mousing” jumps onto Padfoot’s back, eliciting those canine “oomph’s” they had heard upon entering. 

James was in love. 

“I’m pretty sure this airBNB was ‘no pets allowed’ you two.” Remus teased, though he seemed no less pleased at watching the two of you roughhouse. 

“Please.” James scoffed as he lazily fell over the back of the sofa. “A quick vanishing spell and we’ll be leaving this place cleaner than we found it.” 

“Why do you think we get perfect ratings for every place we rent?” Remus chuckled as he navigated around the sofa like a normal person, lifting his leg when you started to zoomie across the area rug and nearly collided with him. “Merlin, Vix, you’re a hazard.” 

Padfoot let out what sounded awfully close to a laugh before Vix went to do one of her mousing jumps at him again, only for him to roll onto his back so that her front paws landed into his stomach and then rolled back over, completely encapsulating the much smaller fox under his large frame. 

If James was none the wiser, he would have assumed that the dog was the only animal in the dwelling; Padfoot returning to laying far too casually. 

James was in love. 

“Padfoot.” Remus chided, giving the dog a look of faux exasperation. “Can she even breathe under there?” 

The dog huffed in a way that told both boys he was rolling his eyes before two front paws circled the tip of his tail and two back paws started bunny kicking the base. Padfoot seemed to be cocking an unimpressed eyebrow at the little vixen as James started cackling. 

“She’s wild today.” 

“I have a feeling it’s not one sided.” Remus murmured in response as Vix’s head popped out from under the large dog's fur, the two of them staring each other down before both of Padfoot’s front paws slammed down onto the rug in an invitation to play, and Vix launched herself at his face. 

Vix ended up on her back between his paws as she swatted and nipped at Padfoot’s muzzle and bunny kicked the thick fur around his neck as Padfoot mouth-wrestled and gently nipped at Vix’s scruff. 

“Oh come on you guys,” James moaned, “you’re gonna be all slobbery!” 

Padfoot stood then - tail straight up in the air and wagging slowly - allowing Vix to stand and bolt in one direction, reappearing from the other side of the room before Padfoot even began his chase. 

James was almost dizzy when all he could see was the occasional blur of orange fur and Padfoot pausing in the middle of the room with his ears and tail up before the blur reappeared and he took off again after her, Remus laughing so heartily at the chaos that he ended up nearly collapsing into James’ side. 

James was in love. 

The room fell eerily quiet for a moment before Vix flew over the back of the sofa, landing between James and Remus, and Padfoot appeared in front of them looking disturbingly close to launching his very large frame at the bunch of them. 

“Pads, don’t you dare!” Remus shouted through a laugh, holding his hands up as if ready to fend off the large dog. 

Vix seemed to think it was hilarious too; the high pitched cackling sound foxes often make leaving her mouth as she flattened herself to the sofa - so happy, so excited, so full of love that her entire little body seemed wholly incapable of staying still. 

James was in love. 

Padfoot let out an excited bark and licked excitedly at Remus’ hands before moving his affection to Vix’s head. 

“No!” James laughed before scooping the fox up into his arms. “I want cuddles before the two of you are covered in slobber.” 

Vix melted into James’ embrace whilst Padfoot clumsily made his way up onto the sofa that he was a little too big to fit on, though Remus still did his best to accommodate him. 

“The two of you are menaces.” Remus muttered good naturedly as he threw his arm over the back of the sofa. 

“She started it!” The now human form of Sirius argued as he leaned into Remus's side.

“Who? Her?” James asked as he held Vix’s little face up against his own, both of them shooting Sirius their best puppy dog face. “Sirius, look at her. How could she be the problem?”

“So what? I’m automatically the problem?” Sirius scoffed in offence. 

“Yes.” James and Remus chorused. 

“I’m cute too!” Sirius nearly shrieked then. 

“Adorable.” Remus agreed quickly. “But you’re the kind of cute that screams trouble.” 

“Oh, as opposed to what? Her innocence?” Sirius muttered then, gesturing to Vix with a frustrated hand. 

His ire melted away, though, when the fox gave his hand a gentle lick. 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, she’s adorable.” He grumbled petulantly as he stole the fox from James’ embrace, cradling it in his arms so Remus and James could admire you from over his shoulders.

You melted back into yourself then, smiling widely up at the three boys; love, mischief, excitement, and contentment oozing from your being that could only come with knowing how loved you were and loving them just as much in turn. 

James was so in love.

[miumura]

WAiTiN’ ON CALLS — S. JAEYUN 𓂃 ⭑

( 엔하이픈 제이크 ) : jake misses you — too much for his own liking. he tries to move on, and by doing so, he gives you one last call. usually it would go directly to voicemail, but instead, he was greeted with you on the other line.

──── ex!jake x gn ! r . . . ⌕ ex 2 lovers, second chance, angst, fluff ∿ 𝔀ord count 2.1K+ ( 2196 ) ╱ HAPPY BF JAKE DAY 🤍 i’ve been dying to write a fic using this pic of jake ever since it got posted … so this is for me and my jake baes 🤍

Jake knew he was beyond exhausted—so tired that all he could manage after work was to head straight for his bed, not even bothering to take off his suit.

But despite the dim lighting and the comfort of sinking into his mattress, sleep refused to come. He tossed and turned, tried counting sheep, but nothing worked. Frustrated, he sat up, turning on the radio to a soft, quiet tune as he stared at his phone.

He already knew what was on his mind.

His gaze settled on his contact list, focusing on one name—yours.

He missed you, more than he cared to admit. His eyes lingered on your icon, a picture he’d secretly taken during one of your dates. You’d demanded he delete it, but he never did. Instead, he kept it as a reminder of you, proudly showing it off whenever he got the chance.

A small, bittersweet smile crept onto his lips as his eyes trailed down to your name, the ache in his chest growing a little heavier.

My Love. He never bothered changing it—that name was reserved for you, and only you. Was it strange for him to keep it that way? He wasn't sure, but what he did know was that no matter what, you’d always be his love, even if he was the only one who still believed it.

Should he call you again?

His finger hovered over your name, hesitating—a rare feeling for him. He’d always called before, whenever he had a free moment. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, just a way to clear his head, but it had become a habit. Strangely enough, he found relief in those calls. They always went straight to voicemail, and he was certain you never listened to them.

That’s where he poured his heart out, leaving messages that no one would hear. It was sad, but in a way, comforting—like shouting into the void, knowing there'd be no echo, no response.

He often wondered why you hadn’t blocked him yet. Maybe, if you did, it would finally force him to move on.

Maybe that would give him the push he needed to let go.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple. He was the one holding onto the past, the one clinging to old habits. Why did he think calling you, of all things, would help him get over you? Even if someone asked him, he wouldn’t know how to explain it.

Maybe he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, just maybe, he was still hoping for something—anything—from you.

He just wanted to hear your voice again, even though it felt impossible at this point. Pressing his lips together, he finally tapped the call button. Placing the phone on his thigh, Jake ran a hand through his hair, unable to look at the screen as the rings buzzed in the quiet room.

As usual, he fully expected you wouldn’t answer.

Normally, the sting of disappointment would hit him when you let his calls go unanswered, but tonight felt different. Tonight, everything was going to change.

This would be the last time he stared at your contact, the last time he pressed your number, and the last voicemail he'd leave. Tonight, he was finally going to say goodbye.

Tonight—

"Hello?"

His body went still.

For a moment, Jake couldn’t believe it. Your voice, so familiar yet distant, cut through the static of the call. He had rehearsed this moment over and over in his mind, but now that it was real, his words were trapped in his throat.

"Jake?" you repeated, sounding confused, maybe even concerned. "Are you there?"

He swallowed, trying to collect himself. "Hey," he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I didn’t expect you to pick up."

There was a brief silence on the other end, making his heart race, before you spoke again. "I didn’t expect to get so many calls... or all the voicemails."

"You... you listened to them?" he asked, barely able to believe it.

“Caught up on all of it yesterday,” you admitted, your voice surprisingly calm. “You really sent a lot, huh?”

Jake’s heart was pounding so loudly that it drowned out his own thoughts. He couldn’t believe this was happening. The plan to say goodbye, the resolution he had built up in his mind, seemed to dissolve the moment he heard your voice.

He didn’t want to mess this up—he couldn’t.

“I still didn’t expect you to actually listen to them,” he said, his voice shakier than he wanted it to be.

“How could I not?” you chuckled softly, attempting to ease the awkward tension. It was strange, both of you knew it. Talking to your ex, someone you swore you’d never contact again, felt surreal.

And yet, here you were—on the phone, waiting for him to say something more.

Jake took a breath, the weight of his next words heavy on his chest. "I was planning on this being the last call,” he confessed. “Since you never really picked up... I figured I was just bothering you."

There was a pause on the other end, and he held his breath, wondering what you’d say next.

"Would it be wrong to say I had a feeling?" you finally replied, voice soft.

"How could you tell?"

"Just... a gut feeling," you said, as if searching for the right words. "Or maybe because… I knew you."

His heart couldn’t help but falter—he knew you were not lying. You did know him, deeply once. But that closeness had slipped away when life had led you down different paths.

"Yeah," was all he could muster, the simplicity of the word masking the storm of emotions within him. He wasn’t sure how to move forward, or if he even wanted to.

“Do you mean every single voice message?” you asked, breaking the silence that had settled between you two. Jake’s eyes widened, caught off guard by the question.

“Of course I do,” he replied, gripping his phone tightly, as if it could somehow bridge the distance between you. His heart was pounding; he needed to make this count. “There isn’t a single thing I’ve sent to you that I’d ever want to take back. Every word was real. It’s exactly how I feel about you... about us.”

For a moment, vulnerability hung between you, both knowing this conversation could change everything. Jake could only hope you’d feel it too, that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to turn this into something more.

“Come see me then.”

“Huh?” Jake’s breath hitched, unsure if he’d heard you right.

“You’re not going to leave me hanging this time, are you?” you asked with a light chuckle, though your voice held a hint of nervousness. You hoped the laughter would mask how your heart was pounding, racing in anticipation.

Jake barely registered the words before he was scrambling to grab his keys, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. “Not this time,” he stammered, his voice shaking with excitement and a touch of panic. He could feel his pulse hammering as he fumbled with his shoes, trying to keep his hands steady.

The thought of seeing you, of finally closing the distance he’d been feeling for so long, filled him with both anticipation and nervous energy.

"Take your time," you teased, though he could hear the faintest tremor in your voice, as if you were trying to calm yourself, too. But he knew he wouldn’t—couldn’t—wait.

He barely managed to lock his door, nearly tripping as he rushed down the stairs. His mind raced, playing over every word, every message he’d sent, wondering if this was finally his chance to make things right.

As he reached his car, hands fumbling for his keys, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, to drive safely. But his heart wouldn’t slow, each beat pushing him forward with a desperate urgency.

Jake barely remembered the drive over, his mind racing faster than the car itself. As he pulled up in front of your house, he felt a fresh wave of nerves settle over him. He sat there for a second, gripping the steering wheel, trying to steady his breath.

This was it.

With a final deep breath, he stepped out of the car and walked up the path to your door, his heart pounding with every step. He hesitated before raising his hand to knock, his mind swirling with questions.

But before he could overthink it, the door swung open, and there you were, standing there in the soft glow of your porch light. For a split second, neither of you spoke, caught up in the quiet intensity of the moment.

“Hi,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips, though he could see the same nervousness reflected in your eyes. “Still in your work attire?”

Jake looked down, realizing for the first time that he was still in his slightly rumpled shirt and loosened tie, his rushed appearance suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous. He let out a small, embarrassed laugh, reaching up to grab his tie as if he could somehow hide it from you. But when he looked back up, he wore a shy smile, his eyes creasing in that gentle way that had always made your heart skip.

Before he could say anything else, you stepped closer, reaching up to fix his tie, your fingers brushing against the fabric with a delicate touch that sent a shiver down his spine. He swallowed, feeling his pulse quicken. It was such a simple gesture, yet it felt like slipping back into something deeply familiar, a memory that had never truly faded.

“There,” you murmured softly as you adjusted the tie, smoothing out the collar. Your hand lingered for just a second longer, and in that moment, Jake felt everything—the unspoken words, the history, the quiet yearning.

“Thank you,” he managed, his voice a little rough.

"I didn’t realize you wanted to see me that badly… especially after just finishing your shift,” you said with a hint of surprise. “You’ve always loved your job.”

Jake let out a small, wistful laugh, meeting your gaze. “Even after a long shift, that isn’t enough to distract me from you,” he admitted. You both knew how deeply he was dedicated to his work, how it had once been the thing that drew him away from you, consuming his time and energy. Something he loved had taken his real love away from him. But he couldn’t dwell on regrets now, not when this chance was standing right in front of him.

“Every time I get back from work, I have to leave a voicemail,” he confessed quietly, his words hanging between you both.

“Every night?” you asked, startled. You hadn’t realized just how much he’d been reaching out in those messages, hadn’t counted the days it had spanned. “That’s… a lot, Jake.”

He nodded, his gaze steady and sincere. “There hasn’t been a single day I haven’t thought about you, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice raw with honesty.

You looked at him, noticing how he pressed his lips together, a nervous habit he’d never quite outgrown. His hair was neatly parted, and his suit fit him perfectly, accentuating the small changes time had brought to him. Somehow, he looked even better than you remembered—or maybe it was simply because you’d missed him more than you’d realized.

“Jake,” you murmured, almost as if testing his name again, letting it fill the space between you both. “I really missed you too.”

At your words, Jake’s face lit up, his cheeks lifting with a smile he couldn’t contain, no matter how hard he tried to keep his composure. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat, but when he turned back, his grin only grew wider as he saw your own smile mirroring his.

“Then… would you let me stay the night?” he asked softly, his voice hopeful, though almost immediately he seemed to second-guess himself. His smile faltered as he began to backpedal, a nervous laugh escaping. “Or, if that’s too much, we could just sit outside, or… in my car? Just to talk, to catch up—or maybe just to let me finally say all these things I’ve kept hidden.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, finding his nervous rambling unexpectedly endearing. It was hard to remember the last time you’d seen Jake like this—unsure, almost shy. Without another word, you reached out and grabbed his arm, gently tugging him inside.

“You can stay,” you said, a warmth in your voice that eased the lingering tension in the air.

Jake blinked in surprise, his nervous expression melting into something more tender as he stepped inside. The familiar warmth of your home wrapped around him, but it was the simple presence of you that truly eased him. He hadn’t realized how much he'd longed for this—just to be near you again.

As he looked at you, a quiet realization washed over him, clear and undeniable. He wasn’t just here because he needed to be; he was here because he wanted to be.

Wherever you were, that was where he wanted to be too.

‘💬’ ─── may active soph come back after this one 😖!

ENHA PERM TAGLIST (1) — @flwoie @ixomiyu @haruavrse @shinsou-rii @bearseulgs @ilovewonyo @yenqa @dimplewonie @bubblytaetae @wtfhyuck @ineedaherosavemeenow @ml8dy @starikizs @wonioml @chirokookie @xiaoderrrr @neozon3nha @en-chantedtomeetyou @millksea @enhaz1 @eundiarys @hyeosi @ja4hyvn @judeduartewannabe @j-wyoung @thia-aep @vampcharxter @softpia @officiallyjaehyuns @itsactuallylina @hsheart @sweetjaemss @ahnneyong @hanienie @jwnghyuns @kpoplover718 @jiawji @rikizm @haknom @yeokii @wvnkoi @whoschr @teddywonss @shinunoga-iie-wa @isoobie @skzenhalove @misokei @s00buwu @ox1-lovesick @miercerise @litttlestars @enhapocketz

[heathermason6060]

Rick Grimes x F!Reader x Daryl Dixon Smut: And There was only One Bed

Warnings/Mentions: Smut, unprotected sex, jealous Rick, awkward inexperienced Daryl, dry humping, spooning sex, oral, handjobs (Daryl receiving), staying quiet/fear of being caught, Daryl pretending to be asleep

Summary: Rick, Daryl, and reader get caught out on a storm and take shelter in a small cabin. They're stuck there for the night, and you'll never guess what happens next. THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED

Notes: God this is so hot I don't care that the morals are questionable!!!! I need it more than anything I've ever needed before thank you for requesting anon

Being squished between a snoring Daryl and Rick's hard-on was not how you imagined your night going when you set out that morning.

It was supposed to be a cut and dry intel run. Scope out the new group nearby, learn a few things, maybe grab some supplies on your way back, but no, it's never that easy.

First off, you couldn't find the group. Aaron claimed they were composed of maybe forty people living in the nearby school, but the place was quiet when you'd checked it out.

Then, Rick's truck broke down. Dead battery. Daryl set out looking for one with enough juice to get you home when the first signs of a storm rolled in. Angry dark clouds and cold fat raindrops.

The only place nearby in walking distance was down a long gravel road. It was the smallest, but also the cutest, cabin you'd ever laid eyes on. It only had three rooms, one bedroom with a bathroom, and a large open living area that held a tiny kitchen and a couch with a fireplace.

“Get those windows boarded up.”

Rick was quick to spew out commands after the three of you busted through the front door, all wet and shivering. The wind was so strong it slammed the door closed behind you, blowing the curtains and causing stray paper to fly off their tables.

“Can't!” Daryl shouted. He stood behind you shielding his face from the rain shooting through the broken windows.

That's how you ended up in the bedroom. You sat shivering on the foot of the bed as Rick went through the dresser, looking for clothes to replace the soaking fabric you all wore.

Daryl slid the bedroom vanity in front of the door. He even went as far as to set the armchair on top of it.

“Can we just wait it out?” Your teeth clattered together as Rick tossed you a towel from the closet. You ruffled it in your hair and watched Daryl.

He was standing in front of the only window in the room, his arms crossed and his thumbnail between his teeth.

“Yeah, should ease up soon.” Rick sat on the bed opposite from you, drying his arms and hair with his own towel.

“Naw.” Daryl muttered. He finally turned away from the window and began drying himself. “Gonna be a few hours, at least.”

You furrowed your brows, looking down in your lap. This was quite the predicament. Stuck in a bedroom with two men, one you barely knew and were pretty sure hated you.

The other… Well, you weren't sure what Rick was to you.

Daryl wasn't right, but he wasn't wrong either. The storm did continue for a few hours, but it also didn't show any signs of stopping.

You glanced down at your watch and felt your heart drop. It was seven pm, and the sun would be setting very soon. Not that you could see much outside anyways, the clouds were thick and covered a majority of the sky.

Your voice broke the long streak of silence.

“Are we gonna have to stay here tonight?”

Rick and Daryl had known the answer to that question two hours prior. Neither of them wanted to be the ones to say it, but their lack of direct answers filled you in enough. Rick looked down at his revolver and Daryl continued staring out the window.

“Fuck.” You groaned, sitting back down on the bed. “I promised Maggie we'd watch season two of True Blood tonight.”

“That dog fucker show?” Daryl muttered around his cigarette. He was leaning against the wall next to the window, legs crossed at the ankles, cleaning under his nails with the blade of his knife.

“No Daryl, there's no dog fucking.” You sighed and he just mumbled in response, not looking up from his fingers.

Rick had made himself busy trying to prepare the room for the night.

He'd found a few hurricane lanterns and set two up on the bedside tables, and began anxiously ‘cleaning’. The room only had the bed, dresser, and bedside tables, so there wasn't much he could do besides look in the same drawers over and over.

At some point he went into the small bathroom and shut the door. He stayed there for a couple minutes, doing god knows what.

There were a few clothing items left by the previous owners. Daryl and Rick got some raggedy sweatpants, shirts full of holes that were a little too small for them. You were stuck with a massive piss yellow sweater and the ugliest pair of basketball shorts.

Anything was better than your soaking rags.

The storm had eased up a bit, but that didn't do much in terms of easing your boredom. The sun had long since set, your watch read ten-thirty, and neither man was very talkative.

“I'll take first watch.” Daryl was the first to speak in a while.

“No. I'll do it.” Rick protested. He'd been cleaning his revolver for the last thirty minutes. “I can't sleep anyway.”

“Yeah, well. Neither can I.”

You'd found a box of random items under the bed and had been looking through them while they bickered. A dead Gameboy, random PlayStation controllers, a few comic books, pieces to Monopoly, and an array of broken crayons. There was a pen and a notepad though, so you started drawing a caricature of Daryl.

Angry eyebrows, a cigarette that was half his height in his frowning mouth, and a speech bubble filled with hash tags for explicatives.

“Hey.” You nudged Rick's knee with your elbow. He sat on the bed above where you were, cross-legged on the floor next to your box of bullshit.

He looked down at the paper you showed him, and for the first time that day you saw his lips twitching up into a smirk. His eyes trailed over the paper and he grabbed it from you, bringing it up closer to his face.

“Is that Daryl?” He questioned, and you nodded, a grin splitting across your face.

“That's good.” Rick nodded, shrugging his mouth. “You got a real talent. Looks just like him.”

Daryl was too bored to hide his interest, so he stood from his spot under the bedroom window and walked over to you. He grabbed the notepad from Rick, and you could see his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out your scribbles in the dim lighting.

“Yeah?” Daryl looked up when he heard the two of you stifling giggles and laughter. “Think that's funny? Gimme that.” He snatched the pen from your hands and flipped the page, sitting down on the dresser and scribbling furiously.

The pad was tossed in your lap a minute later. Your eyes widened on the drawing.

It was obviously you. You had on the same sweater, but it went down to your feet instead of your knees, and you were standing beside a cat. The only problem was, the cat was three times taller than you, and you had the ugliest expression on your face. Your mouth hung open and you were nagging the cat about scratching up the furniture. It was based on a scenario that had happened the day before, with your cat back home, Daisy, who you had caught shredding the living room couch.

“Dude, what am I? Two inches tall?” You laughed, handing the paper to Rick. He covered his mouth to hide the smile, but you saw it through his fingers and stood to give him a shove.

“Right, sorry. Drew ya too big. Hold on.” Daryl came over and drew a new stick figure of you so small that it was the size of a real ant.

“Ooookay, fuck you.”

Daryl dogged the small notepad you'd tossed at his face, and started laughing. Actually laughing. Your smile grew softer as he and Rick began to joke. It had been a while since you'd seen either of them behave in such a lighthearted manner. It made the bare bedroom seem not so cold.

Eventually the curtains were drawn and the lanterns dimmed considerably. You'd claimed the only spot on the bed that wasn't lumpy or sunken, which just so happened to be the middle.

No other reason, promise.

For the sake of his joints, Daryl had given up trying to sit on the hard floor and joined you on the bed, claiming the side closest to the window. He'd made sure to put distance between you, so much so that he was nearly hanging off the edge.

Rick had a little more resolve than the other man and stood by the window for a bit, occasionally peeking out the heavy curtains to see the same amount of darkness as before.

“Thank god you showered this morning.” Rick grunted as he sat down on your left, knocking his boots together before he brought his legs up on the bed.

“Me?” You blurted immediately, already feeling the tiniest but of anxiety, Rick never teased you like that. He saved that for the men.

He gave a toothy grin and shook his head. “No. Him.” He pointed over your body to Daryl, who was smoking his third cigarette of the night. “Carol made him take his monthly shower after he came home covered in coyote blood.”

You giggled, glancing over at Daryl.

“Yeah. Laugh it up.” Daryl took a deep drag.

You kicked off your shoes and sat upright, taking off those god awful shorts while the two men continued to playfully insult each other.

Rick caught himself going quiet when he saw you pulling the shorts down your thighs, his mouth drying at the sight. Daryl quickly shot him a look, dragging his attention away from your now bare legs and back onto him.

You didn't notice a thing, but you wished you had. Maybe you'd have started grinding against him earlier that night.

You were the first to fall asleep, to no one's surprise. There were little things that you loved more in life than sleeping.

Curled up underneath the sheets that you'd checked twenty times for bugs, sleep came quick and easy for you.

The sweater you were wearing had become incredibly uncomfortable so you swapped it for Rick's hole ridden T-shirt, leaving him shirtless. The image of his bare chest and the muscles in his back almost gave you enough adrenaline to stay up the entire night, but Daryl's soft breathing and Rick's body heat beside you tugged you unconscious.

Rick was next to give in, he'd kicked his boots off and climbed under the sheets with you, not before sliding a pillow between your bodies, more for your consideration than his modesty. He didn't give a shit, but he was worried you might.

Daryl was last, and by complete accident. He'd meant to take the first watch but the sounds of rain on the roof, gentle thunder outside, and your soft breathing beside him had him out like a light.

Two hours went by before something woke Rick up. The feeling of pressure against his crotch.

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times in a struggle to see, but the room was too dark to immediately recognize his surroundings.

Once he remembered where he was he relaxed. He closed his eyes again and almost fell back to sleep when he felt it.

A gentle nudge of something soft and plush against him, something that made him well aware of the situation in his sweatpants. He was painfully erect.

His eyes opened again, but the room was no easier to see in. He could still hear the sounds of quiet rain and wind, and the new sound of Daryl's soft snoring.

Then you whimpered.

It was quiet, barely audible, and whiny. You were squirming in your sleep, the pillow between the two of you now between your knees, separating them to prevent the annoying feeling of bone on bone.

Your ass moved back against him again. He pulled his hips back, his dick immediately complaining about the loss of contact with a slight twitch. He clenched his teeth together and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep.

Think about cold showers. You're taking a cold shower, he thought, taking deep breaths. Cold cold shower. She's in a cold shower--- raw potatoes, grub worms, rotten walker flesh, her flesh, her ass is only a few inches away, snug in those cute boyshort underwear-

Daryl let out a sudden louder snort, startling Rick out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped open, only closing once he heard the earlier gentle snores return.

Your movements stilled and he was able to sleep once again, not without an iron will mindset.

You weren't sure how long you'd been sleeping when you woke up. You checked your watch, seeing the green glowing hands pointed at the twelve and nine.

It was only twelve forty-five.

You sighed.

The room had grown colder as the night went on, cold air seeping through the thin cracks in the walls and floorboards.

As a result of said colder temperature, Daryl had moved closer to you, be that in his sleep or on purpose, you didn't know. All you knew was he was there on your right side, his bicep warm and pressed against your upper chest.

Rick had also moved closer. So close, in fact, that his hand was on your waist, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. Your heart sped up when you realized this, and when he pulled you closer in his sleep you almost gasped.

He was hard.

Like, really hard.

You could feel it behind his sweatpants pressed right into your ass. His breathing was slow and deep, letting you know that he was definitely asleep, not that the knowledge did much to stop the arousal filling your chest.

You couldn't stop the whimper that sounded deep in your throat. Daryl's snoring covered it, or you thought it did. Rick stirred behind you and you heard the sound of him sniffing sleepily.

He had to be awake, you were sure of it. His breathing had become quiet, much different than the sounds of someone who was deep in sleep. He made no move to pull his hand away from your hip, confusing you even further.

Maybe he wasn't awake.

A lightbulb went off. You wiggled your hips, very slightly, only a few millimeters side to side. It was enough to gain a reaction from him, which let you know that he was definitely awake.

Rick's grip tightened on your hip.

Then he pushed into you.

There was nothing you could've done to prepare yourself for that kind of response. You sucked in a breath and felt your pussy throb. It was such a faint and quick movement, but you could vividly feel the shape of his dick pressing against your ass.

You heard movement behind you, the sound of his stubble scraping across his pillow as he moved his lips to your ear, speaking barely above a whisper.

“Stay still.”

Your eyes flicked to Daryls face.

You could barely see the outline of his head illuminated in moonlight thanks to the parting clouds. His nose pointed up at the ceiling, his lips parted as he breathed.

A wave of heat traveled through your body, starting in your chest and shooting down to your core. You felt that flipping sensation in your lower stomach and you whimpered again, rubbing your thighs together.

Rick inhaled deeply through his nose at the action. His hand shifted upwards, moving over your hip and splaying over the curve of your waist. He could feel you pressed against him, even if you weren't moving, and it made him groan faintly.

The sound of him groaning sent another spark through your core. You couldn't help it, you arched your back just enough to feel friction. You were too weak willed.

“Sweetheart.” He breathed, his forehead resting against the back of your hair to try and steady himself. “You gotta stop, please.”

He hated how desperate and wrecked the whispered words came from his lips. Hated how his dick was aching in his boxer briefs.

Hated how he was just as weak willed as you, his hips moving forward in a way that betrayed his words and stomped them in the mud.

You couldn't understand why you were so unbearably aroused. You weren't a teenager going through puberty. You've had partners.

Sure, you had a little admiration-fueled crush on the two men, but the way your body was behaving was animalistic. Your heart felt like it was going to burst through your chest and your pussy was soaked.

If only you had your vibrator that was back in Alexandria, you'd orgasm in five seconds, you knew that for a fucking fact.

Daryl muttered a nonsensical sentence in his sleep, his head lolling over in the direction of the window. His right arm rose to lay over his chest, and his left leg spread out in your direction.

His knee bumped against the top of your thighs, almost slipping between them.

You could've screamed.

You tried to stay still, really, you did. But the feeling of Rick pushing against you again, Daryl's knee nudging between your thighs, it was impossible. You moved your hips, intending on just pushing back against Rick but your action also succeeded in grinding down right on Daryl's knee.

Rick could feel resistance in your movement but his mind couldn't focus on anything but the feel of your plush ass pressing against his dick.

His blood ran cold at the sound of Daryl mumbling in his sleep again. He held his breath, waiting with baited breath to see if he'd stir awake.

Relief flooded his body after a moment of silence, and he pressed his face back into your hair. There was still a faint smell of shampoo or conditioner despite the earlier rain. The feminine smell made his dick twitch and he flexed his jaw.

You were caught between excitement and horror. Daryl's knee was wedged right between your thighs, and occasionally it would jerk up against you. Each time it would make you fight away a gasp, and make your clit throb.

Daryl was definitely asleep, right? If he woke up he'd roll over on his side, right? There was no way he was awake, pushing his knee right up against your pussy, right?

You reached down to grab Rick's hand, which was still resting against your waist, gripping onto his fingers for support. His fingers curled around your own and sent butterflies in your stomach at the feeling of comfort.

He hated himself for all of it, but in the moment, he felt like he didn't care. His hips rocked against yours, once, twice, the need to get relief clouding all judgment he was capable of having.

You couldn't help yourself either. Your eyes fluttered shut and you rolled your hips, soft and slow, against Rick's bulge and Daryl's knee. You'd tried several times to push it away, wiggle back further into Rick, but it was like there was a goddamn super magnet attached to your clit and his knee cap.

You bit down hard against your lip, trying to keep your voice from escaping. Everything felt so good, Rick dry humping his heart out, your clit buzzing, it all felt so overwhelmingly amazing that you hadn't even noticed Daryl's snoring was no longer present.

In the end, it wasn't enough, Rick was being too cautious. You needed more, just a little bit. You pushed back hard against him and heard his breath hitch in his throat. His hand gripped yours so tight it almost hurt, and he leaned into your ear.

“Movin’ too much. Stop.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. You shook your head, your lip trembling between your teeth.

“Can't.” You breathed. You physically couldn't stop, you knew that and Rick knew that. You were both so close to relief, you'd already gotten this far, there was no point in stopping now. No going back.

Rick swallowed hard as he felt his resolve break at the way you and your body pleaded. It was all he needed. His hips moved a bit faster, a bit rougher. His hand left yours and grabbed the string of his sweatpants, fingertips pinching the ends, hesitating only for a second before he pulled.

Time seemed to literally freeze when you felt him digging his cock out behind you. Your heart stopped, your breathing stopped, and so did the grinding of your pelvis. You couldn't think. It was suddenly all too very real.

You didn't expect Rick to do something like this. The dry humping, sure. He was horny and it wasn't really that big of a deal. But this? Tugging down your underwear? Spitting on his hand and stroking his dick to get it wet for you? It felt like a dream and way too terrifying at the same time.

“Sweetheart…” His hot breath against your ear snapped you back to reality. “You… you gotta be quiet, okay? Promise?”

You'd never nodded so quickly and eagerly in your life. Your heart felt like it was literally up in your throat. The tight knot in your core became more and more taut, and it trembled when you felt the hot tip of his wet dick bump between your folds.

Rick nearly came when he felt how wet you were. It was mind blowing, you were fucking soaked. The hot lube was covering your pussy and trailing down the side of your ass, reaching his hip bone.

You inhaled deeply when you felt him start to push in. You'd think with how wet you were it would be easy, but your muscles were wound tight due to the nearly paralyzing fear of possibly waking Daryl.

There was a bit of self disgust when you felt the weight of reality sinking in. The absolute pathetic degeneracy of what you were doing with Daryl right next to you.

That self disgust faded when Rick pushed into you.

Rick swallowed a groan as his cock dug up into you, your walls hot and soft and squeezing the life out of him. He could feel how nervous you were so he slipped an arm over your side, his hand reaching for your own again.

You moaned.

His hand broke from your grip and clamped over your mouth. Neither of you moved for a solid minute.

It was the longest minute in history. You could feel his dick twitching inside of you, your clit throbbing so hard you thought it was going to have its own little heart attack.

Your thighs absentmindedly squeezed against Daryl's knee, and you were sure you'd start crying.

Finally, Rick began moving. His breathing was growing heavy behind your head, his face burying back into the mess of hair in front of him.

His movements were slow at first. Tantalizingly slow. He waited until he was sure you could stay quiet before picking up the pace.

Your eyes had adjusted a fair amount in the darkness. You looked up to Daryl, finding comfort when you saw his eyes were still closed, but he'd stopped snoring long ago.

You dismissed it and grabbed onto the wrist of the hand covering your mouth, gripping tight for support.

Your right hand slipped under the sheets to rest on your thigh, but instead landed on Daryl's lower thigh. He must've been a very heavy sleeper, because he didn't react to it beyond the muscles tensing under your palm.

The sound that escaped Rick's lips had your eyes rolling back into your head. A trembling whimper. His movements grew quicker and deeper, his dick dragging your walls against him, pulling out every drop of arousal he could and thrusting it back in.

Your mind spun as all thoughts left your brain. There was nothing going on up there anymore, just dark blackness, the feeling of Rick fucking you taking over your conscious body.

His hand grabbed yours, the one on Daryl's knee, and pulled it away from you, to the right.

When your fingers brushed up against something warm and soft, you didn't question it. You didn't even question his fingers moving yours to wrap around his dick.

Your eyes shot open.

Rick's dick was still inside you. His right hand was still on your mouth, his left on the small of your back.

Daryl's eyes were open, and looking right into yours.

You went to jerk your hand away out of reflex, but his grip was tight, forcing your fingers to stay wrapped around his thick cock. Your eyes flew over him, fighting to understand what was happening, when had he woken up? Just then? Or was he awake when he pushed his knee between your thighs?

The orgasm that came out of nowhere pushed all those questions aside.

You moaned against Rick's hand as you came, no longer trying to be quiet, no longer trying to keep your hips still. Your thighs clamped down on Daryl's knee, grinding rough and quick.

Much to Rick's absolute heart-stopping horror.

He tried to muffle your moans, forcing his hand down painfully hard on your mouth, but it did little. He bared his teeth near your ear and hissed for you to stop, the sound sharp and jarring as it came through his clenched teeth, but then his eyes landed on the scene over your body.

Daryl using your hand to stroke his dick. Daryl with his other arm bent behind his head, his face tilted to the side to watch your expressions with parted lips.

It took Rick a few seconds to recover from the near heart attack. He almost lost his boner from the heart dropping adrenaline, but your wet walls spasming around him coaxed his hips forward.

Now that you didn't need to be quiet you pulled Rick's hand off your mouth and gasped down a lungful of air. Your mouth was hot and dry, and it was hard to swallow.

You couldn't take your eyes off Daryl, his eyes, the eyes that hadn't left your face since he woke up.

God, he was unbelievably sexy. The way he was so responsive to your touch led you to believe your hand might possibly be the first hand to touch his dick other than his own.

He grunted softly, his eyes finally falling shut after you gently squeezed the base of his dick. You'd be content to get him off with one hand like you had been for the past few minutes, but you couldn't resist the urge to give him his first hand job and blowjob.

“Up.” You panted. You curled your finger at Daryl, pointing up. He happily obliged and sat upright, scooting up towards the headboard until his lap was right in front of your face.

He seemed absolutely thrilled, ecstatic even. His once heavy eyes were now wide open, watching every move you made as you shifted your upper half so your mouth could reach his dick.

Rick was still thrusting with hesitation when you moved. He watched you lick broad stripes on the underside of Daryl's dick, and he couldn't help but glance at his face to see his reaction.

Mouth hanging open, eyes clenched tightly shut, his expression almost looked pained. His hands had found their way to your hair, gripping two handfuls as he began trying to move your head for you.

You slapped his hands away and grabbed his wrists, an action that had his eyes opening and looking down at you.

“Don't.” Your hot breath tickled the sensitive skin of his tip. He pinched both his lips shut between his teeth, nodding quickly, a shaky closed-lip moan rattling in his throat.

Rick finally got ahold of himself and grabbed your hips to turn your lower half on your stomach. He kept his dick inside you as he slid on top of you, his knees spreading to rest on either side of your thighs.

You were taking Daryl's head past your lips when Rick suddenly fucked you like he'd been wanting to the entire time. Both his hands rested on the small of your back, pushing your hips down into the mattress with all his weight to keep them firmly in place.

You gasped around Daryl at the feeling of Rick pounding into you from above. It was a comically drastic change from only five minutes before when he thought Daryl was asleep.

Daryl's wrists flexed in your hands where you had them pressed against his lower stomach. You knew he was only keeping them there in your grasp because he allowed it, and not because you were somehow strong enough to keep even a single wrist of his in your fist, let alone two.

It took a lot of effort on Rick's part to actually finish. Having Daryl in the room when you fucked was one thing, but having him making all that noise just from your mouth was another.

He was honestly more surprised that Daryl actually enjoyed sex acts than the fact he was engaging in them with him in the room. With no one other than you, a girl he almost never saw him interact with.

Rick had assumed Daryl simply wasn't interested. Incorrectly assumed.

Either way, having Daryl only a few feet away from him while he had his dick inside you was something he wasn't sure he enjoyed. But the way you clenched around him every time he pulled back was enough to make him forget about it.

Daryl was struggling to keep himself together. He had no point of reference, but he thought you were incredibly talented at giving head. You were giving it your all, sucking and licking like your life depended on it. It was impressive how well you were managing to concentrate on blowing him with Rick making such a mess of your pussy.

You couldn't be happier. You knew there were so many women back in Alexandria that would kill to be in your position, lying in front of the Daryl Dixon, lying under the Rick Grimes, both of their dicks inside you.

“Wa-wait.” Daryl suddenly sputtered and ripped his wrists from your hands to cup the sides of your face, giving a few gentle slaps with the tips of his fingers.

You looked up, not taking your mouth off of him. His expression made your pussy clench around Rick and he groaned behind you, the sound raw and deep. He shifted his hips and ground down against you, quick and rough, his tip jabbing deep inside you.

The ragged moan you let out reverberated through Daryl, and the hand you had around his base gave a trembling squeeze.

“M’boutta, Jesus! Hey, oh, godfuckindamnit-” Daryl's jaw dropped and his eyes rolled back, his head tipping backwards as he made that same pained expression and came down your throat.

Your hips were roughly jerked up from the bed, shoving you back on Rick's dick, and then his hands slipped under your armpits to pull up your top half.

It was hard to stay upright, but thankfully Rick was generous enough to provide you the luxury of his hands tight against your tits, keeping your back flush against his chest.

Oh, it was a goddamn shame Daryl had just come. The sight in front of him was something he knew millions would pay- no, kill- to see. You looked breathtaking. Rick had taken your shirt off some time ago, leaving you completely bare as you kneeled in front of Daryl.

He forgot to breathe as he watched your face, slack in pleasure. You were struggling to keep your eyes open and on him, something that made his softening cock twitch. All that struggling just to look at someone like him? The hell did he deserve to have someone like you looking at him like that?

Rick deserved praise for the way he supported your weight with just his hands, keeping your entire upper half pressed against his chest while he fucked you in desperate effort to finally get off. His dick felt raw from how long he'd been at it, his balls throbbing from the delayed orgasm, it was a wonder he was able to keep himself upright, let alone you.

“Daryl.” The way you whimpered his name made his cock jump back to life, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to look up at you, eager to obey whatever it was you were about to ask.

“Yeah?” He rasped as he stared up at you.

You'd placed your hands over Rick's and moved his fingers over your nipples, which he was pinching and rolling, something he understood without you even needing to ask.

“Touch me, please.”

You didn't need to ask twice. Daryl inched down the bed and kept himself propped up on one elbow, his other arm sliding over his chest to reach your clit.

Rick decided at that moment he definitely didn't like threesomes. Feeling you twist and hearing you moan due to Daryl's thumb rubbing against you made his chest and face hot, a childish reaction considering you and Rick were not a thing, and certainly not an exclusive thing.

He just wasn't good at sharing.

The silly jealousy led to him putting his all into pleasing you. His thrusts became slower but deeper, more forceful, knocking out a gravely groan from your throat with each one. His hands left your breasts to tangle in your hair, pulling it up into a makeshift ponytail with his fist being the hair tie.

Your skin buzzed when he pressed his face into your neck to plant sloppy kisses. He bit down and you whined, arching your back against him and tilting your head to the side to provide him better access.

Unlike Rick, Daryl didn't have a care in the world. His mind was completely blank as he stared up at you above him, oblivious to the way his thumb cramped from the constant circles he rubbed into you.

“C'mere.” You breathed, wrapping your fingers in Daryl's hair to urge him up and guide his mouth to your nipples.

Daryl's eagerness to please was one of the hottest things you'd ever witnessed. He took your right nipple in his mouth and went to town like his life depended on it.

He flexed his tongue, digging the firm and wet muscle around your bud, circling it the same way his thumb now circled your clit.

Your orgasm came screeching out of nowhere.

You cried out and gripped Daryl's head tighter, pulling his mouth firm against your breast as you came.

The feeling of your walls squeezing the life out of his cock finally brought about Rick's own climax.

He wrapped his fist around the hair bundled in his grasp and tugged your head to the side, baring your neck to his itching teeth, and clamped down as he gave a rough thrust.

You'd failed to notice that at some point Daryl had grown hard again, only noticing when he let out a ragged moan into your wet chest.

Your bleary eyes found him and caught sight of his hand quickly jerking himself. There was the flash of thick cum spurting out, long ropes coating the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck.” You slurred. Now that was the new hottest thing you'd ever seen.

Rick's teeth released their grip on your neck. He pulled back and let his head droop back as he caught his breath, his shoulders heaving with deep and ragged pants. He became aware of how uncomfortably sweaty he was. His chest and back felt soaked, and he dropped your hair to pull away from you.

You heard Rick plop down on the bed behind you, the springs creaking from his sudden weight dropping on it all at once. You were too busy admiring Daryl to pay attention to it.

There was a lazy smile on your face, your eyes half lidded and glued to his face. Even though the room was dark you were sure you could see how red his cheeks were. His lips were glossy and parted as he took in deep breaths, still wet from drooling all over your tits.

He could barely keep his eyes open, and with the way you had one hand cupping his face, the other brushing back his sweaty hair, he wasn't sure he wanted to. The sweet way you were looking down at him was just too hard to look away from.

The next morning wasn't as awkward as one would think, even though it was obvious Rick was having some internal battle on the ethics of what he'd done the night before. He'd never been in a situation where he knew he really shouldn't be doing something like that, so his lack of restraint was new knowledge he'd have to ponder over.

Daryl couldn't give any less of a fuck, that morning he gave you the whole princess treatment. Grabbing your now dry clothes, your bag, your shoes, and bringing them to you. Offered you the last of his water and opened every door you came across for you. He didn't say much at all, much like Rick, but his mood was clearly the exact opposite.

It was so sweet it made your heart ache.

“Hey.” Rick pulled you aside after you finally got back home, shooting Daryl a look to give the two of you privacy.

“Hi.” You smiled. The stern look on his face was cute.

“What we did-”

“Don't.” You stopped him, giving the man a tired smile. “It was the sexiest thing I've ever done and I'm fine with it being a one time thing, but don't ruin it and tell me it was wrong.”

“I wasn't going to say that.” His gaze had softened, but he still looked down at you with his hands on his hips like a disappointed authority figure. “I just don't want you to think it's okay to bring up if we're all alone again.”

“I'm not stupid.” You snorted, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Won't bring it up again.”

He sighed in frustration, trying not to roll his eyes but failing. “No, it ain't that either. Let's just- next time,” your eyes widened, “not be as spontaneous.”

You grinned. “Alright. You got it.”

Daryl was nowhere near as reserved about the experience. You could understand Rick's point of view, conservative family man, that was probably the most extreme thing he'd ever done in bed. But Daryl, oh, you'd just changed his fucking world.

“Pst.”

You stopped in front of the bathroom to see Daryl nodding you over, lighting a cigarette as he stood near the door to his room.

“Hi.” You smiled after approaching him.

“You okay?”

You beamed at the question, shifting your pile of clothes in your arms. “Yeah, I'm okay. Are you?”

He nodded as he took the first pull, turning his head to blow the smoke away from your face. “Is, uh…” He nodded his head to the front door, where Rick still stood on the porch talking to a few people. “He alright?”

“He's fine.”

“Alright. Good.” He shifted awkwardly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the cherry on his cigarette before bringing it back up to his lips. “That somethin' you wanna do again?”

You pursed your lips in an attempt to hide the ecstatic smile that threatened to embarrass you, and nodded.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh of relief and disbelief. There were a few seconds of silence, his eyes darting between his cigarette and your face. “With me?”

“Of course. Maybe next time just you.” You turned to head back to the bathroom but quickly turned on your heel and walked back to him. “Daryl? When did you,” you struggled to get the words out, ironic considering how bold youd been the night before, “you know, wake up?”

“Oh.” He grunted, his ears burning. “Dunno. While before.”

You felt a mix of embarrassment and relief. So he had pushed his knee between your legs on purpose. The thought had your stomach flipping and your face getting warm, so you gave a quick and polite smile before running off to the bathroom.

@ophelialaufey @carlgrimesgfofficial @theskinniestjackson-denny @dilfish-daydreams @jinx-nanami

[impactrueno]

let's talk about shoes (stick with me here for a sec)

beetleboots beetleboots beetleboots.

what's up with the three of them wearing combat boots? they go well with each of their character designs so it's not like they look out of place with the rest of their outfits, but knowing this is tim burton and colleen atwood, these things are not mere coincidence.

(spoilers for Beetlejuice Beetlejuice below)

a common complaint i've seen people mention about Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is that "there's too many villains," but today i'm here to talk about why each of them matter in the narrative tim wanted to present here. yes the boots are related we'll get to that in a minute

delores, rory and jeremy all have one thing in common: the use of romantic betrayal in order to achieve their own selfish goals, destroying their victims in the process.

this, in turn, makes beetlejuice, lydia and astrid have another thing in common: they were the victims of these romantic betrayals.

you may think "okay but why is that necessary?"

this sequel made the interesting choice of nudging beetlejuice out of the villain role. he's now just a weird ally/deuteragonist...or perhaps even...a protagonist? but that's not enough! why should we as an audience care about him or sympathize with him?

that's where delores comes in. delores is less of a character and more of a plot device. her purpose (besides serving cunt) is to give beetlejuice backstory and be to beetlejuice what beetlejuice was to lydia, only worse. i talked a bit more about it in this post. thanks to her, we now learn that beetlejuice was a victim. not just that, she's also the looming threat beetlejuice needs to justify his marriage to lydia (he seems to be under the impression that this would help him escape delores more easily, but personally i'm not so sure, i think she's more powerful than that.) her return in combination with lydia's return to winter river is what sets his plan in motion.

rory is a pretty self-explanatory villain so i don't think we have to go into that. he wasn't out to kill lydia...but he's a golddigger, so i don't doubt he would've set something up to lead her into having a fatal accident and claim insurance benefits.

jeremy's role in the plot was to make astrid realize that she was wrong about the supernatural, as well as put her in danger in the afterlife, which is the drive lydia needs to turn to beetlejuice for help.

the role of an antagonist is to oppose or be an obstacle to the protagonist's goal. these three are the three obstacles beetlejuice needs to overcome in order to marry lydia.

first, he needs to save astrid as part of the deal with lydia. so he gets rid of jeremy to give astrid her life back. he knows exactly what it's like to be romanced into a death trap. you can tell this was satisfying for him. later, fucker.

then, he needs her fiancé rory out of the picture if he intends to marry lydia. since he knows this guy is a total piece of shit and is lying to her to lead her into the same trap he himself fell into with delores, he simply gives lydia the tools she needs to kick his ass herself. teamwork!

third comes delores. he just needs to survive delores, basically. he tries to pair her off with rory to try and kill two birds with one stone, but the stone that ends up killing them both is the sandworm that astrid summoned, which beetlejuice then guided straight to them. teamwork once again! (beetlejuice and astrid got rid of each other's problems, that's kind of cool)

these three things being taken care of means that beetlejuice can finally marry lydia.............

............except he doesn't. why? because he helped lydia. by bringing her into the afterlife to look for her daughter, he violated code 699. and he did it immediately after signing that contract. hoist by his own petard, this dumbass.

sorry i got sidetracked again. we were talking about boots, right? right right.

beetlejuice, lydia and astrid all walked in each other's shoes.

everything in this movie comes in threes. names, villains, victims, obstacles and pairs of combat boots.

[ladyknight33]

Curently a PACU RN and had 48 hr call because Right to work states have laws saying you are signing up for this shit at will, even though the job makes you take call. One weekend I worked about 43 of those 48 hours. Another I worked 21 hours without being able to clock out. May have been only one patient at a time and periods of no patients because they were in the OR. But the point was we had to be there and awake to receive the patient whenever the OR was finished.

As a floor nurse, the 12 hours can be killer. Depends on how many patients and what kind of patients and if things go to hell. Even on relative easy nights/days, you're ready for the day to end around 3 or 4 am/pm.

On the one hand there was the thought that fewer shift changes improved continuity of care.

On the other hand, companies got rid of one third of their staffing needs and related benefits.

3 days a week is okay. On days it is better than on nights. It would be more tolerable if staffing ratios actually met the patient acuity needs.

But so long as RN/PCT/CNA/Techs or any other medical professional required to do 12 hrs is seen as a COST to the company rather than the very function of the hospital service, companies will never improve working conditions. Everything is geared towards Productivity. Productivity models that were designed for Manufacturing like Toyota.

Hospitals are a service but are being run like a manufacturing plant.

Doctors, Providers, PAs, NPs.... they have their own issues. But they have a lounge or office with food and non-alcoholic beverages provided to them. A place to go that is not in the immediate view of the patients. Some are not even in the building as they are on-call. So their 12 hrs is broken up much more with sitting around and dictating care notes. Rarely do they actually do physical labor to care for a patient beyond walking to the patient's room.

Doctors, Providers, PAs, NPs..... love you, but please answer your phone and not get annoyed when I'm calling about an issue or required notification. Or at least call back in a reasonable amount of time. Sometimes it feels like an eternity.

Here's why. A nurse will have one to seven patients depending on the unit and required care. A provider will have 20-50 or more, I haven't see the lists. Sometimes they are actually with a patient. Sometimes they are asleep (nights, on-call, expectations to work the next AM).

It is a messy system and one solution won't fix everything. More staff would be fantastic. Budgets won't adjust. CEOs C-suite level management won't give up the crazy high salaries. the CEO of one not-for-profit hospital system I worked in had a published salary of $,$$$,$$$. (Do not remember the numbers, but that's how many digits). The next one down was in the 200,000s-300,000s.

Government decided to decline or reduse reimbursement for readmissions or extended stays. Getting patients out faster is cheaper, but runs a higher risk of readmissions, which reduces payments, which reduces hospital income. Hospitals in rich areas don't see much reduction, hospitals in poor areas see large reductions and may eventually close, i.e. rural small county/regional hospitals.

Surgeons and ORs make money for the hospitals. Every other floor is lucky to break even. ICUs and ERs are more likely to loose the hospital money.

There are many people in the U.S. that don't have insurance, and will never payback their hospital bill so the hospital eats it by charging even more to the insurance companies. Why is 4 tablets of Ibuprofen hundreds of dollars when you can get a bottle of 200 mg tablets for under $20?

A nation wide insurance system where everyone who pays taxes, make it a sales tax if you're so worried about illegals getting "free healthcare," would improve on the non-payment side of things.

Stop letting CEOs make thousands of times more than their average wage employee. If there is anything about the pre1980s that was good in this monetary scenario, it was the relatively closed gap between average salary and CEO salary. And that is for any company. Not for profit is just another way of a company not paying taxes and to squirrel away the not-profits(really profits) into the salaries of the highest paid levels of management. Seriously some charities/nonprofits have crazy compensation packages. For profit companies risk being even worse.

This is a very simplistic view of the state of things. Just know that staffing can be terrible but the hostpial staff is trying to do the best they can for the patients. Please have patience for them. Retail and foodservice people get it. Holidays are hard for them.... Just as influxes of patients are hard on hospital staff. I've now been both a foodservice staff and a hospital staff.

Be kind.

--- Confessions of an RN who has learned too much and is tired. why am I getting a MSN degree?

Fucking hell why are we making people in hospitals who are responsible for the health and wellbeing of everyone work 12 hour shifts with no breaks I feel like I'm going insane does no one else see the problem here??

[queensunshinee]

Wreck my plans || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex, fingering), drinking, family drama, very slow burn, maybe too slow, I really don't know what's going on here

Word Count: 8.5k

Wreck my plans

Parties were never your thing. Parties are Jenny's thing. But she went away for the weekend with two friends from Harvard and didn’t even think to invite you. So Jenny can go to hell. And you can go to the party.

Luke Thompson's house is huge, and it doesn’t surprise you since you've spent two evenings a week here over the past few months trying to teach him algebra and literature. He had to repeat senior year after his complete failure last year. The party was in celebration of him finally getting his diploma and being accepted to a local college nearby.

"Little (Y/L/N)!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide, inviting you for a hug. "The only reason I managed to finish school," he added, yelling, making you roll your eyes. "You’re the only reason you managed to finish school, Luke," you said, taking a step back. "To be honest, I didn’t think you’d come," he looked around, causing you to do the same and start recognizing familiar faces from your grade and the one above you (Jenny’s). "I've never seen you at a party before." "I've been to parties. we just don’t hang out with the same people," you said as the two of you moved towards the kitchen so you could grab a drink.

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, but your attention drifted to the blond guy in the kitchen- Art Donaldson. Dressed in a pink button-down shirt and jeans, holding a red cup just like the one Luke put in your hand, drinking the same warm beer you're drinking. You hadn’t thought about him for almost a year. Your gaze wandered from him to the living room, where you saw Dave flirting with someone you couldn’t identify, and you found yourself rolling your eyes at the scene. You tried to listen to Luke for a few more moments because it felt like the polite thing to do, but you lost interest, and, like a magnet, your eyes were drawn back to Art Donaldson, who was busy looking you over from head to toe. You wonder if it made you blush or if it's just the cheap alcohol. You left the kitchen with a certain sense of saturation, looking for people you actually enjoyed being around more than Luke, who, as nice as he was, was too sociable for your taste. Tried too hard. You also try hard, mostly to stay out of everyone’s way.

You ended the evening with Chloe and Ron- ironically, friends of Jenny's, since Lia refused to come. They asked about Jenny and told you about their college experiences. Ron finished his first year at Yale, and Chloe went to a local college not far from here. Maybe it’s time to go home, as you feel like you’re suffocating and the place is closing in on you. The thought of staying close, like Chloe, to this suburb made your stomach turn. Chloe loved it, though. She didn’t see anything wrong with it. She planned her life right here. Just like this.

"Can I sit?" A familiar voice stood above you as you stared at Luke’s pool. A few people were in the far corner of it, but otherwise, the yard was empty. You shrugged without saying anything as Art sat down. He took off his shoes and folded up his jeans a bit, dipping his feet into the pool- something you hadn’t even thought to do. You looked at him for a moment as he took another sip from the drink in his hand. He’s probably the most handsome guy you know- a childish thought that’s crossed your mind since you were young, since you remember him. Blond with eyes that could make stars feel embarrassed with how they shine. There’s nothing ordinary about him. He’s exceptional. You don’t think there’s any girl your age who’s known him and hasn’t had a crush on him, at least for a moment.

"Congratulations on finishing school. I heard you’re the reason Luke can celebrate," he said casually, looking at you and causing you to turn your gaze back to the pool in a split second. "He really needs to stop telling people that," you replied, hearing him chuckle. "How was your first year in college? Stanford, right?" you asked, trying to shift the focus from yourself to him. "Yeah, tennis, you know. It’s nice. I’m supposed to choose a major next semester. My mom wants me to pick business management. I’m considering sports management," he said offhandedly, as if it weren’t too personal. As if this wasn’t the longest conversation you’d had since kindergarten. "Then you have to choose sports, of course," you said quickly. "Sorry, it’s none of my business," you added just as fast, realizing you’d stepped into his complicated relationship with his mom. "If only it were that easy, huh?" he chuckled. "To choose what I want," he added.

At that moment, Art Donaldson had no idea that what he was saying touched the deepest parts of your heart, nearly crushing it. Stroking an open wound without knowing the area was sensitive. Jenny decided at the last moment that she didn’t want to study at Yale and preferred Harvard, which meant financially you couldn’t study out of state. It would just be too much. And it surprised no one that you were the one who had to give up your dream. It surprised no one, because Jenny was the first to decide, and you received the scraps of something that might have been hers. Like wearing an old shirt, she no longer wanted. It’s never the other way around.

"Aren’t you planning to go pro?" you asked after a few seconds, trying to shake off the emotions flooding you. "I’m not sure yet, my mom really wants me to finish my degree," he explained, taking another sip. "Patrick’s really suffering on his tour. don’t tell him I told you that." He added information you hadn’t asked for. As if you were in daily contact with Patrick Zweig. As if you’d ever exchanged a word with him. You only know Jenny slept with him a few times, but it’s not something you two talk about, so whatever. "I’m going to Wesleyan," you said suddenly and looked at him; his gaze was already on you. "Damn," he smiled a half-smile, and maybe it was the first time you’d felt a certain pride since you applied there. "Jenny went to Harvard, so it’s complicated for both of us to study out of state, you know how it is," you felt the need to explain the situation, even though he hadn’t asked, and he certainly didn’t know how it is. "It’s a good school tho, I’m glad I got in," you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince, but he furrowed his brows as if he didn’t believe it, as if he had something to say about it. But he kept it to himself, and you appreciated that.

"I have to say, distancing myself from Jenny (Y/L/N) was one of the best things that’s happened to me since I left," everyone knew about Art and Jenny's relationship. They couldn’t stand each other. They competed in every possible subject. From student council to tennis. You don’t think Jenny even likes tennis. She just likes the first place. And without realizing it, you laughed, which a good sister shouldn’t do, but you felt it too. Distancing yourself from Jenny was a relief. The difference is that you’re not allowed to say that out loud, and Art Donaldson doesn’t really care. He doesn’t need to be at family dinners during holidays.

You looked at him for another second and thought this could be a good moment to kiss him. It was as if he hadn’t taken his eyes off you for a second since he sat down. You could lean in a little and press your lips to his. It’s not like you’d see him much again. You wouldn’t see him at all and in six weeks, you will move into the dorms in college. and in few years, maybe after school, he’d probably be a professional tennis player or a lawyer or the president. You think you can picture him as the president. You'd vote for him. "Well, it was nice seeing you, (Y/N)," he smiled another one of his captivating smiles. "Talk to me if you ever find yourself in California," he gave a small nod, grabbed his shoes, and walked away. Maybe one day you’ll manage to actually do something you really want to do. . . . You regretted what you did about three minutes after you politely turned down the full scholarship to Wesleyan. and accepted what they offered you at Stanford. But in your defense, it was late at night, you’d just come back from Luke’s party very tipsy, and you had no real intention of talking to Art when you got to California. You’d never seen your parents so angry. Your mom cried. Your dad said you were inconsiderate. Jenny sat on the couch, watching you with a raised eyebrow. They said they wouldn’t pay for anything, that if you made this decision, you’d have to deal with the consequences. The scholarship covered your tuition, but for housing and books, you’d have to use your savings. Two jobs you picked up over the summer and a part-time job you’d had for three years of babysitting. They didn’t speak to you for weeks. From the moment you told them, all communication between you went through Jenny.

"Tell her dinner’s ready," "Tell her to go down and buy eggs," "Tell her Uncle Barry’s coming over tonight, to act like she still cares about this family."

"They'll come around," Jenny mumbled when she climbed into your bed one of those warm August nights. "I don’t know," you answered with your eyes closed, exhausted from the day at work and the hostility you returned to at home. "I know," she concluded. In the morning, you woke up alone.

You think they’ll never forgive you. Maybe you’ll never forgive them. But you don’t know. . . . The empty bed in your dorm was beneath the window. You didn’t complain for a moment because everything could have been much worse. Jenny bought you the flight ticket to California for your birthday. You cried. You remembered that small moment when Art said he was glad to be away from her and you giggled, not defending your sister. She’s not to blame for being born first. She’s not to blame for needing more attention. Her intentions are good. That should be the only thing that matters.

You only met Billie in the evening when she came back from what she described as a date. She spoke about 50 words a minute, so it was hard to follow. She asked why you came a week late, you wanted to say that you were on time and she came early, but all you managed to get out was "work." It wasn’t a lie. You worked at a camp and an ice cream parlor all summer, trying to save as much as you could because you didn’t know how long it would take to find a job near the university. Turns out, very quickly. The diner across from the university was looking for waiters, and you showed up without experience but with a convincing smile and some recommendations from previous employers, as if anyone cared that you were great with kids. Three shifts a week, and the savings would help you keep your head above water. That’s all you need.

A week after you arrived at the dorms, Billie and Summer, your roommates, forced you to go with them to a party. And it wasn’t too hard to convince you because you weren’t at home. And sometimes, you need to remind yourself that you at home isn’t the same you who’s at Stanford. Here, no one knows you or Jenny. No one expects anything from you, no one will call you "Little (Y/L/N)." Here, you are whoever you choose to be. And that’s enough. Enough to wear almost burgundy lipstick and a tight dress, but still sneakers. After all, something of you stays the same.

Someone named Dean hit on you most of the night, and Billie told him you had a boyfriend. "Babe, anyone but Dean. I’ve been here two weeks, and he’s slept with the entire building already," she whispered in your ear, and you laughed. Someone else hit on you during the night, but you didn’t remember his name. When you lay in bed, you tried calling Jenny to tell her about your night, but she didn’t answer. And maybe that’s okay. . . . The first time you saw Art at Stanford, he was the one who actually saw you. "(Y/n)?" He lifted his sunglasses to his hair. He wore a Stanford T-shirt and pants that made you wonder if they were also Stanford coded. He had a racket bag over his shoulder. He looked confused. "Hey," you didn’t know what to say as you leaned against the only free tree you could find and tried to read one of the books from your syllabus, preparing for your first class. "Hey?" He almost chuckled as he sat down next to you, not taking his eyes off you. Like you’d disappear the second he blinked. He didn’t seem disappointed by your presence. "Shit, I was joking about California," he looked amused, still studying you. He took the book you were reading, like it was his, ran a hand over the cover. Like he knew everything he needed to know about the course just by looking at it. "Stanford was on my list, and it just felt more right," you tried to justify, to explain that it wasn’t because of him. He didn’t think it was because of him tho, not really. "How did they take it?" he asked, probably remembering details from your conversation at the party. "I don’t know, because they’re not talking to me," you said it in the same casual tone, like it didn’t bother you. "Damn," he muttered, "that bad?" he asked. "It’s whatever," you shrugged. "I’ve got to get to class, but I’ll see you around, yeah?" He stood up and walked away. You didn’t know if you’d actually see him around again, but the interaction had been nice. You think that maybe Art Donaldson won’t judge you. And that’s an interesting thought. . . . The next time you see him, you're in the middle of a shift, wearing a ridiculous apron and a ponytail that makes your hair look greasy. Needless to say, you’re embarrassed, but he doesn’t act like it’s a big deal. He says hello, which is surprising because he’s with friends, and you look, well…ridiculous. You say hello back, because you’re polite, and it’s the right thing to do. They sit down at one of the tables, and you hear his voice from a distance saying, “I know her from back home.” You think it’s a half-accurate description, because you don’t really know each other- not like he knows Patrick Zweig or Luke. Not like he knows Jenny. You also think the girl sitting next to him is very pretty. Pretty enough to hate her, but nice enough not to.

Casually, before they leave the diner, Art asks if you're going to a party someone in his dorm is throwing. You shrug in response because you hadn’t heard about it until now. “It’ll be fun, you should come,” he calls out, mentioning the building he lives in before he leaves with his friends. He didn’t have to invite you. He doesn’t have to invite you to places. You’re not his responsibility. You don’t want him to think you are. You don’t know if you’ll go. . . . When you received the email from the registrar notifying you that your account had already been paid and that there was no need for the duplicate payment you’d tried to make, you found yourself confused. When you realized your parents had paid the bill despite saying they wouldn’t, you ended up crying for two hours. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. They haven’t spoken to you in almost three months. They let you stew in guilt but are willing to pay your bills? It’s ridiculous. None of them answered when you tried to call to say thank you. You cried for another hour. 'Busy. Do you need anything?' -Jenny-

You think you need a hug. But that feels childish, so you send her an orange heart emoji. . . . You go to the party Art invited you to with Billie and Summer because, why not? You don’t mention that you got an invitation, just casually say you heard there’s a party and that it might be fun to check it out.

You decide to put on the dark lipstick again, you liked how it looked last time, and honestly, the feedback was great. This time, you stick with a thin shirt, ripped tights, and shorts- keeping it low-effort was part of the actual effort. You think it’s silly. But you look cute, so fuck it.

Art spots you before you notice him again. He comes up to you in the middle of a conversation, gently swiping the beer bottle from your hand, making you look at him as he takes a sip and hands it back. “You’re the hot guy from the posters,” Billie says shamelessly, looking straight at him. “Art,” he chuckles, introducing himself, making you roll your eyes. “Mind if I steal her for a bit?” He asks permission, which is ridiculous and funny, making you feel embarrassed as he hands you back the beer and leads you to another corner of the apartment by your other hand.

“Hey,” he says, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “Hey,” you reply with staged nonchalance. “You look good,” you add, because it’s true. The few times you’d seen him on campus, he was in Stanford sports gear. Seeing him again in a button-down and jeans felt like a privilege. “That’s what I’ve heard,” he responds, referencing Billie’s comment from a few minutes ago, taking the beer from you again. Maybe it’s over the top, sharing the same bottle. It’s relatively intimate for two people who don’t actually know each other.

One of his friends comes over and starts talking to Art about tennis, his gaze lingering on you. You wonder if Art realizes he’s standing closer to you in a slightly possessive way. That his hand is lightly brushing yours, that he keeps taking the bottle from you to drink from it, openly displaying that sense of intimacy.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You’re not sure where the courage to ask came from. Maybe it’s the tequila shots you took with Billie and Summer before heading out to the party. Maybe it’s the joint you passed between each other. But Art looks amused as he nods. You catch Summer out of the corner of your eye, giving you a thumbs-up and making exaggerated kissy faces. If Art saw her doing it, he didn’t say anything. The contrast between the noise in the building and the quiet outside surprises you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, but you hoped he’d say something by now. He seemed to be enjoying himself too much to talk. “Want to head to the lake?” he suddenly asked, though you were already walking that way. You hadn’t actually been there yet, but you didn’t want to reveal that you didn’t know the area that well.

“Hey, give me your phone,” you said, stopping in your tracks. He stopped too, raising an eyebrow as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “So bossy,” he muttered with his signature smirk, but you entered your number and sent yourself a flower emoji so you could save his number later. When you reached the lake, it almost took your breath away. It looked like something out of a movie. You know it sounds like a cliché, but it really was like that- like an old movie, but not too old. The moon reflected off the lake, and a few people were sitting on the grass nearby. You sat on a table instead of the bench next to it. Art raised an eyebrow at the choice but shook his head like you’d done something funny.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, looking at you as if confessing a secret. “I’m glad I’m here, too.” You knew that’s not what he wanted to hear, but he laughed anyway. He sat on the bench below you, between your legs. You felt as if you had some kind of power. Your hand automatically moved through his curls. You thought about apologizing but decided not to. “How are you?” he asked. “I’m okay, I think. How are you?” you tossed the question back at him. “Seriously, how are you?” His fingers brushed over yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “With your parents and everything?” he added. “I’m fine,” you replied. You didn’t want to talk about it, and he didn’t push as much as you expected. His hand squeezed yours for a moment, as if he had more to say. Instead, he nodded and stood up, starting to walk with you just behind him.

You're walking alongside the lake, wondering if this path has an end, or if you even want it to. You think you might feel those butterflies in your stomach. "Do you know my first memory of you?" he asks suddenly, and you’re surprised. Part of you doesn’t want to know. It’s probably related to Jenny. Art has so many memories of Jenny, and they’re all negative. Deep down, you hope he doesn't remember you as this girl being attached at her hip. "The day after my dad's funeral, you gave me a daisy you picked from someone’s garden." He chuckles, but it sounds bitter. You don’t remember this. You do remember, though, that for years, until you both drifted and each found your own group of friends—he called you "Daisy." You never knew why. "Oh." You don’t know what to say, so that’s what comes out a bit pathetic. "I didn’t even know it was a daisy, if the story details matter," you try to lighten things up. "I asked my grandmother," he says, and the two of you chuckle. "That’s why you called me Daisy for three years straight?" you ask. "God. Why do you remember that?" He puts a hand over his face, as if he’s embarrassed or something. "I thought maybe you didn’t know my name, and since I was Jenny’s sister, you just rolled with it." You laugh. "It suited you, Daisy," he says, and his hand moves your hair behind your ear. This isn’t the first time he’s done that, but this time he also looks at your lips. You feel like he’s looking at your soul if that's even possible.

"I really wanted to kiss you at Luke's party," you admit, because it feels like the right moment. "Oh yeah? So why didn’t you kiss me?" he asks, wetting his lower lip with his tongue. "I’ve wanted to do it since eighth grade, and then I had the chance and didn't know what to do" You look at him. His smile is still plastered across his face, and you wish he wasn’t so smug all the time. "Maybe I wanted you to kiss me at Luke's party," he says, almost ignoring what you just said. "Little Daisy, sitting by the pool alone. Maybe I approached you with intent? Maybe I was goi-" You don’t give him the satisfaction of finishing his sentence, as you crash your lips onto his like you’re possessed. His smile lingers for a few moments. His hands pull you closer to him as he presses you back against a light pole you didn’t know was behind you.

Art Donaldson is a good kisser. No one can take that from him. He’s an amazing kisser. His tongue is way too skilled. His hands have found their way under your shirt as if that’s their natural place. His lips move perfectly in sync with yours, and when you both pause to catch your breath, he presses his forehead against yours. He places small kisses on your cheek, then on your neck, and only when you lean your head back and bump into the pole do you remember that you’re in a public space. People could see you. This is not your style. "Okay, we’re good," you tap his chest lightly, making him laugh the most delightful laugh you’ve ever heard. "Is this everything you dreamed of before starting high school?" he asks, planting another small kiss on your cheek, as if he just can’t help himself or something. "I didn’t dream about kisses like this, Donaldson." You roll your eyes, thinking it’s pretty ridiculous that you’re smiling right now.

When you reach your dorm, you wonder if you should invite him in. You think he’d say yes. But you also think there’s something beautiful about leaving the night as it is- two people who used to know each other, kissing by a lake. He gives you a small kiss and takes out his phone as he turns to leave, while you head inside, unable to resist leaning against the door.

'Since eighth grade, huh?' -Unknown Number-

'Shut up.' -(Y/N)-

He replies with a flower emoji. You think the intention is daisy. Maybe you’re overthinking it. . . . You don’t expect Art to text you the next morning. You had that night together; it was great, and maybe it was exactly what you needed to get him out of your system. Maybe it was what you needed to finally move on from that endless crush on Art Donaldson. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a bit disappointed when he didn’t reach out at all, as if he’d disappeared from the face of the earth. But that’s probably fine. He doesn’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe him. You each have your own lives at Stanford. You’re trying to juggle work and studies. You’re supposed to submit a thirty-page paper after Thanksgiving, and you’ve only written three. Clearly, you have enough to keep you busy.

Your mom called a few days ago, and you cried. Because you hadn’t really talked in almost four months. She said Jenny convinced her. It’s kind of messed up, but you don’t say that. You’re just glad someone convinced her. You’ve been thinking a lot lately about how strange it is- how you never behaved outside of what was expected of you, and the one time you did, they reacted as if you’d committed a crime. You think about it even when you’re trying not to think about it. Your mom asked if you’re coming home for Thanksgiving. You said no. You wonder if it made her sad only after you hung up. . . . The next time you see Art, he’s flirting with a redhead at a Thanksgiving party Summer convinced you to attend. Honestly, you could’ve skipped this party, but Summer said she wanted the girl who invited her there. So you bit your tongue and told her you’d meet her there, because that’s what friends do.

It’s easy to tell when Art is flirting; it’s basically exaggerated hand gestures and a level of closeness he’s never tried with you. You’ve seen him in action before. You try not to stare, because it doesn’t really matter. Instead, you look for Summer, who’s on the opposite side of the room, directly in Art’s line of sight. It makes you smile, knowing he’ll see that you’re here. You’ve decided you’re going to ignore him. You made that decision when you passed by him on your way to Summer, feeling his eyes on you but not meeting his gaze.

When Summer slips away to sit with Caitlin -the girl she’s interested in- a guy you don’t recognize approaches you. He introduces himself and offers you a drink. You politely decline, you’re smarter than to accept punch from a complete stranger. He’s nice, but standing a little too close for your comfort. He leans over you, and you feel a bit trapped between him and the wall you’re leaning against. You could walk away, of course, but the whole situation feels uncomfortable. You wonder where Summer is, unable to see her in the crowd.

"Don’t you think you’re a bit too close?" Art’s voice is firm and unyielding as he positions himself next to you, raising an eyebrow at the guy. "Sorry, man, thought she was single," he says, disappearing like he was never there. Neither of you bother to correct him about the two of you not actually being together. You roll your eyes at Art and head toward the kitchen, feeling his steps following behind. You spot Summer with Caitlin on one of the couches, and she gives you a nod, signaling that she’s fine and that you’re free to leave if you want. "Hey, you didn’t go home," he says behind you, as if everything is normal. "Quite the observation, Donaldson," you say, knowing you’re being mean. But, fuck it, he deserves it. You grab a beer from the kitchen and head outside, with him trailing beside you. "You’re mad at me because I didn’t text you," he sighs, prompting you to stop and raise an eyebrow at him. "You really think you’re something special, huh?" Maybe a bit too harsh, but it’s all you’ve got right now. "I don’t think I’m anything special. I just didn’t know what to say." He sighs again as you start walking away from the building. "It was a good night. I didn’t want to ruin it, you know?" You think he sounds almost shy. His voice is softer than usual, and you remind yourself that you also labeled that night as a good one, as a nice experience you didn’t want to spoil. So maybe it’s unfair to be angry- after all, you could have reached out to him, too. But what would you have even said? The three weeks since then passed quickly, and most of the time, you didn’t think about him at all. So it’s fine. Everything’s really fine.

"It’s ok, Donaldson, I wasn’t sitting by the phone waiting for a message from you. You can let it go," you sum up, trying to sound amused and light-hearted, though it comes out a bit too bitter for your liking. "So why didn’t you go home?" he asks, changing the subject. "I’m working." You shrug. He raises an eyebrow, like someone who knows that’s not the whole truth but also understands he’s treading on thin ice right now and shouldn’t push for more. "Why didn’t you go?" you throw the question back at him, trying to show him that it’s all good. "I’ve got a match tomorrow, plus my mom doesn’t really care," he replies, and you nod, understanding a bit of what he means. You knew his mom- she always struck you as the coldest person in the world. "What are you doing at a party if you have a match tomorrow?" you ask, raising an eyebrow, wondering if it’s too harsh, because you’re trying to steer the conversation onto calmer ground. "It’s in the afternoon," he shrugs. "You don’t have to walk with me, my dorms are really close," you say after a few moments of silence. "We’re good? We're friends and you’re not mad at me anymore, right, Daisy?" he asks, nudging his shoulder against yours. You roll your eyes at the silly nickname, but you don’t find it in yourself to correct him.

"We’re good," you conclude, walking into your building, leaving him behind. . . . The next day, you decide to go to his game after your shift, only to find out that Patrick fucking Zweig is also sitting in the small crowd. Most of the students eager to see Stanford’s star in action probably love their families more and decided to go home. You sat far from Patrick, but it didn’t stop him from giving you a puzzled look as he whispered something to the girl sitting next to him, who was fully focused on Art's game. You remembered her from the diner the other day. She’s beautiful.

Art won to the applause of the crowd that stayed to watch until the end. Two hours of the ball going back and forth and sounds that were almost erotic. Whatever. You consider heading back to your dorm without saying anything just to avoid talking to Patrick. But Art smiles at you and gives a small wave, so you know there's no way to get out of at least saying hello. You need to suck it up. “Congratulations, Donaldson,” you mumble, and he gives you the smuggest smile he can find. “Little (Y/L/N), long time,” Patrick says to you with half-loudness. He doesn’t say anything bad, but you shrink a little. Trying to remember the last time someone called you that. Probably at Luke's party. Art looks at you with an apologetic look as if he knows. He probably doesn’t know. But that's okay. “How’s the tour?” you ask politely because it’s the right thing to do. “Good, good,” he says, shifting his gaze from you to Art and back to you. Like a man with a plan. “Want to have dinner with us?” he asks. In any other situation, you’d laugh, because the odds of you sitting at the same table with Patrick Zweig would be slim, especially considering his history with Jenny. “I wish, but I have a paper due in a few days, and I really have to work on it. Maybe next time,” you smile the most genuine smile you can find and quickly move away.

“Dude, you didn’t tell me Little (Y/L/N) was here,” you hear Patrick laugh. “Shut up, Patrick,” you’re almost sure you heard Art reply.

'You wish?' -Art Donaldson- He sent it half an hour later when you were already sitting at your computer with a cup of coffee in hand.

You turned off your phone. You need to focus. . . . Art came to your work far more often than you expected. He probably tried every dish on the menu, including the pancakes with the “secret” sauce that you suspect is just chocolate mixed with overly sticky jam. He sometimes studied there or came with his friends. He talked to you but not too much, and you texted each other from time to time. Were you friends? It felt strange to think that Art Donaldson and you were friends- not because he wasn’t someone you’d want to call a friend, but because you’d finally let go of the idea of him as someone out of reach.

One day, when he walked you home, he asked why you took on a fourth shift, since you usually didn’t work Mondays. “Are you keeping tabs on me, Donaldson?” you asked with a half-smile. “Daisy,” he sighed, as if you were being ridiculous, even though he was the one who knew your schedule and which days you didn’t usually work. “I’m saving up for a ticket home for the holidays, so,” you shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “You haven’t bought a ticket yet?” he asked, looking at you with raised eyebrows. “I’m buying it myself, so it’s taking me a minute.” Your parents had made it very clear they were only paying for your dorm. You bought your own books, and you had to cover your own flights. You didn’t look at him when you said it, afraid he might judge you- even if it was silly.

He stopped and looked at you. “That’s fucked up, (Y/N).” Whenever Art said your name like that recently, you knew he was serious, and that the conversation was drifting somewhere too deep. Like the time you talked about his grandmother, or his dad. “It is what it is,” you replied, continuing to walk, hoping he would keep walking too. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that they bought Jenny her train ticket. You didn’t want to dwell on the thought that even if it was cheaper, no one made her feel guilty for the only choice she’d ever made in her life. “I could get you a ticket,” he said, and this time, you stopped. “What the fuck?” you asked, your voice going up an octave. “I don’t need you to–” “For the miles. You can pay me back later,” he shrugged like it was no big deal. “I don’t need you to buy me a ticket. I don’t need your money, Art, let it go.” Your voice shook a little; you wondered if he heard it. “It’s not out of pity,” he said, voicing what you didn’t say. But you kept walking as if you hadn’t heard him.

“I wonder if we’ll find a spot in the library tomorrow,” you changed the subject to the first thing that popped into your head. Art didn’t say anything, but you knew it was the last thing he cared about at that moment. . . . A week before your flight, Billie cut your bangs. It’s not a cry for help, you told everyone who gave you a weird look. It’s cute. It’s fucking cute, ok? Art watched you from across the room at Patrick's party. You wondered if he'd say hello or if you'd both act like, at best, casual acquaintances- or, at worst, like you were just Jenny's little sister. You missed Lia and a few others who were fun to drink with and gossip with. You found out that Michelle was pregnant, which was a fucking scandal.

“Hey, stranger.” Art said when you walked into the kitchen. His eyes were redder than usual, and his smile was mischievous but tired. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, making Lia glance between the two of you. “Did you see she cut her bangs?” she asked, taking a sip from a drink you couldn’t quite identify. “It’s not a cry for help.” “It’s not a cry for help,” you both said together, but Art used a screechy voice, like he was imitating you, making Lia laugh. “She’s been yelling that at people all week,” he said to her, as if you weren’t standing right there. You considered grabbing a glass of wine and leaving them to talk alone. “Dave’s here,” Lia said suddenly, and you saw Art tense, his smile fading as if he sobered up instantly. If it weren’t for his telltale red eyes, there’d be no trace of it.

You and Dave had been together most of your last year in high school. He was the first guy you slept with, which was fine. It was just that everything felt a bit weirder whenever he was around since you broke up. It felt like you’d gone from friends to lovers to people scared of catching some incurable disease from each other if you'd even look at one another. “It’s totally fine,” you rolled your eyes, because, well, it really was fine. You hadn’t felt anything for Dave for almost a year. You regretted not knowing how he was doing or how he was handling college, but that’s life- you win some, you lose some.

“Little (Y/L/N),” Patrick Zweig’s voice grated in your ear. “Where’s (Y/L/N)?” he added quickly, probably drunker than usual, though you weren’t surprised. “Patrick,” Art muttered toward him, almost whining, like a man shocked by his best friend’s crudeness. “She’s at home, wasn’t feeling well.” You wondered if that was a convincing excuse for Jenny skipping Patrick’s party. But it was the excuse she left with you, and that’s what you’d stick to. “Well, at least we’ve got one family representative. What can you tell us about Art in California?” he asked, and you wondered why he was so desperate to put you in the spotlight. “Patrick, leave her alone,” Art’s tone was defensive, giving the guy next to him no option to dig any further. Patrick just flashed a mischievous grin and raised his hands in feigned surrender. “I like the bangs, you wear a mental breakdown well,” he chuckled and left the kitchen as chaotically as he’d entered, yelling something to Luke about beer pong. “Sorry, he’s an asshole,” Art said, sighing. You wondered when Lia had disappeared from your view. “He’s… Patrick,” you rolled your eyes. And it was true, you knew he didn’t act this way out of malice, he was just like that. “Want to get out of here?” Art asked. “Don’t you want to spend some time with your friends?” you returned the question. “I could use some air. Besides, who’s my friend here?” he shrugged. And as you both headed outside, you thought that was the saddest thing Art Donaldson had ever said to you.

"How does it feel to be home?" he asked. You want to say it’s ok, that it’s exactly what you dreamed, but it’s more like what you expected it would be. Your parents aren’t mad at you anymore, but they don’t approve of your decision either, and they remind you at every opportunity that they think you made a mistake. “It’s fine.” You shrugged. “I hate it when you say that,” he had this bitter laugh. “What?” You stopped for a moment and looked at him. “Every time you say something’s ‘fine,’ I know it’s not, and I have no idea how to get you to tell me.” He sighed, sitting down on a bench that hadn’t gotten wet from the rain that fell earlier in the afternoon.

“I’m not lying to you,” you tried to defend yourself, searching through your mind for other times you’d said something was ‘fine.’ You think he’s exaggerating. “I don’t think you’re lying. I think you don’t want to say things out loud,” he said. You think that if he weren’t a little drunk, he wouldn’t have brought up this conversation. “It’s weird, being home,” you said after a few seconds. He looked at you with wide eyes, waiting for you to say more. “I hate it when people call me ‘Little (Y/L/N).’ It feels like I don’t exist without Jenny,” you said, sharing something you hadn’t even told Lia. “I know,” Art said. “That’s why I get mad at Patrick when he calls you that.” He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. “How did you know?” you asked, surprised by the nonchalance with which he said it. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” he asked with a half-smile, “I just know you, Daisy.” And if you didn’t know he was drunk and tired, you’d think there was sadness in his eyes. . . . A few days later, you saw Patrick at the grocery store, which was strange in itself because you were pretty sure Patrick Zweig had assistants to go grocery shopping for him. “Little (Y/L/N),” he said, and you’re fairly sure the smile on his face was genuine; he was actually glad to run into you. “Happy Christmas,” he said, stopping in front of you, holding a carton of orange juice and what looked like a frozen pizza. “I’m Jewish,” you rolled your eyes, only making him smile more. He knew that- he could deny it all he wanted, but Patrick knew Jenny very well, and you and Jenny shared genes. You both paid quietly for your items at the checkout, and as you stepped outside, he lit a cigarette, looking at you with an expression that seemed to expect you to stop and stand with him.

“I’m really glad you’re there with him at Stanford, you know?” he said after a few puffs of smoke. “Yeah? Why?” You tried to avoid smiling at him. You didn’t think he deserved a smile; he’s a jerk. “Because he’s better when you’re around,” he said softly, with a kind of depth you hadn’t seen in him before- something that made you think you understood what Jenny saw in him, how he managed to break her heart. “At tennis?” you asked. Because that’s all Patrick cared about- tennis, girls, and maybe Art. “At everything.” He shrugged, all the depth disappearing as he began to walk away. “Happy Hanukkah, Little (Y/L/N). Say hi to your sister for me.” You could see a wink. Patrick Zweig is defiantly an asshole. . . . You and Art went together to the New Year’s party at Stanford. Billie and Summer haven’t returned yet, and you’re almost certain Art moved his flight to catch the same one as yours, but you didn’t ask him about it because you think it would make you seem too smug. And you’re not. You really aren’t. You just think that if anything had changed from the last time he asked if you two were friends, he would have told you. But he hasn’t, so…whatever.

He sat on your bed today while you did your makeup, never taking his eyes off you through the mirror. Someone watching might think you’d hypnotized him. You don’t think you saw him blink once in the fifteen minutes he stared at you. “You like what you see?” you asked with a half-smile, still looking at his reflection. “What if I do?” he shrugged, as if this ridiculous flirtation was the truest thing he’d said in ages.

You decide not to linger too hard on his hand holding yours all the way to the party. Or on the fact that he kept you close to him while talking to people you didn’t know. On the effort he put into participating in a conversation with a friend you met in one of your courses. You try not to blush when he leans in and asks if you’re planning to kiss him at midnight. He's being bold. You think he’s acting like a brat. It should bother you. It doesn’t bother you.

You kiss him at midnight. Or maybe he kisses you. You’re not exactly sure, because you’re both so wrapped up in your own bubble, ignoring the drunken students around you. Your foreheads touch, and in an instant, your lips are on his, or his are on yours. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same. Beer and gum, and something else you can’t quite identify, maybe desperation. You like the mix. Maybe you shouldn’t, but you could get used to it. “It’s not silly, right?” you ask quietly while you both catch your breath. “It’s anything but silly, Daisy,” he says with certainty. And you don’t think you’ve ever heard Art Donaldson sound so resolute.

He kisses you all over when you get to your room. You thank the holiday gods for keeping your roommates away. Your red dress finds itself on the floor much faster than you expected. He’s too good at this. You’d feel much less confident if he didn’t look at you like you held the sun in your left hand and the moon in your right. You find yourself sitting on top of him in your bra and underwear, his hands on your hips steadying you. You’ve never felt sexier than you do right now. A little voice in your head screams at you to engrave this feeling. But you silence it; it’s insecure and reminds you of Jenny, the last person you want to think about when you’re at second base with Art Donaldson.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as his lips trail down your neck to your chest, unclasping your bra with one hand like a pro. “Shut up,” you manage to say, and he chuckles into you, as if he’s trying to bury himself within you. It's hot, stupidly hot. In a few minutes, he half-gently tosses you onto the bed, stripping down with a speed you didn’t think possible. He leans over you in boxers, and you close your eyes for a moment, knowing you have to remember this. Because he really is a work of Art. You’ve never known anyone whose name suited them more.

His lips were everywhere on your body at once, if that’s even possible, and his fingers slid in and out of you before you even realized you’d lost your underwear or when you’d started making that sound from your throat. Everything embarrassed you but also felt natural. You’ve never experienced such a range of emotions with anyone else, and the second that thought crossed your mind, you found yourself on the edge, and Art was above you, pressing soft kisses to your stomach, whispering soothing words while you caught your breath.

He entered you, and you felt like he was enveloping you from every angle, your moans blending together. You think a tear slipped down your cheek. You’re almost sure Art kissed you right where it fell. He was both gentle and rough at the same time. You don’t think that makes sense, but a lot of things tonight don’t make sense. You almost laugh at that thought but decide against it. Instead, you look at him, only to find his eyes already on yours, and he’s so beautiful, with his blond curls and that smile stretched across his face. “Fuck, Art,” you manage to mumble as you feel another orgasm building within you, you didn’t know you were capable of more than one. To be honest, even one was rare until recently. “I know, Daisy, I know,” he says in a half-strangled voice before his lips are back on yours, his hand wrapping around yours, and you think it’s incredibly intimate. You’ve never had sex like this before. You don’t think there’s any trace of your old crush left. You think it might be love. After he cleans you up with a towel he soaked with warm water, he lies beside you, and the small bed forces you to stay close. Maybe it’s Art who refuses to let go. You’re not sure why, but your legs are tangled together and your head is resting on his chest. “Are you going to break my heart again?” he asks, and you don’t know what he means because you’ve never broken anyone’s heart, least of all Art Donaldson’s. But he’s so certain in his question, he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t correct himself. “When did I ever break your heart?” you asked. “When didn’t you?” he replies with a half-laugh. “You gave me a flower when I was eight and then didn’t talk to me for ten years,” he says quietly, like he’s sharing a secret you already knew but never understood.

It’s definitely love. You think you’re okay with that.

Hey? I don't even know what's going on but i'd like you to tell me what you think about that? that's it. Talk to me I guess.............

[mesetacadre]

Lessons from organizing the collection and shipping of aid to the areas affected by the flash floods in Valencia

Nationalism still plays a deciding role in the subjectivity of the student body and broader population. The outpouring of popular support and individual donations eclipsed in 4 days the combined amount of attention for Palestine in a year, despite the death toll being ~10,000 times greater, and destruction orders of magnitude greater.

Periods of flux and reflux have been very heavily contrasted. The aid which reached us decreased substantially every single day. If the collection began on a Tuesday with an overwhelming amount of material, by Friday, barely a few people stopped by. This very clearly demonstrates the reactivity of the working class when it comes to facing an issue.

This reactivity also manifests in the things themselves that people donated. Valencia very quickly received tons of clothing, and by the second day, people in the ground unanimously said to stop donating clothes, and the official collection points set up by the state stopped accepting clothes. Despite this, clothes continued to be donated en-masse. In my collection point, around a tenth of all products donated was non-protective clothing. I think this is the case because of two reasons. First, because instead of buying products explicitly to donate, people emptied out their closets. Given how much clothing is just thrown away per capita each year, I think it's a safe assumption to take. Second, because instead of stopping to research what Valencia needed at the time, most people wished to donate something immediately, perhaps to feel better about having helped out, to forget about it by next week. The sharp dropoff in donations supports this.

In the organizing side of things, people are still heavily conditioned by reactivity. The collection point was at first spearheaded by two inexperienced people who by the end of the first day were already drowning in pessimism and burnout, stating that it was impossible to organize the ~50-70 people who were in some way involved at our collection point at the time. These are people with a very admirable instinct, but who lacked any tools, experience or even ideas to properly organize as was needed. This was magnified by the virtually no help given from the university's institutions.

Of the people willing to continue organizing the aid, there are some groups who stand out because of their focus on agitation to place political blame. While this is very necessary and not at all contradictory, their enthusiasm for this blame was inversely proportional to their enthusiasm for the collection of money or aid. These groups have transparently outed themselves as opportunists, grifters, and hippies.

We have not stopped organizing to continue to deliver aid, pivoting to the collection of money in order to buy the more expensive tools that nobody donates, such as shovels, water pumps, and more. Even as this continues, more and more people have lost all interest in helping. Valencia's most affected areas, workers' neighborhoods, still need help, and a good portion of the food that was donated will perish sooner rather than later. There has even been another flash flood, less destructive but still serious, in Málaga, and this time no official support networks have been set up.

So what can be concluded from this?

Activism is useless for any kind of defined political or social goal. Most of nothing has ever been achieved by a handful of people deciding to show up at a place and burn out in a few weeks. As things stand, we can't rely on coasting on the comings and goings of mass outcries, conditioned by that day's news cycle, and by a desire to never stray too far from one's individual behavior.

Any kind of political organization with its own goals must learn to have constant work, to set its own rhythms in periods of social calm such that burnout is avoided, but experience can still be scraped off every street, classroom and workplace. And it must also be prepared to encompass the rapid acceleration of a mass's movements, it should be ready for the limits of the organization to exceed themselves, and temporarily encompass those people willing to do temporary work within the organization's structure. This is how a social base is slowly built, and how communists can begin to demonstrate the validity of their positions properly. Not by being the most extreme voices for its own sake, or by unduly inserting ourselves into spaces without much sense, but by making whoever is willing an active participant of our own structures, methods and analyses.

[natalievoncatte]

“What’s wrong with me, Alex?” Kara asked, swinging her feet in a childlike, nervous way as she sat on the exam table.

Kara watched her sister putter around the room. She’d activated the red lamps and taken blood samples, and the tubes were currently spinning away in centrifuges awaiting the various tests she would run. She’s listened to Kara’s lungs and checked her pulse and waved instruments about and taken her blood pressure.

Everything about her was well within Kryptonian norms. Her pulse was running around a hundred and ten at rest, which would be alarming for a human but was a tad slow for her, and her body temperature was at a perfect one-oh-one, again just right for the last daughter of Krypton. There was no issue with her processing of sunlight and no signs of radiation exposure, which had been her fear.

Specifically Kryptonite of the red variety.

Kara had been having intrusive thoughts. They’d started here and there months ago but she’d ignored them, writing them off as some odd byproduct of fatigue or stress.

“You can go for now, kiddo,” said Alex. “I’ll let you know when the results come in.”

Alex looked more bemused than anything- probably because Kara showed no signs of actual sickness and had been cagey and indirect about her symptoms. There was a reason for that.

It became unbearable for her yesterday when Lena dropped by her office. Lena had been dressed in Kara’s favorite work ensemble, a green sweater that bared deep cleavage, a pencil skirt, and sheer silk stockings. She’d had her hair up in a meticulous bun and wore a rich plum red lipstick and smoky eyes, looking more sexpot than CEO.

Kara had barely been able to keep a straight face and make conversation. The mere presence of the other woman in the room made her heart pound and created an unbearable tension in her belly and between her thighs. Her eyes kept falling back to the pale inviting column of her throat or the lush inner curves of her breasts. Kara couldn’t stop imagining a bead of sweat rolling down between them. She couldn’t stop thinking about pressing her tongue to the flesh there and catching it, tasting the pearly bead and following its slick trail up to Lena’s throat while her chest heaved against her.

That was a problem, because those were not normal Kara thoughts. Those were not normal Kryptonian thoughts. Kryptonians did not think about those things, especially with members of the same gender. It had come with that same aching feeling between her legs that Kara had been fighting since she arrived on Earth and was dealing with now, just thinking about thinking about Lena.

Worse, Lena would be there tonight at movie night. It was an all girl’s night so it would just be Alex and Nia watching movies with them; Brainy was busy and Kelly was out of town for an academic conference and they were really just keeping Alex company.

Kara’s mind was a train wreck. She couldn’t stop thinking about Casual Lena. When she dressed down in her big sweaters and leggings and let down her hair in soft waves, she was so tiny and cute and small and Kara just wanted to eat her all up and… feel her from the inside, listen to her cries of ecstasy as Kara got creative and *relieved that fucking pressure between her legs*.

Ack! Stop it!

She had to be sick, or infected with a transdimensional parasite, or under a magic spell, or microdosed with red Kryptonite because KRYPTONIANS DID NOT HAVE THESE THOUGHTS.

So, she went for a fly to clear her head.

She ended up going hypersonic and landing at the Fortress, where she picked up the fifty thousand ton key and let herself in. Thankfully, Clark wasn’t there, so she had the vast place to herself.

The Archive here had a simpler interface, she wouldn’t have to ask a holographic version of her mother why she wanted to know what Lena’s sweat tasted like and pin her down on the sofa in her office and do things to her.

“Greetings, Kara Zor-El. How may I assist you?”

Kara looked at the hovering holographic sphere and described her symptoms, holding nothing back. It hovered there all hovery for a moment.

“What you describe sounds similar in principle to afflictions that affected ancient Kryptonians, especially under a yellow sun. Our ancestors often embraced perverse and hedonistic lusts before embracing the perfection of logic and self-discipline. However, you cannot be experiencing these unnatural and incorrect attractions, as they had been bred out of our people by the breeding program. Attraction to members of the same sex and metamorphic reproductive capability have been deemed eradicated by the Science Guild.”

“Metamorphic capabilities?!”

“Some of the ancestors possessed the ability to adapt physically to their preferred partner with the aid of yellow solar wavelengths. This is no longer possible.”

Kara chewed her lip.

The words rang in her skull. Unnatural. Illogical. It made her sound like some… like some abomination, a monster from ancient times. A tightness formed in her chest tears welled in her eyes. Was she like this? Was she broken? An aberration? Some crude vile thing with the instincts and lusts of a Daxamite? Was she broken?

She left the Fortress in a tearful rush and again she flew, too fast. Her phone started going off in the hidden pocket on the flank of her suit and she lighted on a building in Seattle to answer.

“Kara, where the hell are you?” said Alex. “Lena showed up at your place and you weren’t there and we’ve both been panic calling you.”

“I’m sorry, I was at the Fortress, trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.”

Her voice was high and pained.

Alex’s reply was soft. “Come home, Kara. We need to talk.”

Kara nodded to no one. “I’m on my way.”

She made the trip back a bit slower, honing in on Alex’s heartbeat to find her at the DEO, still in the lab. When she walked in, Alex gestured to the exam table and Kara sat down.

“What is it?” Kara almost pleaded. “Alex, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Kara, listen to me,” said Alex, taking both of Kara’s hands. “Look at me, okay.”

Kara looked at her.

“There is nothing wrong with you. I shared the results of the test with Eliza and we went over it in detail. You’re completely fine.”

“I can’t be,” Kara protested. “There has to be a reason why I’m having these thoughts, Alex!”

Pulling her hands free, she jolted to her feet and began to pace.

“There has to be. I have to be sick or messed up somehow. Kryptonians don’t have feelings like this!”

Alex closed her eyes and sighed.

“Kara, listen to me, okay? You’re not sick. You’re not broken. Your best friend is a stunningly beautiful woman and adore each other. There’s nothing wrong with having a crush on her.”

“It’s not a crush!” Kara almost shouted. “It’s more than that and it’s scaring me. What if I can’t control myself? What if I hurt her? What if she sees me looking and she thinks I’m a monster that wants to prey on her?”

Alex’s expression softened. She took a few steps, arrested Kara’s pacing, and pulled her into a bear hug.

“I know how it feels, Kara. I promise you you’re not a predator and there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Kryptonians can’t be gay.”

“Says who?”

“Everybody! The computer! The rules! I don’t know,” The last words came as a broken whimper, and Kara sagged against her sister.

“What about this, Kara. You’re Supergirl. You can do anything.”

Kara pulled back in a daze, staring at nothing. Since she came to Earth, she’d embraced it with her whole self. As loath as she was to admit it, she loved it here. This world was so free, full of wonders and majesty for all its problems. Kara had never once questioned her love for her sister. If Alex could be gay, why not Kara? There was no science council here, no one to ordain who she must marry and breed with.

Why not?

She felt dizzy, and strangely relaxed, as if she’d just heaved a massive weight off her shoulders.

Alex offered her a tissue and she dried her tears.

“Go get the girl,” said Alex. “I’ll call Nia and tell her you need some alone time.”

Kara nodded, and felt half in a daze as she left the infirmary. She stepped out onto the balcony and texted Lena, can I come over?

Lena replied immediately, Yes.

Kara’s heart hammered her ribs as she landed on the balcony. Lena rushed to the door and threw it open, ushering her inside. Kara stepped into the living room of the penthouse and stumbled to a stop.

Lena was dressed down and so soft, from the mop of her wavy hair pulled into a low ponytail to her cashmere sweater down the length of her toned legs to her bare feet.

“What’s wrong?”

As Lena asked, she darted forward, offering a hug. Kara gingerly let herself be pulled into the embrace, hesitant at first. Lena dove into her, throwing herself into the hug as if she wanted to climb inside Kara. Kara wrapped her in her arms and drew her cape around them both. She couldn’t stop thinking about Lena’s feet being cold, about wanting to make her warm.

Before she answered, Kara buried her face in Lena’s hair and breathed deep. Lena’s scent hit her like a train. It was like swallowing a mouthful of alien rum, filling her chest with a spreading warmth and making her head swim.

“I’ve been trying to work some things out, and I was scared, so I ran off to the Fortress. I’m sorry.”

Lena pulled back gently and looked up at her. They were so close. Lena’s big, pretty blue-green eyes were full of worry but dark, her pupils blown.

“What’s bothering you? I’ll throw money at it until it goes away.”

Kara swallowed, hard. “I don’t want it to go away.”

Lena arched a brow. “Oh?”

Kara licked her lips and as she did, Lena’s eyes darted and followed the motion of her tongue. Kara was suddenly away of Lena’s hands resting just above her hips now, the way that her hugs and touches always seemed to trend lower, the casual way that Lena leaned into her as she looked up.

She bit her lip and Kara almost died.

“I think I like girls,” Kara blurted out.

“You certainly like my girls, Kara Danvers. You can’t stop looking.”

“You noticed?” Kara squeaked.

“Kara, darling, you’ve been staring at them for thirty seconds just now.”

Kara’s gaze snapped up.

“I’m sorry, I, oh Rao oh God, Lena.”

Lena curled her fingers around Kara’s chin and tilted her head back down.

“Did you really think I didn’t notice? The day we met you paid more attention to my boobs than my business card.”

“You gave me a business card?”

“See what I mean?”

Kara swallowed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Lena’s thumb grazed her jaw and Kara thought her heart might go off like a bomb in her chest. She shuddered and her toes curled in her boots.

“I’ve been teasing you for years,” she said, “I’d almost given up hope. I wouldn’t be the first disaster bisexual to nurse a futile crush on her best friend.”

Kara swallowed hard. “So should we like go on a date?”

Lena’s fingers traced down her neck, then along the ridge of her collarbone.

“I was thinking more Netflix and chill. I know and trust you, Kara. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count, I’m ready now if you are.”

“Ready?” Kara squeaked.

“So are you, I think,” said Lena.

She rolled her hips and Kara immediately realized what she meant and what the Archive meant by her body adapting.

“Ohshit,” Kara chirped. “Oh God Lena I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing, I didn’t mean to-“

Lena lunged and suddenly they were kissing. Lena’s lips were so soft and she was intoxicating. Kara pulled her into an embrace, almost lifted her off the floor as she kissed her back. Lena threw one leg up and hooked it wound her hip, and Kara instinctively scooped her up and felt a jolt through her body as Lena then wrapped both legs around her waist.

“Fuck, you’re strong,” Lena panted. “Oh God, Kara. Bedroom. Now. Please.”

“You want…”

“Yes! What are you fucking waiting for?”

Later, hours later, Kara lay in Lena’s bed, while Lena slept blissfully next to her, head resting on Kara’s shoulder, smiling contentedly. She looked over at her and tucked the sheets and blankets up close around her chin and smoothed stray strands of hair back from her eyes. Lena made a small sound, and curled around Kara’s side.

Kryptonians, it turned out, could be very good at being gay.

[cherryblossomshadow]

#oh look it's my feelings about the current AI boom #automation can improve life if the wealthy and powerful are not the ones that controls what gets automated #and if we let go of the notion of the 40 hour workweek (tags courtesy of @zanzibarhamster)

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This and also respect work that humans enjoy doing. Creative work, problem solving, working with plants and animals and other people, raising a family or caring for elders, etc. Let us thrive in work that is fulfilling and find the time to do so thanks to the automation that assists us. (comment courtesy of @rum-and-shattered-dreams)

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This is literally what the actual source-of-the-name Luddites advocated. It is in fact what they lived Centuries of improvement in loom technology slowly reduced the working hours of weavers down from something like 50 hours a week to something more like low 30s.

What changed was that business entrepreneurs realized they could make incredibly low quality cloth with machine looms which didn’t require any more still than a child could have. So in places where the regulations were weak, they enslaved orphan children and force them to work 16-hour days pretty soon low quality cloth which they use the variety of false pretenses and unethical fiscal strongarming to sell it as if it was worth the same as high quality cloth.

This wasn’t even particularly effective, the vast majority of those machine room owners went out of business. But it was an enticing enough possibility for the capitalists in Britain that entire regions saw so many people go out of work that there was widespread starvation. The quality of cloth went down and never came back up, modern cloth is still of lower quality than the handmade stuff used to be despite the ostensibly higher threadcount (threadcount is not the end all be all of quality). And the amount of human labor involved is not actually substantially reduced. The limitations of machine weaving mean that more sewing is necessary than ever, and all of that is done by hand in sweatshops.

The Luddites absolutely had the right idea, and they lived it. Their work wasn’t always easy, but by and large they described liking their lives, feeling a sense of pride in their trade, and had good qualities of life. And they sunk the benefits of their productivity, as technology improved, into a combination of reduced work hours and better quality of life. (Though it is important to note that as being a weaver improved in terms of job quality the work was increasingly transferred out of women’s spheres and into men’s spheres. This was not a social structure devoid of oppression.)

So yeah. Read Blood In The Machine if you want to know more it’s a really good book. (comment courtesy of @crazy-pages)

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Yep. "Luddite" is a term of ridicule only in the sense that socialist, communist or union are: they were opposed to the enshittification of their day, and wanted the advancement of human knowledge and productivity to go towards reducing the burdens of life rather than into some murderer's pocket. (comment courtesy of @aquietwhyme)

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Absolutely.

It even plugs into Calvinism: Very little of what we call work brings us any closer to the Kingdom of God. But doing math? making art? gardening? running institutions justly and fairly? That's not only work, it's the best and most productive kind. And if it's something you love, you'll do it better, longer, than if you were just worried about having your family on your health insurance policy.

In addition, there are a lot of good and necessary jobs that are poorly regarded and badly compensated. That needs to change. The idea that the people we need should be treated poorly, and the people we don't should be abundantly rewarded, comes from diseased thinking. (comment courtesy of @raleigh-straight)

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Yes, but the idea that leisure is wrong and that we must work constantly is driven largely by religion. That's where the concept is leisure as a sin comes from.

Every time I've heard someone dismiss the concept of a universal basic income, shorter work weeks, or any plan that would reduce how much people are forced to work, the excuses are always based in the persons faith. That we must work or we inevitably will fall to sin and do bad things. Or however they want to rephrase the concept.

That's the dragon we must slay first, if we want to find a path to a better world. (comment courtesy of @thenightgaunt)

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It’s stunning, in archaeology, to realize that if you find a place which would have been accessible to people 10,000 years ago, and which has by whatever chance been preserved since that time, there’s a high chance that you will find art from that time.

Now, it’s possible that people back then were very selective about where they put their art, certainly. But it beggars the imagination, it does, to think that they only saw fit to chip rock petroglyphs in an inhospitable desert, only made paintings in a handful of caves, only scratched out their memories in tucked-away rock shelters.

It seems vastly more likely that, given time and opportunity, people simply made art as often as they could. That there is an inherent impulse to learn, grow, and create; anything other than those things should be viewed as a distraction.

Yet, in our modern times, while in theory we could easily exist in considerable luxury, instead there are those who make great effort to assure the majority of people devote the majority of their time to toil, for no tangible value to anyone at all. One might even go so far as to suggest that the actual goal of this is to blunt that human desire to grow and create. That what they truly fear is a world in which every person is free to pursue beyond the needs of food and shelter and health, to contribute to humanity in a way which has the potential to change our world rather than merely maintaining it. (comment courtesy of @hasufin)

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Based on historical evidence that we do have, I see no reason to think that pre-historical people who were as human as we are, biologically, wouldn't have done the same things as we do, re: art all over. So yeah, they probably did paint outside and carve trees and decorate trade routes and whatever, but it's just the hidden away stuff that's lasted this long*.

I 100% believe that squashing that impulse is baked into how we're currently living now, same as how schools work is meant to train up good employees rather than people who know how to think and learn well, etc.

if time travel is ever invented, I want someone to go back and check this for me, and take pictures. I bet they hung things from trees and painted way-markers and carved totems and painted themselves and all sorts of stuff. (comment courtesy of @samiholloway)

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Don't forget how addictive control over the lives of people is. (comment courtesy of @antarctica-starts-here)

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[Image 1 ID: A quote by Lord Robert Skidelsky, Emeritus Professor of Political Economy at the University of Warwick.

If one machine can cut necessary human labour by half, why make half the workforce redundant, rather than employing the same number for half the time? Why not take advantage of automation to reduce the average working week from 40 hours to 30, and then to 20, and then to 10, with each diminishing block of labour time counting as a full-time job? This would be possible if the gains from automation were not mostly seized by the rich and powerful, but were distributed fairly instead. Rather than try to repel the advance of the machine, which is all that the Luddites could imagine, we should prepare for a future of more leisure, which automation makes possible. But, to do that, we first need a revolution in social thinking.

/end ID]

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[Image 2 ID: A quote by Buckminster Fuller, 1970

We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living It is a fact today that 1 in 10,000 can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody must be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, we must justify our right to exist The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they have to earn a living

/end ID]

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[Image 3 ID: Two panel comic of a man in front of a workplace full of robots operating the computers. In the first panel, the man is crouched over on the curb, bemoaning:

Damn, a robot took over my job! Now I have to look for a new source of monetary income…

In the second panel, the man has his arms raised to the heavens triumphantly crowing:

Yay! A robot took over my job! Now I am free to actually enjoy life!

/end ID]

[homemadesterekpie]

im forever obsessed with the idea of Stiles and Derek being together in secret. not because they’re actively hiding it but more because their respective lives can’t seem to merge together.

Stiles is still in school trying to keep his grades up and keep up appearances of the imperfect/perfect son with his dad while Derek is living in the burnt out shell of his childhood home like some kind of depressing episode of bushcraft camping.

they’re both damaged and somehow they’re the only ones who can see that about eachother.

they save eachother’s lives one too many times and it ends up with Stiles giving Derek his virginity and his entire heart in the process while Derek’s entire fucking soul howls for Stiles. he wants to mark him and to claim him and to keep and hide him forever so they’ll both be safe.

but Stiles only stays the night in Derek’s burnt out den when his dad works the graveyard shift and reluctantly leaves in the early hours of the morning to go home to get ready for school.

it gets harder and harder for Stiles to leave every time he spends time with Derek. he’s not sure what it means about him that he’d rather stay with Derek in this broken haunted place.

he just knows that at least here he feels alive and he doesn’t have to pretend, he can just be who he is or at least who he’s become. this needy wanton thing that seem to never be satisfied with what Derek is willing to give him. Derek gives him an inch and Stiles wants a mile but somehow Derek indulges him every single time. and when they’re both close so close they both whisper promises to eachother they aren’t even sure they’ll be able to keep but it doesn’t matter. what matters is that after when Derek’s head is pillowed on Stiles’ chest, the both of them breathing hard with Stiles’ fingers playing with Derek’s dark hair, they both know the truth.

they’ll never be able to stop whatever this is.

Stiles can’t sleep alone anymore, his own bed feeling foreign. he can barely keep up with conversations that aren’t Derek’s words, his mind always drifting to the wolf and wondering where he is, what he’s doing, should he go see him on his lunch break?

Derek roams the woods at all hours whenever Stiles isn’t with him. he starts following him to school, to his house, to the god damn grocery store just to watch him.

somehow no one truly notices how reclusive they both become until it’s too late. they’re in way too deep and there’s no going back.

when people finally realize/find out about them they’re too codependent and entwined with eachother to even care about the reactions.

Stiles’ dad kind of blows a gasket because how the fuck did he not see it? does he even know his son at all? meanwhile, Scott has a one sided screaming match while Stiles looks at nothing.

the sheriff visits Derek at the shell of his home and confronts him. Derek’s face is hard and closed off the entire time but he acknowledges that him and Stiles have something. but he also knows how hollow Stiles truly feels from the neglect the sheriff imposed upon Stiles when his mom died and that’s not something Derek is inclined to forgive and he also knows this isn’t his place to tell. Stiles will tell his father what and when he wants to share. so he tells the sheriff to go talk to his son.

the sheriff looks absolutely distraught at that because he realizes he doesn’t even know how. Stiles have slipped through his fingers and become this unreachable being. he isn’t the person Stiles trusts anymore. the strange man living in the woods standing in front of him has more claim to his son than his own father does at this point.

a few hours later, Stiles drives up the long dirt path to Derek but this time he has a packed duffel bag with him and his eyes are red and puffy. Derek just takes the bag from him and takes his hand and pulls him to the mattress they use as a bed. they lie down and Derek holds him as he cries.

he’s not going back home. he doesn’t want to go back home anymore. he’s graduating in a couple weeks he doesn’t have to go home. can he stay here? please Derek can i stay here with you please please? Derek just kisses him softly in response because even if he wanted to he could never say no to Stiles, not when he’s like this, so fragile and on the verge of breaking completely.

Stiles sleeps better that night than he has in months. he graduates. he doesn’t apply to college but he’ll think about it next year. for now, him and Derek are busy building themselves a cabin with a huge garden. they work during the day at their own pace and at night they make love.

all in all it’s good, it’s peaceful and it’s more than enough.

[avelera]

I’m trying so hard not to have Arcane theories that would make me at all disappointed if the show went in a different direction, guys, seriously I’m trying SO hard to just focus on what they’ve given us and analyze that and NOT try to write fanfic in my head for what could happen next because I JUST want to enjoy what masterpiece they give us instead of being disappointed if I’m wrong…

… but GODDAMMIT if we find out that Jayce just broke out of a time loop, that would explain EVERYTHING:

- How quickly he killed Salo, a Councilor he used to work with, when Jayce is NOT a natural killer. He just said “I’m sorry too” as if he already knew what he would do and just did it. The decision making was too fast and too unlike him.

- The fact that APPARENTLY Jayce was muttering to himself, “I won’t fail again.” Like HELLO that is literally THE time loop line that is THE line people say when breaking out of the time loop. Did Jayce just break out???

- Does that mean Ekko and Heimerdinger are still trapped because they HAVEN’T found a way out yet? Or even pushed Jayce out so he could go save the day because he’s the one who has to do it?

- It explains how Jayce suddenly has the ability to see void creatures. He’s now experienced at fighting this future or these events and has more magical experience too.

- It explains how Jayce looks OLDER, not just bearded and dirty but actually OLDER. Also it’s such a time loop trope to go through various dystopias caused by getting it wrong and ending up in some Mad Max world which might explain the LEG BRACE, the guy has injuries he didn’t have but more than that he’s got injuries that he got a sophisticated ASSISTIVE DEVICE for. That would have taken TIME to put in place on him!

- His utter certainty that Hextech has to be destroyed. Early on when we first time we met Jayce he said his Hextech notes were HIS LIFE. And now he’s totally at peace with destroying it? Something is UP. He didn’t just see a few visions, I think he LIVED all the different possibilities OVER AND OVER. I think he’s had MULTIPLE TIME LOOPS to come to terms with having to destroy his life’s work.

- Speaking of life’s work, it ALSO explains how Jayce can just WALK UP and kill Viktor. No conversation. Barely any emotion. The shots of him fighting himself could be OVERLAYS of all the times he’s done this before. Which COULD mean we WILL see the version of Jayce needing to kill Viktor to save the world that we didn’t get this time, because it already happened in one or even HUNDREDS of other loops.

I mean I know I’m in fully conspiracy gif territory but I can’t get it out of my head. It fits so much of Jayce’s weird behavior. He’s DONE THIS BEFORE.

… oh shit we also saw hundreds of mirror images of him before he hit the Wild Rune, going back to the day he first saw magic. Shit guys I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment but WHAT IF.

Final note, all of Arcane S1 is about “what could have been” it’s scene after scene of turning points that all would have stopped the final scene with Jinx if they had gone different. The butterfly motif of the butterfly effect is everywhere. Could we FINALLY be getting the pay off for that by seeing Jayce live through a time loop alongside Ekko and Heimerdinger of all the OTHER possibilities?? It is Ekko’s power after all!

[deathbyday]

-'⁠🫧*⁠.⁠✧mouthwashing✧.⁠*⁠🫧'⁠ -

P7

“How could we end up here…?”

Daisuke x implied F!Reader

TW: OD’ing, death, suicide, mouthwashing deaths in gen

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Written By: DeathByDay

(Also written on Mobile)

4 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

After 10 minutes of being away from the medical room, you figured it was time to go back and check on Anya and Curly. You walked up to the door, gently knocking before waiting for an answer. But to your surprise, the black haired woman didn’t respond.

You became confused. You pressed your ear against the door, your skin glazing the metal. You heard breathing. You couldn’t make out whose it was, causing you to continue knocking, hoping for a response.

“Anya? Are you there?” You asked, raising your voice in case she couldn’t hear you. You heard light footsteps behind you, so you turned your head to see Daisuke walking towards you, a confused expression on his face.

“Is Anya okay?” He raised a brow, pressing his hand against the door. “I don’t know.. she isn’t responding.” You replied, voice soft and filled with worry. You keep your eyes on Daisuke, swallowing the bad feeling inside your gut.

“Anya! You okay?” He shouted, banging on the door. The two of you subconsciously stopped breathing, hoping to hear her reply.

“..Yeah.” She whispered, her voice muffled. Your eyes lit up, hearing her speak. “Is the door stuck?” You asked, feeling a knot get tighter in your throat. This was definitely something more than just a jammed door.

You heard a slight sniffle, causing you to slightly purse your lips before speaking once again. “Anya, we’re going to get you out of there.” You promised, glancing over at Daisuke, his face mimicking yours.

That was until his eyes lit up, remembering something that he paid little attention to before. “Oh, I’ll be right back! I saw Jimmy in the lounge just a couple minutes ago. I’ll go grab him!” He hurriedly explained before turning around, ignoring your calls to wait.

If anything, Jimmy would just make things worse for Anya and the two of you. You knew that, but why didn’t he? You quietly groan, turning back towards the door and banging on it once again.

“Please, Anya, I’m not dumb. Come on out, alright? We can talk this over. Just don’t do anything stupid!” You shouted, feeling the corner of your eyes sting with tears. You shook them away, knowing it wasn’t the time.

After a few seconds, you heard the sound of four feet run against the ground. You glanced behind you before stepping off to the side of the metal door, Daisuke settling beside you.

“Anya? I brought Jimmy!” His voice was filled with urgency, not knowing what to do. Hell, you didn’t know either. “We’re here to rescue you, so don’t worry.” He reassured, his hand on the wall. Jimmy takes a step closer to the door, causing you to shuffle your feet to the side even more.

He gently knocks on the door with his knuckles, the side of his face against the metal. “Hey. Heard the locks broken.” He confirmed, keeping his sentence short. Anya doesn’t speak, causing him to shout her name.

You stood off to the side, one hand resting on your forearm. As you did so, Anya finally replied, causing him to let go of a soft sigh. “The rest of our medicine stash is in there too. Damn, this could be bad..” He muttered. “Did you try to really put your back into it?” He asked, his voice raising.

You rolled your eyes before pushing past the man and hammering your fist on the door. “Anya, this isn’t a game. You need to come out!” You plead with her, not wanting this to go on any longer. Daisuke placed his hand on your shoulder in attempt to calm you down.

“Any wrenches laying around? How heavy is the med kit?” He called out, gently pulling you behind him before getting in front of the door, placing his two hands on it. “Anya, is the door stuck?” Jimmy whispered, wondering if she could hear him through the door without raising his tone.

She didn’t reply for a few seconds before muttering a small, “No”. Your blood ran cold. You opened your mouth, but Daisuke cut you off before any words came out.

“What do you mean?” He asked, raising a brow. Anya didn’t have any chance to reply before Jimmy spoke up. “Look, we’re all stressed. But, you can’t go breaking down at every little hardship.” You glanced towards him, seeing his brows furrow, clearly becoming frustrated.

“Open the damn door.” Your leg subconsciously shook, knowing where this was going to go. “You were right. You were right all along.” Anya’s soft voice felt heavy as she spoke. “I should’ve done this from the beginning.” You turned back towards the door, keeping your eyes locked on it.

“I always believed that our worst moments didn’t define us. Didn’t make us beyond repair.” The three of you stayed silent, the only sound being her echoing voice. “You think i wanted this either? Make no mistake. This isn’t my worst moment.. far from it. It’s the best one I’ll ever make.” She chuckled.

You heard the gentle sound of pill bottles being opened, causing you to immediately panic. Before you could even begin to talk, a firm hand gripped your bicep, causing you to back down.

You shook the hand off, not wanting the man to touch you anymore. “Open the door.” He demanded, hands forming fists. You were just glad he wasn’t holding you in his grasp anymore.

“I’ll take care of it.” Anya promised. Suddenly, Daisuke was the one to panic. He banged on the door with his palms, shouting at the woman inside. “What does that mean?!” His voice was shaky. You couldn’t help but just stare at him, feeling hopeless.

“Curly is still in there with her, right?” Jimmy mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. Daisuke turned around, nodding his head. “Yeah. You don’t think-..” He cut himself off, realization creeping into his skull.

Jimmy took a deep breath in. “Daisuke. You and Swansea know the internals of the ship better than anyone. There’s absolutely no other way into Medical?” He started, raising a brow. You turned to him, curious as to where his plan was going.

Daisuke thought for a moment, sounding hesitant. “Swansea said it was strictly off limits..” He stated, fully turning his body around. “Like, super, mega not allowed above all else.” Jimmy’s face twisted to realization. “The utility room.”

Your breath hitched, words getting caught in your throat. “That busted vent in there loops into Medical. But, technically a person could totally fit through it.” The brunette confirmed, causing you to finally budge in, glaring at Jimmy.

“That vent has been busted for a long time now. Someone could get seriously injured if they went inside it.” You warned, taking glances at the two men. “Y/N, if that’s the only way, we’ll make it work.” Your eyes widened, surprised by the boldness of Jimmy.

He then turned his body towards the door, keeping his eye locked on you. “You listening, Anya?” It felt as if the whole ship went silent as you three waited for her reply, but she never spoke. “Fine.” He gave up, relaxing his face. “Come on, Daisuke.”

He motioned for him to follow, causing you to grasp your boyfriend’s arm, making him stop in his tracks. “Daisuke, c’mon. You can’t be serious.” You whispered, keeping your voice low. He was clearly hesitant to go with him, but he gave you a smile nonetheless.

“Trust me, babe. I got this.” He promised. You shook your head, glancing back at the man who waited for the two of you. You slowly let your boyfriend go, resting your arms at your sides. “Fine.” You grumbled. “I’ll stay here, I guess..”

The brunette just chuckled, almost forgetting his task before Jimmy cleared his throat, growing impatient. Daisuke nodded towards him, quickly hurrying towards him, you hesitantly staying back.

If only you fought harder.

______

8 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT

“Jim-.. what the fuck did you do?!” You shout, dragging out his name. As you did so, your voice became louder and more intense. Glancing down, in your arms laid an almost lifeless Daisuke. He gasped in shock, clutching his stomach as you continued panicking.

Jimmy ignored you, staring down at the man in your arms. “Don’t do anything!” He demanded before muttering; “stop” over and over. “I can fix thi-..” He spoke, causing Swansea to cut him off. “Why do you keep fucking saying that?” He asked, hands on his hips.

Daisuke groaned softly, causing the two men to shut up. “I-..I’m s-sorry..” He mumbled, shaking his head in sorrow. You leaned down, hugging his head to your shoulder like he was a baby. “It’s going to be okay, just stay still. I’ve got you, I promise.” You reassured, planting a light kiss on his temple.

“We still have disinfectant, right?” Swansea turned back towards Jimmy, his hands now over his chest. “The one from the extra medical stash?” He asked quite frantically before demanding he grabbed it.

“The cocktail..” Jimmy trailed off, glancing down at Daisuke. “The cocktail?!” Swansea shouted. “What are are blabbering about?” As the two men bickered, you drowned their voices out. You kept your eyes on your boyfriend, watching him squirm in your arms.

“You need to stop moving around!” You cried, almost pleading for him to stop. Jimmy stood up before walking away with Swansea, you being left alone with Daisuke.

______

After about 20 minutes, the two of them came back. Jimmy held a bottle of mouthwash in his hand, causing you to shout at him as he sat down in front of you, taking the bottle cap off. “Are you crazy?” You asked, knowing what he was about to use the blue liquid for.

“It’s the only thing we have.” He replied harshly. He tore the cap off, tossing it to the ground before turning it to the side. You pull Daisuke back, not letting Jimmy touch him. “You can’t!” You plead, shaking your head.

The brunette only glared at you, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Let him go, Y/N.” He demanded. You shook your head once again, not wanting him to touch the man in your arms.

“No..” You mumble, holding Daisuke to your chest. “Godammit, let him go!” He yelled at you, causing tears to flow down your cheeks. Hesitantly, you obeyed. Jimmy let out a deep breath, turning the bottle onto its side once more, letting the liquid fall out and onto Daisuke’s wounds.

It sizzled as you covered your ears with the palm of your hands, hearing your boyfriend’s screams. You hiccup, curling in on yourself.

You just couldn’t bear to listen to his raspy voice cry.

______

3 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

You stayed behind, watching the door to medical. There was a chance she could change her mind and unlock the door, making you the first to see her after the incident. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her guilty face as she stepped out of the door, accepting your attempt to hug her.

But your thoughts were cut short by a loud scream echoing behind the automatic door. You recognized that scream almost immediately. Your face twisted from pleased to panic in an instant as you gripped the side of the door, your fingernails barely grasping the metal.

As you groaned, you pulled as hard as you could. But to your dismay, it didn’t budge. You silently waited, knowing you couldn’t do anything. The only thing swirling inside your mind was the hope that Daisuke got to the other side of the vent, let alone was still alive.

You heard a grunt before Daisuke spoke up. Your muscles tensed, hearing his voice. It was raspy; sounding like his vocal cords could explode any second now. “Anya..? Wh-..What did you do?” His voice was shaky, hinting that he was crying.

Your breath became faster, anxiety rushing through your veins. “Daisuke, that’s you, right? Baby, I need you to open the door for me right now!” You shouted, banging on the door in hopes he would obey. You heard shuffling inside the room before the click of the door, causing it to automatically open.

The sight in front of you was unbelievable. Curly laid on the medical bed, staring directly at you. Anya sat on the ground beside him, pills scattered around her, making the cause of her death easily visible. Overdosing.

You fought the urge to scream at her to wake up, knowing that if you did, it would only be a waste of time. You then glanced at your feet, seeing your boyfriend with cuts all over him.

You instantly react, lifting his body up by the arms. You drag him out of the room, a light blood trail following. Rough footsteps came from behind you, but you couldn’t bother to turn back, already knowing it was Jimmy.

“What the fuck?” He muttered in shock, causing you to yell at him. “Don’t just stand there, what is wrong with you?! Help me!” You cried, feeling a deep gash on Daisuke’s chest. The older man took him from your arms, carrying him into the lounge.

You stayed close behind, noticing that Daisuke’s blood was all over your arms and hands, and even your jumper. You stared in shock, but you didn’t say anything. You knew panicking wouldn’t do anyone any good.

______

7 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT

After Jimmy used the mouthwash as disinfectant, Daisuke’s wounds didn’t seem to get better. You ended up blowing up at the older man, screaming at him, saying what a shitty job he’s done.

You almost broke skin from your knuckles from smashing the metal floor, trying to let your frustration out.

Swansea was the one who had to comfort you. He didn’t hold you, but he did have his arms loosely wrapped around you, guiding you to sit on the floor as Jimmy kept muttering random words to Daisuke.

He sat you against the wall on the other side of the door, letting you glance over at the wounded brunette whenever you felt like it. You continued sobbing, not caring if you were ugly crying or not. That was the least of everyone’s concerns.

Everything came crashing down on you like a train. You hadn’t registered Anya’s death until now, along with how serious Daisuke’s injuries actually were. You couldn’t believe what was happening. You couldn’t escape this nightmare.

Your body faced Daisuke, your arms wrapping around your own body in attempt to ground yourself from lashing out at Jimmy once again. You hiccuped, feeling Swansea’s hand gently caress your back. He was seated next to you, his body also facing the two men.

“It’s going to be alright.” You heard him mumble. You weren’t sure if he was muttering those words to you or him, but you nodded nonetheless.

You lowered your head into your arms, feeling the dried blood of Daisuke flake off. You snuffled, resting your head against the metal wall.

“I know.” You replied, your voice raspy. It hurt to speak after shouting for a minute straight, but that was the consequence of your own actions. After a few minutes, you felt the tears that fell from your eyes finally dry.

You muffled a sob as Swansea pat your back, giving you one last glance before standing up. He walked back towards Daisuke and Jimmy, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You quickly decided to follow suit, feeling your legs wobble as you stepped towards your boyfriend. It hurt you to stare down at him, knowing the paining backstory as to how he got so injured.

You sat down in front of Swansea and Jimmy, Daisuke lying in between. You held an expression of someone who’s exhausted, yet still fighting for worth. That’s exactly where you were at now.

Except the only person who made you feel like you were finally worth something was bleeding out in front of you. And you can’t do anything about it.

The three of you stayed silent as the brunette continued groaning in pain. You couldn’t help but feel tears sting the corner of your eyes, wishing you could do something to take his pain away.

Letting out a soft sigh, you lean over and wrap your arms around Daisuke before resting his head to your chest, cradling him like you were doing an hour ago.

You felt his fingers loosely grasp around your clothed skin, causing you to let out a soft whine, trying not to break down again. You hid your face from the two men’s view in Daisuke’s hair, your forehead to the top of his head.

You knew his time would be over soon, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to accept it. And so, you cradled him in your arms like a baby, not ready to let go. Suddenly, you heard Jimmy’s harsh tone of voice.

“I can fix this.” He muttered, his expression calm, yet his body language stated otherwise. He was shaky, twitching out of hesitance.

You lifted your head, watching as he let out a deep sigh. His eyes were set on Daisuke’s stomach, seeing blood continue to flow out of his body.

You then turned your attention towards Swansea, who already had his eyes set on you. Your brows upturned, seeing his saddened expression. He knew what you were thinking.

You gave Daisuke a short lived kiss on the top of his head before placing your chin in that exact spot, careful not to put any pressure. You advert your eyes to the side, ignoring the older man’s stare.

“It’s going to be alright.” You whisper to the man in your arms, repeating what Swansea had said earlier. You felt a lump in your throat, feeling the tears continue to sting your eyes.

“I know it hurts, but p-..please, I can’t do this without you.” Your voice was so soft that Daisuke could barely hear you.

He knew he didn’t have much time left, seeing as blood was gushing out of his chest. But he continued fighting, not ready to leave you alone on this space freighter.

______

6 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT.

“The bleeding won’t stop.” Jimmy’s voice rang through the intense air. Daisuke still laid in your arms, his eyes glancing towards you from time to time. He could see your expression and how dead you looked.

“Just try to stay still, Daisuke. I-..I need a second to think. We can fix this.” The man with stubble on his chin whispered, causing your body to tense up.

He always said the words, “I can fix this”. Most of the time, he always screwed it up. Why was this time any different?

Swansea stared down at the wounded man in your arms, wondering how he could help. At least he was actually doing something instead of mumbling that he could fix this mess.

Then you. You. You caressed Daisuke’s cheek, causing him to glance up at you again. You can see the pain in his eyes, his suffering to keep himself alive. It was draining him, and it was obvious to everyone nearby.

You couldn’t bear staring at him any longer. The men beside you were stalling, not knowing what to do. But you did. You slowly lowered him to the ground, careful not to make any sudden movements.

As you did so, Daisuke began coughing. He wrapped his arms around himself, blood seeping out past his lips. This only drove you further to do what was necessary. You glanced back up at the older man in front of you, leaning over and holding out your arm.

“Give me the axe, Swansea.” You uttered, your other arm resting at your side, hand running through Daisuke’s sweaty hair, almost like an attempt to comfort him. To soothe his pain.

Swansea hesitantly set his axe in your hand, not wanting to believe what he was thinking. But in the back of his mind, he knew exactly what you were planning. And so did Jimmy. He instantly shouted at you to stop. To think about what you were doing.

But you couldn’t.

Not when the only person you ever actually cared for was in pain. Not while he’s lying in front of you helplessly, waiting for the suffering to end.

Your hand parted from Daisuke’s hair to help support the weight of the axe. You glanced at the weapon in your hands, then at your wounded boyfriend, then at the men who sat in front of you.

One held a stern look on his face, the other pleading with you to think about what you were doing. But you knew exactly what you were doing. You lowered your head, lips parting from each other as you spoke, staring at the brunette through a pained expression.

“It’ll be okay, Daisuke.” You muttered, ignoring Jimmy’s words that fled your head.

“I don’t want to make the same mistakes I’ve made with keeping myself here. I don’t want to make you suffer with the consequences of something that isn’t your fault, Daisuke.” You somberly shook your head, keeping your eyes locked on him.

“You deserved a better life, not one that requires going to space to make the people you love proud.” Your voice cracked, tears finally breaking free from the tiny glass wall in front of your eyes once again. The liquid fell down your cheeks, planting themselves onto the hard metal ground.

“You should’ve been out there on earth having fun.. but instead, you got stuck with the people who only put you down when you needed them most. And for that, I say sorry. I say sorry for everyone who ever hurt you. And to that, that includes me.”

You held your shoulders high, lifting the axe in your hands and setting the sharp side beside your head.

“Close your eyes, Daisuke.” He obeyed almost instantly, your voice being the last thing he ever heard before you smashed the axe across his face, ending his life.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

authors note

so um.. how do we like this chapter?

(crashing out ASAP as if I didn’t write this entire fic.)

obviously there’s more chapters to come, so be on the look out for that!! chapter eight will be out in a week or two.

like half of this chapter was supposed to be in chapter eight, but I couldn’t stop myself from hitting you all with more angst after each sentence. I got carried away

nonetheless, I hope you all enjoy this chapter! I definitely enjoyed writing it<3

(and crying while doing so)

[temasdeconversacioneneltrabajo]

Just wanted to talk about a topic.

A year ago I was working with a colleague 20 years older than me, married with grandkids. He even thought I was younger, like 30 years younger than him in his mind.

Okay, for me he was some safe space because of the age gap and I felt like we could talk about life in general, dark and light topics.

Then after some months he starts making comments that he loves me, starts going more intense, as to learning that he was trying to find a discreet place at work to... ahem...

Everytime I told him that he was making me feel uncomfortable and that HE WAS MARRIED!!

Okay, fortunately he retired and now we only meet in meetups with common friends but still everything is turning more and more uncomfortable.

My point is: do men ever think about what the women they get involve with?

For example, he was complaining the other day that he seems to fall in love with women who doesnt want any xxx time with him.

After everything I told him... still he never thought about how that would affect me.

What's the point of view of a woman (in this mind in an age when many women have kids) starting a "relationship" with a man who is married and lives with his wife and grandkids in the same house? Does he think that it's such a great offer to go with her only when he wants, never being available during the holidays, not to travel, only visiting her place? Or that when things end, there is no problem for him since he will just continue living with his family while the woman will stay alone and even lost years of her life when she could had met someone who would be with her 100%?

The same with a former friend. One day he was telling me how sad he was, that he couldnt get up from bed some days. And he was even scared to leave his house because he was in a harrassment situation (alledgedly) and he was going to start therapy because the situation was overwhelming.

And the next day he is asking me to speak with a girl he just met the night before in a bar, he was in love with her.

I asked him... "with everything that you have told me... have you thought about the effect that all your problems will have on her? Are you ready to make her happy? Have you thought if you will make her happy?" And he looked at me astonished, like why would he wonder that.

And now a colleague telling me that after breaking up with his partner of 6 years, he was trying to get dates with every girl at a party, he got a yes from one, he met her and he wanted to hook up.

I told him: "but it doesnt matter if it works out, no pressure... you need some time" and he replied: "well, I want external validation to feel better after the breakup." Would he ever think about the girl falling for him? Is he okay with the effects of using her for that?

I'm just so sick of all of this.

friendly reminder that the large-scale oppression of women would not be mathematically possible without the complicity of every man you know. if the men in your life were truly loyal to you, they would be fucking outraged at what's happening/happened to women and it would be virtually impossible for this "minority" of misogynist men to impact women's lives so widely.

[hxney-lemcn]

Friend's From Strange Places — Mr. Crawling x gn! reader

summery: walking home, you meet a strange entity that seems to claim you as a friend on sight.

tw: none.

a/n: had to give my two cents to the Homicipher fandom.

wc: 0.9k

Master List

Part One | Part Two

You felt like you were going crazy. You swear you saw something following you in the corner of your eye, but every time you turned to look there was no one. Sure, it was dark out which meant it was more likely that your brain was playing tricks on you and you were strangely paranoid at the moment, but you couldn’t get over the feeling that something was watching you. The hairs on the back of your neck were standing on end as you walked faster, the street lights glowing faintly in the night not doing much to comfort you. 

You tensed, a strange clicking noise causing your breathing to quicken along with your steps. You were basically running at this point, the sound of shuffling and more clicks picking up its pace in tandem with you. You would’ve felt silly, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins overrode any other thought you had. You needed to escape, you needed to hide, whatever was following you seemed otherworldly (if it was even real in the first place). 

Suddenly everything was silent. No crickets, no hum of the street lights, no cooing owls or passing cars. The only thing you could hear was your thrumming heart and your panting breaths. Every fiber in your being was telling you to not look back, but it seemed your body had a mind of its own as you slowly turned to look back. 

You let out a shriek, raising your hands to shield yourself from the entity. You only managed to catch a glimpse of long black hair and grey tinted skin, but it was enough to scare you as you hadn’t expected to see anything. You heard more clicking before the shuffling noise moved away from you. Taking deep breaths, you tried to get your shaking under control before peaking through your fingers. You nearly let out another shriek, but managed to keep it internal as your eyes met the entity that’s been following you on your walk home.

His hair was much longer than you originally thought, black locks reaching its feet. His hair obscured the upper half of his face, but you noticed the blotchy red splotches of skin that peaked through above his nose. Finally, he wore a pitch blank kimono that would’ve made him blend in with the night if it weren’t for the street lamps. A frown tugged at his lips, head lowered as he let out short clicks.  A ghost. You were seeing a real life ghost. You weren’t sure what to think. Was he going to kill you? Why hasn’t he already? Why did he look…sad? Was he…trying to communicate with you? You should run, you should find an exorcist, you should…do literally anything else than what you were going to do. Maybe the characters in horror movies weren’t as stupid as you thought…or maybe you shouldn’t watch so much horror as it seemed the stupid main characters were rubbing off on you.

Pulling your hands away from you crouched down to his height since the ghost was in a crawling position. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you had the strange sense that he was watching you.

“H-hello,” You stuttered, trying to figure out why the hell you were doing this. This seemed to cause the ghost to perk up, head tilting as it let out more chirps. Your eyebrows furrowed, unsure how to understand what he was trying to say. “I don’t understand.”

The being crawled closer to you, smiling as it lifted a hand and pet your hair. You blinked in confusion, feeling your cheeks warm at the sudden affection. It chirped some more before he let out what you assume is a laugh. Your mouth opens, but no words come out as you're left astounded by the whole situation. You were running for your life not moments ago, only for it to be a strangely friendly ghost. Unsure of what to do, you thought it would only be polite to reciprocate his actions, patting his head in return, before standing back up.

“Um, it was nice meeting you,” You waved, feeling a bit awkward. Did he even understand what you were saying? He tilted his head again, crawling closer to you, saying something that went over your head. Unsure of what it meant, you turned around slowly before making your way back to your home. Glancing back, you noticed the smiling ghost crawl after you, looking as happy as ever. 

Pausing your steps, you asked, “Are you coming with me?”

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, of course you didn’t understand his response, the being chittering and chirping. One thing rang clear, he seemed to want to go with you. You purse your lips feeling conflicted. Wasn’t it a bad thing to be haunted? To have a ghost in your life? They trick you into thinking they're good only to harm you. But the way this ghost acted seemed so innocent, like it just wanted a friend and you were probably the first one to notice, let alone treat him kindly. He was following you like he had nothing better to do, and to his credit, you weren’t sure how much a ghost can do without being bored out of their mind.

“Okay,” You relented with a sigh, already crumbling. Has it really been so long since someone was friendly with you that you’d befriend a ghost with no question? “C’mon,” You waved at him to follow you. “Let’s go.” The ghost chirped happily, crawling alongside you on your short walk home. 

Who would’ve guessed a human and a ghost could be friends?

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Sunshine & Shadow

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley X Female!Reader

Warnings: fluff, reader is the sunshine to Simon’s shadowy self (think of it as girly!reader x guard dog!Simon)

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, i just had to write for him, he’s perfect for this

Word Count: 1.6k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Simon Riley wasn’t used to color. Not in the literal sense—he’d seen it all, but his life had been painted in dark tones, an endless palette of blacks, greys, and the muted browns of grime. The quiet, the shadows—those were his comfort zones, safe from the bright, chaotic world outside.

So when he met you, his “sunshine and rainbows” girlfriend, it was like someone had thrown open the windows and let a flood of color spill into his life.

Simon never thought his evening coffee stop would be anything more than routine. It was a small café he’d found, quiet and out of the way, perfect for unwinding without distractions. And then, there was you.

You’d stood out from the moment he walked in. Dressed in a pastel cardigan and holding a sparkly pink notebook, you had an aura that practically radiated warmth. He felt your gaze on him the instant he entered, and as he moved to take a seat in the corner, you surprised him by flashing a big, friendly smile.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you here before!” you said, waving a little as he sat down.

Simon froze, unsure of how to respond. People didn’t normally approach him, and certainly not like this. He gave a quick nod, hoping it would signal the end of the interaction. But you had other plans.

“Are you reading anything good?” you asked, eyeing the worn book in his hand. Simon didn’t look up, but he could feel you staring. Relenting, he held up the book to show you the cover.

“History,” he muttered.

“Ooh, history,” you mused, nodding with genuine enthusiasm. “I don’t know much about history, but I like learning new things. What’s this one about?”

And just like that, he found himself talking to you. Simon didn’t know why, but the way you listened—eyes bright, smile wide—made him feel at ease. What started as an accidental conversation turned into an exchange of phone numbers, and soon after, into regular meetings. You, with your pastel colors and genuine kindness, had broken through his guarded walls in a way he didn’t see coming.

It had taken Simon some time to work up the courage to ask you out for a proper date. The idea of dressing up, going somewhere crowded, and acting “normal” was daunting. But when he finally asked, your eyes lit up, and you’d agreed immediately, looking as excited as he’d ever seen you.

He’d chosen a small, dimly-lit restaurant that seemed perfect for a quiet evening. However, as soon as you both arrived, everything seemed to go wrong. The place was overbooked and loud, and they’d somehow lost the reservation he’d made. After an awkward ten-minute wait, he looked over at you, tense and apologetic.

“Should we… just leave?” he asked, voice low. He hated that the date wasn’t going as planned, especially when he saw the way your expression fell slightly.

You forced a smile, clearly trying to hide any disappointment. “Maybe that’s a good idea. It’s a bit… hectic here.”

Simon nodded, relieved you weren’t too upset. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a place nearby we can go back to.”

Once you were out of the chaos of the restaurant, he slipped his hand into yours, his thumb rubbing gently over your knuckles in apology. When you both got back to his place, you plopped onto the couch, sighing.

“Okay, what do we do now?” you asked, glancing around his sparsely decorated space, your eyes sparkling with that familiar curiosity.

Simon shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Fancy some takeout?”

Within minutes, you were settled on his couch, sharing boxes of takeout in your nice clothes, a laugh slipping past your lips at the situation. This was not the evening he’d planned, but somehow, seeing you there, comfortable in his space, made it feel better than he could’ve imagined.

As the night wore on, you took off your heels and pulled your legs up under you, completely at ease. Simon watched you, his usually stoic expression softening as he felt an unfamiliar warmth spreading through him.

“Thanks for not making a fuss about tonight,” he murmured, looking at you. “I wanted it to be… I dunno. Special.”

You laughed, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. “Si, this is special. It’s just… us.” You smiled up at him, sincerity in your eyes. “Besides, I like this. I’m getting to know the real you.”

He looked away, but you could tell he was smiling. As the night went on, you fell asleep curled up against him, your head resting on his shoulder as he watched you, wondering what he’d done to deserve a moment like this.

Since that night, staying in with you had become his favorite thing. You often brought little pastel decorations, throwing a pink blanket over the couch or adding a flower-scented candle that he pretended to ignore but secretly loved. Tonight, you’d snuggled up beside him, pulling the pink blanket over both of you.

“Si, why don’t you come sit with me?” you asked, giving his sleeve a gentle tug. “You look like you could use a break.”

He didn’t argue. Sitting with you meant a reprieve from the chaos of his thoughts, even if he’d never say it out loud. He let you pull him to the couch, where you immediately curled up against him, your warmth seeping through his shirt.

After a moment of comfortable silence, you tilted your head up to look at him, eyes sparkling. “You know, I think the pink really suits you.”

Simon scoffed, though his arm instinctively tightened around you. “I look ridiculous.”

“Not at all,” you insisted, lightly poking his side. “You’re just not used to being adored, that’s all.”

His gaze softened, and he let his hand rest on top of yours. Being with you, it was like getting a second chance at something he’d thought was beyond him—a chance to feel a little brightness, to have someone who cared about him for more than just his skills in the field.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, watching as he tried (and failed) to hide a smile. “Come on, Mr. Guard Dog. Let me be your sunshine for a while.”

He exhaled, a rare, genuine chuckle slipping through as he looked down at you. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he muttered, voice low but full of warmth.

With a soft grin, you squeezed his hand. “Just keep being you, Si. That’s all I ever need.”

The first time you met his team, Simon felt a familiar weight of unease. He was used to keeping his personal life private, but he knew it was inevitable that you’d meet his colleagues. That night at the pub, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, wondering how you’d fit into his world.

Soap was the first to notice you, nearly spilling his drink when he saw the pink scarf draped over Simon’s shoulders.

“Oi, Ghost!” Soap said, laughing. “Didn’t know you had such… colorful tastes.”

You, completely unfazed, turned to Soap with a grin. “I’m the one responsible for that! I’m his bit of color.”

Simon shot him a look that could kill, but you slipped your hand into his, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze. The others chuckled, though their teasing was lighthearted. They’d never seen Ghost—stoic, silent Ghost—look at anyone the way he looked at you, and it was both amusing and a little shocking.

When you noticed the curious looks, you only beamed and waved. “Nice to meet you all! I promise, I’m the chatty one.”

The team took to you immediately. You didn’t shy away from their gruff personalities or rowdy banter, joining in with ease and charm that seemed to leave everyone grinning. Even Simon, who normally kept his distance, found himself leaning closer to you, letting your presence smooth out his edges.

At one point, Soap leaned in, smirking. “So, what’s a lovely lass like you doing with our Ghost, eh?”

You chuckled, throwing an arm around Simon’s shoulders. “Oh, he’s got a soft side, don’t let him fool you.”

Simon let out a deep sigh, feigning exasperation but unable to hide his smile. His teammates exchanged glances, a few eyebrows raised at this surprising revelation. They were witnessing a side of Ghost they never thought existed, and it was clear that you were the reason behind it.

One night, you convinced him to go out with you—a cozy pub with live music, a little tucked away but busier than Simon would usually tolerate. As you led him through the crowd, your hand firmly in his, he felt strangely… excited. For you, he’d go just about anywhere.

Once inside, you ordered your usual: a bright, fruity cocktail adorned with a slice of pineapple and a pink umbrella, while he opted for a simple beer. The contrast between you two couldn’t have been more obvious, but he secretly loved it. While you talked, laughed, and even dragged him to the dance floor for a slow song, he stayed close, like a guard dog, eyes always scanning, protective.

At one point, someone tried to flirt with you while he went to the bar. Simon’s sharp gaze caught the moment, and he returned, moving in beside you with a casual possessiveness. One look from him was all it took for the guy to retreat, hands raised in surrender.

“Si, are you jealous?” you teased, poking his arm as he slipped his hand around your waist.

He grunted, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. “Just keeping you safe, love.”

You gave him a warm smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Well, I’m already taken. Can’t you tell?”

He leaned in close, his voice barely above a murmur. “Couldn’t miss it if I tried.”

In that dimly lit pub, under the soft glow of fairy lights, you shared a quiet moment that felt almost surreal. You, with your vibrant colors and effortless joy, brought him something he hadn’t thought he’d ever feel again—a sense of warmth, of home.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜