dandydrunky

[dandydrunky]

Crybaby!reader

Crybaby!reader who doesn’t mean to but can’t help it.

Crybaby!reader who comes off as bratty, but really doesn’t know what they want. Just that they want it. 

Crybaby!reader who pouts and grumbles under their breath while Rafe sits them down and massages their shoulders, but ends up making them grumpier

Crybaby!reader who asks for something, gets it, but is unhappy with how it's received and ends up dissatisfied. 

Crybaby!reader who wipes the tears as soon as they fall, denying they’re actually crying

Crybaby!reader who tries to smile through the tears but ends up crying harder

Crybaby!reader who Rafe spoils so much, they end up returning some of the gifts cause they feel bad

Crybaby!reader shuts down when they get something wrong

Crybaby!reader who laughs at Rafe’s misfortune but then feels bad

Crybaby!reader who keeps Rafe's arm around them at all times

Crybaby!reader who buries their head into Rafe’s chest after a long day, but withdraws when he reciprocates 

Crybaby!reader who has a playlist for everything, but they're all sad

Crybaby!reader who sleeps with the lights on

Crybaby!reader who is clumsy and avoidant when they’re on the verge of tears 

Crybaby!reader who doesn't ask for a hug, but will crawl into Rafe's lap and fall sleep

Crybaby!reader who apologizes with kisses

[dandydrunky]

Fragmented Cast

Topper Thornton 17

Kiara Carrera 16

John B Routledge 17

I do not own these characters. All credits belong to their original creators.

[dandydrunky]

Fragmented Cast

Maddilynn Thornton 15

Hope Hopkins 17

Malik Thorpe 19

Lindsay Porche 18

Tish (TJ) Avila 17

Pope Heyward 16

JJ Maybank 16

Kelce 18

Sarah Cameron 16

Rafe Cameron 19

I only own Maddi, Hope, Malik, Lindsay, and TJ. The rest belong to their original creators.

[dandydrunky]

Fragmented

Topper's little sister ends up running with the Kooks, pledging her loyalty to the island, but what happens when the tides turn on her?

Coming soon

[dandydrunky]

Requests are open for Rafe

[dandydrunky]

I had the ending in mind when I made this poll, and I'm going to continue the story from where we left off. However, I did want to see where most people are at with PT!Rafe.

Thank you

-dandy

[dandydrunky]

In The Absence Of Easy

content warning: medical chart

Author's note: after some extensive research....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Current Status

PATIENT: {Redacted}

DOB: {Redacted}

AGE: {Redacted}

SEX: Female

HEIGHT: {Redacted}

WEIGHT: {Redacted}

ADMISSION DATE: {Redacted}

STATUS: Inpatient – Midstate Rehabilitation Unit

PRIMARY PT: Rafe Cameron, PTA

PRIMARY DOCTOR: None 

ADMITTING DIAGNOSIS:

Left transfemoral amputation (post-complication from septic infection secondary to diabetic ketoacidosis)

Type 2 Diabetes

Orthostatic hypotension – secondary to deconditioning

Adjustment disorder with mixed anxiety and depressed mood

ALLERGIES: {Redacted}

CURRENT STATUS:

Medically stable, post-episode hypotensive event with altered responsiveness (resolved)

Continuing with physical therapy sessions for mobility and prosthetic adaptation (patient shows reluctance)

Requires nutritional monitoring and glucose regulation

MEDICATIONS:

Insulin glargine (nightly)

Insulin lispro (pre-meal sliding scale)

Midodrine (as needed for hypotension)

Ondansetron (as needed for nausea)

Acetaminophen (as needed for mild pain)

NOTES:

Patient exhibits guarded affect and resistant participation in group therapy.

History of expressing frustration with treatment environment; monitor for withdrawal or self-isolating behavior.

Known tendency to downplay medical events; requires gentle but firm confrontation to ensure compliance.

Social interactions: Limited but slowly increasing; recent small gesture toward primary PT noted as potential sign of rapport-building.

[dandydrunky]

In The Absence Of Easy

Content warning: none

Author's note: part 18

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning started unusually cheerful.

The rec room, usually stiff with half hearted attempts at motivation, had streamers hanging from the ceiling. A small “Happy Birthday” banner drooped above the whiteboard. The smell of sugar-free cupcakes filled the air, and one of the nurses wheeled in a cart with homemade cards and a store-bought cake with way too many candles on it. 

Rafe had no idea. 

He walked in expecting to help a patient out of bed, not to be ambushed by staff with party hats and poorly harmonized singing. He laughed, genuinely rubbing the back of his neck while someone handed him a glitter-covered card signed by patients and staff alike. 

“It’s not even my birthday,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It passed, but” Nurse Daniel said, nudging his arm. “You missed it because you were too busy saving lives. So–happy belated.”

They cleared his schedule. One of the other therapists covered his morning shifts, and the patients voted to keep him on campus. No lectures, no stretching, no walking drills. No excuse to see you. “Just celebrate or suffer” as one of the older patients put it.

He didn’t go home. He stayed. 

He played cards with an elderly patient named Ruby who cheated shamelessly. He helped a kid in ped finish a puzzle. He got whipped cream in his hair after a prank involving an unattended cup of hot cocoa. And in between moments, people kept thanking him. 

“I wouldn’t be walking if it weren’t for you” 

“My daughter talks more now, Rafe. Thank you.”

“I stopped trying to OD last month because you told me I was more than my pain.”

By the end of the afternoon, he was emotionally exhausted.

And he still hadn’t heard from you, not since you nearly crumbled in his arms.shaking and open in a way he hadn’t seen before. He’d thought it meant something, a crack in the walls you kept so carefully built. He’d taken it as progress, even if progress with you came in uneven steps, denial, resistance, tiny flickers of acceptance. He’d seen the way you smiled when you finished a course, a rare smile that balanced between relief and pride.

Guess not. 

By the time he made it to the break room, the building had gone quieter. He still smelled faintly of frosting and shaving cream, and his third attempt at making coffee was cooling in his hands. The overhead light hummed faintly. He stirred the coffee just to hear the sound.

The door creaked open.

You were there, lingering by the door in your wheelchair, silent. Your hair was hidden behind a scarf, eyes fogged from nights of sleep you didn’t get, lips pressed thin.

But you were there. In a bright blue dress that you hardly wear anymore, the fabric catching the light as you shifted. Resting in your lap was a granola bar. Crinkled. Cheap. But tied with a ribbon that had clearly been pulled off one of the gift bags from the party. 

Neither of you moved to fill the silence.

 Only the soft scrape of the spoon against the paper cup carried between you, slow and steady, like the moment could last if no one spoke first.

You waited, still at the threshold, the granola bar resting untouched like contraband. Rafe stood for a beat, then set his mug down and came around the counter, lowering himself into the chair across from you. You watched him sit, counted the tiny movements he made–how he folded one leg over the other, the way his shoulders sloped when he relaxed–and only then did you roll forward.

You placed the ribbon-tied bar on the counter between you. His fingers paused over it a second before he picked it up.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking from the ribbon to your face. 

You didn’t answer. You practiced a dozen ways to say nothing, and silence won. 

You shifted again, focusing on the glossy surface of the counter. “The vending machine didn’t have any energy drinks.

He laughed a little–a small private sound–and cocked his head. He tucked the granola bar into the pockets of his scrub pants like it was sacred. “It’s something,” he said, softer now. 

A token of remembrance. For all the late nights roaming the halls, patient check-ins, and even entertaining you on nights that seemed longer than days. 

You sat opposite him at the little break-room table. The fluorescent light above hummed. Outside, the corridor was nearly empty; the party paraphernalia had been boxed up hours ago. For once there were no patients needing a hand, no appointments on his clipboard. He had time.

He was looking at you like he always did when he didn’t know whether to joke or be serious–biting his lip, eyes unreadable. There was a question there he hadn’t formed, and it made the air between you taut and ridiculous and fragile all at once.

You stared back, keeping your face deliberately blank. You could feel the space between you narrowing: his knee angled toward yours, his elbow almost brushing the armrest of your chair. Close enough. Close enough that if either of you moved, the line would be crossed.

Something warm and slow uncoiled in your chest. You could feel the bruise of the episode still under your skin, the memory of being shaky and bare in your room. You could also feel something dangerous and quieter: the idea that being alone might be easier than being near him.

His gaze slipped to your lips for a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes. You heard nothing. No soundtrack, only the fridge whirring, the distant clack of the nurse’s shoes, and for a breath you imagined leaning in. 

You didn’t.

“I should go.“ You murmured under your breath, averting your gaze. You pushed back from the table and reached for the wheel of your chair. You pushed back from the table and reached for the wheel of your chair. His hand, warm, steady, caught the rim for a second as if to stop you, then fell away.

“Thanks,” he whispered, pocketing his hand, still buzzing from the warm brush of yours.

[dandydrunky]

In The Absence Of Easy

content warning: relationship with food

Author's note: between part 11 and part 13

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Diary entry #4

I really should start eating more

I just didn’t find the grilled cheese appetizing, orange juice gives me heart burn, apple runs through me like water, and by the time the tomato soup cooled down, I wasn’t hungry. 

Are these things I can control?

I know I’ll regret it later

The nurses’ll spoon feed me before I grow an appetite

Until then, I’ve got a stash of gelled glucose close by. 

Saves me from time to time

(It tastes like plastic wrap)

[dandydrunky]

In The Absence Of Easy

Content Warning: medical episode

Author's Note: part 17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You couldn't sleep that night. Damp tears stained on your cheeks, dampening the pillow beneath your head. It wasn’t for any reason in particular–your body wasn't cooperating, you still hadn't wholly gotten over your fear and Rafe was too kind.

You turned on your side, wringing the sweat soaked sheets around your waist, phantom pain humming in your residual limb like a far-off engine. But it wasn’t the ache. Your mouth was dry. Skin slick with exhaust. The room spiraled into a shroud of darkness behind your eyelids. 

2:45 am

The red numbers were almost blurry in your vision.

You rolled onto your back again. Swallowed. The ceiling felt miles away. You couldn’t feel your fingers. Or maybe you could, but they were buzzing–cotton-wrapped and unsteady. Your stomach churned with a queasy, acidic twist.

4:59 am

You pressed your face into the pillow, holding it down like you could smother the panic. like maybe if you just breathed deeper, slower, this would pass. That the dizziness would fade. That your missing leg wouldn’t burn like it was still there, still waiting to walk you out of this.

But your muscles were locking up. Your thoughts weren’t stringing together right.

6:00 am 

The light through the curtains turned a dull gray. Not sunrise–just the kind of morning that made everything feel heavier. 

You gave up, settling with the blanket over our head as if it would mute the chirping of birds, whirring of your clock, creaking of the bed beneath you, and the soft shuffle of shoes on waxed floors just outside your door. 

Your eyes flickered shut reluctantly– part of you knew it wouldn’t be worth much, but you tried anyway.

You weren’t sure when the shaking started. Maybe it had been there the whole time, subtle and ghostlike, hiding beneath the covers. Now it was all you could feel–tremors in your jaw, in your chest, in the tips of your fingers and something inside you knew you were in trouble.

Your body wasn’t listening anymore. Not when you tried to curl tighter under the blanket. Not when you willed your breathing to slow, heart to calm, the blood roaring in your ears to quiet down. The air felt heavier than the sheets pulled over your head, pressing into your chest like it wanted to pin you there.

You tried to flex your fingers–barely a twitch. Tried to swallow, but your throat was sandpaper. Every nerve in your body was a live wire, firing in the wrong order. Your stomach rolled, nausea biting at the back of your throat.

You weren’t sure how long you crumbled up beneath the blanket, clutching your stomach–attempting to contain your sickness–but you didn't miss the familiar jingle of keys. You never thought you’d be happy about the meal cart wheeling into your room, parking too close to your chair, but you almost smiled at the thought. 

Finally, someone who could help. 

Your lips parted to speak, but your throat swelled up and words evaporated off the tip of the tongue, dented with teeth marks, straining for comfort. A hoarse sound came out instead, somewhere between a cough and a broken whimper, muffled by the blanket still over your head.

You tried to find comfort in the smell of freshly made eggs with the sharpness of black coffee. It’s all you’ve been able to drink by doctor’s orders to not disrupt your food plan. You felt like a kid again, having meals prepped and brought to you, they might as well’ve chewed the food themselves. The thought alone brought you back to your state of unease. 

Now would be when you hold out your hand for her to prick and get your number while you nibble on breakfast. 

You couldn’t uncurl your fist from around you though, knuckles sinking further into the mattress as you shifted further on your side, turning away from the nurse completely. 

“Alright kid,” soft, unassuming, even if you’re unreceptive most of the time. “This is my least favorite part of your treatment too but we gotta do it.”

You would. 

You really would.

You didn't even need to uncover yourself, just provide a finger, but you couldn’t. 

She didn’t push–not yet. You heard the soft squeak of the meal cart as it was wheeled away followed by a dip in the edge of the bed. The soft ruffle of gloves caught your attention. Melinda was patient, always was, but rounds waited for no one. You hoped it wasn’t as extreme as it presented and she’d be out in no time. The only thing you hated more than being sick? People seeing you sick. People seeing you as anything less than human. 

“C’mon she coaxed gently, tugging at the blanket, but not pulling it all the way back. “Just one quick prick and I’ll be on my way.” 

You hated that your body betrayed you like this. That something so small, so routine, had become a battle. Your fingers wouldn’t unclench, knuckles straining against the mattress, nails digging into your side.

“I can’t,” you rasped, barely audible through the blanket, through the sandpaper in your throat.

The nurse hesitated. You could hear it in the pause, in the slight change in her tone when she spoke again. “Okay,” she said softly. “It’s okay. Let’s slow it down.”

She pinched the corner of your blanket, pulling it from over our head, despite the weak attempt at nailing it down beneath you, You had shivered at the change in temperature. 

“Oh honey,” she pressed her gloved hands against your forehead. “You’re burning up.” She shifted further, patting down your arms, unraveling the sheets from around your waist. 

She was gentle with you, prying your hand from around your waist. “I’m gonna hold your arm down, okay?” Her index and middle fingers pressed against your forearm. You couldn’t even feel her over the slight spasm of muscles. Melinda nearly missed it, had your fingers start twitching in voluntarily. 

Her eyes widened at the sight–the sweating, tremors, and temporary paralysis–you were unwell. And not in your usual “I wanna be alone right now” unwell. 

She stood up fast. 

The bed barely had time to rise from her sudden absence before she was at the door, muttering something into the hallway you couldn’t hear. Her voice was tight. Not panicked–but close. You hated that sound most of all. Professional concern. The kind people used when they were trying not to scare you but were already scared themselves.

Melinda turned around to the sharp landing of your tray blummeting into your chair, your arm twitching as it dropped over the arm of the chair. 

“Don’t move, sugar,”she instructed, shuffling back over.

But the footsteps didn’t stop when hers did, in fact you heard the distinct shuffle of two more after her. 

After that the clinical practice kicked in. Your body went limp, but your room came alive.

Hands were everywhere, but none of them rough. Each movement was swift, practiced, careful. You were no longer just you. You were a patient. A case. A vitals chart, a protocol, a number flashing red on a monitor.

Someone took your pulse. Another clipped a pulse oximeter to your finger, finally forcing your hand open. Cool alcohol swabbed the inside of your elbow. You winced, not from pain but from exposure. From being seen this bare. This helpless. 

The room blurred around the edges. The hum of voices became indistinct, low and moving too quickly to follow. “You caught words like “blood sugar,” “tachycardia,”but they tangled together in the air, meaningless static to your ears. 

You felt a jolt in your finger, a delayed recoil from being pricked. 

“She’s hyperglycemic,” the nurse read, pocketing her meter. 

The weight of your body felt foreign now. You couldn’t tell if you were upright, lying down or somewhere in between. Everything spun like the world was tilting and you couldn’t find gravity anymore. Couldn't even find yourself.

Something beeped faster beside you. Another voice, Rafe’s, maybe? Called your name.

But you couldn’t answer.

Your eyes fluttered. Darkness gathered at the corners of your vision like spilled ink. A soft crackling light buzzed behind your eyelids, but it didn’t register as anything real. Just noise. Just white, hot noise in a body that no longer felt like yours.

And then it all dropped out.

The voices.

The pressure.

 Even the fear.

You came back slowly.

One sensation at a time.

THe first was the beep. Repetitive, soft. Not enough to overwhelm, but enough to ground you in the present. 

Next, the cold plastic of a nasal cannula resting beneath your nose. You tried to move, startled, but the effort sent a wave of fatigue crashing through you. You stayed still.

Then came the tubes. IV lines taped to the bend of your elbow. A blood pressure cuff around your arm. Leads stuck to your chest, tethering you to the machine whose heart was beating out of rhythm in your stead.

Your mouth was dry again. Your tongue felt too big. The overhead lights–dimmer now, thank God–still prickled at the edges of your vision.

You blinked.

thank God—still prickled at the edges of your vision.

You blinked.

And the room came into view.

Dim. Private. Sterile.

The same, but different.

[dandydrunky]

Childhood sweetheart!reader dating Rafe looks like

[dandydrunky]

If You Ever Get To Where You’re Going- Austin

content warning; angst

Author's note; based on this ask

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What happened? A question you’ve asked more than ‘why?’ and one with no right answer.   

You tried to go over it, from the beginning. It all made sense, until it didn’t.   

That night, when paled fists gripped the soiled fabric of your shirt, head burrowing further into the pit of your lap.

It was over.   

The midnight heartache, the bruising of knees from crumbling to the floor, whispers of sweet nothings into the night through red eyes, fleeting warmth from bodies pressed together like molded clay, ribs colliding, and hearts intertwining through strong arms and soft intentions.  

No more.   

Your eyes burned themselves from exhaustion. You were tired, tired of watching his world crumble before you and holding him together with gentle strokes to his hair while he cried himself to sleep almost every night.  

“Rafe,” your voice barely above a whisper, he twitched at the coolness over your fingers caressing his heated skin. His recoil told you he wasn’t ready, it would be too much, too soon.   

So, you waited.   

Night turned into day, and by morning he had snuck out like he always did, a projection of guilt from him when he got like this. Unfortunately it happens more often than not these days.  

By morning, you slugged out of bed, dragging yourself over to the bathroom, you caught a glimpse of yourself. Drained, clothes wrinkled from the presence of what once was, hair tousled in every which way from troubles of your own, and an increasing darkness under your eyes.   

You managed a short shower, it didn’t help lessen the weight of last night like you thought it would.  

And the day went on like that, slowly, not so surely, it seemed to drag on longer than usual.  

You hadn't talked to Rafe since he crept out of a solid embrace all those hours ago, but you knew where to find him.  

There is only so far one can go in this place.  

Everyone knows everything and if they don't…they will.  

You were brought back to your surroundings by the inharmonious bitching of customers, granted you had been spacing out rather than taking orders.   

“Hi,” you huffed, not even bothering to fake enthusiasm you didn't possess, “what can I do for you?”  

The guy scoffed, looking you up and down.   

You didn't stop him because there wasn't much to see in a ratty shirt with smoothie stains on it, a full length apron and knee length skirt that he could only catch a glimpse of from behind the counter.

“You can smile for me,” he proposed, leaning on his forearms resting on the counter.   

Before you had the privilege of endangering your job, your boss intervened, ordering you to switch stations with Adan. So, you rotated around, shifting to the board station where you would cut up, peel, and puree fruits and vegetables, thankful you didn’t have to deal with asshats this early in the morning. Even if it is closer to noon.  

You seemed to be doing better by the time lunch rush would start, calm, dishing orders left and right. After all, there was a sudden peace about cutting your feelings.  

On your lunch break you had nothing to do, nothing you wanted to. So you untied your apron, balling and tossing it in your work cubby.   

You hooked your fingers through a thin crate, dragging it behind you to wedge the door open while you went out. With only a 30 minute break you got started walking, your feet leading you through tough gravel, over acres of sand to the planks at the edge of your world. 

The ocean is where it ends.

 And the concept was no stranger to the universe, calling darkened souls alike to the end of the world where you met a familiar face.

Rafe.

His back turned to you, spine curved as he leaned over his knee, you spotted a sliver of smoke pooling over his head. 

This was the part you didn’t have to see to feel. 

Sometimes you weren’t enough, you know that, you didn’t care. Your nights were spent restless, consoling him after days spent at home, you did what you could. And for that you don’t blame him. 

“Am I that predictable?” His voice carried no humor despite the attempt, how could it? It was still hoarse from crying.

He knew that you knew to seek him out after last night, just like the unspoken tears that shed harder, the softer your touch got. 

He knew you too.

You knelt down beside him, smoothing your skirt out across your knees. He didn’t turn to face you, keeping his distant stare at the waves crashing at the end of the dock. The salty air left a sour taste on your tongue, all the time spent on water and you never learned how to keep yourself afloat. 

How to not sink beneath the waves crashing together, pulling you in, sweeping you away from the shore. That’s how you felt some nights, nights when Rafe didn’t crawl in through your window or darken your doorstep. 

You watched Rafe inhale the smoke like it’ll grant him death in an instant, a mercy he longed for. 

He flicked at the stick, ash sprinkling into the waves, his hand deviating from his mouth to your hand. His poison, your turn.

“Have you gone home yet?” you know he hasn’t, routine kept him in an endless cycle and right now you were the only constant. It started with you, it continues with you.

“Nah,” he grumbles, watching you bring the cigarette to your lips, letting it sit in the corner of your mouth, smoke flooding your nostrils, tobacco staining your senses. 

And you sat in silence for a moment, passing the dart back to Rafe. 

“Do you want to go back?” Does anybody? Did you?

His lips parted, but no sound came out, instead he silenced himself with another puff of smoke. Something he only did before the waterworks started. His eyes told a different story, clouded with anger, lips curled in disgust, but with a subtle quiver, you couldn’t pinpoint where the gesture was directed. 

At himself. You would come to find when he pressed his forehead into your shoulder, averting your worried gaze, your sleeves soon dampened. 

Words bobbed in his throat, but they didn’t dare surface like the nauseous feeling he was fighting. 

You couldn’t help but hate yourself for feeling an ounce of anything but sympathy, but irritation had itched itself into the back of your mind. It wasn’t at him, never him, but it had been the fourth time in less than 24 hours that you found yourself like this. Who held you like this when it's all over? 

Your hand instinctively reached for his hair, fingers combing through tangled knots, a lot like how this looked. Sifting through parts of the problem to find the source, except every time you got close you were rerouted. 

Last night sleep deprived you would have waited, but you weren’t sure you’d be compliant enough to handle a small conversation if it waited any longer. “We don’t have to.”

You offered that weeks ago. 

Nerves settled in the pit of your stomach, nerves you tried to ignore, thoughts you tried to ignore, all resurfaced in the absence of Rafe. 

You haven't seen him since he was curled into you on the dock, stuttering out broken sentences through dry lips, shivering against your silent embrace. 

Where was he?

You contemplated asking around, but your efforts would be futile. 

Finally, he washed up on your doorstep again, his state no different than last. Disheveled, strung thin by emotions that had his knees weak, nearly caving at the whining of your front door.

You knew the routine like muscle memory, but you didn’t move.

His shadow shifted behind the door, knuckles grazing the wood a second time. It wasn’t a knock anymore, it was softer than that, pleading, but with a fragility that might splinter if you reached for it.

“Please,” he rasped, the word barely audible.

Your breath hitched, fingers flexing at your sides. You hated how quickly the sound of him could undo you.

When you finally pulled the door open, he was hunched forward, shoulders bowed like the weight of him had doubled since you last saw him. Red-rimmed eyes darted up to yours, just for a moment, before flicking away. He didn’t ask. He just stepped forward as if you’d fold.

“I-” he cut himself off with a cough, ducking his head down like you had scolded him, “I-I wanna leave.” 

Those magic words brought the drained life back to you, brightening your own dull complexion. You didn’t smile. You weren’t out of the woods yet, but it was a start. 

He stepped forward, toeing the entrance of the door, coming to meet you with his glossy eyes. His tongue prodded his cheek and he needed his head, something he did when he wanted to say more. Ultimately he decided against it, draping himself over your shoulder. 

“...Okay.” 

That was the easiest decision you had to make, but not for free. When the day came, he texted you and promised to meet at the dock. It was all set, the plan you’ve been holding on to. You’d take “My Druthers”–a final ‘fuck you’ to Ward–to the Bahamas, live off the vacation home long enough to get on your feet and then the world was yours. 

What you didn’t count on was being bailed on. You’d packed your bags the day you offered to leave, you’ve just been waiting on Rafe, but it’s becoming too regular– waiting on Rafe. 

Maybe he’s on his way. Maybe he’s already here. You wanted to believe everything but the reality that he may have opted out of this one. 

You rolled your suitcases back to your car, shoving them in the back seat before settling into the front, hands gripping the steering wheel, rolling the leather cover in sync with your breathing. You let out a huff through your nose, putting the car in drive.

The drive didn’t take long, filled with uneasy silence bordering tears. Tears you haven’t cried since Rafe shed all of them for you. Pulling into the driveway you could see the figure of someone sitting on the porch.

It was Rafe. 

He was sitting on the bench beside the door, cradling a beer, staring off into the distance like he hadn’t made the biggest plan of his life.

“Rafe, wha-” and then your eyes dropped, sank like your heart at the sight of bottles around his seat, a small duffle bag tucked beneath him, a red shirt half tucked in the zipper. 

Nononononono. You were supposed to leave. You were supposed to be far from this place by now. And you hadn’t seen Rafe drink since after the first time he climbed in your window. He swore it off after he cried in your shower the whole night, cradling himself into the cold tile to not disturb you.

“I couldn’t do it.”

Your ears rang with the echo of his voice, void of emotion, like you were speaking to the shell of your friend. You hadn’t felt your knees stutter until you braced yourself against the porcelain railing of the porch. Lips parted to catch the breath that had left you, but words failed you. 

He failed you.

Maybe this adventure was too big.

Maybe you were too big for him.

Some part of him was convinced he was doing you a favor. You knew him too, well enough to know you’d be dragging him around until you settled down and by then he’d be homesick. That he’d bail every chance he got because despite you, running is all he knew. He’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, but that didn’t mean you had to. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was this. But he’d never tell, no. 

He stared blankly ahead, bringing the glass bottle to his lips, but not sipping it, just taking it in. 

You wanted to scream, but you choked up, silent tears stinging the corner of your eyes. How could he do this?  

You drew in a short breath, biting a curse back–it’s not right. 

Your bitter steps echoed through the hollow walls of Rafe's head as he flinched, watching you drag yourself down the driveway, reaching for the door of your car like a crutch. And that crutch was slipping from beneath you, leaving you falling, with no safety net, no cushion to soften the landing, just the bare, gritty concrete. The car door shut with a finality that made him close his eyes.

[dandydrunky]

credits to @overflowingteacupoflove

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yo,

Okay, this is weird. I haven’t written a letter since I got a B+ in 8th grade English. It’s now buried in a time capsule on campus, I remember the day exactly. May 27th ‘18. Just in time for summer. 

Sorry, I’m rambling.

Hi, I’m Pope. I’m 17. I live on a boat half the time, a couch the other half, and sometimes get a bed if the universe is feeling generous. I am a Pogue. Basically I have a job, and when I’m not working, I’m hanging with my friends. The best people on the island if you ask me. 

My dad says I spend too much time outside, he doesn’t get out much. 

So, what about you? Do you have any friends? What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done? Do you like seafood? Follow up– are you allergic? I need to know who I’m talking to here. 

P.S I’ve gathered already you’re an intellectual, maybe a little old-fashioned

Signing off- Pope

The ink was still fresh on the page when Pope folded the corner–and then again. He reached for the manila envelope on the corner of his desk, delicately slipping the folded notebook paper into its sleeve. His tongue stuck out, dragging along the adhesive, folding the seal shut. He pressed it down, smoothing over a piece of tape– just in case. 

His first official letter. There was pride in knowing his advances in literature were being put to use. 

He slipped it into his back pocket, without a crease or a fold, careful like it was something sacred. Like the words on the page meant more than ink and nerves. 

The marina air hit him first when he stepped out, seasoned with salt water and heavy with summer heat. Boats bobbed in their slips, ropes swaying in the gentle breeze, the docks croaked with life. 

Pope tugged on his shirt, adjusting the collar that had become too snug around his neck, fanning himself with the open flaps.  

“Okay,” he huffed, flicking an invisible bead of sweat as he mounted his bike. He rolled forward with ease, pedaling with purpose. 

Letters were permanent. They can't be deleted or unsent. That kind of thing mattered.

He slid the envelope into the postbox, hesitation still lingering around the slot, but also a wave of relief. 

“Okay,” he panted, hunching over the handles of his bike. “I just did that.” 

[dandydrunky]

Older!Rafe x sugarbaby!reader

[dandydrunky]

In The Absence Of Easy

Content warning: angst-ish

Author's note: part 16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last stretch of the day–dinner time, quiet halls, the low hum of the building settling in for the night. Rafe leaned his hip on the railing of the therapy room door, holding open with his forearm, thumb absently drumming against the metal railing, eyes scanning the corridor.

He was tired– the little uptick of energy that came around this time. The kind reserved just for you.

By now, he knew better than to expect consistency. If you showed, you showed. If not, he wouldn't press. It was a part of the agreement– unspoken but deeply understood. Still, he couldn't stop the tug of the corners of his lips as soon as he heard the ungreased gears of your wheels.

There you were in a hoodie–zip up not pull over as you preferred– sleeves pushed halfway up your arms and for the first time that he's seen, sweatpants. One leg was cuffed around your ankle, the other was cropped and jaggedly stitched mid thigh.

Your stump looked different. It wasn't wrapped in bandages or a compression sock. It was bare.

The skin curved where the leg ended– skin still tinted pink from all the activity– deeply cinched where stitches lay and a silhouette of where your bandages pressed.

He didn't stare too long, just enough to take in the sight.

it wasn't the first time he'd seen your amputation–clinically speaking, he'd been there since the day you were transferred in–but this…this was different.

You weren't hiding it, you were living in it.

He met your eyes like it was nothing. Like he hadn't watched you take a step–figuratively, literally–that you hadn't taken before. And maybe it hadn't meant to be a big deal. Maybe it was laundry day. Or a moment of screw it defiance. Or maybe–maybe–it was trust.

Rafe noticed the shift of your hips against the seat, small, but not subtle.

“The doctor…” You murmured, barely above a whisper, tugging your sleeves down as if the fabric might make you smaller. “Said it's good to let it breathe,” and you left it right there, like there was more, but he could fill in the rest.

He didn't think of himself as a doctor–never would. He wasn't the one scribbling prescriptions or tossing around surgical lingo–hell he barely dressed like one– but he knew progress when he saw it.

Not just the kind you could measure in reps or range of motion.

This was the real stuff. Quiet. Earned. The kind of progress that showed up in sweatpants and half-mumbled sentences. The kind that let you be seen, even when you weren't ready to name it brave.

Rafe nodded once, slow, let the silence hang soft between you.

“Good call,” he said. “Air helps. And… being okay with it being out? That helps too.”

You didn't look at him. Your eyes focused between the tiled floor and your lap, picking at the cuff of your sleeve with steady fingers.

He didn't push for more, he never did. Just stepped back and let the door ease open all the way.

“C’mon” he murmured, motioning with his chin. “You get the first pick on what we do.”

That earned him a scoff–half protest, half gratitude. You roll past him without another word, the uneven squeak of your wheels echoing down the short stretch of hall. Rafe followed a few steps behind, watching the way you moved: a little stiff, a little cautious, but forward.

You're not being your usual sarcastic self, granted he appreciated there was less effort to get you into the current mood–night time stretches– he’s seen first-hand how extra cranky you are when you're tired.

Today was unusually smooth. He'd gotten you to do resistance bands–which you saw pointless considering your condition– try putting the socket on, and now, for all your hard work, your pick.

That wasn't like you in any capacity to go a day without saying three curses, to the gods, to him, and to yourself. Today, he heard only one.

Rafe slowed his steps to match your pace, careful not to crowd the space you seemed to need tonight. The silence between you was not different–not heavy, but weighted with something quieter, almost respectful. He glanced at you, seeing the crease between your brows as you zeroed in on the equipment laid out.

There wasn't too much out–bands, a harness, incline board, and your prized limb. All draped over the mats in a neat row.

Rafe followed your gaze. The prosthetic, laid to its side like it would stand if given the chance. The look wasn't hatred, not in the way it used to be, not curiosity, but hesitance.

He watched you casually glide past the bands and the harness–eyes hard and focused– a soft determination he has rarely seen.

Movements were deliberate, the stretch of your wheels just inches past the strip prompting the leg, but not further than that.

Rafe didn't wait for you to ask, he rounded the chair, scooping up the leg with a delicacy you've had the fortune of receiving. Even if you didn't feel you deserved it.

“What's your goal? Before you go to sleep tonight, what is the last thing you want to accomplish?”

A question that didn't require an answer, a question that meant Rafe knew that you weren't taking baby steps anymore. Tonight was about endurance– how far could you get before tapping out? And that's all he asks of you–that you try.

He saw the draw of your brows as he prepped your leg, the tug of your lip when he slipped the socket on.

The latex felt rubbery against your skin–too clinical, too familiar. He rubbed fast circles with his palm, careful around the healing site with slower, thoughtful motions.

It wasn't Rafe's gentle touch that held the right amount of warmth and gave the right push at the right time.

He locked the leg into place, lowering the heel to the ground. “All set,” he rose to his full height, staring down at you, tucking the gloves into a neat ball and slipping them into his pocket.

He took a step back to not crowd you, keeping a trained eye on your form. You're curled forward, elbows cocked out beside you, nails gripping the leather, and knee bent. It was stiff, he could tell, watching your technique unfold.

“Do you want me to step in?” quiet, conscious, not condescending. His arms crossed over his chest, watching you drift left and right, shifting the weight to your feet.

You're not used to having to support your weight on one foot, let alone two.

“Your body is compensating for the change,” he approached, placing a gentle hand on your stomach, his fingers splayed out to ease you back upright and an arm slung over your shoulder stabilizing you. “Let it.”

Your fingers clamped around the parallel bar as your hip shifted to align with the bars. You suck in a sharp breath, fixing your foot against the mat beneath you as your heel sank into the foam.

Rafe's hand didn't move from your stomach, not yet. Not until your spine straightened just a little, not until your head no longer bowed like an apology. His palm wasn't firm, but present. A tether.

“Better, “ he murmured. Better as in you stopped sinking your nails in jagged crescents along your forearm. “That's it. Let your hips find balance. Don’t fight it.”

Your grip trembled on the bar, knuckles discoloring from holding on so tightly.

Rafe can't think of a time he's seen you so vulnerable. You've had your moments, but you're leaning on him, clinging to him, like a lifeline.

“Focus on the floor,” he instructed quietly. “Pick a spot. That's your anchor.”

You did. He felt the tension loosen in your shoulders, you almost softened in his grip. He still kept his position to your right like a wordless reassurance: I've got you if you fall

You didn't.

Not yet.

And that was everything.

But, you were still at a standstill. You had wobbled and nearly toppled over, but you hadn't even progressed to a full step.

You slumped against Rafe and he didn't move. He blinked. Just took it.

Rafe wasn't the poetic type, but there was something about this moment, having you like this, that rendered him speechless.

Not in a bad way, it was a tender silence, salted by the hot tears streaming down your cheeks. He felt your body jerk forward, shoulders bouncing beneath his arm.

He couldn’t say why the tears came, but he stayed with them. He's watched you go from not even looking at a prosthetic to standing in one, braving your first step.

And while it felt like a setback to not immediately jump, skip, and hop right out of the front doors, you were doing better than you thought you were.

And for you it was progress.

He leaned in, his voice quieter than before, “you've done enough for one night, yeah? Let's sit.”

You remained silent, but the quivering had stopped, sniffles you thought he couldn't hear cleared up with a nasty sniff long enough for you to nod. Subtle, but there.

He slid one arm beneath your knees, the other still steadying your back as he lifted you from the bars, letting you rest against his forearm as he walked you through the bars, right back to your seat.

He set you down with a kindness, adjusting your cushion before easing you into your chair. He retrieved his hands, offering a little smile.

“I wasn't ready...” you avoided his gaze, faking interest in an exposed part of your arm rest.

“You did great.”

He meant it. And not in the way people toss those words around like confetti when they don’t know what else to say. He meant it in the way only someone who’s watched the entire climb could. From denial, to avoidance, to tonight.

And that was enough.

[dandydrunky]

Part 16 coming today

Updating ITAOE has been slow. My bad y'all.