#you still have to treat it with decency

[artyc-stan-of-tsp]

@rembiee

Shit like this is insanely rude and I hate that 1. Having this attitude about bugs & 2. Proudly proclaiming that you have this attitude about bugs (and doing so entirely unprompted on top of that) (especially in response to an Entomologist!!!!!) is considered a normal and acceptable thing to do

[hilacopter]

torn between not being able to trust goyim to not be antisemitc anymore unless they really prove me otherwise and going "I guess we'll get along" when they find out I'm Israeli and still treat me like a human being

[susiephone]

the phrases "they're 'human rights' not 'person i like rights' or 'good people rights'" and "i don't want to live in a society run by my worst impulses" have collectively done more to summarize my political ideology than 30 books' worth of arguing ever will

[martyrbat]

so many of you talk about the cruel adults in your childhood that negatively effected you and caused lifelong insecurity yet you're still perfectly fine with being that mean stranger to any kid that has the misfortune of existing around you and thats just really gross !!!

[furiarossa]

About personal space and Gargoyles

1. Xanatos wants so bad to hold Goliath hand! But Goliath doesn't want someone unknown to invade his personal space like that. Look at the posture. The way his arm goes back. He's trying not to get his hand grabbed. And then that facial expression, of pure disapproval. But Xanatos is eyeing a sternly frowning 300kg monster and has decided he's going to take his hand.

2.Xanatos took that hand. He seems quite happy to be able to squeeze the fingers of a monster brought back to life from the Middle Ages, and certainly that's something we can share. But he's continuing to ignore Goliath's blatant frown, and that's not a good thing, it's not good communication.

3. Goliath is not aggressive, it could be much scarier than that, but it is easily freed from the human's grip, it is enough for him to open his fingers. As he frees himself, he clearly speaks of what he feels (and in a few moments he too will tell him that he is grateful to Xanatos, but that for what happened to his clan he will no longer trust humans).

Xanatos looks surprised.

4. Now Xanatos is the frowning one. On his face: bewilderment. Indignation. He's about to cry.

He really wanted to hold that hand. But he wasn’t able to read Goliath’s face... or maybe he doesn’t know where to stop, he just wants to look super-friendly. This is not manipulation, he didn’t get the expected outcome, he wasn’t able to understand that his touch was unwanted, otherwise he would have stopped: if you want your Gargoyles to be  friends, faithful guardians, you do not try to upset them.

5. “I can tell this relationship is something we all have to work at” (-Xanatos)

This man has no friends. He has not been able to befriend any humans around him for years (he’s 40 or almost 40 here). There are a million reasons why this could happen, but since it's something I identify with so much, I tend to think it's due to very poor socialization in the formative years. And, in his case, probably also of other events that, perhaps, we will discover in the future. Besides, geniuses are always lonelier than other people, right? Especially amoral ones. No, ok, moral ones too.

This man has no friends, so he decided to summon mythological creatures from the past, but he didn't expect that it would take psychological work to make friends even with them who are not human. He expected it to be easier.  He expected that it was enough for him to try to get friendship like you do with animals, perhaps with dogs: using physical language, a happy and relaxed voice, offering food, shelter and cuddles.

6. Even surrounded by gargoyles, Xanatos seems completely alone. And helpless. Not scared, he's never afraid of them, but alone. None of the Gargoyles seem to want to give him space or confidence. The only one who might get his attention, the only one who is really dog-like (Bronx) is screened and protected by Lexington.

But Goliath was an excellent communicator. Here he looks at him as a father scolding his son, his physical language is rigid, his fists are clenched, his wings do not rest like a cloak on his shoulders. He is clearly telling him "you can't have intimacy without others giving it to you".

An entire animated series will follow about how Goliath teaches a man to respect the personal spaces of others.

Even if Xanatos doesn't make it easy for him and, thinking a genuine relationship impossible, he tends to use them as pawns, as objects, and does a lot of things that aren't really good friend’s things (but, yeah, continuing to respect Goliath as a person, admiring his strength, his courage, his brain and possibly his beauty).

Well done Goliath. You taught him something beautiful and useful and now for sure, given the fruits he's reaping (a tower full of Gargoyles, potentially good allies), he's thanking you 😌 Well, maybe one day he’ll have human friends, who knows! (Think of it, right now he has exactly 0 humans friendly towards him).

The animation of Gargoyles is something I like to look at in detail and it tells a lot about the characters, so excuse me, I had to over-analyze it. And maybe I will do it again with other scenes.

[daydreamingmiller]

need a federal investigation into why basic decency is so difficult for some people. just like bare bones politeness. why do some people struggle SO badly.

[saetoru]

ok i have what is apparently an unpopular opinion but i honestly think a lot of the revenge things ppl do to ppl that cheat on them that i see on tik tok are too far

[lightningfilledsaber]

Ever hear a song that you KNOW is something someone you cut off is fucking playing to act all sad and mopey about you leaving? Follow up question: how do keep yourself from beating the shit out of someone without feeling like you're going to literally explode

[viulus]

Child abuse is so normalized in society that an adult outside of the situation saying anything is seen as just, "You're being rude, mind your business". THE PERSON WHO'S STEPPING IN TO SAY SOMETHING IS TREATED AS THE BAD GUY INSTEAD OF THE ABUSIVE PARENT. What is wrong with parents honestly.

[devotedlystrangewizard]

having ocs is so funny i made this little guy to be a whore in a miserable toxic relationship where theyre both so terrible they kind of cancel each other out but then i said "no. you know what. i want them to be loved again" so i built them this whole arc where they leave with their family and fall in love with a new guy who is good for them and helps them in their journey of personal growth or whatever and i focused on that for like 2 weeks

and then i was like. ok but the first guy was way more entertaining. so i wrote an au where the first guy just fucking kidnaps them and their entire sense of self crumbles

[multch]

Thoughts.

Art the clown x reader [18+]

CW: actually smut \ afab masterbation

Your boss admires your dedication to staying back late to finish off repairing most nights. What he doesn't know is affiliation with the ‘Miles County Killer’.

Who knew sewing pays in a good view…

You whipped back as the bloody black and white suit whacked you in the face. If art was anything- it certainly wasn't subtle. The smell was revolting but what did you expect? Daisies? Of course he’d smell like a dead animal, he’s a murderer for Christ's sake! Still, you would've appreciated it if he at least let you set down the jacket you had to repair first- or had the decency to cover up a little instead of walking around the studio with everything out on display.

Tonight marks the 3rd year since you had first encountered this killer clown. You worked at a humble costume shop- Often very late to scramble enough of a paycheck to pay rent, utilities, whatever, ect.

On the strange night you two met, he had walked in- completely skipping past you- and searched for some sewing supplies. He went so far as to have even checked out the staff room you had accidentally left unlocked. Regardless, he eventually waddled up to your counter and dinged the bell on your desk several times. He had waved his hands around like a maniac trying to make sense until you realised he was gesturing towards the sewing needle in your hand. If he wasn’t so charming, maybe you would’ve called the police on him right then and there.

Maybe you should’ve...

Since then, you always patched up his ripped and tattered clown costume and he would repay you by helping out around the shop when you worked late. Repairing shelves, moving boxes and pestering you incessantly while doing so. 

It was a shock when you had first discovered his more malicious side. The ”Miles county killer” plastered on every television screen for miles. You couldn’t tell what had scared you more; Art’s heinous acts or the simple fact that he seemed to spare you.

But why?

The question haunted you. Your moral compass never seemed too correct however you understood the evil that seemed to possess him was devilish. What you couldn’t understand was what a being so sinful could've thought about a seamstress that made him show not only mercy, but companionship…

Honk! Honk!

Art could’ve killed you with how well he’d scare you. They didn’t call him the ‘Terrifier’ for nothing you thought. You were just minding your business- lost in thought- until Art practically made you jump out of your skin from his infuriating infatuation with his stupid little hand horn.

He had crept right up behind you and placed himself close enough to feel the cold air escape his lungs. You didn’t know how you didn’t notice but his horn was practically touching your ear. The sound it let out was more than enough to make your eyes widen. It had startled you so much you fell backwards on your stool. Luckily for you though, Art was there to catch you.

His skin was smooth and frigid. His hands having responded by grasping your waist with his rough hands- You were accidentally pressed right up against his naked chest. 

His touch felt electric. The contrast between your human heat and his icy exposure was a feeling like no other. He helped you back up onto your seat but by then it was too late. Fuck.

Seeing him naked was one thing but feeling his bare touch was another. Your minor interest in him had easily turned into obsession over the course of the last few years. A mysterious stranger showing up out of the blue. Saturated in blood. Torn up and often mutilated.  How couldn't you be intrigued?

It felt like there was no one else in the world he treated like you.

You felt special.

Protected, even.

You tried your best to resume your repair but by the time you reached the hole by the gusset of his suit, you had lost it.

*

Maybe excusing yourself to “go to the bathroom” might’ve been a bit overkill but there was no way you wouldn’t melt in the heat that you felt just simply looking at him. His playful taunts. The way he bats his eyelashes at you. Even his disgusting black smile!

These ‘normal’ acts of his felt misconstrued into one big flirty mess. 

Despite your efforts, you were clearly just too horny to stop. Every time you think about him in this moment, you couldn’t help but remember how he’s outside right now in nothing but a mask and his flimsy little top hat. In times like this, you couldn’t help but shake your fist in the air at Art’s infamous refusal to wear anything under his suit.

(You tried to convince him once by buying him a pair of boxers, but in retaliation he had ripped out the crotch and walked out- giving you the full view of his “pencil”)

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking but deciding to work one out sounded great right now.

You lent up against the red tile wall of the staff bathroom. It was cold. Perfect.

Slowly fondling yourself, your hands snake around your skin. One climbing up your stomach to slip under your bra. The other sneaking down the waistband of your shorts.

God, he made you so wet from just one touch. You slid in one finger first- wincing back at your contraction around so little. It made you only more hungry for what your eyes had feasted on so often yet you had never been given the chance to taste it yourself.

Seeing it made you understand why this clown always went commando because he really was hiding away a whole balloon animal. It was BIG.

Imagining it made your mouth feel empty..

You slip in another 2 fingers. Thrusting into yourself enough to make you press hard against the wall behind you. You were so cold but inside was a warmth you wanted him to feel so badly.

Your eyes squeezed down hard. You wanted to see him. His face. His body, as he thrusted into you.

You wanted him to trap you beneath his form with his inhuman strength.

To be scared he'd rip you in half if you ran away was a major turn on for you -the idea of becoming less than a victim of his by becoming a slave for his enjoyment.

Imagining it made your pussy throb, feeling empty despite your aggressive movement…

You tried to muffle your moans but the more you indulged in your fantasy, the more you struggled to show some self restraint.

A fourth finger, then a fifth.

Pounding harder and faster into your core, you thought back to all the toys you brought reimagining them as his girth. 

Art was more than a friend to you. You ached for him nightly. You felt him in your core. You've dreamt of his touch and woken up in a hot, sticky sweat because of him.

You wanted to be honest with him but only Hell knows what he'd do to you if he didn't feel the same.

The possibilities made you salivate. Being his victim would be an indulgent death for sure..

You feel yourself very quickly feeling your release build as an air of tension fills the room. It's sickly sweet.

Rubbing your pretty little pussy until it's puffy and squirting when he's in the room outside was your tipping point.

You let out one final wince before your knees give out- causing you to crouch down on the frozen tile floor. 

You can't help but imagine it's him holding you after a scene of absolute passion.

*

It's only been 10 minutes since you had excused yourself but once you had made your way back out, Art was nowhere to be seen.

You're embarrassed to say the least but you decide to push forward with your plans for tonight. 

You turn around to close the bathroom door behind you only to find a familiar face greeting you instead.

There stood Art the clown, leaning up against the wall with a shit eating grin- All while still being fully naked.

Oh god no…

[martyrbat]

in the newest edition of skinny bitch audacity (fatphobia):

comparing weight gain to... being a meth addict. and that you can look at someone and be qualified to say theyre degrading their health if they arent a small enough size for you to be attracted to them/be 'acceptable'

[IF YOU SHAME ADDICTS ON THIS POST YOURE GETTING BLOCKED. IF YOU SHAME FAT PEOPLE ON THIS POST YOURE GETTING BLOCKED. I WILL NOT WARN YOU TWICE.]

[trans-leek-cookie]

Sorry im seething a bit abt an addition to a post I don't have any real complaints abt like "yeah this would be better if we made stuff more accessible" which WOULD BE FINE EXCEPT THE ORIGINAL POST WAS ABOUT MAKING PEACE WITH DISABLED PEOPLE EXISTING!!! Like wider sidewalks would be great so ppl don't get mad at ppl who are unable to walk fast but I dont think you understand that WE DONT HAVE THOSE SIDEWALKS AND THE POST ISNT ABOUT THAT! THE POST IS ABOUT "IF SOMEONE IS INCONVENIENCING YOU THAT DOESNT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO TREAT THEM WORSE". Like YES I'd love to make things more accessible but some accessibility COMES FROM YOU CHANGING THE WAY YOU BEHAVE!

[humanpurposes]

The Way You Taste

The lines between friendship and 'more' are becoming difficult to define with you and Aemond. You don't know what's holding you back, but lately you can't shake the feeling that someone is watching you.

modern!vampire!Aemond x reader

Main Masterlist

Warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con, blood play, creepy stuff (tis the season), mentions of murder and violence

Words: 3.8k

A/n: Happy Halloween/Halloween Eve 😼🖤 (depending on your timezone)

You can’t shake this feeling lately, like someone is watching you.

The season doesn’t help. The clocks went back a few days ago and the new cycle of daylight has thrown you off your axis. The mornings are bright but the night comes quicker. You watched the sun fade from the window in your office and by 4pm it was dark. Insanity.

Sure, you can wear your big coat and a scarf to fight off the cold but your limbs still feel shaky and unsure. And it still feels like there are eyes on you everywhere you go; work; the coffee shop round the corner; the supermarket; the gym; your own unassuming flat on the quiet side of Queen’s Park.

Dany’s obsessed with the news stories, always sending you videos and articles with the latest updates and theories. It began about a month ago when a student was found behind some bins in a service yard off Silk Street with a knife in her neck. She was only eighteen, from a small town in Dorne, eager to get a degree and start her life. She had been out with her flatmates at a well known pub in a busy part of town, went outside for a smoke and that was it. According to the police she might have had a chance if someone had found her. Instead she was left to bleed out for hours.

There have been three deaths in total, the student, a 30-something-year-old regular at the club Seven Heavens, and a bartender at Falling Star. Dany thinks the culprit must be some insane conservative with a twisted sense of morals and decency, determined to punish those who actually live their lives– or so she’s seen online.

You don’t know who the culprit is, you don’t really want to think about it. You can’t stop noticing every face you pass on the street, on the bus, on your way into the office, and you wonder, could they be a killer?

Your hands tremble and fumble with the keys to your front door. The key is funny, you have to sort of push it and pull it as you twist it, but the door opens and you scurry inside. The keys are tossed into their usual dish, your coat and scarf thrown on their hooks, shoes off, bag set down on the floor carefully so you don’t smash your laptop. 

You should lock the door. You will lock the door but your head is pulsing and the cold weather has left your throat dry. You need tea, or water. Maybe you could treat yourself to both. 

There are exactly three rooms in your flat. Bedroom, bathroom and the rest of it. The sight of your sofa covered in papers and notebooks fills you with dread but you move on to the kitchen and clear a space on the counter, setting out a glass and a mug. Teabag in the mug. Water in the glass. Water in the kettle. Fuck, the dishes are piling up. 

Your finger is an inch away from the switch on the kettle when your phone rings. The noise is faint, coming from the hallway because it’s in your coat pocket. So you go back around the counter, past the sofa and into the hallway. The ringtone sounds sharper the closer you get and once you’ve got the phone in your hand the name Aemond Targaryen appears on the screen.

Your heart lurches. You let the phone ring for another second before you answer in an airy voice, “hi.”

There’s a soft hum on the other side. “Hello, you. Did you get home alright?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Good day?”

You have to stop yourself from making a sound of exasperation. There’s only so much you can enjoy about a job when you give everything and get seemingly nothing back. “Fine. Long. Emails.”

Aemond hums. Maybe it’s meant to be sympathy but you have this same problem with Dany, the disappointment when they don’t hear what they want to. 

Dany had been the one to introduce the two of you around the end of August. Aemond is a cousin of her’s and at the time had just moved to King’s Landing from Oldtown. She didn’t know him particularly well, but said he got on with her brother, Viserys, which didn’t paint the best image in your mind. But then you met him and right away you knew he was unlike any other man you’d ever met. He was striking; tall, perfect posture, long silver hair, perfectly fitted suit. And his voice, gentle yet chilling. Hypnotic. 

He asked for your number the second time you met and you had given it to him on the basis that an exchange of numbers wasn’t a commitment. Maybe it meant nothing, maybe he just wanted to be friendly. Sometime over the last two months, ‘friendly’ became text conversations into the early morning hours, became phone calls, became coffees and dinner.

“Is everything okay, Aemond?”

“What are you doing tonight?”

You’ve wandered back into the living room. All the clutter makes you anxious. “Need to clean up a bit, get myself some food.”

“Can I come over?”

“Oh, um, I’d rather you didn’t, my place is a mess.”

“Come over to mine, then. I’ll make you dinner.”

You catch your lip between your teeth. 

You and Aemond had gone for dinner last Saturday night. He told you to wear something nice, picked you up in a cab and took you to a steak restaurant where you knew you could barely afford a side dish, let alone a main. He told you to order whatever you wanted, picked expensive wines to go with the food, insisted you get a dessert, and covered the whole bill.

He saw you home. It would have been a shame to end the night before 9pm, so you invited him in. You showed Aemond around, not that your place is spectacular, but he liked what you did with the bedroom, the plants and the postcards on the wall. In the living room you picked out a bottle of cheap white wine from the fridge. Harmless fun, surely.

All self restraint was gone. You were half delirious and cosying up to him on the sofa, telling him about your job, your shitty boss, your obnoxious coworkers. If you had your way you’d start your own blog or magazine, or disappear to a coastal town and write a novel, but that wouldn’t pay off your student loans or pay for a place to live. 

You told him about Dany’s new friends. She had her own startup with her family’s money behind her, and it was doing well but she didn’t have time for anything else. She was unreachable during the week, and every weekend she had started hanging out with her employees. Your chats are filled with photos she's sent you of pints and drunk selfies in clubs. And she never invites you.

But Aemond was there, the only person in weeks who had made any sort of effort to see you. You held his face in your hands and told him how beautiful his lips were.

Then he kissed you.

That took you by surprise. He moved you into his lap, trailed his hands along your legs to the hem of your dress, and all the while your lips moved together so perfectly. You wanted it to happen, more than you had allowed yourself to admit, but you hadn’t expected it. You pulled away and so did he. Something didn’t feel right. Something was holding you back.

He’s Dany’s cousin, you told yourself. 

“It’s alright,” you say, moving your bag to the sofa, paper and pens shifting around it. “Shit– I’ve got some work to do.”

“On a Friday night?”

It wouldn’t be so unbelievable, you staying in on a Friday, but Aemond has a way of picking up on the smallest of details. Maybe there’s a give in your voice. Maybe you’re breathing too heavily– now you’re thinking about it and you can’t get enough air into your lungs.

“I’m fine, honestly, don’t worry about me.”

“I do, that’s the problem.”

You can hardly think over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. And gods, you feel so guilty. Why do you feel so guilty? “It’s just that now’s not a good time.”

“Now as in, right now?”

Now as in this moment. Today. This year. Until you feel that you’re ready, only, you don’t know when you’ll be ready.

“Aemond, you know I think you’re wonderful, I mean, I hope you know that. And I… appreciated dinner last weekend. I just…”

There’s a flow of breath through the speaker, a slow exhale that sets your nerves alight. Aemond has a way of tapping his fingers when he’s impatient or when he’s thinking. You picture him drumming his fingers against his thigh.

“I thought I was being rather direct in what I wanted. I hate to think I’ve imposed,” he says. 

It’s hard not to overthink this kind of thing, after a lifetime of drunk flirting, harmless fun, no strings attached, “not looking for a relationship” and men keeping their options open. Aemond is intelligent and generous. He has an eye for detail, a way of reading you, and a self assuredness that means he can breeze through life effortlessly.

He’s perfect, and you’re not. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.

Aemond is silent. No breathing, no sign of life. It’s like that for a few seconds, but it feels like minutes. And finally he says. “I understand perfectly.” 

“I really am sorry,” you say, but the white noise of the call is dead. 

You finally make yourself that cup of tea. Dany calls and you don’t want to answer. But you do. She’s on her way to the pub. 

“It’s Jon’s birthday and we’re going to Falling Star!”

You don’t want to hate her for being around other people, but why can’t she do it without rubbing it in your face? “Enjoy. And don’t die,” you say.

“I’m too pretty to be murdered,” she says. A slew of true crime documentaries and faces in newspapers would say otherwise, but by then she’s already hung up.

The rest of your evening is a peaceful one. You don’t pay much attention to the dating show you put on the TV, more interested in an algorithm of videos, cats making funny noises, a man shoving his wife’s face into their wedding cake, a tribute to the three victims of the Silk Street murders– no new news there, new economic policies, fantasy book recommendations…

You check your messages. Dany’s just sent you a photo of her pint.

You scroll a little further down and hover your thumb over your chat with Aemond, but you don’t open it.

Nothing in particular wakes you. Still half asleep, you’re aware of your body, the exposed parts of skin against the fabric of your bedsheets, the rise and fall of your chest. Instinct tells you it’s a few hours after midnight. There are no strange noises, no sources of light, just the cold air beyond the duvet, pulled up to your chin.

Then it starts to slip away. 

Your hands struggle to catch up with your mind. You think about grabbing the edge and tugging against whatever is trying to pull it off you, but you can’t. The fabric slips through your limp fingers, dragging over your body until there’s no weight on top of you. Your limbs are frozen in place, curled over on one side, dressed in an old t-shirt, panties and nothing else. Your skin crawls at a silent breeze, but you can feel it again, eyes on you.

Then there are fingers, stroking along your bare legs, closing around your ankles. 

Your eyes blink open, adjusting to the darkness and you can see that the bedroom door is wide open. Without looking, you feel an awareness about the room, a presence looming at the foot of the bed. It pulls on your legs, dragging you further down the bed, positioning you flat on your back.

Even in the dead of night, the gleam of silver hair is undeniable.

“Aemond?”

His gaze meets yours. He smiles and starts to pull at the buttons on his shirt– trust Aemond to show up in a dream wearing a shirt and slacks.

The haze of sleep lulls your mind and sharpens your senses. You run your hands up your thighs, admiring every inch of his skin as it’s revealed to you.

Shirt discarded, his hands come to his belt and linger on the buckle. He hums and it infuriates you how even the slightest of sounds makes you desperate for him. But the belt stays where it is, so do the slacks. 

His palms fall to the mattress and he crawls towards you like an animal. You’ve rarely seen that side of him in real life, maybe that night when you kissed, the way he groaned against your mouth and grazed his teeth over your lips…

His hands are on either side of your head. The colour of his eyes and the line of his scar are difficult to make out in the dark. His body leans against yours, slowly pressing his weight on top of you, making a home for his hips between your legs. You don’t just let him do it, you wrap your legs around him, pulling him in closer as your hips start to rock. 

He leans down, placing a firm, slow kiss against your lips. You try to follow him as he pulls away, but he moves down to kiss your neck, then the base of your throat.

“You can’t lie to me,” he mutters against your skin, “I know what you need.”

He lifts your t-shirt enough to expose your breasts, taking one into his hand and squeezing, just to the precipice of pain. You’re already moaning when he takes the other nipple into his mouth, bruising and licking and sucking. 

With every moment that passes you feel the control slipping, his and yours. Perfect, sweet, refined Aemond, gripping his fingertips into your flesh like claws, restless and grinding himself against you. You thread your hands through his hair, surfaces of bone, chin and forehead, fall against each other. 

Aemond slips further still. He trails his lips along your sternum and your stomach, positioning his face between your legs. There’s no more pretence. He parts your thighs with his palms, pulling your underwear down your legs before he runs a single finger through your folds. You feel how effortless it is, how wet you are for him.

Until his finger is replaced by his tongue in slow, agonising licks. His eyes are on you, but the rest of him is obscured by your own body. You rock against him to chase the feeling, keeping a hand on his head to keep him where you need him. 

It’s like a silent conversation. He takes your queues, responds to your moans and the way your jaw slacks when he finds the right spot.

You watch his shoulder shift and feel the pressure of his finger at your entrance. He doesn’t push it in, not yet.

“Aemond,” you whisper.

He hums against your cunt and you feel it in the rest of your body, an echo through your bones and your blood.

He wants you to beg.

“Aemond, please,”

He slips inside you and you’re weightless. 

The noises you make aren’t conscious. You feel the air flowing through your lungs, the sound in your throat, panting and moaning as he nudges against the flesh inside you. 

It rises and rises until the pleasure tears through you. Aemond holds you in place with a palm splayed on your stomach, unrelenting, working you through the high.

“Aemond,” you whimper, “I can’t take it,”

He pulls away from you, and still gasping for air he comes to his knees on the bed, hovering over you. “You taste too fucking good,” he says.

You’re still writhing in the afterglow when he reaches for something in his back pocket. The shape of it is obscured in the darkness but you can see how he’s holding it, like he’s holding up a pen. It doesn’t even occur to you that it could be anything dangerous. 

“Are you going to let me have another taste?”

You should say yes, that’s how these things go, play along and see where you end up.

He leans over you again, on one hand. You watch the way his hair falls, the way he draws his tongue over his lips. 

It happens too quickly for you to make any kind of protest. Aemond puts the object into your face and there’s a stinging sensation on your lower lip. By the time he has pulled away you feel a liquid pearling at the cut he’s made, wet and warm. 

“What… what the fuck?” you utter.

Aemond surges back into you, a man starved, kissing your bloodied lips. His tongue delves into your mouth and you can taste it, the sweetness of your own arousal, the metallic tang of your own blood.

“Too good,” Aemond growls under his breath, “too fucking good,”

You meet him with hunger of your own and feel his mouth break into a smile.

“See? I knew you wanted this,” he says as his hand curls around your neck, “desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

Your body is screaming for another release. You rake your nails down his back, press your chest up and into him.

“Say it.”

“I want you, Aemond.”

“So why do you keep pushing me away?”

You pause. There’s hardly any space between you, the tips of your noses are the slightest move from touching. You see the stains on Aemond’s lips, the darkness in his expression.

“I’m not ready,” you say.

Aemond huffs to himself, you’re unsure if it's amusement or disbelief. He sits back on his haunches, grabbing you by your wrists to pull you up. He doesn’t let go. His hands are so much bigger than yours, curling around your forearms. “I could give you everything, do you know that?”

You feel yourself frown.

“Why aren’t you ready? What’s stopping you?”

There are so many imperfections in your life. People like Aemond and Dany, they make life look easy because it is easy for them. If they work it’s something to fill the time. 

Your eyes are starting to sting. “I– I have things I need to focus on. I can’t get caught up in this, I can’t distract myself.”

Aemond’s mouth curls into a small smile, his thumbs tracing circles on your skin. “I could take the distractions away. I could make you mine.” He brings one of your wrists to his lips, placing a delicate skin against it, leaving a smear of blood in its wake. "Why deny yourself the pleasure I could give you?"

It’s an enchanting idea, a life outside of a job that makes you miserable, untethered to a friend you can feel is drifting away…

You feel your head nodding.

“Good girl,” Aemond mutters.

You expect him to kiss you again, or lay you down on the bed and fuck you. Instead he reaches for something beside him. The knife.

You flinch away and get as far as the headboard. Aemond still has one hand on your wrist and pulls you back in. 

He takes the blade to his chest and makes a shallow cut down his skin. Your insides turn and tighten at the sight, unable to decide if you’re terrified or fascinated. 

You know what he wants you to do. That’s always the way with dreams, somehow you just know what you need to, even if what’s happening in front of you doesn’t make sense. 

You lean forwards, bracing yourself against his firm torso, tongue out, licking along the cut. His blood pools and burns on your tongue. It’s bitter and sweet, and you relish it.

Aemond moans, cradling your head in his hand.

He pulls on your hair to tilt your chin up. His face is full of admiration and you preen at the praise.

He moves your head down, to the bulge in his slacks. With his other hand he undoes his belt and you pull it away eagerly. He seems pleased at that and makes quick work of freeing his cock.

You delight at the sight of him, watching his hand work himself to hardness, precum glistening at the tip, and take him into your willing mouth. His sighs of pleasure spurn you on, your own arousal rising in your belly. 

Aemond’s grip on your hair tightens as he starts to thrust into your mouth. “Good girl,” he coos, “my perfect girl,”

Until he decides he’s had enough. You hardly comprehend it as he draws you away from his cock, turns you around and positions you on your stomach.

You gasp as he enters you, the sweet sting of stretching around his cock. It’s worth it when he reaches so deep inside of you. You can hear him gritting his teeth as he moans, like he’s torn between desire and restraint. 

And you wish you could watch him while he fucks you, moving in and out of you, his hands digging into the flesh of your ass, the blood dripping down his chest– you can still taste it.

Aemond’s hair tickles against your skin as he leans down, keeping his brutal pace. “Mine,” he misses against your ear, “you’re fucking mine.”

You cry out as your second orgasm washes over you, soft and simmering as he fucks you through it.

You press your fingertips into the mattress, basking in the heat of your skin, the dampness of sweat, the taste of blood on your lips…

When you open your eyes again daylight seeps through a gap in the curtains. You’re still on your front, still in your t-shirt. You move your hand between your legs and find a damp patch on your panties. 

Your legs and your arms are aching. You feel feverish, hot and cold, restless in your own skin. It’s that time of year, you suppose, flu season.

You can’t stop thinking about that dream. It almost makes you laugh, the absurdity of it, Aemond sneaking into your room, and the blood– the blood. 

It would make sense to be disgusted by it, but you’re not. You feel a sort of pressure ghosting against your lips and your tongue. You imagine the sight of him, his toned torso, offering his very lifeforce to you, and tasting yours.

“Mine,” he said. 

You drag yourself out of the bed. Everything hurts. Even setting out a clean t-shirt and sweatpants exhausts you. Worst of all is the hunger starting to appear in your stomach, the kind that twists and churns.

Maybe a shower will put your head right. It’s amazing how many problems can be solved by warm water. You move in slow, sluggish steps to the bathroom. With the water running, you turn to the sink and reach for your toothbrush, catching sight of your reflection.

Something about your face feels different, and you’re not sure it’s a bad thing. You can’t pinpoint it, but you don’t think you’ve ever felt so beautiful.

There is one thing though, a scab on your lower lip, right where Aemond had cut you in the dream.

“I could take the distractions away. I could make you mine.”

No taglist, follow @ficsbygee and turn on post notifs for updates!

[logansluvr]

TASTE

LOGAN HOWLETT x F!READER

SUMMARY : You won’t admit it, but it stung when you realized you were just a placeholder while Logan waited for Jean AGAIN. Now that she has him, she realizes that no matter how hard she tries there will always be you somewhere on him…Or Jean and Logan both fucked themselves over while you enjoy the aftermath.

WARNING : description of mutant powers (all things nature), angst, more angst, Jean slander (sorry), suggestive content, nothing deeper than a make out, hurt/slight comfort, some Logan slander (ily), Logan has some self reflection time, love triangle??square???

basically I was listening to taste and this sparked in my head and now it won’t leave me alone…

I heard you're back together and if that's true

you'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you

IN ALL HONESTY SOMEWHERE IN THE BACK OF your mind you knew it was coming. It was nice to indulge in the fantasy though. You indulged in it as an ode to your past self ( you from a year ago ) when you realized that what you thought of Logan was more than a crush. The opportunity presented itself so sinfully you thought it had to be some sort of hallucination.

You couldn’t say no, after all you still had that ode to your past self and deep down you felt…comforted. Comforted in the fact that Logan had thought about you in that way — though that thought diminished soon enough.

At first it was nice, Logan treated you right even if there was something a little off about it. He took you out on occasion, made you laughed, hell he even laughed with you.

There was a point after three months where he began to not mind falling asleep in your bed — even if he acted a little colder the day after it happened.

There were nights when he would be extra tense after a small rescue mission, or after something happened during the day.

He’d take it out on you by burying himself inside of you, biting down on your chest in places clothes covered — other times he’d just bury his head between your thighs taking his time in making you fall apart over and over.

But after nights like those he wouldn’t even look you in the eyes directly. It seemed that only a half a year into your relationship you realized something odd. Certain people in the halls would stare at you with pity, Scott Summers barely looked you in the eyes and even the professor seemed like each word he said to you he was internally wincing.

It was only one night after a particularly rough mission that you had pieced most of it together. Once you were in your room you recalled the high tension between Scott, Jean, and Logan. Most of the time you felt like you a Ororo were missing a big piece of something — especially with the way they’d all go at each other.

You were grateful he had the decency to tell you rather than ignore you, you weren’t even paying attention. Too busy trying to hold back tears — ones you were confused on having.

He muttered something along the lines of you being too young and he just isn’t ready for something like that. You didn’t care, it was a bunch of bullshit. You didn’t need telepathy to know that.

Once he shut the door behind him you had walked to the shower, turned it on, stepped inside with your clothes on, and cried. For a minute you didn’t even realize why you were crying until you had the realization that it was because you felt more for him than you initially let yourself believe.

The days after that everyone sensed the tension, Logan tried to act normal. You however, you just simply brushed him off — he didn’t need to know that he had seriously fucked with your mental. You were going to act normal, act like it didn’t affect you.

It was bad enough the professor looked at you with sympathy the day after your crying session.

On the bright side he fixed your schedule around so you’d see less of Logan.

The week following the breakup you realized he hadn’t even waited that long before he was already crowding Jean — that’s when you realized it wasn’t one big coincidence Scott was meaner at the same time Logan was crowding the Dr.

You had unfortunately turned down the hallway about a week and a half after the breakup, patting a student on the shoulder after they had bombarded you with questions. You were going to meet Scott, his next class in coordination with yours.

But as you glanced at the end of the hall you saw him. Standing next to her, arm on the wall as he smiled down at her. Staring like she was the only thing in the room — you could almost hear the swish of the trees outside, an affect from the anger simmering beneath you.

Thankfully someone stepped out of the classroom you were about to enter. It was one about halfway down the hall, and it seemed to draw both your attention and the attention of couple practically eye fucking at the end of the hallway.

Scott glanced at them, thankful for his sunglasses so they couldn’t see the glare on his face before he turned towards you. Clenching his jaw he walked towards you, handing you the lesson plan he had worked up.

You were far too busy reading over the sheet to notice the gaze burning holes into your back — but Scott wasn’t. And as he glanced over his shoulder he found Logan Howlett staring directly at you.

And a Jean grey staring at him staring at you.

It was only about three weeks after the breakup when something seemed to change. You hadn’t truly been feeling better but you were getting there — busying yourself with other things. Working more on your abilities and working on your training.

You were none the wiser to the situation happening between the two people you’d successfully stopped feeling hatred for. You stopped the avoidance thing about two weeks after the breakup, the mansion was big but not that big.

While it didn’t outwardly bother you that much, other people seemed to notice a tense thing between the couple anytime you were in the vicinity.

There was a day when it seemed like everything went from bad to worse between them. It was a nice day outside and Jean found herself in Logan’s arms, holding onto him whilst his lips pressed against hers.

Her hands were tangling in his hair whilst they swapped whatever DNA they were hoping to swap. And when they pulled away to catch their breath her eyes remained closed, a small furrow in her brow as her tongue ran over her lips.

If someone were to ask her, she’d say she was hallucinating.

Because she could’ve sworn she tasted cherry lipgloss on Logan’s lips — cherry lipgloss she didn’t own.

Yet as her tongue darted out to lick her lips again, it was gone. Her eyes cracking open to find Logan’s gaze over her shoulder, and when she spun around to glance at what had got his attention there you were.

There you always were.

Oblivious to the fact that Logan was watching you. Oblivious to the fact that wherever you showed up he seemed to only look at you the way he used to look at Jean. Oblivious to the fact that all you had to do was enter the same room and all of the sudden his attention was on you.

And it wasn’t on purpose, cause there was a moment where your mental forces had slipped and she probed. And when she dug deeper she only find pure oblivion, it made it all the harder to spite you.

She could ignore if she wanted too, and she tried. For a while. But every-time she kissed him, there was that lingering feeling of tasting cherry lipgloss.

The same cherry lipgloss she watched you apply in a mirror in the hallway.

And she swore your perfume lingered on him even if it had been weeks since you’d been within five feet of him.

Every time you close your eyes

And feel his lips, you're feelin' mine

And every time you breathe his air

Just know I was already there

this was short Ik but I’m currently crying because I had a smut with over 6.k words and HALF OF IT DIDNT SAVE?!??!?

anyways <33 taglist??

[itneverendshere]

If you ever heard the song “Insecure” by Jazmine Sullivan, I was wondering if you could read a fic with rafe about that

it’s Like toxic!rafe and reader

INSECURE

PAIRING: bsf!toxic!rafe x kook!reader warnings: emotional manipulation; self-hatred; toxic!rafe.

If someone asked you how it started, you couldn’t even tell them.

It was Rafe Cameron you were talking about.

The guy was a walking red flag, all swagger, all ego, and too much money for his own good. He had the type of face that made you forgive him even when you didn’t want to. And trust, you'd tried to not want to. But that never worked out, obviously.

It’s not like you thought you could change him or whatever. You were not one of those girls. You just...thought you’d be different. Special. Maybe you got a little caught up in that fairy tale bullshit sometimes. Like, maybe if you were the one who held his attention long enough, maybe he’d stop messing around and actually be serious.

Actually see you.

Spoiler alert: That’s not how it worked

You learned that real quick with Rafe.

It wasn’t even two months in before you found some girl's scrunchie in his Jeep.

You were leaving the club, both tipsy, and you slid into the passenger seat when you spotted it in the back. You know how girls leave stuff behind like it’s a game? Like it’s their way of marking territory? That scrunchie was practically a neon sign that read, "I was here."

You picked it up, twirled it around your finger, and waited for him to notice.

He didn’t.

“What's this?” You finally asked, not even looking at him, just staring at that stupid pink scrunchie like it had all the answers you needed.

Rafe glanced over at it for half a second before shrugging, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “Dunno. Probably Sarah’s.”

Sarah Cameron, his sister, the golden girl of the family. His excuse every time something came up.

“It’s not Sarah’s.” You weren't buying it. You knew that girl’s style inside and out, and there’s no way in hell she’d be caught dead wearing something this basic. You tossed it into the backseat, feeling your blood boil.

Of course he’d still treat you like shit, why care about a lifelong friendship, right?

Rafe rolled his eyes. He didn’t even have the decency to act like he cared that you were pissed.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said, his voice dripping with that condescension that always made you feel stupid for caring. “It’s just a fucking scrunchie.”

But it wasn’t. Not to you.

See, the thing with Rafe is, he never said he was yours. You never had some grand conversation about exclusivity, about titles, none of that. But that’s how it was with him. He’d show up at your door, flash that killer smile, and you’d forget every reason why he wasn’t good for you.

And yet, there was this constant feeling in your chest.

Tight, twisted, like a knot you couldn’t untangle.

It wasn’t just the girls or the scrunchies or the way he’d disappear for days, leaving you with nothing but unanswered texts and half-assed explanations. It was you. How you felt around him. You were constantly second-guessing yourself, wondering if you were enough, if you were what he wanted. Things were so different before.

If you were even on his radar when you weren't right in front of him. And that feeling, that deep, gnawing insecurity? It was starting to mess with your head.

A week after the scrunchie incident, you found yourself at another one of those parties on Figure Eight. The kind where we Kooks pretend we're so much better than everyone else but still drink cheap beer out of red solo cups. It was the usual crowd—Topper, Kelce, a few other guys you barely knew, and, of course, Rafe.

You were wearing this black mini dress you knew he liked, the one that hugged your body in all the right places. You wanted to feel good tonight, like you could make him see you the way you needed him to. It was pathetic, but you thought if you played your cards right, maybe you'd get more than just half-hearted attention.

But then, halfway through the night, you saw her.

This girl—some random pogue you'd never seen before—leaning against the bar, laughing at something Rafe was saying. And it wasn’t just that he was talking to her. No, it was the way he was looking at her. That look he used to give you when you first started whatever this was between you two.

Like she was the most interesting thing in the room. Like she was the only thing. Even if she was wearing that cheap, threadbare tank top and worn-out jean shorts. The kind of clothes that screamed she probably worked at some surf shop or waited tables just to get by. And here Rafe was, cozying up to her like she was something special. Like she wasn’t just another girl he’d forget about tomorrow. Making yourself compare to someone like her.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, your palms sweaty as you watched them. You could feel your heart sinking, your gut screaming at you to just leave. But you didn’t. You just stood there, like an idiot, frozen in place, watching him slide his hand up the back of her arm, a move so smooth, so practiced, it made you feel sick.

You hated this. Hated yourself. Hated that you let him have this kind of power over you.

Your mind did that annoying thing where it flashed back to the first time you slept with him. Like it wanted to torture you with every little detail of how you got here. You’d both been drunk, of course. But not blackout drunk—just the kind of buzzed where everything feels a little too easy, a little too warm.

You’d known Rafe forever, been best friends since you were kids. He was practically a part of you, or at least, he used to be. You trusted him, which is why when he showed up at your place that night, laughing about something stupid, you didn’t think twice when he crashed on your couch.

Only he didn’t stay on the couch.

You remember how he looked at you from across the room, that cocky smile he always wore, but softer somehow. Like he wasn’t quite sure if he was going to make a move. He’d leaned in, brushed his hand against your leg—casual, but not really. Your heart had pounded in your chest, but you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to stop him.

And when he kissed you? You were done for. All those years of being “just friends” went right out the window. It was like all the tension between you, all the unspoken stuff, just exploded. You were in his lap before you even realized what was happening, tugging at his shirt, pulling him closer.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything—that it was just this one-time thing, a moment of weakness.

But Rafe… he knew how to get to you.

He made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered, even though you weren’t. You were just there, convenient. But at the time? You didn’t see it like that. You thought maybe this would change everything. That maybe the Rafe you’d grown up with was still in there somewhere, buried under all the coke, the girls, the chaos.

You were wrong.

It hurt. It hurt like hell. And the worst part was, you couldn’t even blame the girl. She probably had no idea who Rafe really was. She just saw the guy with the money, the smile, the charm.

Your throat tightened as he leaned in, saying something that made her laugh again. That same laugh he’d once pulled out of you. God, how could you be so stupid? You knew what he was. Hell, you’d known for years. But still, you’d let yourself get wrapped up in him, like maybe you’d be the exception. Like maybe you’d matter.

But you didn’t. You were just another girl he’d sweet-talk, mess with, and then forget about the second something new and shiny came along.

Topper came up beside you, nudging you with his shoulder. “You good?”

You blinked, tearing your eyes away from the scene in front of you and forcing a smile. “Yeah, totally. Just need another drink.” Your voice was light, casual, but inside, you were falling apart.

He gave you a weird look, but shrugged it off.

Guess everyone knew how you felt about Rafe. You weren't exactly subtle about it.

You downed another vodka soda, the burn doing nothing to numb the ache in your chest, and made a beeline for the back of the house.

You needed air. You needed to breathe.

You barely made it past the kitchen before you felt someone grab your wrist, pulling you into the hallway. You turned, expecting it to be some random guy, but no—it was Rafe. His grip was tight, a little too tight, and you could see the annoyance in his eyes.

“You’re leaving already?”

Rafe’s grip on your wrist was too tight, but it wasn’t like that surprised you anymore. It was always like this with him—one second, things were fine, and the next, you were stuck in this same stupid cycle of feeling small and stupid for caring.

“I just need some air,” you muttered, trying to pull away, but of course, he didn’t let go. His eyes flicked across your face like he was trying to figure out if you were actually upset or just being “dramatic,” which, spoiler alert, you weren’t.

“You’re not seriously mad about that girl, right?” His voice dripped with amusement, like your feelings were some kind of joke to him. He leaned in, lowering his voice like that was supposed to make you feel better. “It’s not that deep.”

It's hard to remember this used to be your best friend, before you two started whatever this game was and he decided you just weren't that girl to him anymore, just another body he could call up when he needed to get laid.

You stared at him, mouth dry, trying to figure out why you were even still standing here.

“Really?” You couldn’t help the sarcasm in your voice. “Because it kinda feels like it is.” You finally yanked your wrist free, stepping back just enough to get some space. “Do you even care? Like, do you even care that you’re making me feel like this?” You hated how your voice cracked, how vulnerable you sounded.

“We’ve just having fun,” Rafe just stared at you like you were overreacting. “I don’t get what the big deal is. Why are you always making this such a thing?”

Fun. God, that word made your stomach turn.

Fun for who? You knew what he meant, but hearing it out loud still stung. You’d been holding onto this hope, this ridiculous idea that maybe you were different, maybe he cared more. But it was so clear now. This wasn’t a relationship. This wasn’t even close.

“It’s a thing because it is a thing,” you said, voice shaky but steady enough. “I can’t just turn off my feelings like you do, Rafe. I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt when I see you flirting with other girls like I don’t exist.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “You’re making this complicated. I never said we were serious. You knew what this was from the start.”

And there it was.

The slap of reality you’d been avoiding for way too long. He never said you were his, never promised you anything more than what he gave—a few nights here and there, some attention when it was convenient for him, but nothing real.

And you knew that. But it didn’t stop you from wanting more.

“But you still keep me around, don’t you?” you said quietly, mostly talking to yourself at this point. “You keep me close when it’s easy, when it’s fun for you. And I let you.”

God, that hurt to admit out loud. You let him make you feel like this. Over and over.

Rafe just stood there, completely unfazed. Like this was no big deal. He shrugged, and it made you want to scream. “If you’re so unhappy, then just leave.”

You stared at him, feeling your heart twist in your chest. How did it always come back to this? Him pushing you away like you didn’t mean anything. Like you weren’t standing right here, hurting. You searched his face for something—anything—that showed he actually gave a damn.

But there was nothing.

“Yeah,” you whispered, throat tight. “Maybe I should.”

Rafe blinked, staring at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. The moment you said “maybe I should,” it was like the words didn’t even register with him. He let out this half-laugh, half-scoff, eyebrows raised. “Wait—what? You’re not actually serious right now.”

You just stood there, trying to hold onto the last shred of whatever self-respect you had left, but his reaction made you feel like you were the crazy one. Like you weren’t the one who’d been dragged through the emotional wringer for months.

“I’m serious,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as possible, but inside? You were shaking. “I’m done.”

He shook his head, like you were talking nonsense. “C’mon, stop. You always say shit like this when you’re mad. You’ll cool off in a couple hours. You’re just… overreacting. Again.”

That word—overreacting—was like gasoline on the fire burning inside you.

“I’m not overreacting. I’m tired.” You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the weight of all the times you’d let him off the hook. “I’m tired of feeling like an idiot every time I care about you. Every time I think we might actually be something.”

He took a step closer, and you could smell the beer and expensive cologne clinging to him. “We are something,” he said, his tone softening just enough to sound almost genuine, like he believed it. “We have fun. You’re acting like I’m out here trying to hurt you or somethin'.”

“You don’t think you’re hurting me because you never even think about me in the first place,” you snapped, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You never even consider how any of this makes me feel, and that’s the problem. You don’t care.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t fight back like you half-expected him to. Instead, he just stared at you, confusion all over his face, like this was the first time he’d ever heard any of this.

“So what, you’re just gonna leave?” He asked it like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. Like the concept of you actually walking away from him didn’t make any sense. “You’re not serious. You won’t actually leave.”

Your heart twisted at that—at how confident he was that you’d stay. That no matter how many times he messed up, no matter how many girls there were, or how many times he ghosted you, you’d always be right there, waiting. Because you always were. All your life.

He was so sure of it.

You felt your hands shake, and you hated that he still had that power over you. That even now, standing here in this stupid hallway at some stupid party, your heart was still fighting your brain, still wanting to hold onto him just a little bit longer.

But you couldn’t. Not anymore.

“Yeah, Rafe. I’m leaving.” The words came out firm, stronger than you even thought you were capable of right now. “I’m not playing this game with you anymore.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Panic, maybe. Or maybe it was just the realization that he didn’t have you as locked down as he thought. “You’re really gonna walk away from this?” He gestured between the two of you, as if whatever this was had been so good, so untouchable. “Don’t be stupid.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You think I’m the one being stupid? You’ve taken me for granted this whole time, and I was dumb enough to let you."

He just stood there, silent, looking like he didn’t even know how to answer. Because he didn’t. He never actually thought you’d go. He never thought you’d call him on his shit and mean it.

But you did. And now he was realizing it.

Without waiting for him to say another word, you turned and walked away, feeling like you could finally breathe for the first time in a long time. 

You barely made it a few steps before you heard him call after you. “Wait, hold on!”

You kept walking, forcing yourself to put one foot in front of the other. You knew if you stopped, if you even looked back at him, you’d get sucked right back in. But of course, Rafe wasn’t going to let it go that easy.

“Wait!” His voice was closer now, and before you could pick up the pace, he grabbed your arm—not harshly this time, just enough to make you stop. “Come on, don’t just walk away.”

You sighed, shutting your eyes for a second before turning around. “What, Rafe? What do you want me to say?” You were so exhausted from this, from him, from the constant back and forth. “I’m not doing this anymore.”

He let go of your arm, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated but trying to rein it in. “Can we just… talk about this? You’re pissed right now, and I get it, but you can’t just leave like this.”

“I can leave,” you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “That’s literally what I’m doing."

He exhaled sharply, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. “You’re really just gonna throw everything away? After all this time?”

You stared at him, heart pounding in your chest. “What exactly am I throwing away? Huh? What have we even been lately? ’Cause from where I’m standing, all I’ve been doing is waiting around for you to decide if I’m worth more than just a random hookup whenever you feel like it.”

He winced at that, and for a second, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d get it. Maybe this would be the moment where he actually realized how badly he’d been screwing up. But instead, he went for the same excuse he always did.

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, like that would erase everything. “You know I care about you, okay? We’ve known each other forever. You’re… important to me.”

“Important to you?” You laughed, but it wasn’t even close to funny. “If this is how you treat people who are ‘important’ to you, then I don’t even wanna know how you treat people who aren’t. Oh wait, I do know."

Rafe sighed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say. “Look, I know I’ve messed up. But…Can we just, like, think about it for a second? Talk about it?”

You shook your head, feeling the frustration build again. “What is there to talk about? You only wanna have this conversation now because I’m actually leaving. You never wanted to talk about it before.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off. “No, Rafe. You think I haven’t tried to bring this up? Every time I tell you how I feel, you brush me off. I’ve been bending over backwards, trying to make this work, and all I’ve gotten in return is you treating me like I’m an afterthought.”

Rafe frowned, his jaw tightening. “That’s not true. I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Because I’m walking away,” you shot back. “That’s the only reason you care right now—because you don’t wanna lose control. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You never actually thought I’d leave.”

He didn’t say anything, which pretty much told you everything you needed to know.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “We used to be best friends. I knew you better than anyone, and you knew me. But I don’t even recognize you anymore. And honestly? I don’t recognize me when I’m around you either.” Your voice softened, "I deserve better than this. And you know it.”

For a second, he just stood there, looking at you like he was processing everything. His face wasn’t smug or arrogant anymore. He actually looked… lost. Maybe even scared. It was the first time you’d seen him drop the act in a long time, and for a split second, you felt that pull again—the one that always made you want to fix things, to make it better, to stay.

But you couldn’t do it this time. You couldn’t keep saving him at the expense of yourself.

“I don’t wanna lose you,” he finally said, his voice quieter, almost vulnerable. “You’re… you’re one of the only people who actually gets me. I don’t wanna lose that.”

That hit you right in the gut, because deep down, you didn’t wanna lose him either. He was right—you did know him better than anyone. But that didn’t change what he’d been putting you through. And just because he was scared of losing you didn’t mean he was ready to treat you the way you deserved to be treated.

“I don’t wanna lose you either,” you admitted, “But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being the girl you turn to when it’s convenient for you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to the ground like he didn’t know what to say. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was finally realizing how badly he’d screwed this up.

You sighed, stepping back. “Look, I hope you figure your shit out. I really do. But I’m not sticking around to wait for that.”

You’d barely taken two steps when you heard him again, this time his voice quieter, almost desperate. “Wait—please. Just… don’t go.”

You paused, but you didn’t turn around. You were trying so hard to keep it together, to not let him see how badly this was wrecking you. Then he dropped the bomb.

“You’re the only thing keeping me sober.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Slowly, you turned back around, eyes wide. “What?”

He looked at you like he was begging you to understand, to stay. “I’m serious. Since I stopped using…you’re the only thing that’s been helping me hold it together. You leaving—it’s gonna fuck me up. You know that.”

Your heart twisted, hard. Of course he’d pull this now. You stared at him, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” 

“I’m not lying,” He insisted, taking a step closer. “I swear. I’m trying to do better. You’re the reason I haven’t gone back to that shit. You’ve always been the one to pull me out of it, and if you leave—”

“Stop,” you snapped, holding up a hand. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You’re really trying to put this on me?” Your voice was rising, and you didn’t even care if people inside the party heard you. “You’re trying to make me responsible for you staying clean? Do you realize how fucked up that is?”

Rafe flinched, his expression shifting from desperate to defensive. “I’m just saying it how it is. You’ve helped me more than anyone else. You know that.”

“No,” you shot back, shaking your head in disbelief. “I’m not doing this. I’m not carrying that weight for you. That’s not fair, and you know it.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you weren’t done. “You can’t just dump your problems on me and expect me to fix them. I’m not your therapist, and I’m definitely not your savior.” Your chest was heaving now, all the anger and hurt that had been building up for months finally spilling over. “You don’t get to use your sobriety as a leash to keep me here.”

His face fell at that, and for a split second, you saw a flash of guilt. But it wasn’t enough. “I’m not trying to manipulate you,” he said, though even he sounded unsure of his words now. “I just… I don’t know what else to do.”

“You don’t know what to do because you’ve never had to actually deal with the consequences of your actions,” you fired back. “You’ve always just said whatever you needed to say to keep people around. To keep me around.”

Rafe looked at you like he wanted to fight back, but the fight wasn’t there. Not this time. “That’s not what this is,” he muttered, but it sounded weak even to him.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside you. “I’m glad you’re sober. I really am. But that’s not my responsibility. It never should’ve been.” You paused, feeling every word you were about to say. “If staying clean depends on me staying in your life, then you haven’t actually changed. You’ve just found a new addiction.”

He stared at you, and for the first time, he didn’t have a response. No cocky smirk, no empty promises. Just silence.

“I’m not gonna be your crutch anymore,” you said softly, the anger fading, replaced with a deep, painful sadness. “You need to get better for you, not for me. And if you can’t do that… then this was never gonna work anyway.”

Rafe’s shoulders slumped, and you could see the defeat in his eyes, like he was finally realizing that no matter what he said, this time you weren’t coming back.

“Please don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

You blinked back the tears that were starting to sting your eyes. “You’ll figure it out."

He was on his knees before you realized. Literally.

Your eyes widened in complete disbelief. “Rafe, what the hell are you doing?”

He wasn’t even looking at you anymore, just staring at the floor, hands running through his hair like he was about to lose it. “Please don’t leave. I’m begging you. I—I can’t… I don’t know what to do without you.”

You froze, staring at him like he’d lost his damn mind. Because maybe he had. What was this? You felt like you were watching some movie, except it was your life, and it wasn’t dramatic or romantic or whatever he thought it was. It was just… sad. And kind of terrifying.

“Get up.” Your voice wasn’t even loud—it was flat, emotionless. You didn’t even know what to feel anymore. “Rafe, seriously. Get the fuck up.”

He didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice shaky. “I’m so fucking sorry. You’re all I’ve ever had, okay? Since we were kids, you’ve been the only person who’s ever stuck with me. Everyone else leaves. Everyone. But not you. You’ve always been there, no matter how much I’ve messed up.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut because, deep down, they were true. You had always been there. Through everything. The good, the bad, and the absolute worst. And maybe that’s why it hurt so damn much now—because he’d taken that loyalty, that friendship, and twisted it into something ugly and unrecognizable.

“I can’t believe this,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “I seriously can’t believe you right now.” You shook your head, staring at him in disbelief. “You think this is gonna fix everything? You think getting on your knees and saying some bullshit is gonna make me forget all the times you hurt me?"

He looked up at you, his eyes glassy, and it almost made your heart break. Almost. But you weren't going to fall for it anymore. “I didn’t mean to take you for granted. I just—I never thought you’d actually leave. You never left before.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re here,” you snapped, “You always thought I’d stay, no matter how bad you treated me. You counted on it."

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice cracking. “I know I fucked up. But I’ll do anything to fix it. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Please, just don’t go.”

You stared at him, the guy you’d known since forever, the one you’d stuck by when no one else did. The one you thought you could save, even though now you realized you couldn’t even save yourself when you were with him.

But this? Him on his knees? This wasn’t him fixing anything. This was him panicking, terrified that the one thing he’d taken for granted all these years was slipping away.

“I’m not the one who’s supposed to keep you alive. That’s on you. I’ve been there for you since we were six, and look where that’s gotten me. Look where that’s gotten us.”

His eyes were pleading, desperate, but you knew that if you stayed, this would keep happening. He would hurt you again, and you’d forgive him.

Because that’s what you did. That’s what you’d always done.

“I can’t keep being your safety net,” you whispered, feeling a lump rise in your throat. “You have to figure out who you are without me always picking up the pieces.”

He shook his head. “But I don’t know how.”

And that was the saddest part of all. He didn’t know how. He had no idea who he was without you constantly there to catch him when he fell. And you were tired of being the one holding him up while he pulled you down.

You took a deep breath, looking down at him—this broken, scared version of Rafe you never wanted to see.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, “but this? This isn’t love. This isn’t healthy. This is you being afraid of losing control. And I’m not gonna let you use me to keep your shit together anymore.”

His eyes filled with tears, and for a second, your heart ached. Because yeah, you loved him once. Maybe you still did in some messed-up way. But love wasn’t supposed to feel like drowning.

“I hope you get better,” you said, taking a step back. “I really do. But I can’t be a part of this anymore.”

And for the first time in your life, you were the one to walk away.