#and they kept showing the same damn trailers over and over again

[cheriafreya]

the decline of the kingdom hearts fandom needs to be studied 😭 as a former fan myself it's so funny to me how hyped everyone was 10 years ago and how no one cares about it nowadays

[millers-angel]

jealous!joel miller who takes you to his job site because you kept asking, over and over again, with those big curious eyes that made it so damn hard for him to say no.

always so interested, always wanting to know more—about the machines he worked with, the loud noise, the dust, the smell of sweat and sawdust that he carried on his clothes when he came home.

you’d begged so sweetly, that you wanted to see where did he work, that you wanted him to teach you everything... and he couldn't resist. not to you. and god, how could he not give in to that? no one had ever cared like that. not about his work. not about him.

so he brought you.

and you walked around with that same bright look in your eyes, asking questions, tilting your head as you watched the machines move, not having the slightest idea of how good you looked doing it. how your dress clung to your thighs, how it lifted just a little when you leaned down to touch something, how the sun hit your skin just right and made every man on site stop and stare.

joel saw it. all of it.

and he hated it.

he stayed close—hand on your back, arm around your waist, lips brushing your ear when he had to explain something. he didn’t let you out of his reach, didn’t let their eyes go unanswered. every time one of them looked at you for too long, he touched you a little more deliberately. a possessive grip on your hip, a slow kiss to your cheek that made you giggle, a low voice in your ear just to make sure they knew.

you, sweet and clueless, kept smiling, kept asking questions like nothing was happening.

but joel knew. and so did they.

you were his.

you were completely amused.

you hadn’t expected a construction site to feel this... alive. the machines roared, the metal clanked, and dust swirled in the air, catching the sunlight just right. it smelled like earth and wood and sweat, and somehow, all of it fascinated you. joel’s world. the one you’d only heard about in tired conversations when he got home.

and now, you were in it.

you asked a hundred questions, eyes shining, touching things gently like they’d break. joel answered most with a quiet grunt or a word or two, but he never stopped touching you—guiding you by the waist, brushing your hair back from your face, pressing warm fingers to the small of your back.

eventually, he led you toward a row of trailers lined up near the edge of the site.

“this is my office,” he muttered, thumb rubbing circles into your hip as he opened the door.

you stepped up, just as the wind blew.

your dress fluttered, lifting enough to make him tense behind you. his hand came down fast, firm, shielding you as he cursed low under his breath. the door slammed shut behind you, and the click of the lock followed. fast. final.

you looked around, eyes wide again.

it was messy, sure—papers scattered, tools tossed on the small table, a few dishes stacked in a corner. but it smelled like him. warm. sweaty. and there were signs of you here too. the little lunch containers you always packed for him. a folded napkin with your handwriting. a tiny bottle of that soap you said he should use because it 'smelled like lavender.'

you smiled, quietly, and started picking things up.

joel frowned. “what’re you doin’, sweetheart?”

“just wanna tidy your space a little,” you said, already stacking papers, rearranging a bit.

he sighed, shook his head, and crossed the small room in two steps.

his hands landed on your waist again, rough and sure. “leave it,” he said softly. “wanna show you something.”

you nodded, and he led you to his desk.

he sat down, leaned back, and patted his thigh.

you didn’t hesitate—just smiled and climbed into his lap, settling sideways, arm draped around his shoulders. he opened a folder, pulling out pictures, sketches, and blueprints. talked about past builds, materials, mistakes they’d learned from.

but your eyes caught on a photo.

it was him—joel in a dusty tee, sleeves pushed up, arms flexed as he carried a heavy beam. sweat darkened the fabric, jaw clenched, eyes focused. pure strength in motion.

“you look so... strong,” you murmured, hand brushing over the edge of the picture.

joel chuckled low in his chest, but before he could say anything, you turned to him, eyes soft, lips warm, and kissed him—just a little thing. small. sweet.

but it made him freeze for a second.

because you looked at him like he hung the damn moon.

joel chuckled low in his chest, but before he could say anything, your eyes shifted—something else catching your attention. right there, beside the monitor, there was a frame of you. one he must’ve printed without telling you. you were smiling, soft and sunlit, in one of your favorite dresses.

your heart swelled.

“i like that you keep your girl on your desk,” you said, teasing a little as your fingers brushed the edge of the frame. “so everyone knows you’re taken.”

joel let out a low laugh, hand rubbing up and down your thigh. “ain’t like any of the crew’s tried to flirt with me, darlin’.”

you shrugged, smile coy. “still. you’re mine.”

you leaned in, gave him another kiss—longer this time. slower.

his hand paused on your leg, fingers pressing in just a little.

when you pulled back, you noticed the way his jaw had gone tight, how his eyes had narrowed slightly as he watched you like he was trying to figure something out.

“they’ve seen you,” he muttered, voice rough now. low. “not me.”

you laughed softly. “that’s not true.”

he didn’t laugh with you.

instead, both of his hands moved to your hips, gripping firm, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his and your dress rode up just a little more across your thighs, barely showing your panty. his eyes searched yours, voice dropping even lower.

“you’re really that sweet, huh?” he asked. “don’t even notice what you do to people?”

your lips parted, surprised by the heat in his tone, the way his thumbs stroked slow over your hipbones like he was trying not to lose control.

“mhm?” he pressed, tilting his head. “don’t notice how they look at you out there? don’t know what you do to me sittin’ in my lap like this?”

you felt your breath catch. his grip, his voice, the air between you—thick now with something warm, lustful.

but still, you smiled. “just wanted to see the machines,” you whispered.

joel groaned under his breath, and pulled you closer. "yeah?" you nodded.

he lifted your dress, now fully to your waist, letting him see what you were hiding from him. letting him see what he owned. he spreaded your legs just enough to see a damp spot in your crotch.

"oh, poor thing," he growled.

"i couldn't help it, joel, i—i promised that i would but—"

his hand came closer to your panty, moving it aside to touch the slick flesh of your pussy. his fingertips trailed all the way to your clit, slowly, torturing you.

you hissed once he started drwing cirles on your nib, all swollen, glistening with your own fluids. "so sweet you don’t even realize all these men outside were lookin’ at you like they’d eat you alive if i let ‘em.”

you felt something growing pushing your thigh. "you're all mine." he rasped against your ear, making all your body shiver.

"yours,"

"what do i have to do for all those men to understand you're mine, hm? should we go out and fuck in front of them?"

you licked your lips, as if thinking about it.

"should i leave you leaking cum and walk out like nothing happened? should i get you pregnant right now? hm?" his lips found their way to your collar as his fingers found its way inside your cunt.

and that's when he lost it.

he did exactly what he said.

you left the trailer walking out with slick flesh with cum. messy hair, smudged make up and probably now, pregnant too.

🔨⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡🐇

[lonely-ey3s]

Heartlines | Chapter Six

pairing: harry castillo (materialists) x f!reader

chapter summary : You battle with self-esteem issues when you realize that Harry might be falling in love with you. Are you enough? Will you fit into his life? Perhaps when you're invited along to a family trip to the Maldives, you'll find out.

chapter warnings: fluff, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), anxiety, self worth issues, self esteem issues, old money rich castillos, insecurities, mentions of a child having health issues, soft!harry, flirting, if I missed anything, lmk!!

word count: 9.3k

a/n: ya'll that new trailer that came out thursday for materialists - i will not survive... he looks so god damn good. ughh. enjoy 💗

also just a reminder! chapters will be every other sunday alternating ride or die !!

your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I secretly hope you like this story. 🤍

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

Masterlist

The sunlight spilled across the bed in lazy golden ribbons, soft and slow, warming your bare shoulders beneath the sheets. You stirred first, still tangled in Harry’s arms, your cheek against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat the only sound you could register at first.

For a few blissful seconds, you didn’t move. You didn’t need to. His arms were still around you, one tucked low at your waist, the other lazily resting against your back, fingertips tracing idle shapes into your skin like they’d never stopped through the night.

Your lips curled slightly at the memory. His voice whispering into your skin. The things he said. The way he touched you like he already knew every part of you — not in a way that felt possessive or rushed, but like he worshipped you. Curious. Like he wanted to learn you all over again, just because he could.

And then… that moment.

"I’ll be right here, my love..."

He’d said it softly, almost as if to himself. Like it had slipped out in a moment of complete peace and vulnerability — unguarded and drowsy. A truth from somewhere deep in his chest, was spoken without filter.

You didn’t know if he meant it. Hell, you didn’t even know if he knew he said it.

And worse… you didn’t know what it meant. Not really. Not for someone like you — someone who’d been left, lied to, overlooked, or chosen only until the novelty wore off.

The warmth in your chest had spread fast the moment he said it… but now it mixed with a sting of fear.

It all felt so good. Too good to be true.

He’d been nothing but kind, nothing but steady — showing up in ways no one else ever had. And yet… that familiar whisper crept into your mind.

What if he doesn’t feel the same way when he’s fully awake?

What if you’re just a moment for him — something he’ll look back on and smile at before moving on?

What if you’re not enough again?

What if you’re not enough when he wakes up one day?

You hated how quickly your thoughts could spiral. How easily the doubt showed up to sit beside your hope, whispering, ‘don’t get comfortable’.

Harry stirred beneath you then, shifting slightly. You felt his hand press more firmly against your back, keeping you close.

His voice was low, thick with sleep. “Mmm, still here?”

“Still here,” you whispered, but it came out quieter than you expected — like you weren’t sure how long you were allowed to be.

He hummed softly and kissed your temple without opening his eyes. “Good.” his lips brushing your hair. “Then it wasn’t all a dream...”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and kept your cheek pressed against his chest, trying to hold onto the calm — the feeling of being wrapped up in him, protected, even if your heart felt too tender in your chest.

You pulled your head back to look at him, and the moment your eyes met his sleepy brown gaze, your heart did that annoying fluttery thing it always did around him, slowly melting those anxieties.

He looked… happy. Unfiltered. Like waking up with you was something he hadn’t quite believed would happen.

“You’re staring,” he teased gently, voice still coated in sleep.

“I’m… admiring,” you corrected with a soft smile.

He grinned. “Different?”

“Completely.”

His thumb brushed your cheek as you hovered just above him. “This is… nice.”

You tilted your head. “Nice?”

He gave you a slow smile. “I’ve never really felt I’ve done this part right. The waking up next to someone I care about part.”

Your teasing faded into something softer.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing pretty well so far.”

He chuckled and let out a deep sigh, his arms wrapping around you more firmly. “You make it easy. You make me happy.”

You felt your heart squeeze, the words landing softly, deeply.

You moved up to lie beside him, looking up at the ceiling. “I still don’t think I’ve fully wrapped my head around this…”

Harry turned to his side, propping his head on one hand. “What part?”

“All of it,” you said quietly. “Waking up here. With you. Like this.”

His brow furrowed slightly, gentle concern tugging at his expression. He saw a small part of you that he saw when those walls were up — those walls he swore were all the way down, “You okay?” he kissed your shoulder ever so softly. 

You nodded, hesitating. “Yeah. I just…” You searched for the right words. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is real. That something can be this good without… risk of it all falling apart.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. He just shifted closer, his hand finding yours beneath the blanket, fingers lacing through yours. “It’s real,” he said softly. “I’m real. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You turned your head to the side and looked at him, your chest tight and full all at once.

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles and let out a quiet exhale. “Actually… there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

Your heart jumped slightly, nerves flickering to life. “Okay…”

He hesitated — just for a second, before his tone turned light and hopeful.

“My parents’ 40th anniversary is next week,” he started. “Big family trip planned.” he pulled your hand up with his and played with your fingers, getting shy and nervous. “Maldives. Everyone’s going — my siblings, all the kids, the whole circus.”

Your brows lifted. “It sounds like a lot of fun.”

He nodded, fingers intertwining with yours. “It is. They rented this little resort — very chill. Private, beachside bungalows. Honestly, it’s rare we all get together like this.”

You watched him carefully, sensing where he was going. You remembered hearing the kids whisper about it yesterday, thinking they were being sneaky.

“I want you to come,” he said finally, eyes meeting yours.

You blinked, surprised — but your heart answered before your brain could.

“Really?”

“I know it’s big,” he said quickly, laying his head down and sneaking his arm under your neck and get close to you. “And I know it’s soon. And the whole family thing is a lot, especially mine…” He let out a nervous chuckle, lightly squeezing your hand.

“But after yesterday? After the way you were with the kids and made it through chaos, bedtime stories, and pillow forts… I don’t know, it just feels right. Like, I didn’t want you not to be part of it.”

He looked at you then, voice softening. “In truth, I don’t want to leave without you by my side.”

You looked down for a second, looking at your hand in his, processing the warmth building in your chest — the part that still wanted to question why you were so wanted. But the part louder — the part that believed him — was the one that answered.

You looked at him, smiling softly. “I’d love to come.”

Relief and affection broke over his face like sunshine.

You turned your body, reached to thread your fingers through the back of his curls affectionately. “But… I don’t have a passport...”

He chuckled and pinched your chin playfully, pulling you close. “Well, let’s get you one…” 

You pressed your forehead to his, grinning. “Is it really that simple?”

“With me?” he murmured. “Absolutely.”

That flutter in your chest returned — not just because of his words, but the way he said them. Like being with him could be that easy. Like loving him… might not have to hurt.

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, then your temple. “We’ll talk about it more later. There’s plenty of time.”

You nodded, nestling back into the pillows as he adjusted beside you, one hand trailing lazy paths across your bare thigh. 

You both just laid there and admired each other. Memorizing eye color, making maps of each other's freckles, discovering dimples — falling in love with the little details that make each other themselves.

He hummed softly after a few moments, nudging your nose with his. “Speaking of. I was gonna make you breakfast in bed before you woke up, but someone woke up before me.”

Your brows lifted. “Really?”

“I’ve got a whole plan,” he said, shifting to sit up a little. “Coffee, eggs, something cinnamon if I can get fancy.”

“You cook?” you asked skeptically, even as you slid back slightly to let him move.

“Shockingly well,” he said, already climbing out of bed, tugging on the joggers he’d kicked off the night before. “Actually love it. It’s like meditation. But tastier.” He looked back at you and wiggled his eyebrows. 

You giggled and propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him. “So I’m being spoiled?”

“You’re being courted,” he smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Stay here. I’ll bring you something delicious.”

He turned toward to leave the side of the bed, but before he could leave the bedside , you reached out and grabbed his wrist gently.

“Wait…”

He turned, brows lifted slightly in question.

“Five more minutes,” you said with a sleepy grin, tugging him back toward the bed. “Please?”

Harry hesitated a moment before his grin returned — wide and utterly smitten. “You’re going to be dangerous in the mornings before work, aren’t you?”

“Maybe…” you teased as you pulled him down, and he slid back into the covers with you, arms immediately wrapping around your waist again as you cuddled into him.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

You just laid there, wrapped around each other, legs tangled under the blanket, kissing slowly like the world didn’t exist outside these walls.

Eventually, you whispered against his lips, “You still planning to cook for me?”

“Eventually,” he murmured. “But you’re kind of hard to walk away from.” He cupped your cheek and leaned down to kiss along your jaw. 

You smiled, curling into him. “Well that’s good to know…” You giggled, feeling his scruff tickle your neck as he leaned down a little more. 

“Indeed it is,” he said, kissing your shoulder. “Because I think I’m starting to need this. You. Every morning.”

Your heart thudded again — softly this time.

After a few more minutes of lazy kisses and sleepy laughter, the two of you finally dragged yourselves from bed.

The kitchen was a warm haze of golden morning light and buttery air, soft music playing low from the speaker on the counter as you padded in barefoot, wearing one of Harry’s oversized concert tees and the faintest grin.

He was already at the stove — barefoot, shirt still rumpled from sleep, curls messy and perfect as always. The way he moved around the kitchen, flipping French toast in the pan, made it feel like you were watching something private.

He must’ve felt your eyes on him, because without turning, he smirked and said, “Careful, cariño. Keep looking at me like that, and we won’t make it to breakfast.”

You raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the island. “You can’t say that when you’re standing there looking like that. I can’t help myself…” 

“Oh?,” he teased, reaching for the cinnamon. “Are you sayin’ you want me for breakfast, hermosa?”

“I wouldn’t mind a taste…” Then you hopped up onto the counter behind him. The cool marble made you shiver at first, but the way he glanced over his shoulder to look at you — his eyes dragging down your legs and back up again — made your skin warm back up instantly.

He turned the stove on low and a lid on the pan to allow the bacon and eggs to cook before he turned to the counter you were on where there was a cutting board, and started slicing strawberries. 

He began to slice them like the knife was an extension of him, not needing to slow down or readjust. You watched in awe, but then you felt his hand reach for your chin gently. He turned your face toward him and leaned in, giving you a quick, sweet kiss.

Then another, this one longer.

He then pulled back and pressed one on your cheek, just to make you laugh, which you did.

You giggled as he brushed the tip of his nose against yours before going back to slicing like it hadn’t happened. “You taste sweet, baby…”

You hummed contentedly. “And you’re dangerous when you kiss me like that,” you teased.

“Hmm?” he said, licking a bit of syrup from his thumb. “Kiss you like what?” he acted innocent.

“You’re lucky you’re cute...” You tilted your head at him. 

He paused for dramatic effect. “Correction: I’m lucky you think I’m cute.” He went back to the stove to tend the eggs and bacon. 

You chuckled and reached over and stole a strawberry from the bowl, popping it into your mouth just as he flipped another slice of toast, quick so he didn’t see. 

He moved around the kitchen to gather plates, mugs for coffee, and utensils to plate everything up. His hand slid behind your knee, squeezing lightly as he passed, another little touch that made your heart flip.

And then came the icing sugar.

He reached into the cupboard just above your head for a small scoop of icing sugar to dust over the toast. 

He misjudged putting the bag back onto the shelf, and it fell, sending a soft puff of powdered sugar into the air — and directly onto you.

“Oh my goodness—!” You froze, blinking through the fine dust coating your hair and shirt.

Harry’s eyes widened, and then he burst out laughing. “Oh, shit, baby... You okay?”

You looked down at your powdered-sugar-covered lap and slowly narrowed your eyes, a giggle bubbling up. “You did that on purpose!” 

“I swear I didn’t,” he grinned. “But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t kinda adorable.”

You reached up to wipe your cheek, but he caught your hand gently and used his thumb to brush some of the sugar away instead.

“You look like a powdered donut,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “My favorite kind.”

Your laugh turned into a squeal as he brushed more sugar onto your cheek deliberately, and you shoved him in the chest gently, playfully.

“Harry!” you giggled.

“Okay, okay,” he said, still chuckling as he leaned in to kiss the same cheek again. “Truce?”

“Truce,” you huffed, crossing your arms — even as you leaned toward him again, smiling.

He stayed close, his arms slipping around your waist as he stood between your legs, your powdered-sugar truce still hanging in the air like a secret only the two of you shared.

“You’re kind of a menace,” you murmured as you nudged his nose with your own, voice soft but full of amusement.

“And you’re kind of stuck with me now,” he replied, smiling as he moved to kiss just beneath your jaw — gently, almost absentmindedly.

You let your arms fall around his neck, your voice quieter now. “I think I could live with that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a flicker of something more serious in his eyes now — tender, unguarded. 

“Come on,” he said, his voice roughened just a touch. “Let’s eat before I do something stupid and we forget we made breakfast at all.”

You chuckled as he helped you down from the counter, but he didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered at your lower back as he guided you to the table where he’d already set two plates and mugs of fresh coffee.

The two of you sat — barefoot, sugar-dusted, and completely smitten — across from each other in the golden light.

And for a few still, quiet minutes, it was just soft bites of cinnamon and strawberries, toes brushing under the table, and the kind of morning that felt like the beginning of something lasting.

Reader’s POV - 3 days later

The sun had just started to dip below the skyline as you walked the last stretch toward your apartment, phone pressed to your ear, tote bag slung over your shoulder, and your heart somewhere in your throat.

“…And then the kids dragged me into this full-on Barbie war with a lava monster and a wedding all in one,” you said breathlessly, trying not to laugh too hard. “It was absolute chaos. But it was… I don’t know. Kind of perfect?”

Lila’s voice on the other end was warm and amused. “Okay, so let me get this straight. The man not only introduced you to his family’s kids after, like, what? A couple of weeks? But you survived pillow forts, lava weddings, and tickle fights... and now you’re going on an important anniversary family vacation?”

“To the Maldives,” you groaned, letting your head fall back dramatically as you waited for the crosswalk light to change. “Who even lives this kind of life?”

“The Castillo’s do, and now — so do you,” she said, completely unbothered. “This is your life now. Spicy masquerade balls and island getaways with a smart, kind, sexy, charming, family-oriented man who brings you a different kind of flower every time he sees you.”

You blushed, stepping into your building. “When you put it like that, it seems so unreal… like I’m in some dream and need to be pinched.”

“Oh, I’ll volunteer! I’ll pinch you!” she joked.

You laughed, but it faded just a little as you entered your apartment and kicked the door shut behind you. 

You dropped your bag by the door and walked toward your bedroom, grabbing your suitcase from the closet.

“I’m serious, though,” you said, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside it. “It’s all been so… fast. It’s not just that he’s good to me. He’s good. Like, heart-of-gold, make-you-laugh-when-you-want-to-cry, actually-listens kind of good.”

“And that’s scary?” your sister said gently.

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Terrifying. Because I keep waiting for the catch. Like… how could someone like him want someone like me?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end before she said, “You’ve got to stop saying that.”

You ran your hand over your face, voice softening. “But what if his family thinks I’m just some— I don’t know. Some ‘nobody’. Some girl who’s trying to weasel into their rich family. What if they think I’m a gold digger, or not good enough, or—”

You stopped, eyes stinging suddenly, hands pausing over the half-zipped suitcase. That old wave of panic rose hard in your throat. Your breath hitched.

“I’m not polished. I’m not… expensive. I can’t walk into a beachside bungalow and charm a bunch of lawyers and CEOs… or whatever they are. I’m just… me.”

And there it was — the fear, sharp and familiar.

“Sweetheart,” your sister said, her voice steady now. “You’re not some accessory. You’re not some ‘plus one.’ You’re someone he chose and continues to choose every day since you’ve met.”

She softly sighed. “I’ve known Harry for a long time. He isn’t someone to bring just anyone around his family… especially those kids. He invited you because he wants you there. He doesn’t invite you to the work party, or to spend the day with his little niece and nephew because you’re a nobody. Honey — he’s inviting you to his life. You’re everything to him.” 

You didn’t know what to say, you still felt that knot fester deep down.

She tsked, and her tone became somewhat sarcastic. “You think a guy like that lets his nieces and nephews fall in love with someone he’s not serious about?”

You stared at your suitcase, barely packed, your clothes still half-strewn across the bed. Your mind not picking up the sincerity in her talking points.

“But what if I get there and they look at me and just… know I don’t belong?” you muttered.

“Then you smile,” she said softly, “and remind yourself that you do belong. Harry knows you belong… and not because of what you wear or your job — but because he looks at you like you’re his whole world.”

There was a slight pause, then she chuckled, “You knocked that man out of orbit, sweetheart. And no one’s done that to him in the 8 years I’ve known him...”

Your chest felt like it might crack open. You closed your eyes, gripping the edge of your suitcase with one hand.

“Lila… I think I’m falling for him, and that absolutely terrifies me…” You whispered.

“I know,” she replied simply. “I knew before he even took you to the ball,” she shrugged. 

“That late-night phone call was the spark… I saw it.” she smiled. 

You let out a watery laugh, and she let you sit with that quiet for a moment, breathing through the spiral.

Eventually, she said, “You’re going to be okay.”

You nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I think I just needed to hear it.”

“Call me when you finish packing, okay?”

“Okay.”

You hung up and set the phone down, looking at the mess of clothes on your bed — and then at the corner of your dresser, where Harry’s sunflowers still sat in their vase, soft and yellow and blooming.

‘Everything’s going to be ok…’

Harry’s POV 

The dinner table was full of roasted chicken, garlic potatoes, and the unmistakable hum of family energy. Glasses clinked, stories of the last week passed back and forth, and laughter rose in waves across the room. It was comfortable, familiar — except for the knot forming in Harry’s stomach.

He hadn’t told them yet; he hadn’t mentioned it even to Simon. He needed to just get it out to everyone, all at once. Rip off the band-aid. 

He waited until the plates had been cleared, until dessert had been passed — sticky fig cake and scoops of ice cream melting just a little too fast on the warm plates.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to gather everyone’s attention. “I, uh… I have something I want to tell you all...”

Everyone quieted. His mom looked up with soft curiosity, his dad with his usual patient interest. Simon was already grinning like he knew exactly where this was going.

Harry ran a hand through his curls and sat back slightly. “I invited someone to come with me to the Maldives next week.”

Simon’s grin widened. “It’s about damn time you said something.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “Could’ve let me have the moment?” He lightly joked.

“I’m just excited,” Simon said, holding up his hands with a soft smile. “She’s great. And the kids adore her, haven’t stopped asking when they’ll see her next.”

His mom’s eyes lit up. “Oh, mijo, is this the same girl you mentioned last week? Y/N?”

Harry nodded, heart thumping, but steadied by her tone. “Yeah. That’s her.”

His dad leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “The one the little ones have been pretending is already family?” He chuckled. 

Harry gave a short laugh. “That’s the one.”

His dad smiled, nodding thoughtfully. “Well. That’s good. Important that they take a liking to her.”

Simon chimed in, more serious now. “She’s the real deal, Dad. Kind, quick, funny as hell. Handled Savannah’s full Barbie monologue without blinking.”

Harry laughed, remembering. “And the lava monster. Can’t forget that.”

“She didn’t even flinch when she got tackled by both kids at once,” Simon added. “Took it like a pro.” He nudged his brother's arm gently, offering brotherly support. 

“Ella suena encantadora,” (She sounds lovely) their mom said, voice warm. “I can’t wait to meet her properly.”

And then Anne spoke.

Her voice was slow, sharp at the edges. “You’re seriously bringing her? The girl you met at Ben’s wedding?”

The air changed, just slightly.

Harry looked across the table. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Anne blinked, like it was obvious. “Because this is our parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary trip, Harry. It’s not just some casual beach getaway for your little girlfriend and her bikinis to get her ‘tan on’. It’s family.”

“She’s important to me. She’s more than my ‘little girlfriend,’ she’s someone I care deeply about,” he said simply.

Anne’s nose crinkled. “You’ve only been seeing her what, a few weeks? This is all happening so fast. You barely know her.” 

“Fast doesn’t mean wrong,” Harry replied, voice still calm.

Anne scoffed. “Right. And how convenient that she just happens to be single, and suddenly very available to hop on an all-expenses-paid luxury trip. Come on… sounds a lot like a—”

Harry sat up straighter, getting visibly more irritated. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” she went on, undeterred. “We’ve all seen you fall headfirst before. But this? Inviting someone like that to a family event?” She looked to their parents as if expecting backup. “It’s a lot.”

Harry’s dad cleared his throat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Anne, ya es suficiente.” (That’s enough)

She blinked like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“We raised you better than to make assumptions about someone you’ve never met,” their mom added gently, but firmly. “If Harry wants her there, she’s welcome. Fin de la historia.” (End of story)

Anne stared at them like the world had tilted.

“She’s different,” Harry said then, quieter now, but certain. “She’s not like anyone I’ve brought home before. She’s not after money or status.” 

He smiled to himself as he messed with the hem of his shirt, thinking about you. ”Hell, she’s more likely to tease me for a designer label than admire it.”

Their dad let out a short chuckle. “Sounds like someone I’d like.”

“She grounds me,” Harry continued. “She’s down-to-earth, kind, smart, gentle, funny. Being with her feels… easy. Like, I don’t have to prove anything. Like I can just be.” He looked up at Anne, then looked at his parents, his eyes telling just how serious he is. 

Simon nodded, offering a quiet, “It shows, hermano.”

Anne didn’t speak again, just pressed her lips into a thin line and avoided everyone’s gaze until the conversation slowly shifted. 

Dessert finished, wine glasses emptied, and chairs began scraping back from the table — but Harry wasn’t done. He found Anne in the hallway a few minutes later, pulling on her coat.

He approached her, voice low. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

She sighed and turned, arms crossed. “If you’re going to yell at me—”

“I’m not,” he said. “I just want to say… I get it. I know it’s fast. I know it might look crazy from the outside. And I appreciate you worrying about me.”

She looked at him, guarded.

“But she’s different,” he said again. “I’ve never felt more sure about someone. I… I think she’s it for me.”

Anne’s eyes widened. “You’re telling me you love her already?”

He didn’t blink.

“Yeah. And what if I do?” he said. “What’s wrong with that? Dad always says, ‘Cuando es el indicado, simplemente lo sabes’ (When it’s the one, you just know.)” He exhaled. “And I know with her.”

Anne said nothing.

Harry stepped back slightly. “All I’m asking is that you try, give her a chance. I know you’ll love her.” He gave a small smile before he softly sighed.

“Just— don’t make this trip harder than it needs to be. Don’t be cruel or unkind. Because if you say something to hurt her, or embarrass her, or make her feel unwelcome…” 

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “I won’t just be disappointed. I won’t forgive it.”

She looked away.

Harry didn’t wait for her to answer. He just walked back into the house where the warmth still lingered — and where he was already planning how to hold your hand on the plane, on the beach, through every moment — because this wasn’t just some fling.

This was real.

And he wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it.

The house had finally quieted. The dishes were done, the lights dimmed, and the voices of his family had faded into background memory. But Harry couldn’t settle. Not with the way Anne’s words still echoed somewhere deep in his chest.

He stepped out onto the back patio with his phone in hand, the evening breeze cool against his skin, and sat down on the wooden bench near the garden.

He just needed you.

He hit Call before he could second-guess himself. The phone rang twice before your voice picked up, soft and familiar.

“Hey, handsome.”

His shoulders eased at the sound of you. “Hi, querida.”

You smiled quietly on the other end — he could hear it in your voice. “Dinner done?”

“Yeah. Just finished.” He slumped down on the bench and looked up at the sky. “Thought I’d call.”

“I’m glad you did,” you said gently. “How was it?”

He paused. “Honestly? It went well. My mom is thrilled you’re comin’. Simon wouldn’t stop talkin’ about you. The kids have apparently already written you into the family tree.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from you. “I’ll need a framed certificate, then.”

He chuckled, but when the laughter faded, there was a longer silence.

And then you spoke again, your voice more tentative this time.

“Can I say something a little… vulnerable?”

He sat up straighter. “You can say anything.”

There was a pause before your words came out — slow, like you were still working up the nerve.

“I’m really nervous, Harry.”

His smile faded gently, not with worry, but attention. “Tell me why, mi vida.”

“I just… I don’t want to be this awkward outsider on a big family trip,” you murmured. “Like, what if they all look at me and wonder why I’m there? I’m not glamorous or polished. I don’t come from money or… or know how to sail or whatever your family probably does on these getaways.”

He bit his cheek, holding back a smile at the last bit, but the emotion in your voice kept him quiet.

“I’m not flashy. I’m not… impressive,” you said softly. “I’m kind of just… normal. A little boring, maybe. I keep thinking about your parents, your sister… what if I’m not enough for them? What if I don’t fit?”

Harry let the silence stretch for a second longer before speaking, his voice low and steady.

“You know what I told them tonight?”

You didn’t answer, but he knew you were listening.

“I told them you’re grounding,” he said. “That you’re funny, and smart, and the most genuine person I’ve had in my life in a long time. That being around you makes me feel more like… well, me — than I have in years.”

You let out a breath, shaky and small.

“I know it’s easy to spiral,” he added. “But you’re not boring. You’re not ‘just’ anything. You are enough. In every single way. You don’t have to impress anyone — especially not my family. You already have.”

“They haven’t even met me.”

“They know you through how I talk about you. And trust me, I don’t shut up.”

You gave a soft, bashful laugh, and he grinned.

“Besides,” he added, “you’re not going in cold. Simon and the kids adore you. My mom is already picking which seat to save next to you on the plane.”

“I want this to go well,” you whispered. “I want to make a good impression. I want this to matter for all the right reasons.”

“It already matters, mi vida,” he said, and his voice was so certain it made your chest tighten. “You matter. And I’m so damn lucky to have you.”

You didn’t speak for a moment, and he didn’t push. When your voice came again, it was quieter.

“Thanks for saying all that. I don’t always… believe it. But I’m trying.”

He nodded, even though you couldn’t see him. “That’s all I want. Just stay close, and we’ll figure it out… together.”

Another pause. Then, teasing: “So… did you save me any of that fig cake you’ve been goin’ on about?”

Harry let out a relieved laugh. “You’re lucky you’re my girlfriend or I’d lie and say no.”

You giggled. “Oh, only because I’m your girlfriend, huh?”

His voice dropped a little. “Yeah. Well, and I may have other reasons...”

Another silence. A little weightier now — warm, not heavy. Like something unspoken passed between you.

Then, softly: “You also saving me a seat on the plane?”

“Always,” he said. “And a spot next to me at dinner. And a side of the bed. And about a thousand kisses to make up for the ones I’m missing tonight.”

You smiled quietly. “You’re gonna have to fight me for the best side of the umbrella at the beach.”

He chuckled. “Bring it on.”

The conversation softened from there. You exchanged sleepy goodnights and sweet nothings until your voice began to slow, and you said you should get ready for bed.

“You’ll call tomorrow?” you asked softly.

“Always,” he said again. “Sleep well, cariño.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

He waited until you hung up, just to hear that last click, then leaned back on the bench, smiling up at the stars.

Yeah… He was all in.

Even if the words hadn’t been said yet, they were on the tip of his tongue.

And when the moment was right… he knew he’d say them.

A few days later 

The Uber slowed as it approached the gated entrance of the airfield — sleek, quiet, and so unlike the typical chaos of a commercial airport. You glanced out the window in confusion, brows drawing together as you took in the polished tarmac, the gleaming private jet parked not far off, and the luxury SUVs parked neatly in a small lot.

‘This can’t be right. Can it?’

The driver looked back at you with a half-smile. “This is the spot, sweetheart.”

You blinked, double-checking your phone. “I thought we were going to the airport?”

He gestured toward the jet. “Looks like you are. Just… the fancy side.” He grinned. “Flyin’ private, are ya?”

Your heart kicked in your chest. ‘You’ve got to be kiddin’ me…’ 

Of course Harry had mentioned the trip. He’d mentioned family, sun, sand, and a packed resort with bungalows. But this? Flying in a private jet? He left this part out. 

You stepped out slowly, tugging your duffel over your shoulder, fingers tight on the handle of your roller bag. The air was cool, kissed by early morning breeze, and your breath clouded slightly in the quiet.

And then, you saw him.

Harry was near the trunk of one of the SUVs, laughing as his dad tried to get one of his mom’s oversized cases out of the back. Simon was wrangling bags as well. His mom handed Savannah a juice box and knelt down to comb little Harry’s hair back gently. It was barely 7 a.m. and already buzzing with easy, practiced chaos.

But none of that mattered, because as soon as Harry glanced up and spotted you…

He froze — then broke into a grin so wide, so bright, it made your stomach flutter.

“There she is!”

You didn’t have time to process the soft twist in your chest before he was crossing the tarmac toward you, fast and purposeful. And when he reached you, he didn’t hesitate.

He dropped your bag and pulled you into him with a soft “C’mere, carino,” wrapping his arms around your waist as you fell easily into his chest. You barely got a “Hey, you—” out before his lips were on yours.

The kiss was warm, slow, and grounding — not rushed, not over-the-top — but full of something that had been building over the past few days of missed calls, late texts, and long hours apart.

You sighed against him, melting just a little.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi,” you whispered back, smiling so big your cheeks ached.

“Surprise!” he chuckled nodding toward the private jet. 

“You didn’t really think I was gonna make you fly coach?” He grinned.

You laughed, swatting his chest. “You didn’t tell me we were flying private.”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise,” he said, smirking. “Besides…” He tilted his head toward the plane. “There’s even a bed on board. Thought you might want a proper nap since you had an early morning...”

You rolled your eyes, still grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here you are.” he teasingly jabbed.

Before you could fire back, a small voice shouted, “Y/N!!” — and you turned just in time to see little Harry running full speed toward you, light-up sneakers thumping across the tarmac.

You barely had time to drop down lower before he launched into your arms. You caught him easily, hoisting him up with a laugh.

“Whoa! There he is!” you grinned, hugging him close. “I missed you, little man!”

“I missed you too,” he said, clinging to your neck. “Are you sitting by me on the plane?”

“I’d love to,” you said, pulling back just enough to ruffle his hair. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Harry stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching you with that look again — the one he always gave you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Full of something soft and deep.

His mum noticed too, nudging her husband as they both looked on. Simon smirked knowingly.

Harry shook his head slowly, still staring at you. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You blushed under his gaze, even as little Harry wiggled in your arms and pointed toward the jet. “There’s snacks on there! And games too!”

You laughed. “Well, that settles it. Best travel buddy ever.”

As you set him down, Harry came over and laced his fingers through yours again. “C’mon,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the chaos.”

His hand never left yours as he led you across the sun-washed tarmac. Despite the early hour, the air held a crisp brightness that sharpened every sound — Savannah squealing over snacks, luggage wheels humming over concrete as staff loaded up the plane.

And then, ahead, you saw her.

Lucia, Harry’s mom, stood in a pair of white linen pants and a lavender scarf looped loosely at her neck. She looked elegant in the effortless way some women are — like grace came built into her bones. Her eyes, however, were what struck you first: warm, sharp, deeply knowing.

She stepped forward with a smile already blooming. “You must be Y/N.”

You managed to nod before she pulled you into a soft, firm hug, motherly in a way that made your chest ache.

“It’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” she said as she pulled back, brushing a stray piece of your hair from your face in a gesture so natural and effortless it startled you.

“I— thank you,” you said with a bashful smile. “I’m so happy to be here. It’s so lovely to meet Harry’s family.”

Lucia turned slightly, glancing at Harry with a soft smirk. “Ella es preciosa. Y te mira como si fueras el único en la habitación. Ya veo por qué la miras como si fuera la indicada.” 

You didn’t catch every word, but the look on Harry’s face told you enough — cheeks flushed, his jaw shifting like he was trying to stop a grin.

You squinted at him, amused. “Care to translate?”

Harry cleared his throat. “She thinks you’re pretty.”

Lucia arched a brow, then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in your ear, “What I said was: you’re beautiful. And the way you look at my son… I see why he looks at you like you’re the one.”

You felt your breath catch slightly and your cheeks turn warm.

Lucia pulled back, smiling knowingly. “We’re so glad you came, hermosa.”

Just as you were recovering, another voice spoke up beside you.

“Rafael,” said Harry’s father, extending a hand. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a quiet steadiness to him. Harry and Simon had a likeness to him, and both possessed his calm energy.

You shook his hand, firm and warm. “It’s so nice to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure’s ours,” Rafael said, his voice low and calm. “Harry hasn’t stopped talking about you since your sister’s wedding.”

Harry cleared his throat softly, becoming shy. “Papa...”

“I’m just saying,” Rafael said, nudging his son. “When someone brings peace back into your life, you don’t let them go unnoticed.”

You blinked at that, your chest tightening a little as the words landed deeper than you expected.

Simon approached with a smile, and after quick hugs and greetings, he gestured toward the girl standing behind him.

“And this is Lindee,” he said gently. “She’s still waking up, but she’s excited to meet you.”

Lindee gave a small wave, her oversized Taylor Swift hoodie swallowing her hands. Her sneakers shuffled against the pavement, hiding behind her dad’s leg.

You crouched to her level, letting the buzz of introductions pause for a moment. “Hi, Lindee.” You lightly tugged on her hoodie, her attention falling towards your hand. “You know, that’s my favorite album of hers...”

Her eyes lit up instantly, moving out from behind her dad.

“You like Taylor Swift?” she asked, more hopeful than surprised.

“Love her,” you grinned. “I almost wore my ‘Cruel Summer’ shirt today, but figured I should try to look a bit more professional…” You put a hand by your mouth and said quieter to be silly, “You know, meeting your grandparents and all.” You winked. 

Lindee giggled. “I made friendship bracelets for the plane…”

“Okay, that officially makes you the coolest person I’ve met all week.” You smiled.

Harry watched the exchange with a soft smile — a quiet wonder in his chest he couldn’t name yet. But before he could say anything, a hand landed gently on his shoulder.

“Camina conmigo, hijo...” (Walk with me, son) Rafael murmured.

They stepped aside, leaving you still chatting with Lindee.

“She’s kind,” Rafael said, glancing back at you, then back at his son. “Easy to talk to. Grounded.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice rougher than he intended. “She really is.”

Rafael nodded slowly. “She’s good for you. And you’re better with her.”

Harry swallowed and looked at the ground, then up again. “Thanks, Papa.”

“I mean it,” Rafael added. “It’s a good thing she’s coming.”

Harry nodded again, and for the first time since Anne’s words back at the house, he felt a real sense of calm settle in his chest.

When he returned to you, he found you mid-laugh with Lindee and his mom. You looked up at him with warmth in your eyes that nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He slipped an arm around your waist and murmured, “You’re fitting in a little too well.”

You smirked, resting your hand on his chest. “Isn’t that what you were hoping for?”

He grinned. “You’ve always exceeded my expectations.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned in anyway, brushing your lips against his cheek. “Lucky you, then.”

Just as the luggage was being finished and everyone was prepping to board the plane, you glanced toward Harry, then reached into your personal tote and gently pulled out a slim, carefully wrapped box.

The wrapping paper was simple — elegant gold with a white ribbon tied neatly at the center. You turned toward Lucia and Rafael, your nerves fluttering just slightly.

“I hope this isn’t overstepping,” you began softly, stepping toward them, “but I wanted to give you something. I know this trip is for your anniversary, and I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

Lucia blinked, clearly surprised. Rafael straightened beside her.

Harry turned, hearing your words and pausing mid-sentence with Simon.

You held out the box. “It’s nothing extravagant, just something small I thought you might like.”

Lucia exchanged a glance with Rafael and took it delicately, untying the ribbon.

Inside was a hand-bound leather photo album, the cover embossed with their initials and the number “40” in small gold lettering. Inside, you’d added a few pages to start — a photo of Harry as a kid that Simon had posted recently (you’d secretly saved it), a printout of the photo from the aquarium you snuck where Harry sat by the touchpool with the two kids in his arms, and a note written on the first page:

“Here’s to forty years of love, family, and the stories still to come. Thank you for letting me be a small part of the next chapter.”

Lucia’s hand came to her heart as she smiled down at the book, tears just beginning to glisten in her eyes. Rafael ran a finger down the spine of the leather, his lips twitching into something warm and stunned.

“Oh, mi amor…” Lucia whispered, looking at Rafael, then Harry, then finally you.

She turned to Harry and said softly, her voice full of emotion, “Mira lo que ha hecho. Qué mujer tan considerada.” (Look what she’s done. What a thoughtful woman.)

Harry blinked, his throat tight. “You got them a gift?” he whispered to you, stepping closer.

You shrugged gently, cheeks flushed. “Just a small thing. I figured, if I’m going to crash their family trip, I should at least show up with a peace offering.” you lightly joked. 

He laughed softly, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and burying his face briefly in your shoulder. “You continue to amaze me…”

Lucia stepped forward and hugged you again — firmer this time. “This means the world to us, cariño.”

“It was nothing, really,” you murmured, surprised and touched by how moved she seemed.

Rafael smiled, looking to Harry. “Has encontrado uno bueno, mijo.” (You’ve found a good one)

Harry chuckled, clearly flustered and proud all at once. “Yes, I have.”

Lucia wiped her eyes and turned to Simon, showing him the album. Lindee leaned in next, already asking if she could help add things to the empty pages.

The jet hummed softly around you, the world outside reduced to a blue-white haze as clouds stretched endlessly beneath the wings. The interior was dimmed to a gentle glow — overhead lights soft, windows partially closed to lull everyone into mid-flight calm.

You’d dozed for a while, curled up next to Harry, your head tucked against his shoulder as he ran lazy fingers up and down your arm. But eventually, as the hours passed and your internal clock had no idea what time it really was, you stirred.

Harry kissed your hair. “Hungry?”

“Only if there’s more of that lemon shortbread your mom snuck into my breakfast box.”

He smirked. “I think there’s a secret stash in the galley. I’ll go check.”

He left you smiling in your seat as you stretched and looked around — most of the family asleep or reading. Simon snored faintly two rows up; Savannah sprawled over his lap. Little Harry was curled up with a tablet in oversized headphones next to Liv.

You wandered forward and found Lucia and Rafael sitting at a quiet table near the front, mugs of tea between them, a deck of cards half-played and forgotten.

Lucia looked up and waved you over. “Come sit, cariño. You must be bored of my boy by now.”

You laughed softly and eased into the open seat. “Never. But I figured I’d give him a break from being used as a pillow.”

Rafael chuckled. “He always was a cuddler. Even as a kid.”

You smiled. “He still is.”

Lucia leaned her cheek into her hand, observing you. “So tell us — what do you do when you're not making our son moon-eyed and distracted?”

You blushed, laughing. “I uhm, I work at the Ritz. I’m the manager there. I’ve been there for roughly 8 years… but I’ve worked mostly in hospitality outside of there.”

“Ah, I knew I recognized you from somewhere! I must’ve seen you when I stayed there for a conference last year,” Rafael noted, sipping his tea.

You smiled and nodded politely, “That’s likely a possibility.” 

Lucia said warmly. “We’d love to know more about you — especially what you see in our boy.”

You blinked, then laughed softly as you looked down at your hands for a moment shyly. “That sounds like a trick question.”

Rafael smiled behind his teacup. “It might be.”

Lucia’s gaze softened. “We’re not interrogating you — just curious. He’s been different since meeting you. Lighter.”

You swallowed and tucked your hands in your lap, thoughtful for a moment. “Honestly, it all started pretty unexpectedly. We were paired up — best man and maid of honor at my sister’s wedding. I didn’t really think much of it at first, but... from the second we were walking down the aisle together, he wouldn’t stop making me laugh.” You blushed to yourself thinking back to that day. 

You looked at them, face bright. “And after that... we just never really stopped talking.”

You smiled to yourself. “It’s like we found each other at the right time, even if we weren’t looking.”

Lucia exchanged a quiet glance with Rafael, who gave a nod of approval. She leaned in just a little. “And what do you like about him? Besides his marrón grande eyes, of course.” She lightly joked. 

You laughed and glanced down shyly. “He’s... generous. In many ways… not just with items or gifts — though, I won’t lie, I love the flowers.” you looked up at them, your cheeks pink. 

“Flowers?” Rafael asked.

You nodded, blushing deeper. “He gets me a new kind of flower every time we’ve seen each other...” 

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too much. “When he first surprised me at work, he asked me what my favorite flower was and well — I’m not sure of what type is honestly — so he’s just made it a point to get new ones each time, try to find my favorite.” you looked down shyly and tucked your hair behind your ear. 

“I’ve never had that before. That kind of steady attention. He listens. He shows up.” You looked up at them again, eyes soft, adoring.

Lucia smiled slowly, a warmth building in her expression. “That sounds like our Harry.”

“He makes me feel safe. And chosen. And I don’t think I realized how much I needed that until him.”

There was a pause, one you didn’t quite know how to fill.

Then Rafael asked gently, “And what do you want from this? From being with him?”

You blinked — surprised by the question, but not offended. If anything, it felt like a test you didn’t mind taking.

You met their eyes, your voice quiet but sure. “I want something real. I’ve had enough of things that burn out fast or fall apart. I want someone to build a life with. To laugh with when life gets messy. To be vulnerable with when I’m scared or insecure. I want a partner who chooses me on the hard days too — not just the good ones.”

You looked between them, letting the truth of it hang in the air. “I want someone to grow a life with. And I feel like I could have that with your son…”

Lucia’s lips parted slightly in surprise, her hand moving to cover Rafael’s on the table. Rafael nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful, pleased.

“Thank you,” Lucia said softly. “For being honest.”

“Ella es buena,” (She’s a good one), Rafael said to his wife, then looked at you. “We’re glad you’re here… happy to get to know you more this week.”

After the two of them shared a couple of embarrassing stories about Harry, they stood to excuse themselves, leaving you to sit alone. 

Across the aisle, you spotted Lindee sitting alone at a small table near the window, her bracelet kit open, a few colorful strands already knotted halfway.

You stood and walked over. “Need a co-designer?”

She looked up and brightened immediately. “Yes! I was trying to make one that says ‘Vacation Mode’ but I think I spelled ‘mode’ wrong.”

You sat beside her, laughing gently. “Let’s fix it. You handle the colors, I’ll do the letters.”

For a while, it was just thread, whispered jokes, and concentration. But eventually, her fingers slowed.

“Do you think I’m gonna ruin it?” she asked suddenly, voice low.

You blinked, surprised. “Ruin what?”

“The trip. The whole thing. Everyone’s being really nice and careful, but it’s like they’re all waiting for something bad to happen.” She swallowed, looking down at her hands. “After the seizure… everyone has been so nervous… so scared.”

Your heart tugged. “I’m sure that was a scary thing to have happen,” you said softly. “But not because you did anything wrong. No one’s waiting for something bad to happen. They’re just trying to take care of you, make sure you’re safe.”

She nodded slowly. “I don’t want to be the reason people miss out.”

You shifted slightly to face her. “Lindee, listen to me — this trip isn’t about perfection. It’s about family. And families show up for each other no matter what. If something happens, it won’t ruin anything. It’ll just remind everyone why being together matters.”

Lindee sniffled quietly and nodded. “Okay.”

You smiled and held up the bracelet. “Also, look at this masterpiece. You’re a creative genius!”

She grinned, wiping her cheek. “Want one that says your name?”

“I’d be honored. Can I make one that says yours?”

Unbeknownst to you, Harry had returned with shortbread in hand and paused when he spotted the two of you. Lucia stood just behind him, equally silent.

They watched as you reached over to tie the bracelet around Lindee’s wrist, brushing her hair back gently.

“She’s a good one mijo,” Lucia whispered.

Harry nodded, his throat thick. “Yeah. She really is.”

Lucia leaned close, voice even softer. “So... it’s serious, isn’t it?”

Harry glanced sideways. “Yeah. It is.”

Lucia smiled knowingly, then tilted her head. “Your brother says you think she’s the one, is that true?”

He blinked. “Yeah, I believe she is”

Lucia glanced up at him. “We asked her what she wanted from this — from being with you.”

He tensed slightly. “Mamá…” he groaned. The last thing he wanted you to feel was interrogated. 

“She wasn’t rattled,” Lucia said gently. “She didn’t flinch. She said she wanted something real. Steady. That she wants someone who chooses her even when it’s hard.”

Harry’s heart pulled taut in his chest.

“She said she wants to build a life with someone. Said she feels she could have that with you, mijo.”

He exhaled shakily. “She said that?”

Lucia nodded and leaned up to kiss his cheek, then cupped it like she did when he was a child. “She loves you, mi amor. Maybe she hasn’t said it out loud yet, but she’s already living like she does.”

Harry swallowed hard, his gaze locked on you now. The way you laughed when Savannah dropped her bead tray. The way Lindee leaned on your shoulder, and you didn’t move an inch.

“Yo también la amo, mamá.” (I love her too) He said simply, surely, with zero hesitation in his voice. 

He looked back at her, smiling, his eyes softening, “Robaría la luna y las estrellas para ella.” (I’d steal the moon and stars for her)

She nodded and cupped his other cheek to hold his face in her hands. “

Just by that sentence alone, she knew you were the one, and her son had found the one.

Harry smiled, hearing you giggle with Lindee, and stepped forward, dropping the shortbread onto the table between you and Lindee.

“How are my two of my favorite girls?”

You looked up and grinned. “Good.”

Lindee held up one of the bracelets in the small pile. “We made one that says ‘Uncle H’ for you!”

He chuckled, sitting down next to you. “I love it! Can I make one too?” 

Lindee gleefully handed her supplies over and helped her uncle make his own Taylor Swift while the two of you educated him on the Eras of her albums.

He sat there with a twinkle in his eye and truly couldn’t be any happier. 

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[vampiriito]

Pillow talk and pleading the fifth amendment (r.c flashback)

(JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom..

warnings; mentions of drug use, over-dosing? (not quite), me losing the plot lowkey, mentions of troubled family life, (please don't hate me for this chapter i promise the plot is going somewhere.)

Rafe hated the Cut. Hated the trailer park trash that always gawked at his SUV whenever he pulled up for a drop. He made a habit of keeping his interactions with Barry as short as possible. Classism, for him, was less about superiority and more a defense mechanism—a way to cover up the gnawing jealousy he felt toward the recklessness pogues lived with. That dangerous kind of freedom that came from having nothing to lose.

He learned that from you.

You were always in his orbit, whether he liked it or not—Sarah’s best friend, the one always hanging around the Cameron estate like you owned the damn place. It started with the way you'd linger in the pool, shameless in the way you’d swim and sunbathe like it was your home. It probably ended last night. You, in that barely-there vampire costume, looking like a bad decision wrapped in cheap lace and glitter. And then there was the after—after he’d hate-fucked you into the mattress only for something softer to slip through in the comedown. Something far more dangerous. Something that stung worse than a bullet wound—something he'd had the misfortune of feeling both.

You were a storm. He’d point you out in crowds just to mock you with his friends—“that one,” he’d say, “made for party-girl shit.” All smudged mascara, thrifted clothes soaked in body glitter, cheap vodka on your breath. Armor. He knew it. Knew it covered something broken underneath. But that first night you agreed to sleep with him, you didn’t act broken. You were magnetic. And while you were stuck feeling guilty for letting it happen, he was already thinking about how to get you into his bed again.

Luck was on his side. You were in love with someone else—a guy who had a girlfriend. Your best friend. The one who treated you like a sister while trailing after Kiara like a lost dog. Your stupid little heartbreak story sent you spiraling, and you landed in Rafe’s bed like it was where you were always meant to end up.

Rafe was a strong man. He’d had plenty of girls—one-nighters, married women, even two girlfriends at once. Love and sex were background noise to him. A vice, like alcohol. Something to take the edge off. But you—fuck, you were coke. The addiction he hated but kept close anyway, tucked away in drawers and behind locked doors. Just like you.

Naturally, he hated you. You were from the wrong side of the island. Loud-mouthed, sharp-tongued, angry in the same ways he was. And yet he was getting attached. Quietly. Pathetically. He’d rather cut his own head off than admit he’d grown to tolerate you—maybe even like you. Maybe the way he touched you during sex gave it away, maybe his tone slipped sometimes. But he was always high enough to ignore it. And so were you. Until those two times you showed up sober. And he felt it—how the intimacy ate away at you, twisted itself with guilt. And in the worst, most Rafe way possible, he reveled in it.

But you were beautiful. And no man—least of all Rafe Cameron—was built strong enough to survive the full impact of beauty and anger combined. If there was anyone on this island weak enough to beat the shit out of someone for you, to stay up all night taking care of you after you got spiked at a party—it was him. And somewhere along the line, he stopped searching for you in crowds just to laugh.

Now, he looked for you because he wanted you to look back. Because usually, it meant you were bitter enough to let him inside you. And fuck, that was his favorite feeling these days. Second only to coke. Or maybe they were tied for first—he couldn’t really decide, not after you'd let him snort a line off your tits, skin still warm from the anger and lust coursing through your veins.

He thought about it now, standing outside Barry’s trailer, enduring the wait like it was some sick form of penance. The heat was unbearable—thick and clinging to his skin, making his polo stick to his back like a second, sweat-soaked layer. It was made worse by the rot of the Cut itself—the muddy stench of marsh, the sharp tang of rusted metal, the musty funk of damp plywood and moldy insulation. It all fused together into something that made his stomach turn, a reminder he didn’t belong here, not really. Even after all this time.

He was leaning against the passenger door of his SUV, lazily scanning the trailer park like he wasn’t seething inside, already regretting not sending someone else to pick up. And that’s when he saw you.

You were a ways off, just far enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he knew the shape of your body like the back of his hand by now. Legs stretched out on a sun-bleached lawn chair in front of your sad little trailer, which you so generously referred to as a yard. Bikini barely hanging on, skin slick with sunscreen, earbuds in, sunglasses on—completely unaware that he was watching.

You glistened.

And Rafe—God help him—leaned forward slightly like an idiot, squinting past his Ray-Bans as if getting a few inches closer might let him drink in more of you. You looked unreal. Mouth-watering. If he were any closer, he might’ve dropped to his knees just to get a better look. He moved his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, like some parody of a high school jock ogling the prom queen. He was disgusting. He knew it.

But so were you. That’s what made this whole thing feel fair.

He watched as you shifted positions on the chair, angling your head up to the sky, eyes closed behind mirrored lenses. He wanted to reach out and taste the sweat-slick slope of your neck—the dip of your collarbones. He wanted to feel all that sticky sunscreen under his palms, wanted to hear the sharp exhale and sigh when you opened your eyes and found him lingering. He wanted to see your shock.

But you didn’t see him. He watched as you shifted around on the chair, like you were struggling with your headphones. And then he thought about walking over there.

He wanted to feel your heartbeat under his palm—wanted to feel it jump at the realization you’d been watched. He didn’t think about what would come after. He didn’t think about what would happen when you got angry, which would inevitably turn him on. He didn’t think about the fact that you were the reason he was standing outside this shitty, trash-infested trailer park—didn’t think about the fact that he’d never once before been this desperate for somebody. He just thought about walking over there and getting you to look at him.

The screen door of the trailer slammed shut, and he looked straight ahead, gaze locking on your younger brother as he ambled to the lawn chair, plopping down into the seat beside yours. You didn’t even look up. He tried to imagine what your brother’s voice sounded like, but he’d never spoken a single word to the guy. He watched as your brother reached over and tapped your shoulder, said something you didn’t hear due to your earphones. You finally opened your eyes, glancing over at your brother, speaking a few words back before reaching up and pulling your headphones off.

Your expression was solemn, unexpectedly soft as you pushed the cheap sunglasses up onto your head, fingers threading gently through your younger brother’s hair. Rafe couldn’t hear what you were saying—not from where he stood, not over the barking dogs, the buzz of old radios, and the muffled arguments bleeding from cracked trailer windows—but he didn’t need to. The way your lips moved, the way you tilted your head just slightly, like you were trying to protect him from something only you understood, said enough. He hadn’t even known you had a younger brother. And he sure as hell had never seen you like that—soothing, maternal, smiling in a way that wasn’t bitter or taunting, just… warm.

You looked like the perfect fucking picture of an older sister. It should’ve been disarming, maybe even charming. But instead it messed with his head more than he liked. Especially because you were still lounging there in that absurdly small bikini—stars and stripes stretched tight across your chest and hips, and he knew damn well you didn’t give a shit about patriotism. It was probably just the cheapest thing on sale at that trashy lingerie place a few blocks away, the one with flickering neon lights and busted mannequins in the front window.

He felt something in his chest that he had no name for. Something he hated. He felt like an outsider, staring at you through a window, not a part of your world. For the first time, even seeing you in a place like this, he couldn’t think of a single derogatory nickname. He felt… vulnerable, somehow. Like he’d been cut open. Like he was nothing more than a man with too much anger and a heart that bled just enough to be lethal. He didn’t like the feeling, not one bit.

You said something to your brother—something that was probably kind. Something that was probably meant to comfort, or calm him down, or offer some sort of reassurance. Rafe didn’t try and listen or read your lips to figure out what. He was more focused on the fact that you could actually be nice. That you weren’t all harsh edges. That maybe, just maybe, there was some good in you. It was a strange, disorienting thought.

But he got stuck on it anyway—on you. Even as the screen door of your trailer flung open with a violent creak and your mother barreled out two minutes later like she’d been lying in wait for a fight. She was older, but it was hard to place exactly how old. Maybe in her forties, maybe barely past thirty. Women in the Cut aged differently. Stress and cigarette smoke had a way of settling into skin like premature rot. Her bleach-blonde hair was piled messily on top of her head, dark roots bleeding out like a warning sign, and every step she took down those flimsy metal stairs looked like it was powered by rage.

Rafe could tell she was trying to keep her voice down—probably didn’t want the entire neighborhood hearing whatever filth she was spitting—but it didn’t matter. The venom in her posture did most of the talking. And yet, Rafe wasn’t sure what distracted him more: the ugly, unfolding scene or the fact that you’d stood up now, your bikini riding high on your hips, thighs tense, back straight as you stared her down with all the quiet fury she deserved. He felt torn—his eyes flicking between your ass and the fire building in your expression.

Your little brother clung tighter to your side, clearly used to this routine. You didn’t even flinch, just curled your arm around his shoulders and kept your fingers threading through his hair like it was the one anchor you could still offer him. You were shielding him—not just from her words, but from the attention, the shame. Your voice was sharp now, no longer inaudible, cutting through the trailer park air in short, furious snaps as you argued back.

Whatever she said next made your expression flicker, just for a second. Not fear. Not weakness. Something deeper. Something that made Rafe’s gut twist without knowing why. You said something back that made her scoff, loud and bitter, then spin on her heel and disappear back into the trailer, slamming the screen door behind her like it owed her money.

Rafe realized he’d been holding his breath. Still leaning against the SUV, one hand on the roof, the other twitching at his side. You didn’t see him—too caught up in crouching next to your brother now, brushing hair off his forehead, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear. You looked tired. Not just physically, but in that quiet, bone-deep way that Rafe only recognized because he’d seen it in his own reflection once or twice after a bender.

And fuck if it didn’t gut him a little. Because this wasn’t the version of you he liked to laugh at. This wasn’t the glitter-smudged party girl with a sharp tongue and too many opinions. This was the version of you he wasn’t supposed to see. The kind that made him forget every reason he’d ever convinced himself he hated you.

And it made him want to hurt something. Or someone. Maybe himself.

He wanted to kick himself for looking. He shouldn’t have looked. He should’ve just kept waiting for the coke and driven home, where he could get high and forget every single thing he’d seen. Instead, he pushed himself off the car like an idiot—like a stupid, stupid idiot—and started marching forward. There was probably a reason his mother taught him to stop and think before acting. It never ended well. And right now, Rafe looked like he was itching for a fight. He felt like he was itching to break something. Or someone.

It wasn’t until he was standing a few feet away that your brother’s gaze flicked up, eyes widening as if he’d just realized the strange guy in expensive clothes had seen the whole thing. The look on the kid’s face was all the explanation Rafe really needed, and the thought came quickly:

I hate this place. I hate this trailer park. I hate that I’ve just seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

He hated it. He hated the poverty. He hated the trash. He hated your mother. He hated every dirty second of this.

A part of Rafe wanted to storm back to his car and tear ass out of the trailer park as fast as possible, like somehow that would make him forget what he’d just seen. He wanted to go home, get high, climb into bed, and pretend this shitty little neighborhood existed in a different universe. It would be easier that way.

But what he wanted and what he felt were two totally different things. And right now, he was feeling a whole lot of things. Anger. Disgust. Discomfort. Dislocation. Disgust at himself. Dislocation in this godforsaken place. Discomfort at the raw, naked memories your fight with your mother had managed to drag to the surface.

And anger. Always anger. At the world in general. But right now, it was anger at your mother. At you. Like it was your fault he’d gone and seen something he shouldn’t have—something you would’ve never shown.

The anger boiled hotter in his chest as his gaze snapped from your brother to the screen door, which banged open again—louder this time, like it had had enough of the dysfunction it had to frame. One more outburst and the damn thing would fly clean off its hinges, Rafe thought. But it wasn't your mother coming out this time, not at first. It was some guy. Her flavor of the month, by the looks of him. Probably late twenties, early thirties, barely older than Rafe himself but already worn down in the way people from the Cut often were—too many smokes, too many fights, too many failed get-rich-quick schemes staining his hands and breath.

He stood behind your mother, shirtless, smug, beer in one hand, the other hanging at his side like it was just waiting for an excuse. And then his eyes landed on you—lingering, slow, and lecherous in a way that made Rafe’s stomach turn violently. It wasn’t a glance, it was a fucking appraisal. He looked at your bikini-clad body like it belonged to him. Like he’d already thought about peeling it off you. And it took everything in Rafe not to move.

His jaw tensed so hard he swore he heard something crack. His hand twitched at his side again, itching toward the switchblade tucked in his back pocket—not because he planned on using it, but because the grounding weight of it reminded him he could. He could storm across that busted fence, drag the guy down the steps by his greasy ponytail, and make sure he never looked at you again.

But he didn’t. He stayed right where he was—rooted at the flimsy gate to your yard, stuck somewhere between predator and coward, pride and concern. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing anymore. The coke was the reason he was here. That was it. That was supposed to be it. Pick up from Barry, drive back, ignore the filth clinging to his clothes and the way his lungs always felt heavy after stepping foot on this part of the island. But now he was watching this play out like it was a fucking TV show, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t move forward. Couldn’t walk back.

And it was you who froze him. You—hands on your little brother’s shoulders, shielding him again, standing between him and your mother’s latest mistake like a human wall. You were speaking through your teeth now, voice low but dangerous, chin raised in defiance that didn’t match the dread Rafe saw tightening your body. You weren’t scared for yourself. You were scared for the kid clinging to your side.

And that did something to Rafe. Twisted something inside him that had already been straining under the weight of his own damage. He shouldn’t care. He fucking shouldn’t. But he did. Enough to stay longer. Enough to let the sun cook his skin and his temper just a little more as he stared down a man he knew he’d see in his dreams later, face bloodied and broken at his feet.

He stayed there, watching it play out. Listening to the man behind your mother slur insults like he was throwing back whiskey.

When the guy leaned back against the door frame behind him, sucking on his cigarette like he owned your entire property, like the trailer, the yard, and especially you, were his to do as he pleased, Rafe thought about killing him. He could do it. He could do it without breaking a sweat. He’d have never felt better. He’d had the same fantasy about your mother, too. But his eyes were locked on yours now. Watching your face. And he couldn’t look away. Even as the dread in your eyes turned to anger. He almost smiled at the way you’d suddenly transformed from weary to wildfire. It was fascinating in a way. Even if he’d only seen this version of you a few times before. Even if it wasn’t the version he liked to think about. It was like watching you suddenly go feral-—like there was this animal lurking deep down, only kept under the surface by some frayed leash.

And yet he still wanted to stay. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was that same twisted, dark fascination he often felt when watching the trainwrecks that littered his own life. But the other possibility… that was more uncomfortable. Less understandable. It made the back of his neck prickle in a way he didn’t want to think about. So he did the only thing that had worked for him before—he turned off his thoughts. Let his brain go blank. Drowned out the sound of your raised voice and the sound of his own thoughts. Just stood there. Just watched. Just waited.

He felt stupid standing there, stupid watching this play out like it was some reality TV show or an interactive performance. But his legs stayed rooted, and his mind stayed empty as he watched your mother lean into the door frame, eyes flicking over to the guy leaning heavily against the trailer like he had no bones, cigarette dangling from his fingers. She seemed to be looking for backup. Looking for approval. Some kind of validation from the guy who had left behind a trail of skid marks and beer cans to get here.

Rafe’s temper flickered again as he saw the gleam of satisfaction in the guy’s eyes. He couldn’t look away now. It was like watching vultures circle around a dying bird. He felt sick to his stomach as the smirk on the guy’s face morphed into a greasy smile, and he leaned in to whisper in your mother’s ear. You were still yelling, screaming almost, hands clenched at your sides so hard that your knuckles had turned white. It made him hate you. It made him hate your mother. It made him hate the way the kid at your side flinched away from the commotion he usually grew up with. The feeling drowning the anxiety he was supposed to feel once you, your mother or dead-beat boyfriend would inevitably notice him standing there like an idiot.

You were in the middle of biting out another warning, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, when your little brother tugged lightly at your wrist. You glanced down briefly, saw the way his eyes were fixed on something just to the side, brows drawn in confusion. You turned slightly, expecting another nosy neighbor or maybe Barry looking to get involved again—but instead, your gaze collided with him.

Rafe Cameron.

Leaning against the rusting chain-link gate like he owned the place. Still as stone, arms crossed lazily over his chest, one foot pressed back against the gate as if he hadn’t just watched your family drama unfold in real time. But his eyes—those unreadable, ocean-blue eyes—were trained directly on you, not a single flinch of embarrassment or shame for getting caught. Just calm, controlled heat. The kind that made your mouth go dry even though your entire body was flushed with humiliation.

Your stomach dropped. You had no idea how long he’d been standing there. Long enough, clearly. Long enough to have seen your mom screaming and the beer-soaked bastard behind her giving you the kind of look that made your skin crawl. And long enough to see you play the parent for a kid who still hadn’t let go of your wrist.

"Are you fucking serious—" you muttered under your breath, blinking like he might disappear if you looked away.

But he didn’t. He just tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his lashes. Not smug. Not entertained. Just… watching. Like this had all been inevitable. Like he’d been waiting for the curtain to drop.

Your mom followed your gaze instinctively. “What the fuck now—” she started, before trailing off at the sight of the Kook prince himself. Her face went through about three different expressions before landing somewhere between irritation and sharp interest, brushing her fingers through her fried hair like she suddenly gave a damn about appearances.

“Isn’t that Ward Cameron’s boy?” her voice cooed, suddenly too sweet, and Rafe’s jaw twitched at the sound of it. His eyes never left yours. He didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t blink. Just stood there like a storm waiting to happen.

“Go inside,” you told your brother quietly, nudging him toward the steps without taking your eyes off Rafe. “Now.”

Your mom was already halfway to turning into her flirtiest self, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her too-tight tank top, but your tone cut through her like a slap. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It was the kind of sharp that made people obey, especially when it came from you.

And still, Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited. Waited to see if you’d walk to him or pretend like he hadn’t seen every vulnerable, unvarnished piece of your life you never meant for anyone like him to know.

His body tensed almost imperceptibly as your brother disappeared back into the trailer, but he could still feel the heat of his eyes on him through the screen door.

Something twisted deep in his gut as he forced himself to stay still, forced his gaze to remain focused on your face. His fingers dug into his own arms. The taste of anger and humiliation and disgust was all mingled in his mouth now. The guy behind your mother was still looking at your back like you were a piece of meat, and Rafe wanted to knock the teeth right out of his mouth.

He heard your mother’s voice, too sweet and high-pitched and fake, but he didn’t look at her. He just kept his gaze fixed on you, watching your shoulders tense like you were about to face down a storm. He saw the way you looked, eyes like fire and heart pounding in your clenched fists. He saw the way your mother smiled like she’d just won the damn lottery, not even noticing the threat in your eyes.

And he held his breath like he’d never need to breathe again.

He felt your anger like waves crashing on a shore, the tension in your body so hot and powerful he swore he could see the sparks of electricity flashing underneath your skin. It was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. More than the money. More than the parties. More than the drugs. Even in the middle of a shitty trailer park, with your hair in a tangled mess and your face contorted in fury, you’d never been more beautiful. It made his chest hurt.

He was barely breathing now. If it was possible, he was standing even more still, barely blinking. He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t look in your mother’s direction. He just stood there, trying to look casual and failing, like some kind of human statue. Watching you. Watching everything.

It felt like he might snap. Like he might step forward, maybe grab you by the wrist. Maybe storm across the yard and—he wasn’t sure what. He kept his feet glued to the ground, the anger in his lungs turning into something more like anticipation.

You stared back, the fury and everything in between coiling with the shame you felt. At the fact that out of everyone on this godforsaken planet, Rafe Cameron had to be the one to witness your trailer park fights with your tipsy mom, in a cheap, laughable bikini. A sight he only got to see on TV. Something he'd probably skip on Netflix—like another season of Shameless or whatever else the world liked to gawk at and pretend wasn’t real for people like you.

You wanted the ground to split open. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the ugly, clumsy way things happened in your life. Like maybe the porch would cave in and crush your mother’s boyfriend. Or maybe a power line would snap and knock you out cold. Anything but this—the stillness, the silence, the slow bleed of humiliation.

There was a brief pause. Your mom and her boyfriend lingered behind you like shadows, still buzzing with the energy of the fight, but even they seemed to sense the tension tightening the air. You waited. Braced yourself. For the smirk. The laugh. Some drawled-out insult dressed up in that clipped, condescending tone only Rafe Cameron had mastered.

But he never spoke.

He just stared. Bored. Detached. His weight shifted against the gate a fraction, but the rest of him stayed maddeningly still. Like he was watching the last few moments of a movie he didn’t care about, waiting for the credits to roll. And maybe that hurt more than whatever insult you’d been bracing for. Maybe that dead-eyed disinterest felt worse than cruelty.

Because in his silence, you felt seen. Not in the way people romanticized it—no, not like poetry or connection. This was invasive. Like someone had peeled your skin back and left you raw in front of an audience that didn’t even care enough to react. You felt exposed. Cut open, with Rafe Cameron glancing at your rotting insides with a casual, bored expression.

And yet, there was something else there. Something you couldn’t quite name. Because behind the arrogance and detachment, there was the faintest flicker of something human. A muscle in his jaw ticking. The way his tongue pressed into his cheek like he was holding something back. He looked at you too long, too intently, for someone who was supposedly above it all.

And in that second, you realized he wasn’t just watching you. He was trying to keep his distance. Like this moment, this version of you, was something he wasn’t supposed to see—and didn’t know what to do with now that he had.

He’d never thought it was possible to stare at something and have it feel like acid against his skin, but watching you now, he felt like his body was being burned to a crisp. And, like a idiot, he didn’t do anything.

He felt like a voyeur. A trespasser, sneaking a peek at a family he’d never know. The world around him was on pause. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. It made him twitch like he’d walked inside the wrong dream.

He couldn’t even tell if he was still breathing. Probably not. His heart did feel like it had stopped a few minutes ago, thumping against his lungs like a trapped bird. He wanted to look away so bad, but he was stuck somewhere between the fascination he’d always had for you, and this new feeling that he couldn’t name.

It was like you were two different people. The one he knew and the one you were now, trapped in this shitty trailer park with your shitty mom and her shitty boyfriend like some sort of sick joke.

And it made him feel like all of it—his world, your world—was some sort of sick joke, too. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to look away. To drive back to his shitty house and forget it all in a smoke-filled room or a vodka-soaked bottle.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to see you. To see you like this. See all of you. He… he just wanted.

He felt his jaw clench involuntarily. The words had been perched on his tongue for a good few minutes, fighting to be released. Anything to break this silence, this weird, suffocating bubble you’d both been trapped in for the past ten minutes. Anything. Say something.

Nothing. He felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton, like his throat was lined with sandpaper. All he could do was stand there like a statue, hands clenched in his arms, trying not to blink. He didn’t understand it. He was never one to hesitate. He was action not thought, violence not control.

Your attention shifted over your shoulder when your mom made a comment about how nice Rafe was, in a tone so drastically different from the one she was using a minute ago that it would've made you laugh—if your throat wasn't already burning from the heat, the shame, the sting of old wounds cracked open in the sun. The word “nice” sounded absurd coming out of her mouth, like trying to staple a silk ribbon onto a grenade.

The heat gnawed at your skin, relentless. The sunscreen you’d slathered on earlier was now mixing with sweat, a sticky film that made you want to crawl out of your body entirely. You swallowed hard. The discomfort prickling at the back of your throat and stomach felt almost unbearable—like nausea, but sharper. More personal. Like a sickness born from being seen this way.

You shook your head in response to your mom’s comment—whatever it was—snapping out of your trance like someone had yanked a chain. You scurried to the lawn chair you’d been lounging on, every limb awkward, scrambling to find your denim shorts. As if Rafe hadn’t seen you naked before. As if he hadn’t had his mouth between your thighs less than twenty-four hours ago, like he hadn’t come undone in the dark hush of his bedroom with your name on his tongue.

"He’s not—" you started, voice catching in your throat as your shaky fingers fumbled with the zipper. "He’s probably lost on his way to Barry’s," you muttered, barely audible, stumbling over your words as if they were barbed wire.

Your gaze stayed locked on your hands, unable to meet his. Not out of modesty—because there was nothing modest about what the two of you had done—but out of something much worse: humiliation. This wasn’t the version of you you ever wanted him to see. Not barefoot in the dirt, not in a bikini that cost five bucks, not in front of a trailer with peeling paint while your drunk mom flirted with a boy barely older than you.

Not like this.

You managed to fasten the button with a shaky breath, denim sticking slightly to the backs of your thighs. And even then, you felt like it was too late. The damage was done. Rafe had seen too much. And he hadn’t said a single word. That was the part that made you feel insane—that terrifying silence. That unreadable expression. You didn’t know if he was judging you, pitying you, or worse—feeling nothing at all.

He saw you trying to move, trying to put the pieces of your fractured soul back together as quickly as possible, pulling your shorts on over your bikini bottoms like a shield - a thin, weak shield against something so much more powerful. Your mother’s voice seemed to fade into background noise, the sound of cicadas and the marsh washing it out. All he could see was you. Only you. Your trembling fingers and trembling legs. The burning scarlet spread across your cheeks. The way you couldn’t meet his eye. His chest felt like it was cracking in half.

He’d stared at you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. But he hadn’t said a damn thing. He hadn’t said anything at all, like a complete idiot. He felt like the worst kind of fool. He couldn’t be a coward and he wasn’t a weakling, so why couldn’t he speak? Why couldn’t he speak? Why did the words feel like hot lead on his tongue?

Speak. Say something.

He knew he should look away. He knew this moment wasn’t meant to be his. But he just couldn’t. He just stood there, like a statue. Like a voyeur. A trespasser. A stranger looking at the most sacred version of yourself—the raw, unpolished version he wasn’t supposed to see—and all he could think about was how beautiful you were. How you looked like one of those girls on TV that he was so disgusted by. How you’d somehow turned a trailer park into the most beautiful place on the planet just by being there. A place he didn't want to linger in.

And he did. He lingered. For what felt like forever. He wanted to stay there. Keep his eyes glued to you and your trembling frame like someone watching a car wreck. He wanted to study every crevice of your body and face until he had memorized you like a poem. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to be allowed to look at you. Like that. In the middle of a trailer park that he was supposed to hate like a curse word.

He felt like he’d lost his ability to speak, all because he'd seen you. Something raw and vulnerable and beautiful. Something that made his skin crawl with how real it was—the sound of your mom flirting, the cicadas singing through the thick humid air, the heat, the sweat, the dirt and the gravel; it wasn’t just a movie for a bored audience to watch on the couch. It was real life. You were real. And you were beautiful, even now, even when you were shaking on your feet like he'd punched you.

He might as well have punched you. It would’ve been less humiliating. A bruise would’ve been easier to explain than the feeling curdling in your stomach now—hot and rancid. You could’ve cried, you were that close. Not from hurt, but from shame, from the exposure of it all. The daylight was too honest. Too revealing. There was no bass to drown it out, no party fog to blur the edges, no alcohol to blame it on. Just Rafe fucking Cameron standing there, seeing too much.

Your arms crossed over your chest like they could shield you, like they could rewind time and keep him from seeing what your mascara and vodka usually hid. But he didn’t look away. He wasn’t saying anything, and somehow, that made it worse. If he’d laughed or called you a name or done his usual smirk-and-scoff routine, you’d have known what to do. But this? This staring? It made your spine itch and your jaw clench, made you feel like a bug on a pin.

It was too intimate. Too quiet. Too close to real. And it made you want to scream.

Or maybe he was storing it. Tucking it away to throw in your face later, to wield it like a weapon the next time you told him off or dared to look uninterested in his stupid games. Maybe he’d say something about your trashy little yard the next time you crossed paths, or mention the look in your eyes right now—glassy, tight-lipped, humiliated—when he wanted to remind you exactly where you came from.

He stood like a psychopath, unmoving, silent, like he had all the time in the world and nothing to say. But you knew he was freaking out too. You knew that expression wasn’t as calm as it seemed. Not with how his fingers twitched at his side, like he was deciding whether to light a cigarette or punch someone. Not with how his jaw flexed once, twice, like he was biting something back.

"Barry's down the street—" your voice cracked, breath catching on the way out, and you hated yourself for it. "Two or, uh… three trailers down."

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not when you were this close to coming undone. The words stumbled out like they belonged to someone else, thin and fragile and stupid. You said it mostly to cut your mom off, who was still cooing about how “polite” he was, still trying to play hostess like she hadn’t been screaming at you five minutes ago.

But Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t say anything. Just stared.

He felt like he was bleeding out, watching you try to hold yourself together like you didn’t want to be seen at all. He felt like he was watching something sacred. Something no one was meant to see. He felt like an intruder in your world. He knew because he was. And he wished he’d never seen it, because it felt like he was watching something die. You were so broken. So raw. So vulnerable. He could feel your fragility from here. You were trembling. He had to look away. Because he didn’t know what to do with this version of you.

He couldn’t look at you any longer. Your brokenness was too much to fathom. Just like your beauty. He was caught between wanting to grab you and put you back together, or run for his life. Because it felt more than human to look at you this way. To look at your broken pieces and feel something close to human empathy. But if he got in too deep, got too close, got too attached… he’d be just as broken as you. Maybe that’s why he was trying to backpedal. To turn around and go back to what he knew. It hurt less that way.

Your mom’s words had become a distant buzz in the background. Rafe’s gaze was trained on you. On your shaking shoulders and trembling hands. On the way you tried to hold yourself together, like it hurt to break apart in broad daylight. And for a moment, there was only the sound of your mother’s high-pitched chatter, the buzz of cicadas in the trees, and the slow, steady rhythm of his own pounding heart, trying to stay calm—trying to pretend like this was an average Friday night and not the most intense moment of his life. He didn’t know why.

And yet. He was glued to your face—to the pain visible in the redness in your cheeks, in your trembling fingers, in your averted eyes. He stared like he couldn’t look away. He stared because you were too beautiful to look away from. And for a second, you weren’t broken—you were just fragile. You were human, and real. And it made his chest hurt.

What the hell was he going to do with that?

He’d never really thought about his own humanity before. But now… maybe it was different.

The silence had settled around you like a haze, thick and awkward and suffocating. But his brain was firing up ideas. And most of them were downright bad. He wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe a joke, or even an insult just to make you look at him… something. Anything, just so you’d look at him. He wanted to say something, goddamn it, but…

But it wasn’t sickness. It was pity. Sympathy. Or whatever passed for sympathy in his cold, cold heart. You were so fragile. So real. Like you were breaking apart in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull you into his arms and hold you together. And he’d never, never wanted to hold anything so much in his entire life. He wanted it so bad, it hurt. It was scary. It felt like… like he was human. Just like you.

Your brows drew together, knotting in visible confusion and disbelief as Rafe continued to stand there like some uninvited phantom—rooted to the spot, watching, silent, like if he stayed still long enough he'd become invisible. Your mother kept talking, her voice shrill and useless in the background, throwing out nonsense about the weather and whether Rafe liked Coors or Bud Light, and her boyfriend grunted in lazy agreement like he was being paid to play audience. None of it mattered. Not with him standing there like that.

You felt like a fucking joke. Like the punchline to a skit you didn’t sign up for. The sun was too hot, the sweat was sticking to your skin like shame, and there you were—bleeding out in the middle of your own personal circus. You swore you could almost hear a studio audience laugh track behind it all, the kind they used in sitcoms when a character got caught cheating or walked into a room naked. Because that's what this felt like: like Rafe Cameron was watching you with no clothes on, except this time there was no thrill, no teasing, no sex. Just your cracked foundation showing.

He looked at you like you were foreign. Like he had stumbled across a live documentary of something too ugly to process. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. He didn’t even flinch when your mom offered him a beer, like she thought he was a friend of the family and not the guy who had you crying out his name last night to let you cum. You let your gaze wander over him, his expression unreadable but present. Leaning against the flimsy gate like the chaos inside your yard was some exhibit and he was a detached spectator behind the velvet rope. Like he wanted to understand but didn’t know how, or maybe didn’t want to admit he already did.

You fidgeted with your fingers. Something small. Something to do with your hands while your insides twisted up. And then your eyes met his—and the bottom dropped out.

It wasn’t disgust. Not really. It was worse.

It was pity.

Thick and quiet, the kind that radiated off him like a heatwave, the kind that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed until you couldn’t breathe properly. It was the way someone might look at a dog on the side of the road with a broken leg. With that vague ache of guilt that didn’t quite outweigh the urge to look away.

And Rafe didn’t even blink when your mother kept talking about him coming in, like it was some fucking barbecue. Like the scene she just caused didn’t even exist. You snapped—gaze tearing away from Rafe as you turned sharply to her, voice tight, not loud but enough.

"He's not coming inside, Mom."

The silence after your words felt heavy, like it dropped a few degrees around you. Your tone was stiff, brittle, like you were trying not to crack apart in front of everyone. And when she blinked at you, confused, half-drunk, you could barely hold back the shake in your voice.

"You can't be serious right now…" you muttered, the words falling out bitter as you turned away, your jaw locked as you gave her that look—the one you always gave her when she pushed it too far. When she made you feel small in front of strangers. Except this time the stranger wasn’t just anyone. It was him.

He was quiet. His face was calm, but his chest was pounding. It was like you were throwing him through a loop.

Rafe Cameron. The guy who hated everybody and everything, who got off on being a massive douchebag in the hopes of turning people away—was frozen in place.

Because you were the one thing he couldn’t look away from. He was too invested.

And it made his chest feel like it was caving in. His heart was beating so hard it felt like he was underwater. He kept staring, and he could tell you knew it. He felt like his veins were buzzing with something alive and dangerous, like he was falling in through deep, dark water, and all in one brief second he had the insane urge to walk through the gate and pull you against his chest just so he could feel your pulse and know that you were beating too. God, what the hell was he getting into?

He could hear your mother’s voice now, sounding far away in his ears, talking like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn’t just cracked open in the past two minutes. And he could feel your mother’s boyfriend staring the top of his head, like he thought all of this was funny. And he knew that if he saw the guy’s face right now, he would punch it.

He’d never wanted to protect anything in his life so much as he wanted to protect you now. And it was scary. It was scary to feel a stranger’s pain like it was his. It was scary to want to look after somebody else. It was scary to feel this much about another person. But it was the kind of scary that left his chest pounding, and his lungs expanding, and his blood feeling thick in his veins. Rafe Cameron was never scared of anything, and now he couldn’t figure out how to feel. He couldn’t figure out what to do.

You were fragile. So fragile. And the guy part of his mind was telling him to walk away now, before it got any worse. But the other part of his mind was telling him to fight. To run to you. To protect you from everything. To give you anything you wanted. To put you back together, like you were made out of the same glass that made up his world. He wanted to wrap you in something warm and soft and keep you for himself until you stopped trembling. He wanted to be the one to make you laugh like normal. He just wanted…

He wanted.

And while Rafe was going through a mind-numbing revelation right there in front of your trailer—standing out like a sore thumb in that baby blue polo and spotless white shorts, Ray-Bans perched perfectly on his head—you were unraveling in real time. The silence between you was suffocating. Not the charged kind that hung in the air before one of your usual fights, no. This was something heavier. More humiliating. Like being dissected under a spotlight.

You were growing more and more restless with every second he didn’t speak. The longer he stood there—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes unreadable—the more it felt like he was watching something rot. Like you were some feral animal in a cage he’d stumbled across on a field trip to the dirty side of the island. This wasn’t one of your friends accidentally walking in on another screaming match with your mom. This wasn’t someone who understood, someone who came from the same mess. This was Rafe. And Rafe had the sick, rich luxury of pretending like your world didn’t even exist until this very moment.

And he was using it. Weaponizing it in the worst way—by saying nothing at all. Just standing there, infuriatingly calm, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart last night in his bed. Like he didn’t know how soft your voice got when you were close to crying. Like he hadn’t held you still with those bruising hands and kissed you too long for it to be casual. He schooled his face so well it almost offended you. Because all that silence? It made you feel small. Powerless. Like a fucking joke.

And just like him, you were frozen. Watching him the way he was watching you. Waiting for a move, a jab, something—anything—to relieve the pressure building in your chest. If he said something, you’d probably drop dead from the shock. If he turned around and walked away, you’d explode with fury. But anger—anger was easier. Cleaner. It gave you somewhere to put the pain instead of just… swallowing it down like bile.

"You have the wrong house, Cameron," you said again, the words sounding thinner now, straining under the weight of everything unsaid. They hung there, stupid and flimsy, especially with the clear view of his expensive SUV parked just a few yards down—right in front of Barry’s trailer. Like he’d walked over here on purpose. Like he wanted to see more. Hear more. Like he wanted to get close enough to witness the parts of you he didn’t deserve to see.

And that thought alone made your throat close up.

He heard your words, but it felt like a fever dream. Everything felt wrong—he felt like his body was moving on its own, controlled by some foreign power because he couldn’t seem to do or say anything else. He looked around, half expecting to see a camera crew or some stranger with a microphone standing behind a camera, filming what felt like one of those candid-camera-style shows. But all he could see was your mom’s trailer, a few stray trash cans, and your mom’s boyfriend with the greasy, stupid face. He wasn’t thinking straight. Nothing could get through to him;

His head and heart were pounding. All he could think was: You’re not supposed to see this, and he felt wrong for feeling something this heavy, this close. He felt like he was stealing something. Like he’d accidentally walked in on your therapy session, and now he was standing there listening in, taking up space and absorbing your secrets without even meaning to. He hadn’t heard you talk like that before. He never knew you could sound that small.

His silence was making your shame curdle into something uglier—anger, red and hot, spreading under your skin like sunburn. Your mom’s incessant babbling about Natty Lights and off-brand beers scratched at your overheated brain like nails on a chalkboard, every syllable amplified by the fact that he was still standing there. The fucking Rafe Cameron. And suddenly everything was louder—your heartbeat, her voice, the sound of your brother's nervous shifting next to you—until it all snapped.

"Jesus, Mom, can you shut the fuck up?" you barked, arms flailing out to your sides in a mix of desperation and rage, your voice cracking just enough to betray how close you were to breaking. "He's not coming inside our shitty trailer like he’s some family friend—he’s not even my friend!" The words tumbled out before you could catch them, too fast and too frantic, fueled by humiliation. And Rafe still didn’t say a word. Not even a flinch. Just stood there, perfectly still, like he was observing some zoo exhibit instead of your actual life burning down around you. Too quiet for it to be deemed as normal.

Your mom went quiet then, her mouth still half open from whatever pointless story she’d been dragging on about, eyes wide with the same shame now reflected back at her. She looked almost sobered by your outburst, like she was just realizing what this looked like from the outside—from Rafe's perspective. And maybe that’s what made it worse. That this had to be the moment where she suddenly decided to act like she gave a shit.

"He’s not even responding to you," you continued, voice rising as the tremble in your body finally bled into every word. "You just keep going on like this is normal—like you weren’t ready to slap me clean across the face ten minutes ago!" Your voice cracked again, this time sharp and slicing, carrying every buried frustration from every night spent slamming doors and swallowing pride. And still, Rafe was silent. Still watching. Like this was a fucked-up show he couldn’t look away from.

He felt like you’d punched him in the chest. Your voice was so loud and so… broken. So desperate and embarrassed. He hated it. He hated that look on your face. He felt guilty. That was new. He was never guilty. He never let himself feel guilty. But for you… guilt felt different. Guilt felt hot and sharp like a knife stabbing through his gut. And all he could do was stand there and listen.

His chest was tight. Tight enough to feel like his lungs were about to give out. Like his heart suddenly couldn’t find any space to beat, and he could feel the world spinning around him like a bad trip. You didn’t sound like yourself. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or a sly smile in sight. You were falling apart in front of him, and he was powerless. You were falling apart and he was a stranger, watching you burn. He couldn’t just stand there. He had to do something, anything.

Before he could do anything—before a single word of apology or explanation could leave his mouth—you turned your fury on him, cutting off whatever courage he might’ve worked up. You stormed toward the gate, barefoot and furious, dripping in sunscreen and shame, all teeth and fire. "Did you not hear what the fuck I said?" you snapped, your voice pitching above the ambient buzz of the Cut, your small frame shaking with emotion as you glared up at him—like a warning shot. You probably looked insane: slathered in melting sunscreen, cheap drugstore sunglasses perched atop your head, barking at a trust fund golden boy in a goddamn American flag bikini. The humiliation only made you angrier. "You have the wrong house, Rafe!" you spat, voice louder now, not quite cracked but dangerously close. "Why are you just standing there like some mute? Go the fuck back to your precious SUV, asshole!"

You were clinging to the anger like it was the only thing keeping you upright, letting it fill your lungs so you wouldn’t break down right in front of him. So you wouldn’t cry. So you wouldn’t ask him why he looked at you like that, like he understood something, when he was supposed to be laughing like always. You hated this. Hated that you couldn’t read him. Hated that, for a split second, it felt like he saw you. And you hated that it mattered.

He’d never felt the force of someone’s anger like that before. He couldn’t even begin to think how to respond. He was so used to being the one to make people shrink away, to walk away with their heads between their legs, that feeling your rage come down on him almost felt like a shock of electricity.

He opened his mouth automatically as you kept going, but the words wouldn’t come out. His mind froze the second he saw your face, and… you looked like you were about to cry? He felt his stomach drop.

Rafe had seen plenty of women crying before. Hell, he’d made plenty of girls cry. And he was usually the cause of it. He’d never felt bad about it before. He never bothered to ask if they were okay, or if their crying was his fault, because the answer was usually yes. And that’s exactly the way he liked it. But you were different. Everything was different, and watching his words—or lack of—break you with their absence, left him feeling like he’d just witnessed something sacred.

He’d never seen anything so beautiful. And he was pretty sure he felt the world stop turning just to watch you. The sun, the sounds of the water, the laughter from the neighbors—everything was just background noise as you stared at him. Your face, your eyes, your trembling hands, and the way you held them in trembling fists by your sides. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He’d never seen this side of you. This raw, naked side of you, like you were giving something intimate and fragile, like a baby bird. And he didn’t even know what to say..

“I thought you’d at least have the common decency to say something.” You spat again, voice raising with your anger as your body trembled, fingers twisted so hard into your palms they'd probably leave new, fresh marks atop of the existing ones. "Are you stupid? Deaf? Or do you just like playing mute? Because if you really did hear me, you’d be running to your car before I shove you there myself."

He was silent. He couldn’t get even a single word to form in his head, let alone make it past his lips. You were livid and he didn’t blame you. He wanted to apologize, but you were yelling before he could even think of where to start. He felt sick, his mouth open, his eyes glued to your face like a man who’d just found religion. He wanted to walk up to you and pull you against his chest. But he was rooted to the ground like his feet weren’t his own. He’d never felt like this before.

Your hands shot out, shoving at his chest as lightly as you could while being angry and on the verge of crying, "Jesus, are you listening to me?" you asked, fingers curled around his forearm now, shaking him lightly as you yelled in his face.

And suddenly it was like the world stopped again. Your hands were on his body—your hands. And he almost flinched, like your touch was poison. The feeling of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, like he was suddenly alive again, suddenly feeling everything he shouldn’t be. Your voice was in his ears, and he could understand you so clearly, he could probably hear your heart beating in your chest if he tried hard enough—and his beat just as hard. He could smell your shampoo. And then he did the only thing he felt like he could do. He snapped back.

“Watch your tone,” he said, his voice a deadly calm as he pried your hand off his arm, holding it in his hand as he stared down at you—or into you, he couldn’t figure out which. His grip was gentle but firm as he held you, not to keep you from running but to keep you from falling apart completely. He was trying not to hurt you anymore than he already had, and he sounded like he was holding back his own emotion, not letting the rage or panic show on his face when he spoke.

Your brows raised enough to probably get lost in your hairline when he spoke, scoffing as you looked up at him, meeting his calm gaze head on like a bull "Me? You're the one on my fucking property, dick!" you yelled back in exasperation, a small gasp escaping from your mom behind you, as if you made the worst mistake talking back to the Kook Prince.

His face twisted into a scowl, his gaze burning into you like he wanted to rip you apart from the inside out. He’d never felt this way before. In all his life, he’d never once felt like this. Like he was stuck between screaming at someone, and dropping to his knees. His grip tightened involuntarily, fingers pressing into the skin of your wrist, his heart thumping so hard he was practically vibrating.

He was struggling to keep it in, his fingers trembling with the force of his restraint. He didn’t know what he wanted more: to punch something, or to pull you into his chest. It was like there were two voices. One screaming, let her go, let her go. and the other, quieter but just as intense, screaming, hold her, hold her, don’t let go. He settled on somewhere in the middle, letting his grip loosen but not daring to let you go completely, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist like a shackle.

He tried to calm his breathing, but he felt like his thoughts were racing a mile a minute, probably from the coke he snorted earlier. He’d just been standing there, watching your life break apart into pieces. Now it was your turn to see his life crumble. He hadn’t felt something this strong—this uncontrollable, ever. And it was making him go completely crazy. His thoughts were coming to him, rapid fire. Words like, let her go, hold her, stop, don’t let go, and let her see what happens to you too.

"What the fuck is your problem?" you asked more quietly now, still angry and ashamed, but you were crumbling under the weight of his touch and gaze.

He felt your anger slipping away like you’d lost your breath, your trembling voice coming out in a strangled rasp as your chin shook with the effort of holding your tears back. You were falling apart, and he’d never felt more guilty. You’d just been standing there, giving everything you had. All your hurt and anger, and he’d stood there like some deaf mute, watching the most beautiful girl on the planet fall apart in front of him.

It felt like the world was ending, like it was falling into a massive blackhole, and the only thing he could do was look at you and listen to the sound of his own heartbeat. It was like your voice was the only thing loud enough to break through the storm of thoughts. Your trembling body, shaking as you bit down on your lip to keep it from trembling as much. The tiny quiver in your voice, and your eyes, full of tears that might fall at any second. He’d never realized how much emotion a person’s eyes could hold. It was like he was seeing you for the first time.

He couldn’t look away from the pain written in that look. He’d never been so scared. He felt like if you cried, he might die. He felt like he’d break, and the world would end. His throat felt so tight, like he would never get another breath in if you actually broke down. He wanted to hold you so bad his palms ached. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was that he wanted your pain to stop so bad it hurt. He wasn’t even sure the pain was from you. It was like he’d taken some of it, just for himself. And for a split second he regretted approaching you that night and getting tangled in your life, like he had any right to be here. He didn't. He didn't know how to act either. It was like someone put him on a stage, in the middle of a performance that he didn't get the script for.

You felt lonely, standing there—ashamed, angry, and so uncomfortably cracked open that it made your skin crawl. Like this was the end of the world, like everything had narrowed to this trailer, this moment, this boy who wasn’t supposed to see you like this. And yeah, it sounded stupid when you thought about it. Because you didn’t feel like this when you saw JJ with Kiara, not even when it gutted you to watch him hold someone else with the same hands that used to hold you. That had ruined you. That pain was sharp, sure, but it was expected. You’d braced for that one, anticipated it like the return of a bad season. But this? This felt different. Like you were walking through that dark, twisted forest from Snow White—the one where every shadow looked like teeth, every tree wanted to gut you—and the hunter wasn’t far behind. Only he wasn’t chasing you with a blade. He was just watching. And that was somehow worse.

Because Rafe fucking Cameron stood there like a statue, silent and unreadable, his baby-blue eyes raking over your sun-pinked face like he was seeing a ghost—or worse, someone he’d never known to begin with. There was no mockery, no smirk, no punchline to knock you off balance. Just that eerie calm, that unnerving quiet that made your chest feel too small for your ribs. It was psychopathic. Disarming.

"Rafe," you said, his name barely pushing past your dry lips, softer than you meant it to be—less a warning, more a sound of panic. Of defeat. Like a cry for help you didn’t have the right to make. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Your voice shook as you tried again, harder this time, shoving the trembling lump down your throat. "Get your coke and leave. Now."

Because if he stayed another second, you weren’t sure what you’d do—whether you’d hit him, kiss him, or crumble right there in the dirt. And you didn’t want to find out.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the world seemed to have been muted. He was stuck in a vacuum. Every sound seemed distant. Every movement felt too slow. Every word froze in his throat. He just stared. Watching you like you were about to disappear. And in that moment he felt like he really was crazy. Maybe the Kook Prince really was just a psychopath. Because the way he was standing there, like the most unfeeling, unbothered person in the world, was more cruel than if he’d just hurt you physically.

He didn’t realize he was holding your wrist tighter. His eyes were glued to your face, watching you with a kind of intensity that felt like he was trying to burn a picture of this moment into his head. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest. And he felt like he might be breaking the skin in your wrist, like he’d never feel anything other than this feeling. And he wasn’t sure he wanted anything other than this. Because if this wasn’t the most intense moment of his life, he didn’t know what was. His boring life could never amount to you. His impulsive decisions that made him Rafe Cameron, weren't anything close to the aching feeling he was experiencing while looking at you. While seeing a glimpse of your family life with his own damned eyes.

You shook your head, snaking your wrist from his hold only to grab his, your smaller hand looking laughable trying to assert dominance over him. You tugged him angrily, towards Barry's trailer, and you wouldn't have been able to move him if he didn't cooperate. And he did. He let you tug him away, barely listening to your muttered words and curses as you dragged him closer and closer to his SUV.

He let you tug him forward like a rag doll, the world spinning too fast like he'd just stepped off a roller coast, his blood pumping too fast and hard in his veins. He couldn’t look away from you as you moved away, the sunlight casting over your body and making you look like something too pure for the world you lived in. You looked so beautiful and angry that his throat felt like it might combust. You looked like an angel with a devil on your shoulder, like a fairy that could burn this trailer down if she wanted. And he wanted to get burned.

He felt like a sinner in a church, like a trespasser in a house of worship. Something sacred. Something forbidden. You felt like the ocean. Untamable, wild, dangerous, and beautiful. You could give life and take it away without feeling a thing. And right now, he felt like you could end his heart with a snap of your fingers. He wouldn’t mind. He let you tug him to his SUV, his eyes never leaving your face as he tried to listen to what you were saying—tried to hear your voice over his thoughts.

You slammed him against the driver’s side door hard enough to rattle the metal, the sharp clang echoing down the dirt road like a gunshot. His back hit it with a thud, but Rafe didn’t react—didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t do a damn thing. Just stood there, still as stone, his blown pupils swallowing the blue in his eyes like he’d snorted seven lines back to back. You hesitated—just for a second—your fingers still wrapped tight around his wrist before you dropped it like it burned you. Because maybe it did.

Maybe he wasn’t all there. Especially after last night’s party. Especially after the way he looked at you then—and the way he was looking at you now, like you were the only thing on earth still spinning.

But you didn’t care. Not about the scene you were making, not about your mom’s nosy stare or the man in the doorway who still smelled like your father's ghost. Not about the neighbors watching you manhandle the island’s golden boy like he was a stray that wandered onto your rotting patch of front yard. None of it mattered. Only the anger did. Only the fire simmering beneath your skin, threatening to spill out in full force if he didn’t stop looking at you like that.

"Are you—" you began, your voice sharp as gravel before cutting yourself off with a frustrated shake of your head, disbelief curling your lip. "You're fucking insane. You know that?"

You jabbed a finger in his direction, the accusation shaking in your hand. His gaze followed it, slow and lazy, like he wasn’t high on coke but on you, like your rage fed something in him he didn’t know how to name. It only pissed you off more.

"You gonna go laugh with your buddies about the scene you just witnessed?" you spat, voice cracking as your shame twisted into something bitter. You let out a dry, humorless laugh and looked away, eyes burning. "Make some stupid joke at my expense? Call it the trailer trash matinee special?"

Your voice dropped, quieter but sharper. "You got what you wanted, Cameron. Now get the fuck off my side of the island."

“Jesus..” he muttered under his breath, his stomach sinking in guilt. Because you looked—and you felt—so far away from him. Like you’d run a million miles away, taking his heart with you. He reached out, his hand gently circling around your wrist, stopping your hand before you could poke a hole into his heart. And you flinched away, like he’d branded you with his touch. He dropped his hand, eyes burning with a raw and feral sort of emotion that felt like a knife to your spine.

He never took his eyes off your face, watching you like everything he ever felt depended on your next sentence. It felt like he couldn’t even breathe without your permission. Like he’d burst into flames if you didn’t look at him. He tried to take a step forward, but your eyes burned into him, making him freeze, his fingers shaking with the need to touch you—not like a boy trying to get a pretty girl, but like a man trying to hold onto the only thing in the world worth holding. But you’d only push away.

He bit his lip, his eyes glued to you like you might disappear if he didn’t watch every single twitch of your finger. You felt far away, standing right in front of him. And he hated it. He’d never hated anything more in his life. He swallowed, his throat so dry he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so close to his own breaking point. It took him a beat to find the courage to speak, his voice coming out in a whisper. “I’d never do that.”

"And what the fuck did you do for the past 3 years, then?" you snapped back, words more louder than his soft, broken ones "You wanna tell me you didn't spend your free time picking on me and my friends in your free time, at any chance you got?"

“That’s .. different” he said, almost weakly, his eyes glued to yours like he was trying to remember every detail, every flaw, like he'd forget if he didn't. He wanted to take a step forward, but he'd probably end up on the wrong end of a slap if he tried. And he'd probably deserve it. But he couldn't tell you the reason he used to bully you. Because that would make him sound like some lovesick puppy. And Rafe Cameron didn't get in love. He got into fights. He didn't apologize to people. He beat them up.

“If you’d just give me a chance,” he said, the words coming out like a tired plea even to his own ears. “If you’d give me ten minutes to..” he trailed off. What was he even going to say? How could he make you even listen to him for ten minutes, let alone make you listen to the words he never thought he’d even feel, let alone say out loud? He was at a loss, his fingers shaking as his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for the right words. “I can make it up to you.”

You scoffed, the sound scraping out of your throat low and bitter, curling into something mocking by the time it hit the humid air. It didn’t even sound like you—hoarse from yelling, from biting back too much for too long, your lips chapped and split from the sun and the fury. And somehow, none of this felt like it was about your mom anymore. Not really. That storm cloud that had been hanging over your head since yesterday had finally broken open, spilling everything between you and Rafe into the space between your bodies—hot, suffocating, electric.

You saw it clearly now, how this wasn’t about the trailer park or the fight or even the neighbors who were probably watching from their windows like you were some fucked up episode of reality TV. This was about what changed. What twisted and snapped and rearranged itself after that first time, after the second, after the third. It was about him, standing in your part of the island like he didn’t belong but refused to leave. It was about the way he looked at you last night like he was terrified and addicted all at once.

And it was about you. About the guilt eating you alive. For letting him touch you. For liking it. For wanting it. For betraying everything and everyone you were supposed to be loyal to. This was your side of the island, where your sins weren’t allowed to follow you—but here he was, watching your world rot from the inside out.

You took a step closer, your chest barely brushing his as you stared up at him, venom dripping off every word. Your voice dropped, a private snarl meant only for him.

"Make it up to me?" you hissed, your lip curling. "You fucked me a few times and suddenly you’re finding God? Trying to repent like some born-again saint?"

You tilted your head, sarcasm dark and sharp as a knife. "What—being inside me suddenly made me worthy of your respect?"

You watched his face carefully for a flicker—regret, guilt, shame—anything. But he gave you nothing. Nothing but those stupid blue eyes, wide and fucking calm, and it made you want to punch a hole in the sky.

His hands shook at his sides with the anger building behind an iron wall he’d spent his entire life perfecting. If his body didn’t feel like he’d just been hit by lightning over and over and over, he would’ve been furious. He’d never been this angry before. But he wasn’t sure his body was even able to process that amount of rage and lust at the same time.

He closed his eyes as his head swam with the overwhelming onslaught of emotions flooding through him, drowning him in wave after wave of heat and confusion. For a moment he wished he was still high. Just to cope with what he was feeling. To get rid of that cold, hard look in your eyes that made it feel like you’d punched a big hole in his chest. Like you’d reached into his chest and ripped his heart out and spat it back at him in disgust.

”What the hell was happening?” he muttered, his gaze flicking back up, meeting your burning one with a tired and defeated look. He was used to violence. He was used to fighting, pushing, pulling, breaking anything good that got in his way. But the one look he couldn’t stand? Was the hate burning in your eyes. He shook his head, like he was having a silent conversation with himself, trying to hold back everything he wanted to say. If he did, this would be over. There was no coming back from his confession.

And all it took was a breath and two words.

”Please, listen.” He said, and it felt like a breath of air after weeks of drowning. He couldn’t keep eye contact with you. He couldn’t look away either. He felt like a fool, standing there with his heart in his fist, his life in your hands. But all he could do was stand there and stare at you for a beat, his eyes drinking in your face, memorizing every last detail. It hurt, but maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was the universe’s revenge for every other girl, and for every snide remark, and punch he landed.

"What is wrong with you?" you snapped, the words bursting out of you like a reflex, voice laced with disbelief and something dangerously close to fear. Your face twisted in confusion, lip curled in something between disgust and panic as you stared at Rafe like you were trying to make sense of what he’d become in the span of minutes—wide-eyed, too still, high out of his fucking mind. He looked like he was vibrating inside his skin but anchored to the dirt like he couldn’t move. Like he didn’t want to.

And then your head jerked sideways, zeroing in on Barry slouched on the creaking porch of his trailer like he was watching a rerun of some show he’d already memorized—beer in one hand, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. The bag of coke—Rafe’s coke—rested casually beside him, completely forgotten. That look in his eye, too calm, too entertained, made your stomach twist.

"What did you give him?" you barked, already halfway across the gravel yard, stomping up to him like you were ready to drag the truth out of his mouth with your bare hands if needed. You towered over him, shadows from the half-collapsed porch roof cutting across your face. "Barry. I’m not fucking around. What the hell did you give him?"

Barry leaned back, cool as ever, a smirk pulling at his chapped lips as he took a slow sip of his beer before nodding toward Rafe without a care in the world. "Same shit he always asks for. But he added a little extra on top today. Said he needed to take the edge off."

You blinked, mouth parting in disbelief. "The edge off?" you echoed, looking back at Rafe, who was now just barely shifting, like he was somewhere between space and time. It was like looking at a cracked version of him—one wrong word and he’d shatter.

You spun back around, voice lowering into a dangerous hiss. "Are you fucking serious? Did you watch him snort half the bag? He’s barely functioning, Barry!"

Barry shrugged, utterly unbothered. "He’s a big boy. Didn’t seem like he wanted supervision."

You stared at him, seething, your fists clenched at your sides. The worst part was that Rafe had done this to himself. And still—still—you couldn't stop the way your heart dropped at the sight of him swaying slightly on his feet like gravity was optional.

There were a million things running through Rafe’s mind, but that was the problem—he was thinking too much. He couldn’t get a grip on his body, on his thoughts, on his feelings. And even with everyone looking at him like he was insane, he didn’t feel present—like he was watching everything happen from a third-person point of view. He was too high, he didn't even register it. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this right now. But that was what cocaine did to him, right? Took away the fear. Took away everything. It always made him feel like he was invincible. Untouchable.

In a way, Rafe really was invincible. He could feel his blood pumping like a hummingbird’s, but he could barely hear you. He only caught glimpses of your face, and they burned through everything else. He couldn’t even feel it when his fingers started shaking, his thoughts going fuzzy and fast, a mile a minute. He’d never felt so alive and yet so disconnected. What he wouldn’t give to feel that way without the drugs. What he wouldn’t give to feel like this right now with you.

All he knew was that he was watching himself get high of coke. He was watching you look at him like you despised him and would rather be any other place on the planet. He couldn’t think anymore. Because he didn’t need to, once the drugs kicked in. He was in the clouds. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He could feel the world spinning beneath his feet, but he wasn’t even here. He was somewhere else, somewhere far, somewhere better and brighter.

And then he felt your hands on his forearms—small, warm, grounding. And he was back here again. Blinking slowly, vision narrowing until the blur started to resemble your face. You were saying something, your mouth moving with purpose, frustration, panic—but it came through like muffled static. He didn’t understand the words, but he tried. Because despite everything—despite the heat, the shame, the chaos—he was still trying to get something, anything, from you. Like a lifeline he’d already frayed down to threads.

You shook him again, a little harder this time, the panic clawing its way up your throat. "Rafe, talk to me," you hissed under your breath, your fingers curling a little tighter around his arms. "Don’t fucking shut down on me right now, please." But all he did was stare. Pupils wide, lips parted slightly like he was trying to form a thought but couldn’t grab onto one long enough to make it real.

"Jesus," you muttered under your breath, tearing your gaze from his and snapping your head to the side with a glare sharp enough to slice flesh. Your voice rose again, venomous and wild. "He’s fucking gone, Barry! And you were gonna sell him another bag?" The disbelief in your tone cracked mid-sentence as you gestured toward Rafe with one hand, still holding him with the other like he might float away otherwise. "You just gonna let him OD in your fucking yard while you sit there and sip your pisswater?"

Barry just shrugged again, expression unreadable behind the veil of his indifference. "He asked for it. I didn’t tie him down and make him snort it."

"You’re unbelievable," you spat, voice shaking now—not just with rage, but something closer to desperation. Because you didn’t know what to do. Not with Rafe, not with this version of him who had no business being on this side of the island. Not with yourself.

You looked back at him, at the sweat starting to bead along his temple, the vacant stare, the way his body swayed just barely in your grasp like the ground was unreliable. "Rafe," you tried again, softer this time, a tremble in your voice you couldn’t mask, "you have to tell me what you took."

He had to fight to keep his eyes on yours. But you felt like the only thing in the world he could cling to right now. It was easier to look at you. Easier to focus on the sound of your voice, your trembling words, than to focus on the fact that he couldn’t feel anything and everything all at once. You were here, looking at him like you actually cared if he lived or died, and he’d never been so scared yet so in love.

He forced his words past his dry, sandpaper-like throat, struggling to get the words out. “I took uh..” he muttered, his eyes flicking to the half-full bag by Barry’s feet, his throat too dry to speak. Cocaine. “The usual.”

He felt dizzy. Too many thoughts and feelings were running around his head—and his heart and his body. It was like he’d been on a carnival ride, except instead of sugar and junk food, he had snorted way too much coke and now he was stuck on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Everything was going a mile a minute, and he couldn’t stop it.

In a way, he wasn't even surprised. He did a lot of coke. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary. But it was different this time. Because you were here. And you were looking at him like he’d somehow committed a crime you couldn’t even name. You’d never looked at him like that before. He realized he hated it, but he couldn’t find the words to tell you that. Even though he wanted to. Even though his heart was screaming the words in his head.

As Rafe finally spoke, or tried to, you realized—yes, it could get worse. Of course it could. The universe, in all its twisted sense of humor, was laughing straight in your face now, mocking you with its sick, cosmic grin while this 6'2, blue-eyed magnet for destruction stood swaying in front of you like a fucking statue mid-collapse. You could practically hear the punchline being delivered somewhere in the sky, like your life was a sitcom with a very cruel writer.

And now he was maybe overdosing. Slowly. Quietly. Like he didn’t even want to make a scene about it. And that was somehow worse.

Panic gripped your spine and coiled tightly around your ribcage as your eyes darted over him—his slow, unstable sway, the way he blinked like it took effort, like each one was a decision. Your mind reeled. You’d done coke before—too much of it. You knew the familiar rush and crash. You’d even had your heart racing hard enough to think maybe this is it. But you always made it through. You’d sleep, sweat, cry a little—wake up with your nose raw and your pride bruised.

But Rafe? You weren’t sure he’d just sleep this off. Not with whatever the fuck Barry sold him. Not with how he looked like he wasn’t in there anymore.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, teeth scraping torn skin you didn’t even realize was bleeding. Your hands were still half on him, grounding yourself as much as trying to keep him upright. Your head was spinning and you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“What the fuck do I do?” you barked at Barry, voice trembling even under the fury. You whipped around to face him, your body tensed like you were ready to lunge. “What do you do if he fucking drops dead on your porch? Huh? You think the cops won’t come crawling through your front door if they find Rafe Cameron foaming at the mouth in the middle of the goddamn day?”

Your voice broke slightly at the end, too choked up to fully mask the sheer panic rising up like bile in your throat. Because despite the anger, despite the sheer absurdity of the situation—despite everything—you didn’t want him to die here. Not on The Cut. Not like this. Not in front of you.

Barry exhaled slowly, annoyed, unbothered, looking up at the sky like you were overreacting. “He’s not gonna die,” he said with that same careless tilt of his mouth, “he’s just on something strong. It’ll pass.”

"Are you sure about that?" you growled. "You wanna bet your shitty house and freedom on that? ‘Cause I’m not fucking risking mine."

And for a second, you wished someone else were here. Someone who knew what to do. Someone who could take this weight off your chest and carry it for you—just for a second. But there was only you. You, a rattled girl in a sunscreen-slicked bikini, standing between a drug dealer and a boy who looked like he might crumble if the wind blew too hard.

Rafe felt like he was dreaming. Or dying. Possibly both. He’d never been this high before. He’d never felt so invincible. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten here, or what he’d said. Just you.. and your voice. He could hear you talking, but it was like he couldn’t see you. And he wished he could see you right now. He wished he could grab on and never let go. Instead, he felt himself drowning. Like he’d taken a swan dive into the water and never felt the bottom.

Everything was a kaleidoscope of color, lights, and noises. He could see everything and nothing at the same time. He didn’t even realize he was sweating, his skin feeling like pins and needles and sandpaper. He felt everything and nothing at once. And he felt like he’d never stop. That he’d just stay floating in that endless black ocean with his head pounding and his blood humming in his veins until he died. Because this is what he deserved. And he could take it. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried. But it was the first time he felt like he was dying.

But then you were standing in front of him and he felt like he could breathe again. You looked like a dream, your voice cutting through the fuzz and noise and panic and fear and pain in his head. And he wished he could just hear you forever. He forgot what you were saying but he was hanging on every syllable like you were the only thing still connecting him to this planet. He tried to say your name, just so you’d look at him—but all that came out was an incoherent mumble.

He felt you grab his arms, and he almost wanted to cry from how good the feeling felt. You were right there. You were real. If you were real, then maybe this was too. Your touch felt like something he’d give his soul to keep. He almost did just by accident. Your hands felt so warm; so much warmer than he’d ever deserved. He could feel everything—the pain, the pounding, the high, your hands. Everything. And it was enough. Enough to make him feel like he’d done a lot of things wrong in this life, and maybe it was time to do them right.

His eyes found yours again. And you were looking at him like you wanted to kill him. Or like you wanted to hold him. He couldn’t tell which one. And somewhere beneath the high, his heart constricted at the thought of you seeing him like this right now. Maybe this wouldn’t end well. Maybe this was it. But for just a few moments, you were holding him. And you hadn’t let go.

Despite the out-of-focus glaze in his eyes, they were still locked on your face—glassy, dilated, and distant, but there. It made your throat tighten. Like he was trying to stay tethered to you in whatever fragmented corner of consciousness he still had left. Like he was trying to say something without saying it, and that killed you even more.

You felt your lips start to tremble, your brows scrunching in on themselves, expression contorted as you fought hard not to sob. Not now. Not in front of Barry. Not while Rafe was looking at you like that. He looked like he was swaying at the edge of a cliff, one strong gust of wind away from toppling—and the worst part was, he was trying to stay upright. Trying to keep it together. Maybe for you.

You turned your head toward Barry again, and the anger you’d been clinging to melted off you like water running off wax. The weight of it—the realness of it—settled heavy in your chest, so thick you could hardly breathe through it. This was real. Not a threat. Not a tantrum. Not some dramatic little scene. This was Rafe Cameron actually OD'ing in front of you.

And you were just standing there. Watching it happen.

"What the fuck do I do?" you asked again, your voice breaking as you stared Barry down like he might suddenly turn into someone useful. Someone responsible. He didn’t. "He’s—he’s dying," you breathed, panic making your voice higher, tighter, thinner. "I just—" your eyes flicked back to Rafe, swaying slightly, fingers twitching like he was trying to hold onto something invisible, "I’ve never had to deal with someone OD’ing in front of me.”

The words poured out fast and frantic, mostly to yourself, more a frantic confession than a real question. You didn’t even care that Barry was watching you unravel. Your heartbeat was in your throat. Your lungs felt too small. Your knees were unsteady, your hands slick with sweat where they’d held Rafe. And you were seconds away from crying, full-on collapsing in front of him, because the idea of him dying right here—on The Cut, under the sharp sunlight, with your name probably being the last thing he tried to say—was enough to shatter something deep inside of you.

He could hear you. He could feel you trying not to let the fear crack through your voice. And he felt like the world’s biggest fool. Because he'd never seen you look so scared in your life, and yet he felt like you were his only lifeline. Like you were the only thing holding him up. And he couldn’t stop himself from staring at you, his lips parted in awe at the fact that you were even here with him right now.

He saw your face contort slightly, and his chest ached at the sight, the high making it feel like he was in hell. He tried to blink and focus on you, but the bright blue and orange and yellow behind his eyelids made his head spin and his stomach lurch. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his hands shaking more than ever. All he could do was stare. All he could do was try and hear your words. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice, the tone, the cadence, the way your voice would pitch when you got upset.

God, his heart hurt. The more time he spent looking at you, the more he felt like he’d never been this scared in his life. Because despite feeling so high that he wasn’t even sure if what was happening right now was real or not, he could tell you were scared. And he knew he was the one causing it. All he wanted was to make sure you never looked at him like that again. He’d do anything to get you to stop looking at him like you felt sorry for him, like he was some drug addict who couldn’t even hold himself together.

It felt like he was being tortured. The high that was supposed to be an escape was turning into a trap. He felt trapped inside his own body and mind, his thoughts running so fast that they weren’t even thoughts anymore. He kept staring at you, his eyes following you every move, his mind focusing on the sound of your voice. If he could just hear you he'd be fine. It was all he wanted. You were all he wanted. And yet you felt so far away. And he felt more alone than ever.

You kept shaking your head, like denial might somehow undo what was happening in front of you. Your eyes never left him—watching every subtle sway of his body against the driver’s side door of his SUV, like he was barely tethered to consciousness. And suddenly, the pieces started fitting together with the kind of clarity that came too late. He’d already been high when he got here. Maybe not enough to crash right away, but enough for this to be inevitable. Or maybe he was crashing now, unraveling from last night’s high in slow motion. Either way, he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Shouldn’t have been anywhere near your house, looking at you like that. Like he was seeing something that wasn't there—or maybe seeing everything too clearly.

You should’ve known something was wrong. From the moment he appeared at the edge of your yard—still, silent, unreactive. He hadn’t mocked you. Hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t said a single cruel thing. And that should’ve been the giveaway. But you’d been too wrapped up in your own shame, too consumed by the heat of embarrassment and anger, to notice that Rafe Cameron was falling apart right in front of you. That he hadn’t come to throw jabs or wave your pain in your face—he’d come because he had nowhere else to go.

And now… this. Now he was here, barely standing, flushed and pale at the same time—like his body couldn’t decide if it was boiling or freezing. The color drained from his face while sweat gathered at his temples, his breaths shallow and slow and wrong. Too wrong. His knees buckled slightly and he slumped harder into the car, mumbling something you couldn’t understand, something fragile and broken that didn’t belong to him. Not Rafe.

"No, no, no,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as your hands shot up to cup his face, thumbs pressing into his clammy skin. “Rafe—Rafe, don’t—don’t fucking do this.” His cheeks were too warm, too damp. His skin felt waxy beneath your palms. You squeezed gently, like the pressure alone could hold him there, keep him there.

He blinked slowly, his gaze slipping somewhere past you like he didn’t even know where he was anymore. And it fucking terrified you.

"Listen to me. Please. You need to stay awake, okay?” you said, forcing calm into your voice, even as it wobbled beneath the weight of panic. Your eyes were brimming with tears now, clinging stubbornly to your lashes. “You’re not allowed to die in front of me. Do you hear me? You’re not allowed to do that.”

You shook him gently, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, trying to anchor him back to you—desperate for something, anything to tell you he was still there. That you weren’t already losing him. And somewhere in the blur of your fear, your shame, your helpless rage—you realized this had already gone so far beyond what you thought it was. This wasn’t about one night. This wasn’t just about guilt. Or anger. Or hate.

This was Rafe, and he was yours—even if only in this moment—and he was slipping through your fingers.

He felt you grab his face, and for a moment he thought the world might be okay. Your hands were so soft. So warm. So real. And for just a second he felt like this was all worth it. Like he would gladly die right here in front of you if it meant you’d keep touching him like this for the rest of his life. It took everything he had to listen to you, but he focused on you as you said his name. He focused on your voice, your touch, the way you said his name. Anything to let him stay there and hear you for a little longer.

Your voice was trembling, and he wanted to tell you to stop, don’t cry. It’s okay, don’t cry. Don’t cry because of me. He wanted to pull you close and never let go. He never wanted to see you cry again because of him. He felt sick thinking about the tears in your eyes, and how this was his fault. He was the reason you were crying. He was the reason you were begging him to stay. And he couldn’t find the words to tell you he’d stay forever if you let him. If you just let him.

He couldn’t even think anymore. Everything was fuzzy and distorted and the air was too heavy to breathe. The world was collapsing around him, slowly and with horrifying clarity. He felt like he might throw up, the thought of vomiting on you adding to the humiliation. The dizziness was getting worse, even when he wasn’t moving. The pounding in his head was getting stronger, and the voices he could barely grasp were fading in and out of nothing, like he was sinking deeper and deeper and he didn’t know how to stop it.

The sound of your voice felt like the only lifeline he had left, his whole body gravitating towards the sound of you, following your touch like you were the one thing keeping him in place. He hadn’t even realized he was trying to speak, trying to say something to you, but the words couldn’t find their way off his tongue. It was like he was drowning, so out of control to even realize his own body was failing him, even though he knew something was horribly wrong. He felt his tongue go numb, his thoughts swimming in his head. But he couldn’t seem to stop staring at you.

You watched as he tried to form words, his mouth moving without purpose, his voice too weak to carry whatever thoughts were trying to crawl their way out of him. And your heart cracked right down the center. What the hell was your life turning into? It felt like a cruel joke—like every time you thought you’d hit rock bottom, the universe showed you it had a basement. Then another. And another. You must’ve done something truly awful in a past life, something vile and unforgivable, because this? Watching Rafe Cameron's body slowly shut down in front of you? This had to be some kind of penance.

Your face twisted, sour and desperate, blinking back the sting in your eyes as his lashes fluttered, his head lolling. You could’ve screamed. “No, no, Rafe—look at me.” His eyes rolled back slightly, and that was it. That was the thing that cracked through your panic and made it burst like floodwater into full-blown terror. You gripped his face tighter, shaking him with less gentleness this time—your voice rising. “Rafe!”

"He's dying." The words left your mouth like a punch to the chest, your voice breaking as you whipped your head toward Barry, no longer pretending to be composed. “He's fucking dying, Barry!” you repeated, louder this time, shriller, more unhinged. “We need to call an ambulance—I don’t know what the hell to do, I don’t—” You were blinking so fast now your vision blurred, hot tears clinging to your lashes, your throat tightening with the weight of the helplessness you never wanted to feel again.

He was going to die right here, in front of you, surrounded by everything ugly and broken you’d always tried to keep hidden. And you didn’t know how to stop it.

He felt you grab his face, your touch so desperately tight that he almost whimpered. He felt like his skin was on fire, like the whole world was tilting and spinning, and the only thing he could really focus on was the way you were shaking him, the way your voice was trembling. He wanted to answer, to say your name. To tell you everything was okay. To tell you he’d stay awake for as long as you asked. He couldn’t find the right words to say. But he could hear you. And that’s all that mattered right now.

His mind was too overwhelmed to care about how bad he looked, how terrified you sounded while you were begging him to open his eyes, to look at you. He felt sick to his stomach. He could feel his heart pounding in his head. He felt like his brain was melting. But somehow, you were still there. Trying to hold him together while he felt himself falling apart right in front of you. And he wasn’t sure if the shame he felt was worse than the terror of dying. Right here, in this moment, he wondered if he deserved your kindness.

His eyes blinked open again, your image flickering in and out of focus. Your face was blurry, tears clinging to your lashes, and he could’ve sworn he saw you start to cry. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe you were just crying for real. He felt like he might throw up or fall. The car was too warm and you were holding him up, but he felt so distant from everything. Like he was slowly drowning. And if he died right here, in your arms, he didn’t think he’d mind so much anymore.

Barry stood frozen for a second, still slouched on his porch like he had all the time in the world, and it made your stomach turn. The sight of him—so unmoved, so casual, while Rafe's body swayed like a tower about to collapse—felt like something out of a fever dream. When he finally stood, slow and infuriating, you could’ve leapt over the porch railing and throttled him.

"Calm the fuck down," he muttered, stretching like he’d just woken up from a nap, and not like someone’s overdose was unraveling feet away. “He’s just ridin’ it out. He’ll be fine. Kid’s built like a tank, he can handle it.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “Handle it?” you echoed, voice cracking as you tightened your hold on Rafe’s face again, trying to make eye contact with eyes that barely stayed open. “He’s not fine, you fucking moron, he’s not even coherent! He can barely stand!”

Barry shrugged, lighting a cigarette like it was just another Tuesday, like he wasn’t witnessing the slow death of a twenty-something in front of your trailer. You could’ve screamed. The rage was making your hands shake now, and Rafe’s full weight leaned into your palms, his legs beginning to buckle. You staggered back with him, trying to keep him upright, your feet slipping a little in the dust.

"Jesus Christ," you hissed to yourself, under your breath. “Fuck—okay, okay—”

You grabbed Rafe’s keys from his pocket with trembling fingers, the weight of them feeling like salvation in your hand. There wasn’t time to wait for help that may or may not come. Not from people like Barry. Not in a place like this. You yanked the door of the SUV open, guiding Rafe with all the strength your shaking limbs could offer, your shoulder under his arm as he sagged deeper and deeper into himself.

"I swear to God, Barry, if he dies—if he fucking dies—" you didn’t even finish the threat, too busy shoving Rafe into the passenger seat, strapping him in with a roughness that was more panic than anything else. You slammed the door, sprinting around to the driver’s side, throwing yourself behind the wheel like you’d done it a hundred times before, despite the fact that you didn't even have a license to begin with. The engine roared to life, and gravel spat out behind you as you tore out of the yard, leaving Barry’s front porch, your mother’s voice, the scorching sun and your shame in the rearview mirror.

He felt the weight of your touch, holding him up, your fingers trembling but strong, your words sharp and strained, and the sound of your voice cutting through the haze in his head. He felt you grab his keys and open the door, felt your arm under his, and the relief that followed even though he didn’t understand why. He could feel the seat underneath him as he was pushed down, something sharp and tight against his chest, and all he could think about was you. How your hands felt. How your voice sounded. And how it would feel if he died right now.

He felt you slam the door, his vision flashing through the window as you sprinted around the car, the sound of something sharp and loud filling his head. The engine roared to life, and for a split-second everything was clear. He could see everything. You, the car, the trees, the street. For just a moment, his head was almost clear. And then he felt the car pull forward, a sharp burst of pain shooting through his head as his head hit the headrest. The trees and street flashed by, one blending into the other, and then he just felt sick.

The car was spinning, or maybe he was. The world was tilting and twisting and he felt like he might throw up, his stomach queasy and churning. His head hurt so bad it felt like someone was pounding on the inside of his skull, making his head throb with each turn of the steering wheel. He wasn’t sure where you were taking him, but he was too sick to think about it. And he didn’t really care as long as you kept driving. His hands shook in his lap, his breathing shallow.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, his head pounding, the world spinning like a carousel. The trees, the houses, the sky, were spinning and swirling, and the car seemed to be speeding up. Everything was a blur of motion and light, everything was out of focus and he felt so goddamn sick. All he wanted was for the world to stop spinning. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he bit down, trying to swallow the feeling. Nothing looked familiar anymore. He was floating in darkness, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

"Rafe." you tried, your eyes fixed on the road, voice wet with tears and the sickening panic that he was already dead in the passenger seat. "Please, shit. Please talk to me." you mumbled, trying to focus on getting to the hospital and not on the fact that you were actually driving.

His eyelids flickered open, your voice reaching him through the darkness. He couldn’t speak—the sound caught in his throat before it even started. But he heard you. He heard your words, heard the way the trembling in your voice, and the way you breathed his name like an emergency. He felt his head tilt slightly toward you, his eyes slipping open. He felt sick and cold and weak, but your words were loud in his head. And he wanted to respond so badly.

His eyes were so heavy, his vision blurry. He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your voice. On the words you were saying. On the way you were begging him to talk, to say something to show you he was still there. He tried to speak, to say something in response. He wanted to tell you he was listening. He wanted to tell you that he didn’t feel very good. He wanted to tell you he felt like he would die just trying to open his mouth. But he couldn’t. Everything felt so heavy and he could barely move his tongue in his mouth.

One of your hands swiped at your face as the tears finally started streaming down your sun-burnt cheeks as if they were just as shameful as the moment bak in your yard, and you couldn't allow yourself to cry, because your gaze was becoming blurry and one wrong move could probably send you both swerving off the road. "It's gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine. You wouldn't die right now, would you? You wouldn't want me to be the last person you'd seen." you rambled, words blending together as you spared him a side-glance, breathing in relief when you saw that he was looking at you, as unfocused and vacant as he was, he heard you.

He wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you he’d never die so long as you told him not to. He wanted to explain that he would do anything for you. Anything you wished. That he’d live forever for you, regardless of how he felt or how bad he wanted things to change. The thought of you being the last pretty thing he saw was far from the worst death he could imagine. And he wanted so badly to tell you that.

But his mouth wouldn’t move, the words refusing to form. Everything hurt. He felt like he’d never felt this kind of pain before. Everything was so loud, and he felt so cold. He felt so sick. And you were crying. He knew you were crying. He knew his face was probably blurry, and that he couldn’t say a single word to calm you. And he hated it. He wanted to be able to tell you he was okay. He wanted to do so much more than just sit in the passenger seat, dying while you tried to save him.

"And i don't even know how to drive." you continued to ramble, the words stumbling out in an attempt to keep him grounded, or yourself. "I don't have my license, because my mom thought it was useless since i had my skateboard. But now.." you stopped, casting him another glance, dreadfully as if expecting him to be lying there motionless, "You shouldn't die." you spoke stupidly, tears still streaming down your cheeks freely even if you were trying not to sob or hyperventilate "You really don't want me to be last person that you see. I don't even have a license. And i'm panicking like a baby,"

He wasn’t really listening, his mind too foggy, and your voice too distant to really understand every word. But his eyes were trained on you. His breathing was shallow, his body trembling, every muscle tensed and strained. It felt like he was fighting for every breath, his thoughts too disconnected to comprehend the whole picture of what was happening. The pain was getting worse, his head spinning, all of it made worse by the fact that you were crying and he couldn’t do a single thing to help. You sounded scared. That much he knew.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, the road ahead a blurry smear of heat and pavement as you glanced at him again, needing—begging—for any sign he was still with you. “You shouldn’t die,” you repeated, quieter this time, like maybe if you said it gently enough the universe would listen. “You really don’t want me to be the last person you see. I don’t even have a license. And I’m panicking like a baby, I’m not built for this—”

Your voice cracked as you forced the SUV through a sharp turn, tires shrieking against the pavement like the world itself was screaming back at you. Rafe groaned softly, barely audible, and your eyes darted back to him, relief crashing into you hard enough to nearly knock the air from your lungs.

“Okay, okay,” you whispered, more to yourself, blinking away the salt that blurred your vision. “You're still here. You’re fine. Just hang on.” Your eyes flicked to the dashboard. You were speeding. Hard. But you didn’t slow down. Couldn’t.

“You remember that time you told me I looked like a stray dog?” you asked through clenched teeth, voice warbling with the tears you were trying to hold back. “Well, congrats. The stray’s driving your hundred-thousand-dollar car like it’s a fucking go-kart. And if we die, it’s on you. It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have shown up at my house like that. You shouldn’t have looked at me like that. You shouldn't have—”

Your voice broke and you finally let yourself sob, one hand leaving the wheel for a moment to swipe furiously at your wet face. You had no idea how far the hospital was. You barely even remembered how to get there. But you weren’t going to stop.

Because he was still breathing.

Because you weren’t going to let him die in the passenger seat.

Not like this.

Not when he saw you.

He couldn’t speak, his thoughts too disjointed, but he felt your hand on his arm and he felt the way you tightened the grip, and he heard the words coming from you. He heard you repeating that he wouldn’t die—that you didn’t have a license, that you were panicked. He didn’t know what it all meant, but one thing stuck with him. The last person. He didn’t want to leave you. He didn’t want to die right here, right now. Not with you like this, not with you crying and pleading.

He wanted so badly to say something—to open his eyes, to take your hand, to move or blink or do something. But everything hurt. Everything was too blurry and too loud. And he felt so, so sick. But you were there. Your voice was ringing through his head, his whole existence focused on you, on listening to you. And he felt so, so cold. So goddamn cold, he could’ve sworn he was already dead. And he knew the only thing still keeping him here was the fact that you were there, driving and crying and so, so scared.

He felt the car speed up, his head hitting the headrest as the world around him lurched and swayed. He felt his stomach churning, his head pounding against his skull. The trees were flashing by, blurry streaks of green. He could barely keep his eyes open. He knew you were speaking, but he couldn’t hear what you were saying. Your words were drowned out by the pounding in his head, and all he could see was the way your face was streaked with tears, the way you looked so beautiful even while you were crying.

He wanted to reach out to you. He wanted to help, to tell you he didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t even open his mouth, the thought of moving his tongue was enough to make his head feel like it would explode. He felt so goddamn cold, it was like he was shivering, and it felt like his eyes were getting heavier and heavier. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice while you drove. Because that was the only thing keeping him here, still alive, even if he was dying. He was still here. And he was still listening.

"You're gonna be fine, Rafe." you spoke, reaching to squeeze his shoulder and almost swerving off the road when you took your hand off the wheel. "Try and speak, tell me something,"

He heard your voice again, loud and urgent, your words cutting through the fog in his head like a blade. He forced his eyes open, his vision blurry, his head pounding. But he saw you. Just barely. Your voice was the only thing that was clear. And the thought of trying to speak was almost too much. He could barely feel his tongue in his mouth, and he was sure the world would spin if he opened his mouth. But he had to try. He had to do something, anything, to know he wasn’t already dead.

He felt his jaw working, his eyes focused on you. His body felt heavy. His head was pounding, and his stomach was revolting. He was so cold, and he was sure if he said anything right now he’d vomit all over everything. He opened his mouth, trying to form words, anything. All he wanted to do was tell you he was still there. That he was still alive. That he wasn’t dead yet. But his tongue was like lead, and every word died in his throat before he could even feel its sound.

He tried again, forcing his lungs to draw as much oxygen as possible. His body was shaking, his heart thumping, his head spinning, and he just wanted to hold you. He wanted to tell you he was okay, that he wasn’t going to die. But everything hurt, and every muscle in his body was straining, and he couldn't push the thoughts away. All he could feel were your fingers, squeezing his shoulder, your soft voice cutting through the spinning, and he would’ve started crying if he had any energy left to cry.

His head lolled slightly, another garbled noise scraping past his throat like it took all the effort in the world. You didn't know if it was a laugh, a cry, or just his body giving out on him. Either way, it terrified you. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached, and still, you couldn't stop talking—not because you thought your words would help, but because the silence felt like death creeping in faster.

"I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going,” you muttered, breath hitching, but you couldn’t stop the shaky laugh that followed, ugly and frantic. “God, imagine the headlines—Kook prince dies in coked-out crash with barely-dressed Pogue local. That’s gonna be great for my reputation.”

You flicked your eyes over to him again, and he was still slumped, still pale, still… off. You felt like you were in a fever dream. None of this felt real.

“I hate you,” you said again, more forcefully, your voice cracking. “I do. But if you fucking die right now—if you make me the last face you see before you croak—I swear I’ll haunt you in hell. I’ll wear this stupid bikini every day and remind you how humiliating this is. I’m not letting you make me your tragic fucking footnote, Rafe.”

Your throat tightened with another sob you didn’t want to let out, and your voice dropped to a whisper, raw and trembling. “Just stay awake. Please. Just—just don’t leave. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The highway stretched ahead endlessly, the speedometer needle trembling past the limit, the heat outside baking into the metal of the SUV. But inside, it was all cold panic and shaking hands and the horrible, crushing weight of death and the realization that if you didn't get to the hospital, he'd actually die.

He tried to force his mouth to move, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. He wanted to tell you he was fine, that he would never let it happen. But every word felt like a fight, and he didn’t think he had much more in him. But he needed you to know. He needed you to know. His lungs were aching so badly it felt like he was being stabbed with a knife, but he had to try. All he wanted to do was reach out and touch you, to feel your hand in his and have some sort of hope.

A/N: hi..., 😓 pls don't hate me for this chapter, and it if feels like i'm losing the plot and maybe i am a little. but it's okay because i'll make it up to you with a chapter of smut. just bear with me. and i hope i wasn't the only one sobbing while writing and editing this. he's not dying, he's just... being a little silly. i dunno why i start off wanting to write smut and i end up writing angst, i'm sorry ya'll. are you guys mad at me? don't forget to like, reblog, send asks and comment if you liked these chapters i promise to fix my posting schedule.😁💓 don't be shy to join my taglist!

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandom @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain

[heartz4shauna]

my kink is karma.

word count: crickets..

warnings: nat cheats. mentions of lottienat. angst. she/her pronouns used for reader and nat. mentions of sex. swearing. making out. super light smut. probably ooc. not proofread.

don’t like it? don’t read it.

tags: @ludupedia @butterfliesandivy @thankynext

natalie and you are dating! well, were dating.

your whole relationship kinda collapsed when she left the state for nationals. you kept asking to go with her to support her but she refused, telling you how lottie, a girl on her soccer teams parents couldn’t afford it. bullshit. you’ve seen the shit lottie rolls up to school in. prada, chanel, the whole works. they couldn’t afford one extra seat? yeah right.

the whole time natalie was away you tried calling her, calling the hotel she and the team were supposed to be staying at, only for a blatant receptionist to tell you there was no one saying there under the name, as she said it, annalee scatario, whoever that was.

she confessed to you when she came home that she and lottie had, to put it bluntly, fucked. jesus. it was a lot for your poor heart at the time. you two had been intimate before, you thought it was something you did. or maybe didn’t do. “was i not good enough? was she better? was there something else i could’ve done?” you asked pleadingly, your eyes watering. she just looked at you and shook her head, “it’s not that.”

you truly thought you and nat had a connection. true, you felt like that with every little crush you had since you were nine, but, she was your first relationship. your first love. your first what you thought was love.

it was hard for you to get over her, of course, having to see her almost every day in your classes. having to sit beside her in classes, damned with an ‘S’ lastname.

she’d glance at you during class and, the odd time, she’d try to talk to you. “hey, look. i’m sorry for… what i did. are we cool?” you’d just look back at her and tense your jaw, that’ll show her.

you started seeing more of lottie and nat together and it made you boil with anger- no. jealousy. that’s what it was.

your whole life wasn’t great. you grew up in the same trailer park as natalie, and that’s how you got to know each other. your mom wasn’t around all that much, working multiple jobs to support you and your siblings and your dad wasn’t in the picture. she’d listen to you when you had to complain and you’d do the same for her. you cried in each others arms some nights. connection.

but, lottie? what was she to cry about? she had parents, both parents, drowning in money, choking on their wealth. she was pretty and got good grades, she played soccer. everything in her life was perfect, you thought. they should just have each other, the princess and the stable boy.

after the initial shock of the breakup, you started to pick yourself up again. instead of staying focused in class, you’d skip class, just how you always did with nat. you waltzed into the bathroom, backpack on your bag and leaped into one of the stalls, glad to be almost back to your regular self.

you threw yourself onto the toilet with a sigh, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of your backpack that was perched on your knee. you took out a cig and lit it, putting it to your lips.

just as you were about to take a puff, two pairs of shoes stomped into the stall next to you. “god, natalie. why didn’t you tell me you two were serious?” oh my god, it’s lottie. is she.. talking about you? you heard a sigh and a chuckle. okay, that’s natalie. lottie and nat. they’re both talking about you. right next to you.

“lottie,” natalie drawled, “we’re over now. she doesn’t matter,” she chuckled out. rude. lottie sounded as if she was about to cry, “i’m a home wrecker, natalie. oh my god! i wouldn’t have even came into your room if i had have known.”

you couldn’t begin to believe what you were hearing. lottie was.. being kind? to you of all people? wow.

“lottie! we’re not together anymore, yeah? you don’t need to worry about her, i’m sure she’s already fucking someone else,” natalie reassured her, chuckling. what the fuck? already fucking someone else? that’s not very ‘i feel like i can only be myself around you’ of her. not very ‘i only want you’ of her.

you raised the cig to your lips and took a puff, feeling yourself become genuinely interested in what the pair had to say about you.

you could practically hear lottie roll her eyes before she stormed out of the bathroom. you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, as well as an earth shaking cough. unfortunately for you, natalie heard it.

“who’s in there?” she called out. you kept your mouth shut, barely breathing. she continued, “if you know who.. we were talking about, don’t tell her. please.” you allowed your voice to go as deep as it could and spoke loudly, “yes! i have no idea who you are talking about! good luck with that though. ha! women, am i right!” natalie chuckled awkwardly, “ha, yeah..”

she left the bathroom and you felt yourself tear up slightly. already fucking someone else. who does she think you are? you wiped your tears and took a deep breath, finishing off your cigarette.

a few weeks after that.. interaction, you noticed lottie and natalie hanging out a lot less than before. they wouldn’t even sit next to each other at lunch. yeah, okay, granted nat did skip lunch every other day to go bum cigarettes from the other goths in school. but, you’d seen them together at lunch often. sitting opposite each other and giggling, it made you sick.

but now, lucky for you, they were hanging out less. which in all honesty made you jump up and down and shoot your fist in the air.

you thought that maybe they broke up? if you’d even call it that. a fuck up? basically, they stopped hanging out and only really talked when they needed to. for example; whilst playing soccer or if they were partners on an assignment.

you noticed lottie becoming a lot more like you knew her before. she was back to that popular pretty rich girl and less like the girl who was trying to defend you in the bathroom. you were fine with it, you never cared for her much. but natalie on the other hand, she was a mess.

i mean, going through two break ups in the same.. what? month? must be rough. you felt bad for her, just a little. even after what she said in the bathroom. maybe it was her way of coping? making jokes of everything. that’s what she normally did anyway. but you knew what she actually felt on the inside.

you both used to walk home together after school, you’d wait for her after practice after you finished study. now, you two stood on opposite side of the street, natalie giving you glances every few steps.

finally getting back home, you knocked on your door, “dipshit! open the door!” dipshit was a common name you used for your siblings. you could hear one of them groan and stumble over to the door, pulling it open, “hello.” “hi,” you greeted, shoving your way into the trailer. natalie took one last look at you before she walked into her home.

natalie had been planning this for days. trying to work it out in her head how she would make it up to you. she regretted, deeply, sleeping with lottie. she did love you, she did, she just got caught up in the moment, apparently. then it all fell apart with lottie and now it was her turn to be sad.

what was her plan exactly? okay. so, it wasn’t clear to her. she knew what she was supposed to do, go knock at your door, apologise and get back together. she knew you would never agree though.

you walked into your cramped bedroom and flung yourself onto your bed with a sigh. homework. you took out your papers from the day, a pen and got to work.

about an hour or so of doing homework, you finally finished and it was already dark outside. you got up from your bed and decided it was time to change it something more comfortable. you threw on a pair of pyjamas pants and a Hello Kitty shirt.

your stomach growled as you exited your bedroom, your sibling was sprawled out on the couch, playing a video game, “hey, we’re gonna head out in a while. tell mom we’re staying at a friends house, cool?” you nodded, walking over to the small kitchen, “don’t drink too much. mom worries for you guys.” they waved you off dismissively, switching through tv channels.

you popped some bread in the toaster and waited for it to toast. you buttered it once it was ready and jumped onto the couch next to your sibling, “anything good on?” you asked them through bites. they shook their head and handed you the remote, “nah. i’m heading out anyway.” so quickly? alright. “oh, okay. have fun,” you said with a shrug as they got up and left.

you searched through the channels on your tv, with nothing interesting. you finished the last bite of your toast and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.

there was a knock on the door, you sighed and got up. “who is it?” you called out, walking over to the door. no reply. you rolled your eyes and swung the door open, it was natalie.

she looked up at you as she fidgeted with her fingers, “hi,” she said quietly. you sucked in a breath, “hi. what do you want?” she cleared her throat, “uh, i wanted to talk to you. about us.” “about what? what about us? there is no us. you know that, you knew that after you and lottie..” you huffed, rubbing the bridge of your nose,

“what happened between you two anyway? you just stopped hanging out all of a sudden, did lottie feel guilty or something?” you asked her, knowing the answer. she shook her head, “it’s.. complicated. can i come in?”

you opened the door for her to enter, albeit reluctantly, “fine.” she gave a small nod and walked in, making a beeline to your bedroom. “nat!” you called out, trying to stop her, “jesus christ,” you sighed in defeat.

you followed her into your bedroom and shut the door behind you. natalie was laying face down on your bed, her head smooshed into your pillows. “natalie,” you gritted out, “get up.” the only response you got from her was a grumbled “why?”

she flipped herself over and stared at you at the door, “yeah, me and lottie aren’t.. talking anymore. she felt guilt after. she didn’t know that we were serious,” she admitted. your eyebrows knitted together in confusion, “what are you talking about? you slept with her because she didn’t know we were serious? you do realise you slept with her, too, don’t you? it wasn’t just her who did something wrong, natalie. you’re so full of shit.”

her expression softened, “i’m sorry. i- i really am. it wasn’t my idea, that’s why i said that. look, if it means anything, i was thinking of you the whole time.” you walked over to the bed and stood in front of were she was laying, “you were thinking of me, really? you didn’t think of anything else? not even.. i dunno, telling her you had a girlfriend?”

“i’m sorry!” she yelled, “i am, believe me, please.” she sat up, looking at you pleadingly. “natalie, i want to believe you, i do,” you took a shaky breath, “but i loved you. and you obviously didn’t care about us. but, now you do, because it’s not just lottie that feels guilty, it’s you, too.”

she stood up, her eyebrows furrowed and you knew what she was thinking. you shook your head, “we’re not doing this again.” “please.” was all she said before she crashed her lips into yours.

your body instantly reacted, a warmth spreading all over. a warmth that you haven’t felt since before she left. “i fucking missed you,” she grumbled, pulling you closer to her. “shut up,” you groaned pushing her back onto your bed. “i knew you missed me,” she said with a smirk, pulling you down onto her.

you moved her hair out of the way of her neck and began kissing down it as her fingers made their way through your hair, “fuckk,” she groaned out, “s’ nice..”

“you’re such a bitch,” you mumbled against her neck, “you know that, right? wouldn’t even be doin’ this if you hadn’t come over.” natalie chuckled at your words, tilting your head to look at her, “had a choice, didn’t you?” “fuck off,” you moaned, going back to kissing her neck.

she pulled your face back to hers and pushed her lips onto yours once again as you straddled her lap. “haven’t done this in a while,” she got out in between kisses. “i wonder why,” you muttered, a grin spreading across your face suddenly. “lay down,” you instructed her, and she did so. she looked up at you with a smirk, “why?” you shook your head as you tried to unbutton her jeans, but failed.

she sat up slightly and helped you taken them off before you threw them to the other side of the room. “where were we?” you questioned, kissing down her stomach lightly which caused her to groan, ‘c’monnn.” “patience, please.”

she threw her head back against your pillows with a sigh. “come on, nat, don’t give in so early,” you joked, squeezing her side gently.

gaining your composure once again, you snaked downwards to her thighs, pressing gentle, wet kisses onto her hot skin. “c’mon, seriously.” she groaned out once again. you looked up at her, feigning innocence, “what?” “stop fuckin’ around maybe?” you hummed thoughtfully at her suggestion, your lips still on her skin, then shook your head.

“nah, i don’t think so,” you answered. you heard a sound of.. rattling from the front door. someone was trying to get in. fuck.

you instantly shot up and looked down at natalie with panicked eyes, “if it’s my mom, she’ll kill us both.” “oh, shit,” she said, looking almost as panicked as you and shoved herself under your covers, covering her lower half.

you got up and left the bedroom to go open the door. it was your sibling, “forgot my keys,” they explained. oh. “oh, yeah, okay,” you opened the door and let them in. they noticed you looked a bit panicked and asked “you okay?” you just nodded, walking back over to your bedroom.

they walked over with you quietly and peeped their head inside, “is that natalie? i didn’t know you two were back together,” they said, punching you in the shoulder playfully. you turned back to them, rolling your eyes, “we’re not.”

natalie nodded to your words, “yeah, we’re not back together. yet.”

[hana-no-seiiki]

Hi! I’m the one who asked about Cat Villain! Reader theme lol. It’s nice to have a person to think as same as me, anyway civilians probably confusing about how all 4 Robins so fond of the villain but they still have that kind of rivalry to them, at least in civilians’ views. STILL

I’d like to add another trailer song that I often use when rotting over cat villain! reader

Eula’s theme is such a good one for heists/a little tango with the bois.

I feel like the general public have a general clue as to the relationship of cat villain! reader and the robins

purely because some of the guys (*cough* Jason *cough*) has fucked them in public, and as much as Gotham is unsafe at night, and no matter how many measures the boys put to protect you, there will always be fanatics that’ll witness everything you guys do.

of course, the damning info is mostly kept in small circles due to the miraculous power of ‘paying people to take shit down’ the Waynes have but a lot of fans have headcannoned and could sometimes build an entirely accurate version of your relationships.

tim was definitely one of your top fansite keepers before he became robin (even though it wasn’t his main focus). he most likely influenced a very uh… ‘sasaeng’ type of attitude in your fandom. which wasn’t regulated well until he realized his mistakes. nowadays, he makes sure your fans are more tamed.

sometimes i imagine cat villain! reader to be a celebrity, less known in america and mostly abroad (bonus if you guys aren’t from there to begin with, so your popularity can just be focused on or around your home country) that is until they were suddenly seen with Dick Grayson in public. you two were very much young and not careful.

people know you as that person that dated Dick, and is now extremely close with his brother, Tim. Definitely scandalous. The only thing stopping Damian from being labeled as one of your conquests is that, dude only realized his feelings recently and he usually approaches your civilian form as Robin. why? Damian’s just a show off, but Robin can be a show off without being seen as arrogant. he’s just doing his job

you have your fair share of villain friends you enjoy hanging out/sleeping with. some of them do you favors in exchange for a night. mostly because they know it’ll piss off the Batboys and throw them off their game though it does come with the risk of being beaten down to death.

i also think it’d be funny if in civilian form as a celeb, cat villain! reader just likes to profess their ‘undying love’ to Bruce 24/7 and how he totally slept with them once and their heart has been taken since. just like to be a menace and cause more chaos with people accusing them of using his kids.

when you found out tim protected your image and generally surveyed posts about you 24/7 you got into a little argument cause you wanted the world to breakdown about your identity and the shit you’ve done

and last but not least, the only reason you haven’t been cancelled to non-existence is cause of your large donations to charity and very humble living. sure, you liked to troll the universe in its entirety but in the end cat villain! reader main purpose is to help the needy. you’re most likely one of Bruce’s biggest investors (again, just to be a little shit)

you’re a little shit yeah, but you’re the batfam’s little shit.

OH! and you like visiting Jason’s grave even after he came back. partly due to missing his old self, but it also assists with keeping his identity unknown with how often you guys are together.

bonus: you’ve interacted a fair bit with the batgirls and duke. by that i mean you’ve bullied them all at some point that it has become almost a christening ritual for you to be a menace to each member.

[ficnation]

Dead Girl Walkin'#2

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female! Reader

Warnings: sickness, usual the walking dead themes

Word count: 1k+

A/n: Let's get into those flashbacks! Hope you enjoy it!

Main Masterlist || Daryl Dixon Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

Your sickness got worse. So much worse.

And you were all alone with it—until Daryl and Merle showed up.

At first, Daryl didn’t know why Merle bothered. He wasn’t the kind of guy to play nursemaid, and he sure as hell wasn’t the type to stick around when things got tough. But for some reason, he kept dragging Daryl back to that rundown trailer in the middle of nowhere, like it was just another stop on their endless list of bad decisions.

Being there for you was probably the best decision the two of them had ever made.

But it wasn’t.

And you let them in—not just into your house but into your life and heart.

Daryl didn’t get that either. You should’ve known better, should’ve realized they would only bring trouble and heartbreak. It never ended well with him and Merle around. Then again, Daryl figured you didn’t have much left to lose anyway.

You were getting worse by the day, skin paler than it had any right to be, bones jutting out where they hadn’t before. Every time he saw you, it was like looking at a ghost that hadn’t figured out it was dead yet.

And still, you smiled.

Even now, coughing up blood into a tissue, you grinned at them from your spot on the couch like it was just another Tuesday.

“At this point, the Grim Reaper must be scared of me,” you wheezed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Just doesn’t wanna show the fuck up.”

Merle let out one of those wild, barking laughs of his, shaking his head. “Shit, girl, I don’t blame him. You’re stubborn as hell.”

“Damn right.” You stretched, wincing, but you didn’t let it show too much. “I oughta start charging him rent if he’s just gonna keep circling and never really move in.”

Daryl didn’t laugh. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching you like you might disappear between one breath and the next.

Because you might.

Merle, either oblivious or just refusing to acknowledge reality, sprawled out in the recliner across from you, kicking his boots up on the coffee table. “So, what? You gonna outlive all of us just to spite that bony bastard?”

“That’s the plan.”

You and Merle grinned at each other like it was all some big joke.

Daryl didn’t think it was funny.

You were wrapped in that same old blanket you always had, the one with holes in it, the one you swore was perfectly fine even though Daryl had half a mind to steal it and replace it with something that wasn’t falling apart.

That night, when Merle was outside smoking and talking shit on the phone to some guy Daryl didn’t care about, he sat on the couch beside you. Not too close—just close enough to remind himself you were still here.

Your hands trembled when you reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. Daryl saw it before you could pretend otherwise and handed it to you instead.

You nodded in thanks, taking a slow sip before leaning your head back against the couch. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Daryl huffed, staring at a crack in the wall. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He glanced at you, scowling. “No, I don’t.”

You smirked like you knew some big secret. “You get all quiet when you’re mad about something.”

Daryl looked away. He didn’t want to admit you were right. Didn’t want to admit that his heart skipped a beat because you noticed that little fact about him.

You sighed, running your fingers over the rim of the glass. “You don’t gotta be mad for me, y’know.”

He clenched his jaw. “Ain’t mad.”

You gave him a look, all sharp and knowing. “Bullshit.”

Daryl inhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against his knee. His hands felt restless, like they should be doing something—fixing something, fighting something. But there wasn’t shit to fight. Nothing he could win anyway.

“I don’t like seein’ you like this.” The words came out rougher than he meant, but they were the truth.

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“Feels like…” He trailed off, frowning.

“Like what?”

Daryl shook his head, restless energy thrumming under his skin. “Like you’re just sittin’ here waitin’ to die.”

You didn’t look surprised by that. Maybe you’d already thought the same thing yourself. Maybe you’d been thinking it longer than he had.

After a long pause, you said, “I don’t think I’m waiting to die. I think I’m just trying to live while I still can.”

Daryl swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. “That ain’t much better.”

You shrugged. “It’s all I got.”

And maybe that was what pissed him off the most.

That you’d accepted it. That you weren’t fighting. That you were making jokes about the damn Grim Reaper instead of doing something.

He knew it wasn’t fair. Knew this wasn’t something you could punch your way out of. But that didn’t stop the anger from curling hot and sharp in his chest.

Didn’t stop him from wanting to do something.

You must’ve seen it written all over his face because you sighed and nudged his arm with your knee. “C’mere, Dixon.”

He frowned. “For what?”

You patted the couch beside you. “Just come here.”

Daryl hesitated, then shifted closer. You tugged the edge of your blanket over his lap and leaned your head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Daryl froze, shoulders tense. “The hell you doin’?”

“Relax, would you?” You sighed, closing your eyes. “You feel like a damn rock.”

He let out a breath through his nose but didn’t move away.

“You ever just let yourself be still?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer.

You hummed, like you already knew. “You should try it sometime.”

Daryl stayed stiff for a long moment before slowly letting himself relax.

Just a little.

Your breathing was steady, soft—like maybe, for the first time in a while, you weren’t in pain. Like his presence was better than any painkiller you’d ever taken.

And for the first time in a while, Daryl let himself believe—for just a second—that maybe you’d still be here tomorrow.

If not for yourself, then for him.

[idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest]

Escapism and Tragedy and Escapism Again

“Every summer,” I repeat over and over to myself on my phone. I’m well familiar with the way my face contorts when I’m about to cry, trying to do so quietly, trying not to at all. I’ve seen it a million times over, staring back at me, glassy eyed and confused. And pissed. Angry, somehow and at something very well likely misplaced.

The summer before college it was All The Bright Places, a book about a boy, Theodore Finch, with undiagnosed mental illnesses; a girl, Violet, who’s depressed; and how they learn to love. And then he dies anyway. Kills himself. It’s like Me Before You—a movie I must have seen before, but have forgotten and refuse to watch again. Because he dies in the end too, despite the love that could have kept him alive.

Despite. Love. Death comes anyway. I won’t say with disdain that these characters chose to die, because how is it their choice when the other option is their ensured and continued suffering. But they did choose to. But another but—doesn’t love outweigh all of that? And if it doesn’t, can’t they at least give it a chance to try?

I think my problem with all of these tragedies is that it skews with my idealized version of the world.

It was Cyberpunk Edgerunners next. David overcomes boundaries and constraints no human before him has, he dreams big, and the show follows him making it. He’s cautioned to stop while he’s ahead, but this is David. He’s conquered worse odds in the past, right? If anyone could, it would be him. But he doesn’t stand a chance—did he ever in the first place? He loses his mind and dies. His friends did too, during battle, where they died so sure that he wouldn’t, that it wouldn’t be in vain. His girlfriend is shipped to another moon, so at least one good thing was saved, right? I got the message: no matter how hard you try, no matter how special you think you are, no matter how much you believe things will change, nothing ever does. Nothing changed after all of David’s struggles, ups and downs, his loss.

In Devilman Crybaby, the realization of humanity and love doesn’t come until it’s too late. And then memories are wiped and it all starts again, just as it had before. Again and again. And again.

(Attack on Titan held the same strings of inevitability, so did Arcane. Again and again, trying every possibility, just for a chance to get it right. At least Arcane found salvation, but it still came at the cost of the harbingers of change dying. They didn’t get to see their dreams come to fruition.)

“Every summer” I somehow pick a piece of media that destroys me. This summer was Pantheon. I didn’t think it would. I thought it would be entertaining, thrilling based on the trailer. I didn’t think it would be… what it was… philosophical and damning.

It didn’t help that I fell in love with the deuteragonist of the show, Caspian Keys. I’ve always admired those dedicated to exploring the world of STEM. It’s something I’ve never been able to wrap my head around—I barely passed with a B in my intro to computer science class freshman year of high school. I admire the grit, the dedication, tenacity it must take to learn a whole new language. To figure out the ins and outs of all of this newness. And while watching the show, I admired the power of creation. I’ve always loved surrounding myself with creative works. I used to drown myself in it, writing fanfictions and personal essays in between reading and watching and admiring books, shows, pieces of art. Online, there is so much and I got consumed in it. It was easier to admire and save things to folders labeled “inspiration”, sending posts between accounts on Instagram, bookmarking pages, adding things to my watchlist.

I told myself I deserved it. Because the time I had in middle school to see out all of my creative endeavors…? I don’t get that time in college. Or maybe I could, if I stopped dumbing down and tiring out my brain by consuming all the time. But I tell myself I deserve a break to stop pushing my brain so much from school work. So I just watch and watch and watch the world slip by me.

Summer is refreshing. It’s my reset, where I get to fully relax and finally watch shows and movies and play games because I like to binge, so I don’t do these things during college (instead, I doom scroll for hours, the much worse alternative to the at least somewhat productive act of watching a full length movie). I turn off my brain.

I do that year round, actually.

I finished Pantheon, and it was another one of those “every summer” shows. Please read that with the proper amount of regret and vehemence. Because “every summer” I am reminded of how pointless it all is. Futile. Inevitable. Hopeless. Because it’s just going to happen, again and again. It’s just. Going to happen. Whatever I do, it—some it I don’t know—is going to happen. And it fills me with this sense of dread, because I know it.

I’m wasting away before I’ve even fully lived. I watch these shows and I scream in my head, make a different choice! For love, hope, humanity! Whatever I can cling to.

I pull away and ask myself what kind of relationships have I forged? Are there really any that would be worth the kind of hurt I’ve seen on screen?

Digital worlds. I’m moving on because I don’t want to answer that question. Because the truth is yes but that I can’t see it. I have spent so long nurturing this idea of what life should be, when I haven’t even ever been on a date. I’ve never experienced more than an inkling of attraction to another person, and that’s not what this is about. Because there are familial, and other platonic bonds. None of it feels comprehensive though, none of my experiences make me feel like I’ve lived life.

At least not while watching or sitting in the aftermath of these shows. The question is do I pull away, so I stop feeling like this? Because I feel the opposite of what I know—or what I believe—to be true. I sit opposite my truth when I sit in front of the TV screen. I do it to feel something more, but in doing so, it makes me feel less without it.

I finished Pantheon and I asked myself, was it worth it? Is this just going to happen again? I can’t stand these time loops, and again and agains, I can’t stand this endless cycle, this infinity, this feeling that clutches at my soul and twists it, desperately like a child clinging to someone’s t shirt might wrench and pull, stay closer to me, and push, get away.

Is this all that there is? I finish this show, I talk to myself on the phone. I’m crying. And then I’m editing my caption, posting it to my story, saving it, posting it to my other story. I’m scrolling down Reddit rabbit holes, and then rewatching the ending. I feel the same black hole in my stomach, pulling it in, in, I’m shrinking in on myself. This tragedy. It’s real. This is how the show ends. And then I’m analytical. And I’m no longer crying.

That’s good, right?

I don’t know.

I deserve a break. That’s where this all comes from right? Or not a break. But enjoyment. Or whatever time wasting activity I pick for the week. I deserve this. This? Is killing me. Metaphorically killing my figurative soul. I don’t know how to combat this consuming virus except by creating and putting out. Versus consuming.

Putting out?

I once wrote something in my Google docs (once. Ha, funny), I think I titled it “dust-free account”. And I basically lived my death before it’s actually come for me. I imagined my death and what that would mean for all of the things I wrote but never shared. No physical copies even exist.

The digital world.

If I could live forever, would I?

If I could live.

If I could create.

If. If. If.

All this, while I lie in my bed, tap tap tapping away at.

My phone.

Every summer.

—

Basically, I just finished Pantheon and bawled my eyes out then locked tf into reality and I actually didn’t like that. But I also didn’t like how the show made me feel because. Well. Yeah. Hopeless and very very very small…

If you want to talk about the show, please comment please please I have so many thoughts.

I didn’t proof this or anything, and I’m on my phone so I’m sure the line spacing is actually going to be abominable and maybe I’ll edit on my computer in the morning. But I’m. Holy gyatt do I feel sick in the head.

[harrysmimi]

Love Story (Insta Promt)

Synopsis: One where Harry and YN find that they complete one another (Oneshot coming soon...)

Ps. User: penguinflaps is YN's Instagram in the promot

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Liked by harrystyles, harrysluv, and 26,028 others

penguinflaps Had so much fun working with harrystyles all those three days. Harry, thank you so much for having me be a part of such an amazing project! 🥺❤️

Ps. I am not in the picture because I took it 🤧

View all 942 comments

Harrymybbdaddy shut up! This is so cuteeeee! I FUCKING LOVED THE VIDEO!!! 😭

harrysluv look at his bunny teef 🥺😭 I'm gonna cry he is so adorable!!!!!

babyrry He is so fucking adorable! I wanna punch a concrete wall with my bare hands!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😤

harrystyles 🤗❤️❤️

harrysfan1 SHUT UP! HARRY COMMENTED! HE NEVER COMMENTS!

harrysfan2 Mom, look Harry Styles know technology exists!!!

harrysfan4 harrysfan3 STOP! THAT'S HILARIOUS! 😭

harrysfan3 @ harrystyles commented a gif

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Liked by harrystyles, annetwist and 8,203,043

penguinflaps Stree. Out now. In theatre near and far away from you. Watch out because, she is Stree, oh she can do anything!

View all 6,028 comments

harrystyles So excited!!! ❤️

harrysluv He has been lurking around her Instagram for long two years now! This is just too much for me to process. Harry dating a brown girllllll!!! I am SCREAMING RN!

harrysfan5 If she is dating Harry, all the brown girls are living through her! Including me! 😭

harrysfan7 what a horrible movie trailer. 🤮

YNsfan0 harrysfan7 get a fucking life man!

annetwist already booked the tickets!

YNsfan1 Stop! Even his mother is supporting her!

YNsfan2 She looks so fucking adorable in the trailer I can't wait to see the movie. 😩 I am gonna watch first day, first show, ditching my practicals for it! 😭

penguinflaps YNsfan2 no! Hun, don't miss out on studies for this. I really appreciate your support so much!!! 🥺 That's all I need!

YNsfan3 So when are you and Harry

harrysdesifan What if Harry decides to dress a Vicky (the main lead) for Harryween this year. 🤭 it will be over for the looser haters 🤭 I can't wait for it!

Calledit101 they're getting married. Mark. My. Words. Engrave it in stone!

harrysfan00 Ew! Harry deserves better. The movie looks so cheap. And she doesn't know how to act 🤮 # harrydeservesbetter

harrysfan5 harrysfan00 yes absolutely, # HarrydeservesbetterFANS !! GET A DAMN JOB AT MCDONALD OR SMTH BRO! Let the man be happy for god's sake!

YNsfan5 Y'all remember YN is in watermelon sugar video. They met on the sets 🥺 this is so adorable! 🥺❤️

YNfan6 shut up, YN deserves so much better than Harry. I don't like him for her!

YNfan7 YNfan6 stop with the hate, will you now?!

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2022

Liked by penguinflaps, pillowperson and 8,203,554 others

harrystyles  One Year💍❤️

View all 102,350,900 comments

penguinflaps love you ❤️

pillowperson Happy Anniversary to my fave humans ❤️

hsrrysfan1 THEY HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR ENTIRE FUCKING YEAR?!?!!! 😭

YNsfan1 this is the cutest thing ever. Imagine Harry in a Sherwani 🥺😭 I'll cry!

harrysfan2 HE WORE A SHERWANI AT HIS WEDDING! 😭

annetwist blessed ❤️

gemmastyles Happy Anniversary you two ❤️🤗

harrysfan4 I am not surprised but I am surprised at the same time. I can't 😭 he kept it a secret from all of us!

YNsfan2 that was so mean you kept it a secret from us Harry! DO IT AGAIN!

YNsfan3 seriously, so happy you guys chose to keep it a secret! Love that for you two!❤️🥺

YNandHarry so the rumours of them getting married in the back yard of her family home were true 😭 I can't!

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Liked by harrystyles, YNsfan02 and 5,023,444 others

penguinflaps while in Wides, don't forget to be your Desi self. 😌 #throwback

📸 @ harrystyles 😚

Comments are off.

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Twitter

HSnews someone hacked into YN's iCloud and found pictures of her baby bump. She is allegedly pregnant.

Replies

Harrysfan4 can y'all not post those pictures around, I am sure these two want to keep to themselves.

YNsfan1 correct! These two haven't been seen in over six months, they clearly don't want attention. Leave them alone!

Randomuser who is Harry Styles?

YNfan0 you guys need to STOP posting those photos, let these people have some privacy. Be happy for them if not just keep your hate to yourself!

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harrystyles and penguinflaps

harrystyles 🫶

View all 2,299,839 comments

YNfan0 Y'ALL SHUT UP! MY MOTHER IS A MOTHER NOW! 😭

YNfan1 congratulations guys! So happy to hear the arrival of new YLN-Styles baby 😭

Harrysfan1 SOMEONE FINALLY GAVE HIS MAN A BABY! FINALLY!

Harrysfan2 y'all don't understand I love this family so bad!

Harryfan3 god! Baby Styles is gonna rule this fucking world when he grows up, y'all aren't ready for it!

Randomuser I don't get their hype tbh. So desparate, had to pull on a stunt to launch their baby already, so sad. 🙄

YNfan2 Randomuser it is actually sad that they have to ASK for privacy, it's because of someone leaked the news of them expecting a baby. So shut up and mind your own business, okay? 🙂

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Liked by harrystyles, annetwist and 5,299,356 others

penguinflaps Happy Father's day to the best Papa ever! ❤️ - Alba

View all 7 comments

annetwist Best Dad ever 🏅

gemmastyles my babie bro, happy father's day 🥺

liampayne Happy father's day lad! 🥂

louist91 Happy father's day to new dad! 🥂

niallhoran Happy father's day Harry! Can't wait to meet the baby 🥺

zayn Happy father's day ❤️

YNsmother so cute! Happy father's! ❤️

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Tag list:

@vrittivsanghavi @buckymydarlingangel @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @sleutherclaw @melllinaa @michellekstyles @sunshinemoonsposts @marialikescherries @onlyangelrain @supersanelyromantic @haarrrys @originalsoulcollector @lomlhstyles @im-an-overthinker @tenaciousperfectionunknown @stilesissaved @allthelovehes @sunshinemoonsposts @harryssky1 @sofia-faustina @stylesfever @reputationolivia @kittenhere

Lemme know if you want to added to the tag list

[ghostwanderer]

My Review of The Electric State

I was half excited when this movie got announced with a trailer, and half devastated when the movie looked like something that came out of a marvel movie. Ironic considering who the two numbskulls were picked to direct the damn thing. The Electric State is a sci-fi, Spielberg styled adventure film about a girl reunited with her brother inhabiting a robot, where they go on a journey to find his real body and reunite. That is essentially the plot of the book the film is based on, written by Simon Stallenhag, who accompanies the story with beautiful drawings of unique landscapes and odd sites to behold. However, It isn’t a classic blockbuster movie without extra characters that almost add nothing to the plot, flashy fight scenes, and by the number plot beats. All of this would spell disaster for this movie, which has been reviewed very harshly by professional critics who know what high art is. Unfortunately for them, I am a person with mediocre standards, so the overall movie for me was alright. I can’t say the fanboy in me can say the same, which says that this is the most bastardized adaptation that there ever is, and it somehow is better than I. Robot.

To put into words, this movie feels like it suffers the same problem as I. Robot’s production had gone through. In which the movie feels like it was supposed to be another original production, that just got slapped with a branded name and now has to compensate by adding in references and plot beats from the source material. I. Robot is atrocious in this regard as it abandoned its story and kept its themes, even though the actual movie has nothing to do with the themes of the book it’s “SUGGESTED” by (by the way, this is how they addressed the source material in the movie, it’s the stupidest thing I have ever witnessed). The Electric State also does this by adding in references and plot beats from the graphic novel into the movie. It unfortunately doesn’t work well as the movie fails to touch upon their themes of humanity and its relationship with technology and corporatism. It is instead about ONE evil corporate entity that has DUBIOUS plans on how human civilization should be operated. It’s a generic conflict that has been seen in every other movie, and it hurts here because the book really didn’t have a villain, it only had the grim implications of the degradation of society due to an over dependence on techno-escapism. This problem extends to the rest of the film and its various plot beats.

The most jarring thing from the movie is the weird editing, as it just jumps from moment to moment with no sense of continuity. These jumps work best during action scenes, but that isn’t even used as most of the fight scenes often get dragged out. The acting of the movie is also weird, for the human characters are often stilted and don’t express more personality other than the one trait they exhibit, but the robots at least show more personality somehow. Ke Huy Quan is this movie as both a human character and as a robot, his human character dies midway the movie, but the robot lives, and the robot is somehow more endearing than when Key played his human counterpart. I. Robot suffers the same problem to a greater degree, where none of the human characters are interesting, but the robot is. The only problem being that there is only ONE good robot, so you have to wait for the singular robot character to show up again to enjoy the movie again.

Despite everything that makes this bad, there are some things I like. The robots themselves are varied in design and functionality, so there are a lot of robots to pick out. My favorite is this stage show robot with a showman personality that makes it really enjoyable, only for the movie to kill him off unceremoniously. Despite that, I did latched on to other robots like (somehow) Mr. Peanut, Popfly (an older robot model voiced pretty well by Brian Cox), and the robot Ke Huy Quan also voiced. Kid Cosmo somehow remains the only robot I didn’t latch on to probably because he’s kinda a frozen character, whose' role is more of a mcguffin rather than an active character. The Visual Effects are also a highlight, as the robots seem to blend in very well, probably due to their more cartoony art direction rather than a realistic one.

Overall, I didn’t like the movie, but I also didn’t hate it. It’s a movie that could've worked better as an original idea that could have expanded upon the ideas it wanted to explore. It’s just unfortunate that it’s based on a book that already has unique ideas, none of which are used in this wannabe Spielberg movie. If you like trashy movies with some charm here or there, this movie is for you. If you’re looking for a good adaptation, look somewhere else

Fanboy review: 1/10

Casual review: 6/10

[beevean]

IMO there used to be nothing wrong with eggman “piss moon joke” it’s just that it became so impactful that it became literal brain rot for most people. Once a joke that was made on the fly in a realtime fandub. It became so popularized that it altered people’s brain chemistry, the first thing I thought when they showed the colony ark in movie 3 trailer, was that damn joke. It wouldn’t be such an issue if people were mature about it. But that’s too much to ask for apparently. > : (

The thing about that joke is that, for me, the hysterical part isn't even the concept of Eggman pissing on the moon. It's Alfred who, as a reminder didn't even play the game while he was "voicing" it, kept firing insane line after insane line without so much as taking a break, immediately adjusting to what he was seeing - "I'm gonna fuck the Earth!" *sees that the laster is not pointing at the Earth* "Except I'm gonna go higher!" - apparently unfazed by how the others were losing their shit in the background.

That's the funny part! It's all meta! That's why no other line in the dub caught on as much as that rant!

But as always, once something becomes a meme, it immediately stops being funny. It's like telling the same joke over and over. And, of course, I sympathize with Eggman fans who like the original scene because it was iconic, Eggman destroying the moon as a warning shot to the President to show off the new power he has acquired, because now it will never be taken seriously again.

Also man, you're asking maturity from the same fandom who has promised to cheer in the theater when the movie will inevitably show the death of an innocent girl :V

[denimbex1986]

'Saving Kylie Minogue from a bridge was not in Colum Sanson-Regan's plans when he turned up as a Doctor Who extra.

But David Tennant was not around, so someone had to do it, and producers thought Colum looked like the doctor.

"I've saved Kylie, flown the Tardis, held the screwdriver and had Billie Piper look deep into my eyes and tell me how much she loved me," joked Colum.

"I asked the producer 'Why am I putting on the doctor's suit? They replied 'Well, David Tennant isn't in'.

Now a father of two, Colum was earning some extra cash before his first child was born.

"I didn't know what was going on," recalled Colum of when he arrived on the set but was ushered past the "cold bus" where the extras usually hang around and was shown to a posh trailer.

The 10th Doctor had to leave the set for the 2007 Christmas special Voyage of the Damned, and producers needed a Tennant-alike for some extra shots showing his back.

So they improvised and Colum, then 31, stepped in to the suit synonymous with the Doctor since the world's longest running sci-fi TV show rebooted on the BBC in 2005.

Colum, now 46, had been asked by producers to be on set early but he had no inkling that his time (lord) had come.

"All of a sudden I was standing with the suit there, and I was handed a script and told 'You're gonna need this'," recalled Colum. "I was thinking pinch me, what's going on?

"Then I went for a haircut and a little Australian lady passed me dressed in a French maid outfit and said hello. I did a double take and realised I was there with Kylie Minogue."

The Australian singer and actor was a Doctor Who superfan and had asked for a part, which was humanoid waitress Astrid Peth, a one-off companion of the doctor.

"I was a bit star struck, for sure," he admitted.

His first work in Voyage of the Damned - where a starship replica of the Titanic is on collision course with Earth - was an action-packed scene where killer robot angels launched a deadly attack.

"There was a bridge, and the killer robot angels were trying to shoot, so I had to stop Kylie from falling over," recalled Colum.

"I had to hang on to her and pull her back from a precipice. That was the first thing I had to do in the morning."

The author and musician had a gig with his band that weekend in Leicester. As Kylie almost sang, he couldn't get it out of his head that he had worked with her - and we should all be so lucky.

"We got in the car and I said to my bandmates, guess who I've been working with this week?" said Colum, who lives near Cardiff.

"We'd been driving for almost two hours and had nearly hit Birmingham and they still hadn't guessed. I had to tell them! They're like 'absolutely no way'. It was so bizarre."

To Colum's pleasant surprise, producers were so happy with his work and lookalike skills, they asked him to play the Doctor again in the 2008 episode Journey's End - this time as his clone in the final episode of the fourth series.

That meant he had to be in the same scenes with Tennant, Billie Piper, John Barrowman and Catherine Tate, making her final appearance as a regular.

"I got to fly the Tardis in Journey's End," recalled Colum, who is originally from the Republic of Ireland.

"Everybody was gathered around the central console of the Tardis. We all had to have our hands on the machine and flying controls. Everybody was on that episode. There was a real buzz.

"I got to hold the screwdriver - they were very protective and kept taking it off me."

Colum was then involved in an emotional scene where Rose Tyler, played by Piper, had to say her final goodbyes to the doctor.

"It was an amazing and surreal experience.

"The nicest thing I have to take away was getting to work near David Tennant. I loved it. He was a thoroughly lovely, lovely guy and so professional. I think that was my favourite thing about the whole crazy time."

This weekend sees Tennant and Tate back together for Doctor Who, reprising their roles as the Doctor and Donna Noble in The Star Beast on BBC One on Saturday evening - but Colum will be back on his sofa with his family at home.

Husband to Kerry, singer and guitarist of band Goose, a creative writing lecturer and author of books like The Fly Guy, The Tall Owl and Other Stories, Colum has limited time for more extra work - especially after having his own trailer as the doctor's double.

"I'm looking forward to the show on Saturday with the return of some fantastic actors," added Colum.

"As a fan, working on the show was incredible and it's only strengthened my love for Doctor Who."'

[interstitties101]

Ok my official dr who specials commentary bc no one asked and that’s why I’m doing it:

Star beast (re-watch already lol)~

They needed to compose proper theme music for this. The themes from the first era were too strong and emotive to skip over for this return - whether they kept the old ones or made new ones, there should’ve been character themes

Not a huge fan of the “whoniverse” thing just bc it gives MCU/DC universe stuff and it would’ve been cool if they did it differently

The floaty “last time on dr who” monologue - I understand why it was necessary for audiences who aren’t familiar with that era but damn they could’ve done it differently. Like tardis/London footage with a voiceover, not a monologue to the camera that felt like a trailer

LOVE the new title sequence. So colorful, beautiful, lovely.

They should’ve had a different way of the dr landing on earth. Also I hated the commercially happy music they used. Ik RTD wanted to bring in that goofiness but it came across more as cheesy bc of the pacing and music and it would’ve been better to have the scene be of tension and confusion - like why did this face come back? Why are the timelines converging? This could be a massive problem. They should’ve started the episode with 14 stepping out of the tardis in London, getting his bearings, and running into Donna [cue title sequence] and then getting into the silliness of it a la S4e1. That pacing would’ve been much punchier imo

Bro needs to commit to buttoning that vest or not ffs!! Donna was right even if she was rude abt it 💅🏽

Establishing the tension from the start also would’ve made the sudden arrival of the spaceship more fitting, less out of place - like heightening the danger rather than splatting it in (yes that’s a word bc I say so)

They should’ve made rose more bonkers given that she’s donna’s daughter… why is she so normal

AGAIN with the music. Be more interesting plz

Love the taxi ride with Shaun. Lmao Nerys mention

Seeing 14 not act just like 10 is So weird for me. Completely appropriate, obviously, but still. I’m like Why Are U Acting Like That Stop It Whats Wrong Ur Acting Weird

Donna is such a great mum.

The kitchen convo is PERFECT, no notes.

Great performance w Donna’s mum. Just the same as always, those two.

Again - it’s so weird that Rose is different from Donna. Like girl why are you not freaking out about this alien and are actively protecting it???

The meep’s dialogue in the alleyway (and later) makes much more sense given the reveal later. Like I was wondering why it was so crazy cheesycutesygoofy… it seemed a bit out of place

Ok the integration of 10’s theme - FANTASTIC. Wish they did much more of that. 👁️👁️

The dr talking to Shirley had so much exposition stuff that I personally think should’ve been at the start somehow. Or j much earlier imo. Like- they should’ve j had this bit earlier instead of the floaty monologue.

Love Shirley’s character btw.

Wish they didn’t have to cram so much stuff into this episode cuz if they were able to slow down the dialogue, it would’ve been so much more emotionally impactful. Like rose and the meep’s dialogue abt feeling alone/an other.

“What the hell” is appropriate, thank you Donna!!!

“YOU… 🤬🤬🤬” “Sylvia!!😙😙😙!” BAHAHHAHAHHA GETTIM

Very good chaos, thank you!!!!!! 😊👍🏽

Wilf!!!!!!!! He loved that man!!!!!!!! He died for that man!!!!!!!!! FUCK!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

The explicit pronouns convo is so funny to me. Get fucked UK terfdom. Love u RTD, absolute icon

The “not today thanks” was so 13 lol loved it

The sonic is so beefed now it’s crazy. But I like it. I didn’t think I would but it’s sick. Love Sylvia’s reaction to it too

Love dt’s little run in place to get the meep moving

Thank you Donna for keeping everyone grounded in reality. “My house!!!!?!???!” Like YEAH HOLY SHIT!!

Sonic screwdriver explanation? Why? 14 needs to take the memory thing more seriously and stop having fun showing off (classic 10) bc it also gives the danger less weight

Shoutout captain Singh I love seeing Indian ppl in dr who nowadays. LONG awaited, much needed.

Passing by the sleeping guy is SO 11/moffat era

Seeing cheesy activities with high budget effects is so weird to me. The effects need to be less good for the whole thing to fit imo lolll

Love 14 being logically ahead of everyone and not telling anyone anything. But also they should’ve given him more “figuring out” shots in the action before the garage scene. Pacing again.

The wig was so random. King of giving no explanation whatsoever before doing things. Also shoutout lighting for making dt look like he has eyeliner on. Cunty. A little sexy for a man in a court wig tbh. I like it

The meep betrayal was THE craziest plot twist. I was NOT expecting that, esp after all the interviews talking abt how cute the meep was from the comics.

Donna is so right to be mad abt not knowing who the dr is. Bro is really edging her memory 😭😂. Wish they had more classic “10 looking sad and conflicted” shots. Would’ve added punch.

Rose is way too calm through all of this. Girl act more scared

The meep is scary fr. Why is everyone so calm - they’re being taken hostage by a rabid chihuahuasquirrelalien. Genuinely they need to look more scared, why are they just standing there looking mildly concerned

There needed to be a slight pause or change in the music to reintroduce Shirley. Reveals like that necessitate some sort of shift in the flow of the backing music. Otherwise her appearance doesn’t seem as surprising and punchy - it’s just like another leaf in the stream

Sylvia is really legging it for an older woman damn. Good for her.

Great slide dt that was sick. 10/14 stays moving so much more athletically than all the other drs fr. And honestly? I soooooo fuck with that. Stunt on em girl

More pacing (time) is again needed for the control room scene. These are phenomenal actors!! Give them time to let their words hit you!!!! Punches don’t mean anything without follow-through so give them room to follow through!!! The pauses between dialogue are clipped. There needs to be no music, just a lot of empty audio space for them to punctuate.

“No you are NOT!!!!! WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE THIS??!!!” and then that sad sad loving look. Ugh. Dt is too good. GIVE HIM MORE TIME!!!!’nn

The winter solider programming is so unserious to me wth. I wish they’d done the physical touch thing instead but whatevs. Also how come it took Donna so long to remember all this shit when it took her like 20 secs to remember it all when the whole master thing was happening? Was it time apart? Getting used to alien stuff over the years?

Donna talking abt her money before anything else is SO funny. Real.

Using the classic 11 music for Donna popping off is like - I missed that theme but she should’ve had smth from s4

The “it’s working!!!!!!!” with the hands in the air is so 11 lmao

Ugh again with the PACING!!!!! THEIR FRIENDSHIP MEANT SO MUCH!!!!! THEY NEEDED SO MUCH MORE TIME TO BE EMOTIONAL TOGETHER!!!!!!! THAT COULDVE BEEN HER FUCKING DYING FR FR AND THEY WERE LIKE “🤷🏽… damn that’s craaaaaaaaazy”

They should’ve had the rose reveal thing running in cuts at the same time as the rest of the scene, not as a quick flashback imo. That would’ve made their explaining everything less cheesy cuz it would’ve felt more like them realizing than them explaining things to us

“Jammy”? Was that a reference I missed or smth? I don’t get why that was in there

The superhero pose at the end with the meep… 🙄 be so fr lol

The music CONTINUES to piss me off

The “male presenting time lord” is so stupid. Isn’t the whole point that gender and sex don’t dictate anything fr, especially belief? Like what if maybe the dr just didn’t get the whole thing abt letting but they did because of perspective differences, not gender differences?? He was a woman like 4 hrs ago!! And the dr, especially 10/14, is known to be a stubborn sonofabitch. It makes more sense to have it be a critique abt his character (which is a classic Donna thing to do) than some weird commentary abt womanhood. But anyway.

Also I’m sorry but rose’s character needed to be much more emotive throughout.

The dr and Donna needed MUCH more of a proper reunion hug processing type beat after she got her memories back.

“But not him” LMAO I know 10s arrogant ass took offense

Love 14 running around the tardis!! but almost wish he was in 13’s so ncuti could get his own experience

THIS is where they need a good hug - “it killed me it killed me it killed me” goddamn it Donna put that mug down and hug him!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GIVE THEM TIME TO REUNITE PROPERLY FFS!!!!!!! WHERE WAS THEIR TENROSE REUNION MOMENT????????!!!!!!?

I love how Donna is so serious abt being a mum. Like obvs she would be but I just love seeing that. She always had so much love in her heart, I’m so happy she has a kid

Ok no way a spilled coffee made all that fire be so ffr 🙄❤️

Overall: needed music and pacing adjustments but was otherwise really good!!!! RTD + team will figure it out - I have hope. So happy to see dt and ct together again - I know the next episode with just the two of them is gonna be great. Dt and RTD said it’s gonna be very different from other dr who eps so I’m nervous but also excited!!!!! Ugh so good to see them back when they’re older 🥹❤️ and so happy dr who is being so forward abt trans rep in this political climate. *Really* great storyline too - loved it. Just a shame they couldntve made the episode 1h20m instead so there’d be space for everything.

[wortsandall]

sam doesnt have to be the same type of captain america as steve-in fact he shouldn't be. he has to embrace what works for him rather than try to copy steve. rooting for him on that front.

but also,,,the movie kept having people say that sam didnt like ross or that he wanted him gone or something and his actions prove different. the movie the whole time was trying to get us to sympathize with ross and also sam was trying to prove that ross doesn't have to be the bad guy anymore, that hes trying and thats good. (which yes i believe people can change) but it feels very disingenuous when you have characters saying one thing and doing another.

and it always come back to the goddamn accords because im sorry team iron man is just...wrong. yet the movie doesn't really want to take a stance. yet by having sam work with the government even after being against the accords and being arrested for being against the accords, its showing that iron mans position is the one that is correct going forward. because sam is working with the government !! to create a new team of avengers !! which will be under government control !! which is what sam was against, what captain america was against. and he says he still is against it but hes still doing it!!

which if they wanted to do real commentary about working with the enemy in order to get better footing or an advantage i would be fine with that. but the movie doesnt want to actually get political and say that so its this weird disconnect where characters are saying x, but doing y. i genuinely wouldn't have had an issue if they had sam say that he was going along with it, working with them as an advantage rather than fighting them every step of the way.

but he literally says hes the type of guy to do things the hard way, yet is ultimately doing things with ross. ross told him not to investigate but sam did anyway. but they were basically doing two investigations. and when they converged, and information was shared they just worked together against stern. not even really because stern turned himself in. and sams fight with ross as red hulk wasnt even about them fighting over differences or politics but because stern had drugged ross with gamma radiation until he turned into red hulk. it would've been a better fight if it was actually sam and ross fighting over politics or differences but they are essentially on the same side the whole movie-the side of taking stern down and figuring out his plan.

(sidenote: ross being red hulk didn't matter at all. like those pills could've done anything at all to ross and the core of the movie would be the same. substance building in ross' blood that ultimately has some crazy reaction that makes him hard to fight. that couldve been anything. could've been as simple as steroids. like there was no reason at all it was red hulk. also hate that the trailers spoiled that because it only happened in like the last 20 minutes so you spend the whole movie just waiting for it to happen. and then it only happens once)

im frustrated because sam doesnt feel like the same sam that i watched previously. bc the sam i remember wouldn't be ross' hype guy the whole movie. like i dont give a damn that ross feels bad and wants a relationship with his daughter again, he still imprisoned a man and made him work and promised him freedom then took it away. kept a man imprisoned he knew was innocent. like am i supposed to feel bad for this fucker? i don't. why was sam constantly reminding us that he can change? yeah he could ! but he hasn't, still wouldn't until he literally had to. that doesn't feel like real change, that feels like a man cornered.

anyway yeah. thats my thoughts on captain america brave new world. id give it a 4.9/10. it actually made me laugh which a marvel movie hasn't done in forever and it wasn't terrible.

that movie was weird !!! not bad. just odd. why is he working WITH the government. like i know he explained why but i dont like it and it goes against what steve fought for with the accords. isaiah bradley is just right. i agree with him wholeheartedly, it doesnt sit right with me for sam to willingly work with the government and it showed the entire time that he was wrong to do so because ross fucking sucked the whole damn movie and i dont give a damn about his relationship with his daughter he was fucking awful. and what am i supposed to take that sam did all that, went against ross' orders and still is willing to create a new avengers team (asked for by ross) which because of the accords will still have to work with the government ??? i dont get it !! it doesnt make sense to me. and thats why i say the politics are odd and the entire movie just felt sinister to me, he's still working with the government and doing what they say, just in his own way.

im happy sam is captain america, he deserves it. i just wish he didnt have to work with the government because steve never did but i also acknowledge that steve is the perfect picture of an american man while sam is black so hes limited and i get that. but god. weird. at least their president is actually in jail for his crimes

[trashmouth-richie]

prequel to Honey I’m Home

master list

summary: a peek into the lives of our love birds back in 1985

w/c: 4k

tw: no minors, underage drinking, drug use, party behavior. hinted at: rape

Engine roaring hot with the early dog days of summer, Eddie’s van skids to a stop sliding against black asphalt of Piney Wood Lane.

“Eddie! What the fuck?!” A church mouse voice that resembled nails on a chalkboard shrieks when the van halts to a stop. Peach colored lipstick is smeared in a wavy line across her pale skin, Chrissy glares icy blue daggers into the curly haired metal head.

Stoned and nearly asleep, Eddie forced his tired lips into a grin, pearly whites gleaming against the backdrop of the setting sun through the dirty windshield. “Oh babe you’re so pretty, here let me help.” Grabbing the tube of lipstick Eddie draws a matching line across her other cheek, “all better,” he yawns as she snatches the lipstick tube back and shoves the lid back on slamming it into her purse. Using a dirty t-shirt by her feet that she knew was used to wipe Eddie’s cum off her stomach some time last week after one of his shows, she rotates it to a cleanish spot and works the black cloth gently across her face, muttering to herself.

“Where are these little shits anyway?” She grumbles as she avoids Eddie’s lips on her neck, shoving him away with the heel of her hand.

“Fuck Chris, relax,” Eddie says, arms up in a surrender and lowering slightly to light a cigarette and blowing the smoke into the open warm air through his window, “little Tooty said they have to sneak out of the basement window.”

It had been a full year since Eyeball had left town and graduated without Eddie. His best friend was always smarter than he was, never having to repeat senior year, he left Eddie’s trailer park ass in the dust— never to be heard from again.

A scoff breaks from Chrissy’s pastel pink lips as she swipes more powder blue eyeshadow on her lids in the mirror. “I don’t know what my brother sees in her.”

The high encompassing Eddie falters for a split second. Chad Cunningham? What the fuck would Tooty want to do with him?

“Damn, tell me how you really feel,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes and inhaling from his cigarette, “don’t hold back.”

Chrissy flips the visor up with a thud and crosses her arms, her lips twisted in a sneer, she opens her mouth to speak but Eddie shushes her when five moving figures run across the neatly mowed lawn of the Wheeler’s.

Opening the sliding door is a pimple-faced Mike Wheeler, accompanied by Dustin Henderson, Lucas Sinclair, Max Mayfield, and you.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Eddie says holding his hands up in protest, “watch the carpet yeah? Won’t be a shaggin’ wagon if the carpet is stomped all to hell you little gremlins.”

“Fuck dude,” Dustin speaks, sliding next to Mike on the floor, “you gonna give us upholstery lessons or are we going to this party?”

Mike and Lucas laugh as Eddie takes off before the door is even shut. Screaming into the night like a bat out of hell. Passing out cigarettes from a crumbled pack you kept in the breast pocket of the same ratty flannel you wore almost daily, everyone leans forward to catch the flame at the same time. Inhaling deep and choking back smoke against baby pink lungs.

Eddie wasn’t your favorite person but if he was one thing: it was reliable. He’d show up in his van, rolling up on the last remnants of weed whenever you called him. Day or night, rain or shine wherever you were— he’d drop whatever he was doing to pick you up.

Like the time Mike had left you at Benny’s after falling asleep in the red cracked booth following a late night movie premiere of Cujo. A quick dial to the Munson trailer, with a worried Benny behind you, after a couple of monotonous dial tones an out of breath Eddie answered grumpily reassuring you he’d be there soon.

Ten minutes later the blaring tunes of DIO were heard faintly as his van roared down the street, foregoing stop signs and swerving all over the place.

Benny raised an eyebrow and gave Eddie a pointed finger grunting: get her home safe.

Eddie greeted you with a stupid smile and deep dimples, threatening Mike’s life and his Hellfire spot for leaving you behind.

“Don’t make this a habit,” he scolded lightly, eyes red and higher than a kite, his boots were untied and his hair was sticking out in every direction, “Eyeball will skin me alive.”

You roll your eyes and put your feet on the dash, “Kev doesn’t even know I’m gone.”

Tapping the brakes Eddie laughs deep when you lunge forward, millimeters from almost smacking your head on your knees. “You know my rule, feet down little T.”

The night was young and you were filled with a naivety that coursed through your veins. With Eyeball at college your parents were rarely home, and you spent every waking minute you could with the boys, Max and El. A group of unruly teens, knobby knees and bad haircuts. The summer was barely at its peak, and you couldn’t wait to live it.

“Alright you little brats,” Eddie joked, pulling into Rick’s driveway, “no humping, no grinding, don’t take anything if you aren’t sure of what it is, and you all owe me $5 for the ride here and supplying you little degenerates with the best weed and warm beer in all of Hawkins.” He goads with a warm smile and jumps out of the van, leaving Chrissy to readjust her hair and makeup for the tenth time in the fifteen minute drive to get out to Lover’s Lake.

Filing out of the van one at a time, everyone slaps an Abe Lincoln into Eddie’s upturned palm. When it’s your turn he quickly closes his hand and you give him an annoyed look.

A look of concern colors his brow as he peers into your face, “Are you seriously dating Chrissy’s brother?”

Turning your lip up in defense, you scowl at the accusation, “so what if I was?” You gonna run and tell Kev about it?”

Eddie didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Eyeball’s fury, having seen for himself how Eyeball could fight the biggest of assholes at the Hideout, and he damn sure as hell didn’t want to see you on that end either. “Nah,” he chides, pocketing the bills into his chain wallet and standing with his hands on his hips, chest out, “what the hell do you think I am some shithead narc? I just didn’t think that you’re old enough to date.”

Snarling a grin and pushing his shoulder you answer sarcastically, “Are you my mother? Stop smoking Munson, you’re turning into a softie.” Traipsing past him you quickly run inside to find your friends, feet crunching on the gravel.

What the hell got into him?

—

The party is buzzing and so are you, two drinks in and a hit from Jonathan’s blunt and you’re dancing with Max, El and Will around the living room.

Tears flood Will’s eyes but he won’t say what’s wrong. Lately when he drank, he always seemed to get a little gloomy and dark. Whatever was bothering you he’d never tell, just going on about how it’s not fair. Only for the next day to claim he didn’t remember.

In a blurring spin from El’s outstretched hand, you can make out Steve Harrington. His tongue was wrapped around some blonde girl’s throat. Hands cupping her ass like she might float away. He wore his sunglasses in the house pretending like he really was fit to be “King”.

King Douche of Hairspray Island

Nancy and Jonathan are whispering close together slow dancing to a song no one can hear but them. Her stylish hair and clothes always fit her like she was straight from a Gap catalog.

Eyeing you, she waves and blows you a kiss. One you pocket and blow back. You’ve come to know Nancy quite well this last school year. Being one of your best friend's older sister’s she was cool and grown up.

Showing Max, El and yourself the proper way to wear makeup without looking like a cheap tramp.

“I don’t care if it is popular, blue is not a shade for anyone’s eyes.” Her makeup lessons earned an eye roll from Max, but you and El took special interest in it.

Collapsing onto the couch after Girls Just Wanna Have Fun ended; Will, Max and El all fall into a fit of giggles, you are breathless and your legs feel like freeze pops before they’re frozen. Being drunk and spinning around wasn’t the best of combinations but it was a blast.

A wayward glance towards the makeshift poker table in the small kitchen has Will wiping his eyes, rushing to the bathroom, excusing himself with a rushed “gotta pee.”

Finishing the last swallows of a lone beer sitting atop the barely standing coffee table, Max tosses the empty can behind her and leans forward, turning her head towards your direction, her eyes squinting into a serious glare, “you really gonna date that weasel dick Chad Cunningham?”

El’s face lights with devilish delight and you roll your eyes. Chad Cunningham was in your grade, and more popular than anyone you hung out with. Exceptionally good at sports and school, he was a dreamboat for any girl to set sail with. A future of wealth and riches lying at your feet. And he had been laying on his advances thick.

Plucking a cigarette from the crumbled pack in your shirt pocket, you offer the redhead a drag after taking a long inhale.

“Jesus,” you breathe through a cloud of smoke, “I swear I’m gonna kill Lucas.”

Max only laughs, poking your ribs with a slight jab of her unpainted fingernail, red from a picked stubborn hangnail, “Lucas couldn’t keep a secret if someone paid him too.”

Lucas and Chad played on the same baseball team, and it was he who said he would put in a good word to you for Chad. Apparently they were talking about more than just batting averages at practice.

Stealing the cigarette from your mouth, Max slots it between her own chapped lips, inhaling and blowing the smoke upwards as she falls back into the couch.

Lighting another cigarette, you listen to Max’s scoffing noises as Eddie runs through the living room, shirt off wearing cutoff denim shorts and boots, a screaming Chrissy over his shoulder as he trots towards the dock. Her high pitched whines are faint as there are two splashes into the lake, one after another.

“We’ve talked on the phone once, maybe twice,” you offer the small information as a gift, waiting for your two best friends to pull the pink satin bow and open it revealing the secret surprise. “Just lucky my mom didn’t get to the phone before I did.”

“No shit,” El hums around a can of Pabst, a wicked smile evident on her lips, “so what did he say?!”

The three of you dive into a giggly drunk conversation about boys, laughing at how awkward they were, how dumb they could be, ending the conversation still unsure whether or not you would give in to Chad’s charm. He was cute after all.

He wasn’t like you, while your family wasn’t poor, Chad’s family was extremely wealthy. They were all matching outfits for family pictures and lately your parents were gone more than they were home. Hushed whispers and teary eyes from your mother.

You didn’t know what was going on, maybe they would be getting a divorce? Maybe you’d be like Max and live in the trailer park after whichever parent decided to stay in Hawkins. Between the choice of living with your mom or dad, you’d rather sleep in a dog kennel.

Of all the girls in the school, Chad had chosen you. The sleepless nights on the phone were nothing but sweet talk. Telling you how pretty you were, calling you honey bun, how he couldn’t get you out of his head. Teasing him and telling him he was crazy, his flirting only deepened. Creating a pocket of desire and questions of what if? burrowed deep into your skin. Warming your heart with each peel of his words cozying inside of it.

He even left flowers on your window sill in the middle of the night so you could wake up to the smell of wildflowers drying in the growing sun of the dewy morning.

He was a charmer. And he’d charmed you right to a fit of heated cheeks and butterfly stomach aches.

When you saw Chrissy’s blonde hair in Eddie’s van you almost expected to see him in the back. Stomach sinking when he wasn’t stuffed into the grungy van.

Last night he made you promise to call when you were done hanging out with your friends. A promise you weren’t sure if you would keep or not.

El slinked from the couch and joined Mike and the rest of the boys playing their drunken hands at poker. Losing every cent of allowance and weeks worth of mowing yards in Hawkins to Steve and a piss drunk Tommy.

Max and Lucas were wrestling on the floor now, his deep skin turning a violent shade of purple only seen on plums from Max having him in a headlock, making him swear to stop calling her Pippy due to her choice of hairstyle.

The scent of murky lake water infused with green algae and harsh whiskey fogged your brain, tiny droplets of water slid down your cheeks, making you question how many beers you actually had. Putting your head on the cushion and looking back revealed Eddie, standing behind you in all his stupidity and brainless head banging to Heaven and Hell. One hand clutched around a bottle of Jack Daniels by the neck, his rings clacking loudly around the glass, the other pinched a fat joint. One wet boot on the back of the couch.

“Trailer Park run out of water again?” you spit, making a show of wiping your face with the back of your hand and sitting farther away from the metal head menace. Kev’s friend or not, Eddie was a special kind of jackass. Loud, ruthless, a real mother fucker, but come hell or high water, he was loyal to his friends. But shit, even an old porch dog is.

Eddie made a voice and chuckled deep, taking a large inhale from the joint, the paper crinkling against the orange burnt end. Blowing big O’s around your face, he merely grins, “you’re too kind to me little T,” he gathers his hair and wrings it out over your head, leaping over the back of the couch landing next to you with a sopping squelch sound of wet denim slapping against polyester, “better ease up on that sweetness or someone might think you’re not made of piss and vinegar.”

Kicking him away from you he only laughs harder ow stop you’re hurting me ow, he breaks out through choked laughs at your attempt to throw him off the couch.

When you have him pinned against the arm rest, your dirty white converse pressed into the slab of graffitied alabaster that makes up his back, he gently grabs your ankle and tosses your feet off of him in a swift throw.

Crossing your arms in a stubborn fashion you deliver one more kick into his side before retreating your legs in a pretzel beneath you, taking the joint from his outstretched hand as a peace offering. Hard to deliver kicks when your feet felt like they were stuck in brownie batter thick mud.

After a few hits, droopy eyes, and Eddie’s dripping curls down his back and onto the woven beige fabric of Rick’s couch, Eddie lets out a loud sigh, taking a pull from the whiskey bottle he still was nursing.

“Thought Eyeball was supposed to come home this summer?”

The question is more of a statement from Eddie as you lazily shrug your shoulders and find intense concentration on the frayed edges of your shorts. Fingers rolling the edges until the fabric is warm and sweaty.

“Dunno, precious Kev hasn’t said much since he went out East, nobody has.”

“Ohh c’mon,” Eddies velvet voice hums deep through his high, eyes barely open, “your rents aren’t that bad.”

Blowing hot breath through your lips you mimic a balloon, giggling at the way your lips feel with each wiggly vibration against your them. “Next. I’m not talking about my feelings with you when you’re higher than Willie fuckin’ Nelson.”

“Rocky Mountain High,” Eddie grins, tipping the neck or the Jack Daniel’s bottle to his lips.

Heckling him you correct, “That’s… John Denver …dumbass— ,” a yawn escapes your mouth, brain functioning on low as the high creeps into your brain, an unannounced nap knocking on your eyelids.

The couch dips with Eddie’s weight as he reaches for a blanket and tosses it to you, “Kid, I don’t know how you and Eyeball are related,” he presses, laughing at the way your eyes heavily blink back at him, “you can’t hang.”

The slowest fuck you rolls of your tongue, the living room fading in your vision you can almost taste the insult rolling around your mouth.

His idle smile falls into a frown, eyebrows pulled inward, eyes looking over your head you train your eyes to follow his gaze.

The noise of Chrissy’s bubbly giggle as she emerges from Rick’s bedroom, catches your attention. She’s wearing a pair of his boxers and a worn heather gray shirt, faded kelly green writing reading, Hawkins Athletic Dept 1980. Her eyes are twinkling with each murmur from Rick’s slack mouth, bent low to her ear, neither of them seeing Eddie sitting on the couch.

Stepping into the low hanging lights in the living room, Rick quickly gestures to Chrissy’s nose and she hastily wipes at it with the back of her hand.

You knew very little of Chrissy other than her family lived on the golf course in a lavish house with a perfectly manicured yard. One boy, one girl, perfect cookie cutter JC Penney catalog assholes.

Last year, you, Dustin and Mike threw three dozen perfectly shaped, white eggs at their front door on Halloween. While Will and Lucas rang the doorbell and Max lit the brown papered sack filled to the brim of Forest Hills Trailer Park’s finest dog shit.

There were wanted ads in the Hawkins Post for weeks about any known whereabouts of the “hoodlums” who defaced private property.

And Joyce Byers stood her ground on not knowing anything when Chief Hopper begrudgingly stomped his way from his police cruiser to the lonely woman’s door. Nevermind her receipt from Bradley’s Big Buys that was identical to what was used in the Halloween crimes of 1984.

It truly was a mystery.

Chrissy didn’t talk to you or any of your friends when you all hung out with Eddie and that was perfectly fine with you, she seemed on edge and would scowl anytime Eddie wasn’t paying her attention or waiting on her hand and foot. At the very least she looked to be in desperate need to fucking relax.

Her wide pupils scan the living room and stop on Eddie. The innocence of Bambi struck the blues in her eyes.

The couch shifts as Eddie stands on firm boots and makes his way to Rick and Chrissy. And before you can crane your neck to hear the conversation, Dustin throws himself down beside you, grabbing the blanket in a yank.

“Pretty sure I’ve figured out the physics of the beer bong,” he says as he flips your legs on his lap.

Before long your eyelids have taken the shape of sandbags and you’re fast asleep. Left on the couch after Dustin’s lengthy explanation of the correct number of breaths taken before the beer bong rendered you to a peaceful dream state.

When you wake by being lightly shaken by a sober-looking Eddie, his warm dark eyes swim with anger and look too wet, and his smile doesn’t match his eyes, “let’s go, kid,” he looks around wildly, on edge, “you’re drunker than a skunk— it’s time to go.”

You’re incoherent as you try to stand, a dizzy spell capturing you in a wave and you feel like you're underwater. Looking around you don’t recognize anyone but Eddie. Rick’s is packed with faces you don’t know.

Not wanting to be there for another second, Eddie grabs your wrist, squats low in front of you and throws your arms around his neck. He wraps the smooth crook of his elbows into the back of your knees, wearing you like a drunk backpack.

A piggy back ride that left your face in the curly, tangled tufts of his drying hair, the tang of weed and lake water stinging your nose as you bury your chin into his shoulder.

A cool blanket is on you when you open your eyes and become a little more alert. You’re in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van, a cigarette hangs limply from his lips as he’s muttering something to himself. It’s dark, and no music is playing. An odd thing for him.

A quick glance around and you see that no one else is with you. A street lamp shines through the windows and you can see Eddie’s knuckles are painted with a deepened glossy red substance.

“Eddie?”

He doesn’t hear you immediately so you repeat his name. His head turns sharp towards you and the blazed look of rage emits from his face. If it were a look from anyone else you’d be terrified. He quickly softens his eyes.

“Everyone’s at Steve’s,” he says quickly, “the kids, Nancy, Jonathan.. we’re heading there—that cool?”

Confused but unable to concentrate a single thought on why the fuck Eddie would be taking you to Steve mop head Harrington’s house, you nod in agreeance. Fighting sleep but losing.

“.. okay okay okay! Explain to me again what the hell happened, I was helping Lucas get Max in my car when it went down.”

“Ouch! Jesus Chr—“

“Sorry!”

“.. they were eyeing her man, all of them! — it was— fuck!”

*glass breaks against a wall*

“Who Chrissy?”

“No, Tooty!”

“Oh my God.. Munson. Who were they?!”

“I don’t know man, I’ve— I’ve never seen them before… fuck this I’m going back there— gonna snap their fucking necks!”

“Stop, this needs to get cleaned or it’ll get infected!”

“Henderson, weren't you sitting by her? Where the hell were you?!.”

“I was Steve! fuck— I just had take a piss, I was gone for like 2 minutes and then I heard the yelling…”

“Christ! Did they touch her?!”

“No,” a tearful voice warbles, “Eddie knocked out that big fucker and the rest of them backed off.”

“I fucking swear to God— Harrington, I will slit their throats if I see them again!”

“I know dude I know, me too.”

“She’s asleep. Max and El are staying with her in the guest room upstairs, I think we should all get some sleep it’s fucking 3 in the morning.”

“Nope, all due respect Wheeler— I can’t.”

“Ed—”

“Fuck! I won’t go back there, alright? But I can’t just lay down and go to bed— not after this..”

The weary eyed stubborn watchdog waits til dawn, aching back from the wall he’s propped up against and bruised knuckles sting with tightness. Flipping the steel end of an old pocket knife open and closed.

Steve stayed up with him for a while, a bat with nails protruding from every which way in a death grip in his fist.

Eddie didn’t think he actually was all that bad, underneath all that hairspray he could tell he’s a genuine person— lost on the surface of money, name brand clothes and expensive cologne.

The two of them made a pact that night that the kids would be protected at all costs, two guardians in the halls for them in high school in the fall. The jock dickheads who crashed Rick’s party amongst them, but the threat behind Eddie’s fist evident in the broken jaw of the football captain behemoth. No longer able to to take the Tigers to a state championship or try to have his way with a younger drunk girl at a party.

Both Eddie and Steve decide that in the morning if you didn’t remember what happened— it would die there, a protective secret amongst new friends.

🧡

see you in volume xi

[undreaming-fanfiction]

No Such Thing As Stupid Question

This one is for you, Anna! @unclewaynemunson! Congratulations on your academic progress, I'm so proud of you!

Also on Ao3 for your convenience :)

As someone who showed as little interest in romance as possible, Wayne Munson didn't really expect to be come a parental figure. Maybe he'd get a dog when he retired, some older mutt from a shelter, and they'd sit in front of the trailer in quiet company, perhaps a bark here and there as Wayne sipped his beer. Wayne could imagine that. But a kid, never.

But of course, life had a peculiar sense of humor and his younger brother hit a new low - sadly admirable, given that he was already at the very bottom, but someone brought a shovel with him. Grand theft auto, petty crimes all over, domestic disputes (to put it mildly)...Wayne breathed a sigh of relief when he found out he got locked up before he escalated even further. He didn't want to believe Danny had it in him to seriously hurt someone, but given the right or wrong circumstances, he couldn't guarantee there wouldn't be a casualty like a random witness, someone trying to protect their property...yeah, Danny was definitely better off where he ended up.

As for his son Eddie...Wayne couldn't guarantee the same, even though he vowed to try his damn hardest.

Eddie was a scrawny kid with an ugly buzz cut and dark eyes so large he seemed afraid of anything and everything. When Wayne met with the social worker and they talked over coffee, Wayne couldn't help but notice how Eddie grasped his milkshake, as if someone would take it from him the very next second. His twitchy fingers wrapped around the glass in a vice-like grip and even though Wayne was convinced he was listening to every word said, he kept stubbornly staring into the drink, refusing to meet anyone's eye. And even though the kid was barely in middle school, Wayne found the rigid focus all too familiar, painfully so. It was the first time he found himself truly and purely hating Danny, feeling a burning coal in his chest at what his so-called upbringing did to this boy.

In the end, Eddie was sent to live with him, only a bag with clothes too big, a few trinkets and a single book, worn from constant reading. The Hobbit.

The first day, the now joint Munson household was quiet. Eddie was chewing on an improvised pasta Wayne had made - on his own, thank you for asking, with all three ingredients - and looking anywhere but at his uncle. And Wayne was a quiet man himself so sure, they could stay in silence until Eddie graduated and moved somewhere else, but there was a part of Wayne that didn't want this for Eddie. He wanted at least one Munson to turn out alright.

"Hope it's edible. I...don't cook much," he tried, swallowing a lump of poorly mixed spices.

Eddie's eyes were fixed to his plate. He nodded, the movement almost indiscernible, and then returned to his pasta.

So Wayne tried again. "I saw that book you have," he mentioned and boy, was that a wrong move. Eddie almost curled into himself, his eyes darting to Wayne for the first time - but not with curiosity. With defiance and fear.

He didn't say anything, only stared at Wayne. As if he was daring him to say something, do something.

So Wayne did. "It looked interesting. The Hobbit? I've never heard of it. Is it any good?"

The slight relaxation in Eddie's shoulders seemed promising. "It's my favorite," he said, his eyes returning to the pasta, stabbing a few offending pieces with his fork. "It has an adventure in it. An unexpected one."

Wayne huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. "Ah. So somethin' like this?"

Eddie looked at him again with those large dark eyes. "...yeah."

And then it was quiet again, but this was less forced, less tense. Wayne thought that maybe this was how Eddie would be normally, a withdrawn soul just like himself, but just as he chewed on the last mouthful of less than ideally cooked pasta, Eddie broke the silence.

"Why'd you take me in?" Eddie blurted out and seemed to regret it immediately, biting in to his own lip. "It's...it's not like you knew me before and you could have refused, I...I would understand that. I think. But you agreed to let me stay and I'm grateful and all, but...I just don't get it. Why?" Pausing for a moment, he added "sorry if that's a stupid question. I just want to understand."

It might have taken Wayne a second longer than ideal to answer, but he didn't want to spit ketchup on the poor boy who already seemed flustered enough. He held his finger up and quickly washed down the food with a gulp of soda. "First rule of this house, son," he said and smiled at Eddie, actually smiled, although his facial muscles protested. "Ain't no such thing as stupid questions. Anything you want to ask, just ask. And if I know the answer, I will give it. Understood?"

Eddie was maintaining eye contact now and he nodded eagerly. Almost too eagerly. It made Wayne reconsider in that very second, because this wasn't a withdrawn soul like he'd suspected - this was a boy who wanted to open up to someone so, so badly. "Yes," he muttered and Wayne couldn't help himself, he reached out, slowly, and ruffled whatever hair remained on Eddie's head. And Eddie didn't move away, just watched his hand like a hawk and, when he ensured he wasn't in any danger, even leaned into it, giving Wayne a small smile.

Returning to his side of the table, Wayne leaned in. "Why'd I take you in? I could give you a bunch of reasons, none would fully cover it. Obligation, sure. You're family, that's another thing. But most of all, I just..." He trailed off, finding the correct words, the truthful words. Throughout all of it, Eddie was watching him, waiting. "I guess I just want to give you something better, Eddie. Danny and I, we didn't have the best family, not sure how much he told you. And there ain't much we can do to fix ourselves, but I look at you and I think...maybe I can make a difference right here. Because you seem like a bright kid to me and I just...I just want to do right by you. Even if I'm the only one."

Eddie swallowed thickly, fidgeting. "And...and if I turn out like him?" he mumbled, struggling to keep the eye contact. "What if you...you do that, but I still fail?"

Damn, Wayne Munson did not cry, but the fear, the insecurity in Eddie's voice tugged at something in his chest. He reached over again and grasped Eddie's bony shoulder. "Then you'll still have home here for as long as you want. All I want from you is to give it your best shot. That work for you?"

The boy smiled at him and nodded, wiping at his eyes. "Yeah."

"Good." They were grinning at each other over dirty plates, the smell of ketchup and cheap soda between them. "And I meant what I said. Anythin' you want to ask, go for it. No question is a stupid question."

Eddie smirked at him and Wayne might have detected a glint of mischief in his eyes. He thought he'd bend over backwards to keep it there, to give this frightened kid a bit of childhood back. "Anything, huh?" he asked.

"Yup. But count on me askin' a lot of stuff too. Like," he paused, rubbing his chin in deep thought.

It was ridiculous. But Wayne remembered what the doctors told him when he returned from Vietnam - sometimes to get moving, you need something unexpected, something to confuse the anxiety right out of your brain. So he dug deep and hard into his imaginative side and pointed at Eddie. "What is the single superior animal noise? No long thinking, go."

Eddie blinked at him, once, twice, and then he burst out laughing. He kicked his knee into the table and the dishes rattled around, but he couldn't stop himself. He was wheezing, grasping the side of the table and trying to breathe. And if that didn't make Wayne's heart swell. "You...you looked so serious!" gasped Eddie between snorts and giggles.

"It's a serious question. Now, Eddie, what's your answer?" Wayne tried to keep his face under control, but Eddie's grin was contagious.

The boy cleared his throat and leaned forwards, brow furrowing in concentration. "So many fine choices," he said in a contemplative voice that made Wayne nearly choke on his soda because it sounded like a poor imitation of a British TV celebrity. "I have to go with ribbit. Unique and well-balanced." Glancing at Wayne, he shot back. "The soup to beat all the soups!"

Wayne smirked and crossed his arms. "That's an easy one. Bean soup. And before you ask - not from a can."

"Knew it."

It gradually becomes their thing.

Whenever Eddie is lost in thought, when he comes back from school with a new bruise, Wayne shoots a ridiculous question at him, what is the best race in the Middle Earth for a basketball tournament, what is the ideal number of dried peas to have in your kitchen, and Eddie's smile is back, as radiant as ever.

When Wayne returns from the plant, grumbling about the stupid idiots from the previous shift making his job harder, he finds Eddie bouncing on his feet, waiting for him to come home to ask what is the ideal sole color for running shoes. "Not the shoe color, the sole, Wayne, what is the sole color that makes you just want to run? No thinking, go!"

Even years after Eddie's hair has grown into the thick wavy locks that Wayne isn't envious of, nope, not at all, they still randomly yell questions at each other across the trailer. Eddie hollers "WHAT'S THE FUNNIEST FRUIT IN THE WHOLE WORLD WAYNE?!" and Wayne shouts back "IT'S PEACH BECAUSE IT'S STUPIDLY HAIRY JUST LIKE A CERTAIN NEPHEW OF MINE AND STOP YELLING, BOY!". Wayne asks between quiet puffs of smoke outside "if you had to wear a hat for the rest of your life, what hat would that be?" and Eddie blows out a circle and snickers "a top hat." There's a joke there and Wayne smiles to himself, wondering if he should acknowledge it.

And eventually, when his boy is returned to him after the hell that was March of 1986, when Eddie slowly heals and the Harrington boy doesn't leave his side, Wayne has the perfect question but he bides his time, watching the two fools dance around each other like the foolish fools they are (has he mentioned they are fools? Because they absolutely are). He's hoping he won't need to ask the question, maybe it will be enough to just wait, but nope, he's had enough. Life is too short for people like him and Eddie. So he grabs a couple of beers, drags Eddie to the porch of their government-funded house and after a couple of cans, starts their favorite pasttime.

"What's the best pink thing to ever exist?"

"Plastic flamingos," responds Eddie and sips his beer. "The one piece of clothing humanity should have never invented?"

"Ties, who's supposed to learn to tie that thing...the best cat name?"

"Household or wild?"

"Wild."

"Fluffles. Imagine being eaten by that in the woods. You'd never live it down, even after dying. The most humiliating job ever?"

"TV weather guy. Must suck to be wrong all the time." He doesn't even pause, just continues in the disinterested, flat tone they always use for their late night rounds of no-stupid-question. "The best place to take Steve for a date?"

"Somewhere calm, I think a picnic, he doesn't do well with a lot of loud noises or people," replies Eddie immediately. He sips his beer and freezes, mid-gulp, when his mind finally catches up with his mouth.

Wayne just pats his shoulder reassuringly. "Sounds like a great plan to me." When Eddie doesn't answer or move, he adds "swallow, boy."

Eddie pours the rest of his beer into his mouth and chuckles at Wayne, breathless. "That sounds more like a second date idea. Uh, shit. Sorry. I mean..."

"I'll pretend I stopped listening at the picnic," says Wayne, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays his sternness. "Just stay safe, Eddie. But if I have to keep watchin' you and that pretty boy dance around each other for a week longer, I swear I'll have you two sit down and talk it out, kindergarten style. So you'd better ask him out before I give him the talk."

With the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie nodding, grasping the can for support. "Will do. Just...are you..." He bites his lip, turns to Wayne. "Does this change anything?"

"I sure hope it does!" Wayne flicks the ash off his cigarette. "For one, I'd expect your room to be much cleaner when you get a boyfriend."

They're both chuckling now, clinking their empty beer cans together. "Smart ass," says Eddie but it has no bite, no venom. "Thank you, dad," he says quietly, and Wayne can't help himself, he throws his arm over Eddie's shoulders and pulls him into a very uncomfortable sideways hug. It's the best hug in his life.

When Eddie throws open the door the next Friday and hollers "WHAT IS THE BEST CHAPSTICK FLAVOR FOR KISSING?" and Wayne answers, he gets corrected for the first time. "Wrong," says Eddie and wipes at his mouth, still grinning wildly. "It's cherry."

And Wayne gets proven right once more when, not even a year later, after rebuilding of Hawkins, practically adopting Steve into their small weird family, Eddie proves to him that he's not just scarily observant, but he learns the worst tricks in the book.

Because sure, Wayne might have buried his own needs and desires so deep they're practically at the Earth's core, but then there was a sympathetic man close to his age, maybe a bit younger, who approached Wayne and told him he's so happy for him that Eddie is back, that he taught Eddie in middle school and he never believed a single word about his involvement because that boy is incapable of harming anyone, that's what he said. And he invited Wayne for a beer because some people were still treating the name Munson as the plague itself and Wayne might be finding himself looking at Eddie and Steve, wishing that he was younger, he had more courage...

So he's still mostly lost in those thoughts when Eddie starts pestering him during one of Steve's shifts, meaning they're home alone and bored. It's late July, they're both sitting on the porch, sipping beer again, and Wayne has already answered questions about the mug to end all mugs, whether soccer would be more fun to watch with human-sized insects and who is the single person from all Hawkins to be sent to Mars to never return. And then Eddie asks "what's the best movie to take Scott Clarke for the first date?" and Wayne's brain short circuits.

When he comes to, Eddie is smirking at him sympathetically, offering him a new can of beer because Wayne dropped the old one. "Come on, did you think I wouldn't notice?" he asks and nudges his shoulder. "I can sense the "desperately in love" Munson eyes from a mile away. I've got them patented, you know. So. Your answer?"

Wayne coughs and stammers out that it would have to be something smart because Scott is smart. And that he isn't smart enough to figure out what he'd like, so it's not really a good question...

But Eddie just shakes his head and reaches into his pocket, producing two tickets to the Hawkins movie theatre. "Wrong, Wayne. Or not completely. Mr. Clarke - Scott, shit, that's difficult to get used to, he loves smart things, but he's also a massive nerd, as our lady Applejack loves to call him and everyone within a certain interest group. And I happen to know there's something called RoboCop playing tomorrow. I also happen to have two tickets right here, to know that Scott is free and that he'll be waiting for you 15 minutes before the movie starts."

Wayne gapes at him, mouth hanging open and speechless for the first time in his life. His eyes are traveling between the tickets and Eddie's smile while he's desperately trying to stomp out the flames of hope in his heart. "But...but what if he doesn't see me like that?" he asks and he hates how small and insecure he sounds, but Eddie needs to understand that things are different for people like him, for his age, his...whole person.

His nephew - no, son - throws his head back and laughs into the setting sun. "Look at that," he grins and shoves the two tickets into Wayne's hand. "That has to be the first stupid question I've ever heard from you. Let's see..." he taps on his chin, pretending to think. "Ask me again tomorrow after the movie, okay? If you still need to ask."

The next evening, Eddie leans next to the door when Wayne returns from the movie. "So..." he drawls, raising his eyebrows. "Do you still need me to answer?"

And Wayne huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. "Nah, no more stupid questions in this household."